Stepping into the DPRK

My first impression of the recluse state North Korea

My immigrations officer sat on a wooden cubicle, with a computer screen and stationery on her desk like any other in her field. She wore a navy hat, her black hair secured neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck. I spied a hint of foundation on her face, but I could tell her skin was flawless to begin with. Her ears, un-pierced and her lips glossed cherry. Her sharp face, delicate features and dark oval eyes made her comparable to a South Korean beauty, but I had a feeling that they measured beauty differently here.

She looked down at me impassively as I stood half-smiling at her. I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked at her, thinking that she would need to compare my face to the printed one in my tourist visa. Then I looked away almost immediately, not wanting to be caught staring and deemed rude. But I kept my gaze within the area where I was, on unimportant objects, to avoid any trouble.

Thud. The sound of her stamp came and went. She placed my documents above her, still unsmiling.

Just as quickly as I stepped into line, I was out of it once my visa card was stamped blue.

Fuss-free.

It was, unexpectedly, unsettlingly, and surprisingly, normal. Unsettling because all the expectations that I had before coming here to the DPRK was that everything would be as abnormal as the books say, but it seemed things functioned here just the way it would anywhere else.

There was no gruelling by the officer, no rough body checks, no stern guards watching your every move.

As I stepped past the immigrations counter, my eyes adjusted to the dim hall ahead of me. The airport, was a spartan and modest area. Its cemented floor and marked yellow lines reminded me of hypermarkets’ carparks.

Flatscreen Konica TVs were plastered at the side of one wall, but only one was turned on, flashing our Koryo Air flight number, telling us our baggages were on their way out. It needn’t have, actually, for there was only one flight in and out of the DPRK.

Below it was a snaking belt, creaking as belongings tumbled out from a hole. I stared and marvelled at the luggages and boxes that trailed in front of me. The boxes, especially, seemed to belong to the local Koreans that were on my flight; telling were the scribblings in Korean language. We deduced that the flat, rectangular and standard shaped ones were most likely to be TVs. Others that were cubic and bursting, were probably carrying loot from China.

I wondered what were in there and I was madly curious about what the locals brought home. Chris, our foreign guide told us that some of them do business with China and bring back goods to trade. But the concepts “trade”, “travelling on an airplane” and “do business” were misfits with the situation I understood in my head, where DPRK is a closed economy where its citizens are banned from participating in capitalist acts.

I watched as the locals loaded their trolleys with their possessions.

It’s easy to pick out a north Korean from the clothes they wear, usually in a grey and shiny material. The men are normally in baggy pants, ironed and pressed till their trousers line showed clearly and evenly in the middle. Initially I thought they were loose fitting — that the Koreans obviously did not have luxuries of tailor fitting their clothes. Until I realised that it was a common sight to see all of their hems touch the floor and shoulder pads that stretched their shirts beyond their shoulder width, making their already small frame seem even scrawnier. Perhaps the bagginess was the standard and trend.

The ladies were more fashionable: they played with colours more and took effort in their hair and makeup. One north Korean lady on our flight wore a baby blue blouse with lace ruffles to her neck, matching it with a dark blue skirt and a skinny belt. Her hair was pulled back with a glittery hair clip (again I found this level of flashiness from a north Korean unnerving, even though ornaments for ladies were typical where I’m from). I had to keep myself from staring. She looked just like any other Asian, except for one tiny detail that gave her away – her prim outfit was finished with a bright blue pair of New Balance sporty shoes. (Tim joked that perhaps they were only allowed to wear clothing with initials N.)

Another tell-tale sign for the locals: tiny vintage-looking pins of their Leaders’ faces, at their left chests, signifying that their Leaders were always close to their hearts. There were three types of pins: a small circular pin with only Kim Il Sung’s face against a red background bordered by plated gold; a larger and identical one but in the shape of a flag, and one with both father and son smiling against the red background. When a north Korean comes of age, they take off their red scarves that they wear as school children and are awarded the pins. They pin this to their chests every day for the rest of their life, little habits that make them north Korean.

We grabbed our bags and went through the final security check, handing over our declaration cards that stated our possessions. This would be the part where they noted our electronics and made sure we would leave with the same number.

The airport was crawling with tourists. Chinese, Foreigners, old sightseers, young backpackers, all curious travellers. Flustered by the crowd, the Korean staff grabbed my electronics and passport, and hastily scribbled something by the desk. The working procedure was very manual it seemed. Bottleneck was building up past the security check as people were confused over their phones being taken. The Korean who was supposed to be watching over the scan dumped a bunch of phones and passports from the previous batch of tourists on us.

Knowing we had to be proactive to get our phones and cameras back yet being hesitant about helping ourselves to our phones sitting idly by (because that would mean crossing past the Korean officials), we waved and pointed until they realised and gave them back.

Finally we emerged from the dark room they call their airport, into the sunlight. I was never so grateful for the sun.

Ahead of us, a row of buses and old car models parked on the brown concrete ground, and a row of trees in the background. A mix of locals and airport staff hung around, eyeing the tourists from time to time.

I breathed deeply, inhaling as much air as I could, to see if there was anything different. They say that every country has a different smell. There was, as I coughed out cigarette smoke – a Korean airport guard was puffing away in the corner of the shaded area I’d chosen to stand.

“Do you have a light?”

One of our tour group members approached the guard gingerly, cigarette stick hanging from his lips. The guard nodded stiffly and reached into his pocket. Towering above the guard, the tour member bends gratefully, sucking in air and bowed awkwardly his thanks. The guard nodded, and they smoked in silence.

I watched, musing by myself, this cautious exchange of courtesy between a foreigner and a local, foreboding of the balancing act of freedom we would be performing in the days to come.

This was going to be one hell of an interesting trip.