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| Pyongyang Station seen on Sept. 19 / Image by Jon Dunbar |
This
is the third in a three-part series about travel in North Korea.
By Jon Dunbar
Where are you if, to go home, you have to travel in the opposite direction?
This is the story of how the 195-kilometer distance from Pyongyang to Seoul became a 1,022-kilometer journey taking 27 hours, four trains, three buses, one taxi, one random Chinese couple's car, one airplane, two border crossings and six beers.
Additionally, I was dressed in North Korean clothes the whole way.
I visited the tailor at the Yanggakdo Hotel in Pyongyang, to make my "Yanggakdo leisure suit." Ever since my 2010 visit, I wanted to get a North Korean suit made. You might be thinking of a severe black high-collared "Mao suit" befitting an authoritarian look. But I had vivid memories of the leisure suit. North Korean men wearing short-sleeved suits, something I'd never seen before which struck me as humble and unpretentious.
The morning of my departure, I separated from my group. I'd chosen the four-day tour operated by the Canadian-run Paektu Cultural Exchange to see Pyongyang and Kaesong, and the others were on a 10-day trip, with visits to Wonsan and Mount Paektu.
My Korean guides complimented me on my suit and one took a picture on her smartphone. They dropped me off at Pyongyang Station, an impressive structure built in 1958. One guide seated me inside the crowded station and left abruptly. I wondered if he'd abandoned me now that I was essentially no longer his responsibility, but he came back a few minutes later to stay with me until the train departed.
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| A crowded platform at Pyongyang Station, seen in August 2010 / Image by Jon Dunbar |
From here on out, I was going solo.
Pyongyang was once a stop on the Gyeongui Line built in 1904. But the Gyeongui Line was split in 1948, and today the North operates the Pyongui (Pyongyang-Sinuiju) and Pyongbu (theoretically Pyongyang-Busan, but really Pyongyang-Kaesong) lines, while the South has the Gyeongui Line connecting Seoul with Dorasan Station at the DMZ. Soon this historic train route may be reconnected.
But for now, I was headed the opposite direction, up through Sinuiju to Dandong, China. After about four hours, in the distance loomed tall buildings. There was China, visible from Korean soil. Apparently Sinuiju citizens grew up in comparative affluence across the river from the less-developed Dandong. But the past couple decades changed that as Dandong built rapidly, it left an uncomfortable psychological effect on the Korean locals.
The whole time, I was anxious about the border crossing. My camera battery had died, and if the border guards wanted to inspect my photos, things would get difficult. On my customs form I overdeclared, mentioning my two cameras, as well as purchases from North Korea including foodstuffs, books and the shirt on my back. It made for good conversation with the border guard, anyway. We sat crammed in the train compartments for about two hours before the train rolled through and crossed the Yalu River.
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| Pyongyang Station seen in August 2010 / Image by Jon Dunbar |
We were out of North Korea, but the hard part was still to come. During my 2010 trip the transit in China had been the most stressful parts. China compared to Korea ― either Korea ― feels lawless, and every minor financial transaction becomes a hot-tempered argument. I even recall being turned away from hotels despite having reservations, for incomprehensible reasons. The air quality, especially in Shenyang, is so awful you can taste it whenever you open your mouth.
Once I left the train station, I got lost looking for the bus to Shenyang Airport. Finally I found a taxi driver who knew some Korean words, and he brought me to the bus station. Only it was closed.
Drenched in sweat and carrying four heavy bags, I rushed back into the train station to catch the Shenyang-Dandong Intercity Railway. Back in 2010, it was a lumbering old train that took several hours, but today it was a super-modern train boasting speeds up to 250 km/h. People stared at this sweaty foreigner dressed in a North Korean suit, probably unsure what to think.
I heard an attendant speak some basic Korean words, which came as a huge comfort on my journey between the Koreas. But I couldn't understand the cultural context and intent in using the words.
About an hour into the 208-kilometer journey, we got an announcement the next stop was Shenyangnan Station. Was that my stop? I hurried to the Korean-speaking attendant.
Turns out Shenyang has two train stations and two airports. They ushered me off at Shenyangnan, which turned out to be in the middle of nowhere, and told me to follow a man who clearly wasn't a rail employee.
What's more, he told me the airport hotel where I had a reservation was about 30 minutes away, about the same distance from the other Shenyang Station. But, he assured me, I won't have to pay for a taxi this way. There were no taxis out here anyway.
We loaded into a compact car with his wife and headed out. I looked out for road signs pointing toward the airport, but saw none for the first 20 minutes. Soon enough they dropped me off in front of the airport hotel.
These people had not picked me up for free language lessons like I would expect in the South, nor were they interested in harvesting my organs or selling me into slavery. We never exchanged names, but their kindness undid some of my negative thoughts about China.
My hotel reservation this time was valid, and with the great wealth of Chinese money I had left, I splurged on instant noodles and Chinese beer in the hotel store, falling asleep in my room before I could finish it all.
Next morning, I caught a flight back to Incheon, still wearing my Yanggakdo leisure suit. I temporarily took off the jacket while passing through customs.
I worried people here would get upset at it, but few South Koreans know how they dress in the North. Still, there may be anti-communist conservatives or people living here from the North who might take issue, so I don't wear it in public often.
Once I was out of the airport, I grabbed a beer from the nearest convenience store, confirming that, yes, South Korean beer really is the worst after a week of Taedonggang and smaller breweries' fare.
On the train back to Seoul, I looked around at all the people wasting their lives looking at their smartphones, and I sneered at a blandly colored "I Want" apartment complex we passed.
Finally I reached the end of my journey in Seoul, a journey that a few like me have taken, and many could never do.
