“North Korea’s cult of personality was comical, Kim, and their America-bashing got under my skin.”
I took the small plastic bag of ashes out of my shirt pocket with my back to the security cameras. The wind howled on the five-hundred-foot Juche Tower’s top deck and my heart pounded. I kept an eye on our witchy tour guide and wondered how I’d explain my global mission to North Korean police if I was arrested.
Four months ago North Korea arrested American college freshman Otto Warmbier and sentenced him to fifteen years of hard labor for trying to steal a propaganda poster in our hotel—the hotel nicknamed the “Alcatraz of Fun” where all foreigners stay. How many years of breaking big rocks into little rocks would I get for spreading your spirit in the world’s weirdest country?
This Kim’s View would be strange for sure; the monster pyramid on the horizon—aka the Ryugyong Hotel, the world’s tallest unoccupied building—the Soviet-style blocks painted drab blue, green, and orange, the lack of cars on the road and ships on the river, and strangest of all, the myriad murals and statues of dictators.
Getting here was easy. I just boned up fifteen hundred bucks for a three-day tour from Beijing. Our flock was herded around Pyongyang and fed pure propaganda at every stop; showing off their façade of normalcy, bragging about their dictators, and poo-pooing the United States.
Yes, you’re right, Kim, I voluntarily shelled out a ton of dough to be bashed and berated. Brilliant! Of course I knew the United States was the “evil empire” before arriving in the DPRK, but I didn’t think the anti-American crap would be a problem. I was wrong.
“Everywhere in North Korea I’m the ‘heinous American strangler of peace, the blood-thirsty enemy, the cunning wolf.’”
If it wasn’t so serious it would be laughable. After the first day I couldn’t stomach any more ridiculous brain washing. If I’m an “imperialist dog” then I’m a pit bull, not of a poodle.
Our North Korean guide/babysitter earned “witchy poo” status by dishing out American slurs and George Bush jokes with pride. I returned the favor with an Oscar-worthy performance of my inner “Yankee bastard jackal.”
Witchy poo warned us that photographs of military bases, soldiers, and construction sites were strictly forbidden. Throughout our tour the photo blacklist continued to grow. No photos of people in truck beds. No photos of this. No photos of that. Just as I took a sweet landscape shot with a bicycle rider far off in the distance she yelled.
“No photos of people riding bicycles with packages on the back.”
I blew a gasket. “I paid a lot of money for this tour, but I’m not getting my money’s worth.”
Our British, Beijing-based tour manager, Nick—unlike witchy poo—was cool and told us hilarious Dennis Rodman stories while herding us around. North Korea’s current dictator, Kim Jong-un, adores the Chicago Bulls and former Bull Rodman wormed his way into a drunken diplomatic mission trying to “open the door” for Otto Warmbier’s release.
“Rodman day raged in Pyongyang and referred to Kim Jong-un as ‘that little mother-fucker.’”
Nick told us Otto is in deep shit. “He’s young and healthy so he could be North Korea’s political pawn for a while.” But Nick also said, “You really have to try hard to get arrested here.” Hmmm. Good to know, Kim, good to know.
North Koreans earn brownie points for bowing and laying flowers at the feet of sixty-six-foot bronze statues of Kim Il-sung (dictator numero uno) and his son. Witchy poo had a cow when I raised one foot on the stairs in front of their great leaders. “No posing.”
I laughed out loud at the comical video onboard North Korea’s crown jewel of anti-American hogwash, the USS Pueblo, a navy ship captured for spying in 1968.
“The commander of the American warmongers was so afraid his hands trembled and he forgot to write the date on the cease-fire agreement.”
Fifty-year-old photographs of American sailors holding their hands up were blown up on a billboard next to the Pueblo and a female tour guide dressed in army green explained why this still mattered.
Geez, Sis, talk about living in the past.
At the armistice museum a general with a chest full of medals asked the heartless Americans to raise their hands. I folded my arms and struck a pose.
Witchy poo told us to huddle up outside and I stood directly in front of the general. He asked where I was from and she said American. “The general asked what is your job?” Quick, Kim, what is the most liberal bourgeois profession you can think of? “I’m a male stripper.”
You’re right, Sis, that’s a lie. I’ve never stripped in public. But if North Korea held a charity strip tease, I’d give ‘em the Full Monty.
North Koreans are required to practice kissing their dictators’ butts. A lot. Each day we saw hundreds of people dancing, marching, and waving pom-poms.
While our group visited a fancy-schmancy department store I went outside to take photographs. I walked down the street, took a couple shots, and got back on the bus. A security guard complained that a foreigner took photos. Witchy poo walked to the back of the bus and confronted the “American baby-killer.” Moi.
“Someone took a photo that’s prohibited. Let me see your camera.”
“No. You can’t see my camera” I said with my best Medusa face.
“They’ll check your photographs at the airport before you leave.”
“Oh well, I’ll take my chances.”
After lunch I tried to interact with locals again. When everyone started sucking on cancer sticks I wandered off. A couple women giggled and smirked while carrying baskets of sand at a construction site. Before I could even ask for a photo op their foreman frowned and shooed me away.
Of course North Koreans avoided me, Sis, I’m not worth the risk. Their neighbors could nark on them for cavorting with the soulless enemy and their songbun social status would crash.
Witchy poo tortured us with George Bush jokes and cult of personality crap on our drive to the Korean War Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). In the real world, the 172-kilometer drive from Pyongyang to the DMZ takes ninety minutes. It took us 5 hours. The highway reminded me of West Africa—more potholes than pavement.
“Our great leader introduced triple share cropping; planting and harvesting three different crops to maximize the yield of our farmland.”
She skipped the part about millions of North Koreans starving to death in the late 90s after the Soviet Union went belly up. Witchy poo moved to the back of the bus to stop me from taking photos. I snuck as many photos as I could. I felt like I was back in eighth grade.
The DMZ wasn’t as spooky as I expected. In the iconic blue rooms a North Korean soldier shooed me away when I crowded his personal space. He didn’t want to be selfie bros.
The silver lining for ten hours of swerving around potholes was seeing the real North Korea—the countryside. Photos of construction sites are forbidden in North Korea because the dear leaders don’t want the world to see their ass-backward building.
Everything was being built by hand; no cement mixers, no cranes, no modern equipment. It was Saturday night when we drove back to Pyongyang but nobody called it a day and headed to the club. It was almost pitch black and all the villagers were still working.
You know what, Sis? I’m lucky to be a heinous American warmonger. The North Koreans are brainwashed that the United States is still the enemy, but if we didn’t fight together with South Korea seventy years ago, another forty million Koreans would be eating grass today.
The wind on top of Juche Tower was so strong my shirt puffed up like Michelin Man. This was our last day in North Korea. My last shot for a great Kim’s View. I opened the little bag of ashes and carefully poured out some of your spirit. Nobody noticed.
Mission accomplished, finally. Although I failed miserably with my eighth-grader diplomacy, we got the job done. And considering the weirdness and degree of difficulty, this Kim’s View from Juche Tower is one of our best. KV
