Travelling Around Britain and the World

Friday 13 September 2013

Last Day in Pyongyang (1) Gifts and the Metro: North Korea Part 7

The Gifts Showered on the Eternal Leader and the Dear Leader by their Grateful People - and a Remarkable Metro System

North Korea

There is so much to say about our last day in Pyongyang that I have split the post into two.

Why is There a Palace of Gifts?

Back on Day One, after bowing to the corpses of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il we had been permitted to marvel at the medals bestowed on the two great leaders by the awestruck chiefs of other countries, provinces, municipalities and counties - including Derbyshire (though no one there seems to know how our when - or even if - that came about.) During their lifetimes they were also showered with gifts by the grateful people of Korea, the envious ordinary citizens of lesser countries not fortunate enough to be blessed with such great leaders and by those leaders themselves in recognition of their own inadequacy.

Two palaces have been built to house these gifts so the toiling masses can see the high regard in which their leaders are held. Both were on our itinerary, but the palace of foreign gifts has been closed for months. It is some way from the city and, allegedly, the road has been blocked by a landslide. Why it has taken so long to clear a landslide is not a question we were expected to ask.

Mixed Messages and Gentle Leg-Pulling at the Palace of Gifts

The palace of gifts from loyal Koreans is closer and, after a leisurely breakfast, that was where we started our last full day in the DPRK.

We arrived at yet another of the country’s monumental buildings. 'You can take photographs,' we were told as we got off the bus, 'but not of the soldiers.' A soldier was barely visible, guarding the entrance of the building a hundred metres away, and any photo of the building had to include him. This resulted in much blowing of whistles and shouting from the guards near at hand. We had been in the DPRK long enough to know that the appropriate response is to smile, shrug and lower your camera – but not before you have taken the picture.

The palace of gifts from loyal Koreans, near Pyongyang

A local guide turned up to escort us. We lined up behind her and she set off towards the palace. We followed in single file. For some reason she did not take a straight route and we followed her, turn for turn, twist for twist, sniggering like naughty schoolchildren. About half way she turned round, realised what was happening and burst out laughing. It was one of the few times when the shell of professional reserve cracked and we made fleeting contact with the person beneath. Such levity was ruthlessly stamped on by shouts and whistles from the soldiers on guard.

No photographs were allowed inside the palace, so here is a nice picture of
the North Korean countryside to break up this big slab of print

The marble halls resembled an overcrowded museum. Some gifts, like the exquisite double-sided embroidered screens and delicate porcelain vases were impressive. Others, like a set of intricately carved wooden three-dimensional battle scenes were in doubtful taste while yet more were just weird - a lacquerware combined air conditioner and CD player and a huge vase decorated with hundreds of thousands of melon seeds, mustard seeds, corn kernels, grains of rice and lentils all individually painted and stuck on by hand. There were more mundane gifts, too, including several televisions, still in their wrappings, which had been there long enough to look dated, and a couple of sets of golf clubs.

Kim Jong Il reportedly took up golf in 1994, played one round in 38 under par, including 11 holes-in-one, and then - with nothing left to prove - retired from the game. His feat was reported by, among others, the Daily Telegraph. They did not suggest the report was fact – even the Express is not that stupid - but that it had been reported as fact by the North Korean media. The problem with such stories is that they are not always what they seem. For a probably reliable version of the origin of this myth, click this link to the (South) Korea Times.

Later Kim Stories Requiring a Pinch of Salt

[Update 1:.Kim Jong Un’s uncle, Jang Sung Taek was executed (probably by firing squad) in Dec 2013. The widely reported story that Kim had him torn apart by a pack of wild dogs originated from a satirical post on Weibo – China’s homegrown twitter service.

Update 2: The April 2014 story that all North Korean men must have their hair cut like Kim Jong Un came not from Korea but from 'Radio Free Asia' based in Washington - not actually part of Asia, the last time I looked at a map.]

...and here's a Pyongyang cityscape, for much the same reason

Finally we were led into a central room containing white plaster statutes of the two dead Kims several times life size. You can imagine our elation when we were invited/instructed to line up and bow to them.

A Ride on the Pyongyang Metro

Back on the bus we headed into the city for a ride on the metro. L and I have used the metros of a dozen cities in Europe, Asia and Africa, largely because it is a cheap and convenient way of getting about. Only in Moscow, where some of the stations really are works of art, has travelling on the metro been an end in itself and the Pyongyang metro likes to think it is in the same league. We had been promised a ride of six stops, though persistent rumours said there were only two, or at least only two they were prepared to show us, and the guides would change their minds at the last minute.

We arrived at Puhung (Revitalisation) station, the terminus of the Chollima line, and waited while our guides bought the tickets; we could not buy our own, of course, as the ticket office only accepted local currency and we were not allowed any.

The tickets were tiny, by far the smallest I have seen on any mode of transport. They also cost 5 won (2p) making the metro affordable to most local residents.

The Moscow metro specialises in long steep escalators which move unnervingly quickly. Pyongyang’s were equally steep and if they were rather slower, they made up for it by being even longer. Pyongyang has the world’s deepest metro system, most stations being around 100m below ground; according to rumour it was designed to double as a shelter in the event of a nuclear attack

Down into the bowels of the earth, Puhung Station
Pyongyang Metro

The platform was one of the few places in Pyongyang where we saw a crowd.

Crowded platform, Puhung Station
Pyongyang Metro

It was interesting, but hardly compared with the best of Moscow’s, though we were greeted onto the platform by none other than Kim Il Sung himself. Well, that was a surprise.

Kim Il Sung leads the welcoming party, Puhung Station, Pyongyang Metro

We were informed that we would travel one stop, get off to see Yonggwang (Glory) station, the finest on the network, then continue for another four stops. That scotched some of the rumours.

Despite the crowd on the platform there was plenty of space in the carriage and the guides had little difficulty corralling us at one end and snuffing out the danger of our coming into contact with ordinary people. The doors closed with a whack fierce enough to amputate any limb left in the way, then bounced half open again before finally slapping closed.

If the Koreans had some reason to be proud of their stations, there was nothing special about the trains* and we found ourselves rattling along in a flimsy formica box, though at least the seating was soft. At the end of every carriage was the usual portraits of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, though the younger Kim is hidden in my photo by the hand rail (I should probably go to prison for that).

A flimsy formica box, Pyongyang metro

We alighted at Yanggwang and had a good look round. It was impressive, I thought, but hardly a threat to Moscow.

Yanggwang Station, Pyongyang metro

Back on the train, the next carriage was more crowded and L found herself seated between a middle aged woman, who sat motionless staring straight ahead, and a young soldier who was nodding off when she sat down and eventually fell asleep on her shoulder.

We stopped at Ponghwa (Beacon), Sungri (Victory) and Tongil (Reunification) before getting off at Kaeson (Triumph). Except for Kaeson, beneath the Arc de Triomphe, station names give no hint of where you are in the city.

At Kaeson, L disentangled herself from the sleeping soldier without waking him and we had time to admire this mural before making for the surface. There is something about socialist realism painting that appeals to me. My inner cynic (never very deeply buried) squeaks with delight at the hopeless mismatch between the people portrayed and everyday reality, and yet it is called ‘realism’. We saw a splendid display of such posters in Tallinn but there the posters are in a museum and the people no longer have to pretend to believe in them. That is, I think, the best way to enjoy them.

[Update: I have since put together a collection of Socialist Realism sculpture, painting and posters from Eastern Europe and North Korea called Socialist Realism and some Western Fantasies, I think it's worth a click.]

Mural, Kaeson Station, Pyongyang metro

We emerged by the Arch of Triumph, which proves that at least one station name is related to what is above it. See Pyongyang(2): A Day for Waving for the story of the arch.

We emerged by the Arch of Triumph, Pyongyang

Not Quite KFC - Who Cares?

We were within walking distance of our designated lunchtime restaurant which was touted as the North Korean version of KFC – not a description that thrilled me**. The meal started with vegetables and pasta in a nondescript sauce, then a huge pile of chips arrived which for once were hot, followed by a small hillock of fried chicken which may have been a little greasy but was also hot. So much of what we had been fed in the previous week had been tepid or cold that I had forgotten how good hot food can be. Washed down with a couple of glasses of draught beer, this plentiful heap of comfort food somehow transformed itself into a delight.

*I am no railway buff and I have no idea where or when the train we travelled in was built, however, I read that the Pyongyang metro rolling stock largely consists of pensioned off trains from the Berlin U-Bahn. We were probably travelling in D series carriages built in West Berlin between 1957 and 1965.

**I last ate KFC in 1983 at a picnic in a park on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington (the western state, not the eastern city). I still regret it.


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Location: Pyongyang, North Korea

Thursday 12 September 2013

The Nampho Barrage and back to Pyongyang: North Korea Part 6

A Big Dam, The Pyongyang Railway Musuem and the Temple of Youth

The Nampho Barrage

DPRK
(North Korea)

Waking to a cool and misty morning we marched to breakfast in sprightly style urged on by the martial music from the nearby collective farm.

Breakfast was not exciting, but it was the first time we had eaten in the same room as the Korean guides. Only as we left did we see their breakfast and it looked much more interesting than ours. Not for the first time (and not only in Korea), we were disappointed by being given what people thought we wanted.

Back on the bus we set off for the Nampho barrage. The huge dam, 15km outside the city of Nampho, was built in the 1980s at the cost of some 4 billion US dollars to close off the Taedong River from the Yellow Sea.

Kim Jong Il welcomes us to the Nampho Barrage

We drove along six kilometres of barrage to the visitor centre on Pi Do Island, beside the sluice gates and ship locks. The viewpoint on top of the building was dominated by a large concrete anchor.

Huge concrete anchor (and lighthouse?)
Pi Do Island, Nampho Barrage

Despite the poor weather we could see ships waiting out at sea while one was making its way through the locks, of which there are three, the largest capable of taking vessels up to 50,000t. According to Wikipedia it is a capital offence to photograph the dam. Below is my picture of the lock. Not everything you read on Wikipedia is the absolute truth (well who knew that?).

A ship goes through the lock, Nampho Barrage

We shared our visit with another group. On the roof we overheard two of their number giving their guide a hard time. In reply she said that she could not understand why some westerners had such a good time in Korea and then went home and told terrible lies about her country. North Korea is, of course, a paradise where, as our guides had told us, there are no taxes, health care is free, housing is free and everybody is equal. I have no wish to tell lies and I accept that (almost) all of the above is true. There are no taxes because the government is the only employer, they pay all the salaries and it would be perverse to give it out with one hand and collect it back with the other. In Britain we also have ‘free’ health care, though nothing is really free; we pay through our taxes, they pay by having lower salaries than they otherwise would. Free housing sounds wonderful until you realise it means the government decides where everybody lives; loyalty is rewarded and the gleaming tower blocks of central Pyongyang are much more attractive than the stained concrete of Sariwon. Everybody is, of course, equal, but as a man who was often in our thoughts in the DPRK once wrote, ‘some …are more equal than others.’

Inside the visitor centre we should have watched a film about the dam, but they could not make the machine work so instead we had a lecture from a nice young lady in traditional costume. The dam was designed to improve navigation to the port of Nampho and control flooding, so allowing more land to be used for agriculture. There is a third benefit: people living on the south side of the estuary who could see the city of Nampho over the water, but had to make an 80km journey to get there, could now make the 8km trip across the dam instead. This (I would have thought) minor benefit, was talked up as though it was the dam’s main raison d’etre. This seemed odd - we had seen no one else on the roadway as we had driven across, and the rail lines were coated with rust.

If you have to listen to a lecture, have a comfy seat
Nampho Barrage

Lunch on the Way Back to Pyongyang

Leaving the barrage, we drove back to Pyongyang, soon picking up the Youth Hero Highway again and bumping uncomfortably along for many miles. On the final section the westbound carriageway has smooth tarmac. In the absence of other traffic there seemed no reason for us not to use it, but the policemen on guard waved their flags emphatically to ensure we stayed on the bumpy side. As we rattled along two or three private cars with tinted windows sped past us on the other side. These were clearly people who were more equal than us. Indeed I got the impression they were very equal indeed.

We turned off the highway before reaching the city and after a short trip through the countryside and then round the urban periphery we reached the restaurant set aside for our use. Not for the first time we wondered what damage we could do by eating alongside ordinary people.

We started with the usual regrettable cold fried fish. Small and bony with a tough batter, it was almost impossible to find anything to eat on it. The cold chips were no more appetizing. It improved after that, chicken drumsticks, salad with mayonnaise, kimchi (I was beginning to develop a taste for this spicy fermented cabbage), a plate of warm vegetables and a helping of what can best be described as ‘granny's beef stew’. When we felt we could eat no more, along came the expected bowl of rice, this time accompanied by noodles, beansprouts, mountain herbs and bellflower root. It was the best dish of the meal, but few were capable of doing it justice.

The Yanggakdo, again

Pyongyang Railway Museum

After driving into central Pyongyang and checking back into the Yanggakdo (the same room, the same sheets on the bed), we set out on a short trip to the city’s railway museum. Not part of the normal tourist itinerary, this was the result of a special request made some days before by one of our number who had once worked in a railway museum.

We parked in the courtyard of another of Pyongyang’s huge monumental buildings. The railway museum occupied three rooms inside and an engine shed outside. We had the museum to ourselves and I suspect the few days that had passed since the request were to schedule a temporary closure – of course they could not risk our meeting any ordinary citizen-railway enthusiasts.

The two downstairs rooms, to nobody’s surprise, concentrated on when, where and how often the Kims caught a train.

Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il welcome us to the Railway Museum

We saw the trolley that Kim Il Sung’s wife used to escape the Japanese during the war – or was it a trolley like the one she escaped on? I may have lost concentration – or perhaps they blurred that point.

The trolley on which Mrs Kim escaped from the Japanese (or not)
Railway Museum, Pyongyang

The museum guide was very proud of the ticket printing machine, designed in North Korea, that Kim Il Sung alone had realised would be necessary for the proper running of a railway. What a guy. They only had a picture, but it looked antiquated enough to be in a museum.

Upstairs we entered an end room where a huge diorama of the building of a railway bridge filled two storeys of wall. The curved, trompe l’oeil painting was extraordinary. The trucks, rails and some of the equipment nearest us were real, but at what point reality became painting was the subject of much discussion.

What is real? What is painted?

Outside in the engine shed were three real engines. Two were remarkable only because of their Kim connections but the third, a narrow gauge, Glasgow built steam engine was the only artefact we had seen that merited a place on a museum in its own right. Sadly, there was no information about it.

A genuine museum piece
Railway Museum, Pyongyang

When we left the shed we found the previously empty courtyard crammed with teenagers all chattering excitedly about the prospect of finding out exactly how often Kim Il Sung caught a train. We were ushered away before they could be tarnished by our cynicism.

The Temple of Youth

We moved on to the Temple of Youth, another huge building shining brightly in the sunshine. Here the most talented of Pyongyang’s - indeed the country’s – youth gather for extra-curricular activities. Having a child selected to attend the Temple of Youth can win a family that most prized of assets, an apartment in the capital.

The Temple of Youth, Pyongyang

With a lot of other foreigners we wandered the wide corridors, here and there being ushered into spacious, carpeted rooms. We saw embroidery and calligraphy.....

Calligraphy class, Temple of Youth, Pyongyang

...a room full of computers where fourteen-year-olds were being taught to touch-type and several music and dance lessons where the boring stuff halted as we arrived so they could give a brief, and always very polished performance.

The central atrium display involved a rocket heading for the moon. North Korea did put a satellite in orbit in 2012 (at the fifth attempt) and has ambitions towards manned space flight (they are a very ambitious nation) but this display looked very much like an American space shuttle (but don’t tell the students).


The space shuttle of the hated Americans
Atrium, Temple of Youth, Pyongyang

All visitors were then directed to the vast auditorium, where a packed audience sat through an hour long show. There was some acrobatics, some magic and much singing and dancing in small groups and in large ensembles. You do not have to be a parent to enjoy such things, but it does help, even when they are as professional as this.

And they were remarkably professional given that some were only seven or eight while the oldest were thirteen or fourteen, though the high-pitched voices of some of the younger children did tend to grate. The music involved the usual pastiche of western tunes and further along the row a guide was translating some of the words. ‘Ardent Desire’ sounded an inappropriate title for a song by a pre-pubescent girl, but the song turned out to be about the ardent desire of the Korean people that Kim Jong Un should be healthy, happy and wealthy. Come to think of it, that is inappropriate, but not in the way I had first thought.

Dinner that evening was a choice between eating in the Yanggakdo or going out for a pizza. I like Italian pizza, but it is virtually impossible to find (outside Italy, of course). What most of the rest of the world knows as pizza is American pizza which, in my humble opinion (and I am only pretending to be humble) is an abomination. We went with the minority view that dinner at the Yanggakdo was the lesser of two evils. In the event maybe it was, but not by much.
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Location: Nampho, South Pyongan, North Korea

Wednesday 11 September 2013

Sariwon to Nampho: North Korea Part 5

A Collective Farm, a Buddhist Monastery, a Picnic and a 'Luxury' Spa

Morning at the March the 6th Hotel, Sariwon

DPRK
(North Korea)

After a regrettable breakfast (whose idea was it to cook the omelettes the previous evening and leave them in the fridge overnight? Why was there no tea or coffee?) we prepared for departure.

Milling about in front of the hotel waiting to leave, some of us walked out onto the street to observe the rush hour. Then B crossed the road for a better view. Like schoolchildren we were testing the boundaries, and the far side of the road, we soon discovered, was a step too far. Once established we had to accept the limits. Short of doing something spectacularly stupid, the worst that could happen to us was swift deportation back to China, but for the guides the consequences could be unimaginably awful. They were decent people in their way and none of us wanted that on our conscience.

Morning rush hour, Sariwon

Last night’s barmaid left the hotel on her bicycle. We waved and said ‘Good morning’ and she waved back. As she peddled away we could see that strapped to her back was a Kalashnikov. The rifle, I am sure, was wooden and she was presumably off to her home guard drill - invasion is expected imminently and all citizens are ready to defend their country. It is fortunate that the threat exists primarily in the fantasy world created by the country’s leaders; defending the DPRK with wooden rifles would be a poor idea.

Leaving Sariwon we passed the Mt Kyongyam Folk Village, a street of traditional houses constructed so that school children can learn about their heritage – and no doubt see how bad life was before the current golden age. In theory it is open to foreigners, but either theory does not match practice, or it was considered too dull.

The Mi Gok Collective Farm

A few minutes drive from town brought us to Mi Gok Collective Farm. The buildings clustered at the foot of a low hill with fields of vegetables and rice stretching across the flatlands into the misty distance.

Mi Gok Collective Farm, Sariwon

We were met by a woman in traditional costume who introduced herself as the guide to the farm museum.

I have been to agricultural museums before, but this was the first I had seen without a single agricultural implement, ancient or modern. The museum was entirely dedicated to cataloguing the 12 visits of Kim Il Sung and the 8 visits of Kim Jong Il (Kim Jong Un has yet to put in an appearance).

The exhibits at Mi Gok museum were almost entirely pictures of the visits of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il

Thanks to the guidance of the Dear Leader, we were told, Mi Gok has become North Korea’s model farm producing a staggering 10t of rice per hectare [I cannot comment on the veracity of this claim, but I read that the Philippines are pleased to have increased their national production to over 3.5t/ha]. A crucial part of his advice was to ‘use better seed and tend it more carefully,’ which is great wisdom indeed. Presumably he is also in favour of motherhood and kimchi (apple pie being un-Korean).

After the museum, we were to visit the residential area which had been much praised by the Dear Leader, but they were not quite ready. While waiting we started to drift down the drive to the public road, partly to look at the fields, partly to see how far we would get. We reached the road before a minder came racing after us. Several people were working in the field opposite and I was among those who took photographs. ‘No photos.’ we were told very firmly. ‘Why not?’ That was one of those irritating questions that westerners will ask. ‘You should not photograph people without their permission, it is rude,’ was the glib response. In general I agree but not when they have their backs to you or are 200m away with their heads down in the crops. Perhaps it was the slogans they did not want photographed; nobody was ever prepared to offer a translation of any of them.

The picture I should not have taken, Mi Gok Collective Farm

Mi Gok Collective Farm Residential Area

We were shepherded towards the nearest cottage, its front garden neatly planted with rows of lettuce, beans and chilli.

Cottage Garden, Mi Gok Collective Farm, Sariwon

A man appeared and removed the fearsome dog guarding the door. Stepping over the pungent reminders of its presence, we were greeted by the lady of the house who told us it accommodated 6 people from 3 generations.

The living room was empty except for two televisions (one more than there are channels), some crackers drying on the floor and a grim faced family photograph, featuring Kim Jong Il.

Our host in her living room, Mi Gok Collective Farm, Sariwon

In the kitchen, our host squatted down and lit the gas burner to prove that it worked. N asked whether she cooked all the meals – did she see the kitchen as ‘hers’ or did she let her daughter-in-law cook? It was an artful question which might have been expected to produce a wry smile and a spirited response. A brief but earnest conversation between host and interpreter was followed by an answer of studied vagueness. I cannot know for certain, but I strongly suspect that no meals had ever been cooked in that kitchen. There was no dirt, no grease, no lingering cooking smells, no sign of it ever having been used.

Spotless kitchen, Mi Gok Collective Farm, Sariwon

There was no sign of a child in the house either. We were only shown the living room and kitchen, but as we left L stole a glance through a window into another room. It was completely empty. We were, I am certain, in a show-house and there was absolutely no chance of us being allowed to wander through the lanes among peoples' real homes.

Mi Gok Collective Farm, the View from Above

We drove to a viewpoint overlooking the farm, the flat fields stretching away into the misty distance. Sariwon is reputed to have a large tractor factory and in most pictures of the Dear Leader’s visits there were tractors behind him, but we saw none, nor any evidence of their existence.

Flat fields stretching away into the misty distance,
Mi Gok Collective Farm, Sariwon

Songbul Monastery

Songbul Monastery is also just outside Sariwon. It is located within the castle (of which little more than this gate remains) on Mt Jongbang (more a knoll than a mountain)

Castle gate, Mt Jongbang, Sariwon

Founded in 898 the monastery has five halls, two of which date from the 14th century as does the little stone pagoda in front of the Kukrik Hall.

Kukrik Hall and small pagoda, Songbul Monastery, Sariwon

The abbot assured us there is complete freedom of religion and Songbul remains a functioning monastery. The monks, we were told, do not live here, but are ‘nearby’.

L and the Abbot, Songbul Monastery, Sariwon

The North Korean Film Industry

There were actually plenty of monks – and brigands – but they were actors as the monastery was being used as a film location. I am not sure how convincing the wooden rifles and swords would look on screen, but at least here it was honest pretence.

'Brigands' resting on their wooden weapons, Songbul Monastery,  Sariwon

I became engrossed in watching rehearsal after rehearsal of a scene where a young woman in period costume unwrapped a knife, looked at it in horror and dashed out. I failed to notice that everyone else was ready to leave and a minder had to be sent to fetch me. I did finally see the scene filmed and discovered that even in North Korea directors actually say ‘action’ and ‘cut’.

A scene is filmed, Songbul Monastery, Sariwon

Back to Pyongyang for a Picnic

The bus took us the 70km back to Pyongyang passing under the Reunification Monument as we entered the city. Reunification is the official aim of the governments in both north and south, and there are occasional talks when the north is in one of its less intransigent moods. Negotiations in 2000 produced a joint communiqué and the monument was built to commemorate this accord, though there has been no progress since. In reality, reunification is unlikely until something cataclysmic happens in the north, but even then South Korean heads may be wary, whatever their hearts might say. West Germany found the economic absorption of the DDR problematic. West Germans were four times more numerous, but East Germans were only one third as wealthy. By comparison South Korea would be taking on a country which is relatively larger (half the population of the south) but considerably poorer (per capita GDP in the DPRK is one fiftieth of that in South Korea).

The Reunification Monument, Pyongyang

Driving through Pyongyang takes less time than driving through any city of (allegedly) comparable size I have ever visited. On the western edge we stopped at a park where picnic areas had been laid out amid the trees. A huge concrete dragon writhed between them.

Each table was equipped with a small barbecue and a Korean girl stood by to fetch beer (at a reasonable €1 for a large bottle) and ensure our skewers of lamb and pieces of duck and squid were properly cooked. The food was good and as we finished along came the by now expected bowl of rice. This time it was covered in a thick yellow sauce that promised turmeric and perhaps other spices, but turned out to be uncompromisingly bland.

Barbecue in the park, Pyongyang

A girl band arrived to provide music, a song and a dance for those who wished to.

A song and a dance in the park, Pyongyang

To the Port City of Nampho and Beyond

Lunch over, we travelled west along the ‘Youth Hero Highway’, so called as it was built in a very short time by several thousand young volunteers. Four lanes of smooth black tarmac led west while the equally wide eastbound carriageway had a rough surface and no road markings. After a few miles the smooth surface ran out and we bumped slowly and carefully towards the coast. Why so much of the country’s youth had been directed into building this road is a mystery. An eight-lane highway is all very well, but a single track road with passing places would have been ample for the traffic and with a proper surface would have taken us to Nampho quicker and in greater comfort

We just saw enough of Nampho to realise it was a port before heading north across more countryside, largely rice growing. Occasionally we were told that we must not take photographs, and then a few miles later photography was permitted again. We could see no reason for this restriction coming and going. ‘The local people do not want you to take photographs here,’ was the less than convincing explanation. We saw only a handful of people between Nampho and our hotel and I doubt any of them had been asked.

Luxury (almost) Spa Accommodation

We reached our destination, a spa formerly for the exclusive use of those more equal than others, at 4.30. The reception area was spacious and well equipped but there were no other guests. The accommodation was in two-storey blocks in the wooded grounds. Our room was on the first floor and again I carried our case up the stairs. Though only four years old, the hotel was no longer deemed suitable for VIPs but was fine for itinerant foreigners. I suppose a real VIP would have a minion to carry his case, but I am my own minion.

Our room was large with two vast beds – as hard as stone – an empty fridge, a flat-screen TV which said ‘no signal’ on whatever mode you set it, an air-conditioning unit and remote control which would not speak to each other, a water boiler (it would have been quicker to rub two sticks together) and a spa.

Spa with a blue mosaic, like a downmarket Roman bath, Nampho

The spa was of blue mosaic like a downmarket Roman bath, the cracked tile surround ingeniously fashioned to deposit all surplus water on the floor. The water from the thermal spring gushed out hot, with a slightly metallic tang and a distinct saltiness. I enjoyed my wallow and felt duly relaxed as I dried myself with the paper-thin oversized handkerchief that passed for a towel before donning the bathrobe, which was within four sizes of being a perfect fit.

Clam Bake

Dressed again we headed outside for a promised clam bake.

Some of the tall trees in the garden were used as roosts by white cranes who were arriving in their hundreds, they would set off again around dawn. The big white birds flapping slowly towards the trees were an impressive sight. The grounds were also frequented by small jet-black squirrels who scampered back and forth across our path.

Firing up the clams

While we had been splashing in the spa our guides had been busy acquiring clams and setting them out on a large metal griddle. Sake bottles were handed round and I was interested to see they had found some at 45% rather than the 22% I had been buying, making the otherwise rather bland drink slightly more interesting. As we sipped, the driver poured fuel over the clams, set it alight and kept pouring. Several bottles of fuel were used and several glasses had to be downed before the clams were cooked to his satisfaction, but when they were they were very good indeed.

B and S get stuck into the clams

After that dinner was something of an anti-climax, but did involve our first brush with kimchi, a Korean staple much loved north and south of the great divide. Spiced fermented cabbage may sound resistible, but is strangely moreish.

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Location: Nampho, South Pyongan, North Korea
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