North Korean Nouveau-Riche

I disembarked in Pyongyang, and was ushered into a hotel of extreme extravagance. A group of four awaited; a guide, and the other three visitors with whom I had flown in from Beijing with. The same number of armchairs, arranged in a semicircle, sat at one end of the room. We sat, and were informed of the rules and procedures that we were to follow while touring the country. No photographs without permission, no talking to people without permission/unless they speak to you first, follow local customs when you can, don't try to liberate the minds of those whom you see.

Touring the squares, touring the streets came to an abrupt end. The warm smiles vanished when I was brought into a room and asked why a friend had blogged about my trip. Who had I told that I was coming? I didn't think. For the safety of the public, I was locked in the hotel while the group carried on.

It was late evening on the same day that a knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of 6. They spoke English with an international accent. A Scandinavian couple, a single American, a Swiss woman, and two Austrians, all immaculately and stylishly dressed, all under twenty-five.

They took me on a stroll through an industrial park about a half a mile from the hotel. We stopped, and several of them smoked under the shadow of a large electrical substation. There were no guards. They told me how this was their land, this was their retreat. They did as they wished, and with impugnity. They were not guarded.

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I think ferrying folks from Yaletown is beginning to get to me. Fucked up dream, no?