My First Step into North Korea: A Longtime Obsession Realized

A Fascination Born in Seoul

In October 2005, I finally fulfilled a dream that had been growing inside me since 1999, when I first moved to Seoul, South Korea to teach English. Living in Seoul, I was only 50 miles away from the border of North Korea—a country shrouded in secrecy, ruled by a tyrannical leader with a famously bad haircut, and centered around an extreme cult of personality.

Despite being so close, North Korea felt like another universe. Few foreigners had ever set foot inside, and that air of mystery only made it more irresistible to me.

Why North Korea Captivated Me

• Mystery and Isolation: Few outsiders had visited; the country was a blank space on the map.

• Tyranny and Control: The bizarre cult surrounding the Kim dynasty fascinated and horrified me.

• Proximity: Living just a short distance from the world’s most secretive country made it all the more tempting.

An Opportunity Too Rare to Miss

When I learned about a rare chance to visit North Korea—an opportunity extended to a very limited number of Americans—I didn’t hesitate. This would be one of the first times Americans could legally step into North Korea since the Korean War.

For someone like me, who had been fixated on the mystery of the DPRK for years, it was a dream opportunity that I couldn’t pass up.

Map of my route in North Korea-Pyongyang to Kaeson/DMZ

Breaking Through the Barriers: My Chance to Enter North Korea

Early Attempts to Enter the Mysterious DPRK

In the early 2000s, my obsession with visiting North Korea only grew stronger. I actively searched for ways to cross into this forbidden country, but at the time, it was virtually impossible for foreigners—especially Americans.

• Chinese Agencies: A few Chinese travel companies had just begun offering trips for Chinese citizens, and I eagerly reached out to them.

• No Response: My inquiries went unanswered, leaving me discouraged but still determined.

A Glimmer of Hope from Beijing

Eventually, I discovered a small travel agency run by a British expat living in Beijing. His company specialized in organizing trips for small groups of foreign tourists into the DPRK. I contacted him immediately.

• The Bad News: He informed me that Americans were still prohibited from visiting.

• A Slim Promise: If the rules ever changed, he promised to let me know.

Given the dismal state of U.S.-DPRK relations, I wasn’t optimistic. Years of tension made the idea of American tourists entering North Korea seem almost laughable.

The Unexpected Invitation

Then, in 2005, the impossible happened.

• I received an email from the British travel company: North Korea was allowing a small group of American tourists for the first time since the Korean War.

• I was given just two weeks’ notice to decide and prepare.

I didn’t hesitate for a second.

• That night, I booked a flight to Beijing.

• I submitted my passport information and paid the deposit to secure my spot on the historic trip.

My long-standing obsession was finally about to become reality.

Journey to Beijing: Meeting Fellow Travelers to North Korea

A Fortuitous Flight

I flew to Beijing via San Francisco on United Airlines, filled with anticipation. As fate would have it, I wasn’t alone in my mission. Seated next to me was a Mormon businessman from Utah who was traveling to North Korea on a humanitarian trip. In front of me sat Andy, a 32-year-old student from Seattle, working on his third master’s degree—he, like me, was part of the same tour group.

The 12-hour flight passed quickly. We spent much of the journey deep in conversation about North Korea, sharing our excitement and theories about what we might encounter. I also reflected on how different this flight was from my first trip to China ten years earlier. Back then, I had been one of the only Americans on a flight packed with Chinese passengers. Now, it seemed the roles were reversed—there were Americans everywhere.

Day 1: Arrival in Beijing and First Impressions

Searching for the Red Brick Hotel

After landing, Andy and I decided to team up and split a taxi to the Red Brick Hotel, our designated meeting point and the most convenient place to stay. Even this seemingly simple task turned into an adventure. Finding a taxi was surprisingly difficult, and it took the help of a soldier to finally flag one down.

When I showed the driver the hotel on a map and tried to pronounce the name, he looked at me with complete confusion. Andy ran into a nearby hotel to find someone who could write the hotel name in Chinese characters, which finally seemed to help. Still, the driver spent the next half hour circling the area, stopping to ask random people for directions. Eventually, after what felt like endless laps, we realized we had been driving in circles around our hotel the entire time.

We checked into a large suite, splitting the cost at $15 each per night. It came with a living room, a bedroom, and an overly elaborate shower fitted with four or five different heads. After dropping off our things, we ventured out to find some dinner.

A Night Out in the New Beijing

Navigating the streets wasn’t much easier. After getting thoroughly lost, we finally stumbled across a local restaurant. Not knowing what to order, we guessed at random. Andy lucked out with a hearty pork and rice dish, while I ended up with an absurd, two-foot-high mountain of fried broccoli. We laughed it off over a few bottles of Tsing Tao beer and chatted with some curious Chinese teenagers dining nearby.

Later, we wandered through the city streets. Beijing had changed dramatically since my last visit—there were fewer bicycles, towering high-rise apartments, and streams of cars clogging the streets. We eventually found a stretch of bars where a few foreigners lingered, and touts aggressively offered girls and massages.

We grabbed beers at two different bars. The first was filled with locals belting out shrill karaoke, while the second, the so-called Fashion Club, featured a sad parade of young women pacing up and down a makeshift runway, supposedly modeling outfits.

Back near our hotel, we noticed a massage parlor and decided to check it out. Inside, three assistants ushered me toward a locker room, where they tried to get me to slip into a pair of skimpy white briefs—a suggestion I politely declined, sticking to my own shorts. They led me into a dark room, where I received an hour-long back massage for just eight dollars. The masseuses, like many working in Beijing’s service industries, had come from the countryside in search of better opportunities. Exhausted from the long day, I fell asleep during the massage.

Day 2: Meeting the North Korea Tour Group

A Morning in Beijing

I woke early and went for a walk through the neighborhood. In the park, elderly men and women practiced slow, rhythmic Tai Chi. I wandered down alleyways squeezed between the city’s newer, towering buildings, soaking in the early morning calm before the chaos of the day.

Later that morning, Andy and I met the rest of our tour group—roughly ninety Americans in total, gathered in the hotel lobby. After chatting with a few of them, I realized this was a well-traveled and generally well-off crowd. The North Korea trip itself cost between $1,600 and $1,800, not including flights or extra expenses.

Orientation: Rules for the DPRK

At 10 a.m., we attended a mandatory orientation led by Simon Cockerell, our British trip leader. Sarcastic and blunt, Simon didn’t sugarcoat anything. He laid down the rules clearly: we were not to speak to local North Koreans unless spoken to first, we couldn’t leave the hotel without permission, we were not allowed to take photos without approval, and absolutely under no circumstances could we insult the Dear Leader Kim Jong-Il or the Great Leader Kim Il-Sung.

The gravity of where we were about to go finally hit me. The real adventure was about to begin.

A Detour to the Great Wall: Exploring Simatai

Escaping the City

With some free time before our departure to North Korea, I convinced a few fellow travelers to join me on a trip to the Great Wall—specifically, to the less-visited Simatai section.

Hiring a taxi, we set off on what turned into a three-hour drive to cover just 80 kilometers. As we left the shiny new skyline of Beijing behind, the landscape quickly changed. We entered the countryside, where life moved at a slower, simpler pace.

The contrast with the city was striking. The villages we passed were much poorer. Farmers in Mao-style jackets tended their fields using traditional, non-mechanized methods—plowing with oxen and hand tools instead of tractors. It felt like stepping back in time.

Simatai: The Great Wall Without the Crowds

When we arrived at Simatai, we were delighted to find no tourists. We had the ancient wall virtually to ourselves.

• To reach the wall itself, we took a gondola halfway up the steep mountainside.

• From there, we began our hike, ascending on foot to the higher, crumbling watchtowers.

Simatai was rugged and wild compared to the polished sections of the Wall closer to Beijing. Parts of the wall here were steep, unrestored, and weather-beaten, making the experience feel much more authentic. The stones were loose in places, and the wall snaked over the mountains like a crumbling dragon.

Standing atop those ancient stones, with the empty countryside stretching out around us, I could almost feel the history humming through the air. It was one of those rare travel moments—pure, raw, and completely untouched by crowds.

Simital portion of the Great Wall

Adventure at Simatai: A Wild Ride on the Great Wall

A Relaxing Start

When I purchased my ticket to Simatai, I noticed a curious line item: a $1 insurance policy for visiting the Wall. It was a small detail that hinted at the unpredictability of what was ahead.

The gondola ride up the mountain was slow and relaxing, offering sweeping views of the rugged countryside. The weather was perfect—clear skies, a crisp breeze—and the Great Wall unfurled across the mountaintops like a stone ribbon.

At the top of the gondola, we took a small motorized cart up a track for another quarter of the way, and from there, we walked the final stretch to the wall itself. The scene was everything I had hoped for: no crowds, just vast, raw mountains and the timeless stones of the Great Wall.

An Unwanted Escort

As soon as we reached the wall, we were approached by self-proclaimed farmers aggressively offering their services as unofficial guides. I firmly told them”no, thank you”—I wanted to experience the Wall on my own terms, without anyone following me.

Parts of Simatai were semi-restored, while other sections remained wild and crumbling. It was exactly what I had hoped to find: an authentic, untouched stretch of the Wall, rich with history and mystery.

Unfortunately, my camera was having issues, but even without great photos, the memory remains vivid.

Chased Off the Wall—and an Unexpected Thrill

After about an hour of wandering and soaking it all in, a young official in uniform—stern and ornery—approached and ordered us off the Wall. It was getting dark anyway, and as we descended, we paused to watch the sunset melt into the horizon and a full moon rise over the jagged silhouette of the Wall. It was one of those unforgettable moments of pure travel magic.

As we headed back down, we spotted an old Chinese man standing by a cliff, next to a cable and a harness. He gestured for us to come over. Without overthinking it, we accepted the offer.

One by one, we strapped in and took a leap of faith—hurtling across a river on a cable line that stretched some 100-200 yards over a 150-foot drop. The ride was heart-pounding and fast, and at the bottom, we balanced along a narrow ledge above another steep drop-off, following a local woman back to the parking lot where our taxi was waiting.

A Hair-Raising Ride Back to Beijing

The drive back to Beijing was long and exhausting. I slept most of the way, only to be jolted awake four or five times by near-death driving incidents. At one point, I woke up to the sight of an oncoming semi-truck bearing down on us head-on. Our driver didn’t even flinch.

Miraculously, we made it back to the hotel.

A Night Out in Beijing: Food, Karaoke, and Nostalgia

Dinner and Unexpected Karaoke Adventures

That evening, the three of us found a local restaurant near the hotel. It was one of those charming places where you cook your own food at the table. Once again, we guessed at the menu and ended up with an incredible meal.

Down the hallway, we stumbled upon a karaoke bar where dozens of women in matching pink dresses lined the pink-walled rooms, waiting for customers. Andy and I couldn’t resist posing for a few hilarious photos with them, but later, Andy deleted them from his phone before he could email them to me—apparently worried that his girlfriend wouldn’t see the humor in it.

Returning to Tiananmen Square

Later that night, we caught a taxi to Tiananmen Square. It was cold and dark, and we couldn’t actually enter the square itself, but we walked beside the walls of the Forbidden City.

It felt surreal to return. Ten years earlier, as a young traveler, Tiananmen had left a powerful impression on me. Standing there again, I felt the weight of history—and the changes that time had wrought—settle into my bones.

Day 3: Crossing Into the Hermit Kingdom

Departure Day: The Journey Begins

The morning of our departure to North Korea finally arrived. After breakfast, our group loaded into a bus and headed for the airport, buzzing with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Today was the day we would step into one of the world’s most isolated and secretive nations.

At the airport, we completed the usual check-in procedures before boarding our flight—operated by Air Koryo, North Korea’s state-owned airline. The plane was an aging Russian jet, retrofitted in a style straight out of the 1970s. There were no frills. The stewardesses didn’t even have seats; they simply held onto the overhead bars in the galley during takeoff and landing.

The aircraft was empty except for our group, adding to the surreal atmosphere. I instinctively reached for an in-flight magazine, only to realize there was none. I remembered Simon’s earlier story about a previous trip: a passenger had accidentally dropped water onto a newspaper bearing the Dear Leader’s photo, and the flight attendant had frantically tried to air-dry it to preserve the image. In North Korea, reverence for the leadership was not a suggestion—it was mandatory.

The flight lasted about an hour and twenty minutes. Curiously, we didn’t fly directly across the ocean to Pyongyang. Instead, the plane veered inland over land routes. I couldn’t help but wonder if this detour was designed to avoid flying over sensitive military installations, perhaps even nuclear facilities. Every time the aircraft changed course or altitude, it groaned and creaked loudly—sounds I wasn’t accustomed to hearing on more modern planes.

First Impressions of North Korea

When we landed, the airport was small and almost empty. Besides our jet, there were only two other old Russian planes on the tarmac, both converted passenger aircraft that still had gun ports visible beneath their fuselages.

I watched a group of about ten soldiers casually making repairs to one of the plane’s wings—a scene that did little to inspire confidence. After landing, we boarded a shuttle bus that transported us a whopping twenty feet to the terminal. Why we couldn’t simply walk remains a mystery.

At this point, our group was divided into four teams. Andy was randomly selected as the group leader for our team—Team C.

Chaos at Customs

Customs was pure chaos.
Cell phones were strictly illegal in North Korea and were immediately confiscated upon arrival, to be returned only when we left.

We were each required to fill out a customs declaration form swearing that we were not bringing in any prohibited items, such as:

• Foreign publications

• Cell phones

• Laptops

• Video cameras

• Telephoto lenses over 150mm

• Weapons or anything deemed a “killing device”

Essentially, anything that might allow a visitor to record, reveal, or spread information beyond government control was forbidden. Some travelers managed to bring in video cameras after enduring lengthy interrogations, but overall the screening was thorough and intimidating.

We were also explicitly warned that journalists were not allowed into the country without special permission. I couldn’t help but suspect that among our group, there were likely one or two individuals conducting covert surveillance for intelligence purposes—perhaps CIA operatives gathering information.

Meeting Our Minders

Once through customs, we were split into our designated teams and loaded into separate buses. It was here that we met Oh, who introduced himself as one of our guides. He mostly sat quietly in the back of the bus. Two other guides, both more serious and far less talkative, sat at the front.

Only one guide spoke passable English. It was clear that the others were not just “guides,” but government minders assigned to monitor us, ensuring no one stepped out of line or observed anything we weren’t supposed to see.

We were sternly instructed:

• Always ask permission before taking any photos.

• No photographs were allowed from the bus.

• No wandering off under any circumstances.

Our adventure into the world’s most controlled society had officially begun.

Monument of Re-Unification

Entering Pyongyang: The Showcase of North Korea

A Drive Through the Forbidden Countryside

After clearing customs, we boarded our bus and began the 30-mile journey to Pyongyang. Even if the trip had ended with just this drive, it would have been worth it.

Rolling through the countryside of North Korea—a country so often labeled part of the “Axis of Evil”—felt surreal. The landscape was stark yet beautiful: sprawling fields, scattered villages, and distant mountains under a heavy, muted sky. The rural areas appeared poor and largely untouched by modernization. Farmers worked the fields by hand, oxen pulling plows through the dirt. Everything felt frozen in time.

There was an eerie silence to the countryside, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

Arrival in Pyongyang

As we approached the city, the atmosphere shifted. Pyongyang rose out of the countryside like a carefully constructed mirage.

It’s often said that only the most politically loyal citizens are allowed to live in the capital. Pyongyang is a model city, a place where appearances are paramount. Those who are disabled, extremely elderly, or otherwise deemed “undesirable” are reportedly banned from residing there, hidden from the eyes of foreign visitors.

We entered the city through wide, empty boulevards lined with massive gray apartment blocks and grandiose monuments. One of the first landmarks we passed was North Korea’s version of France’s Arc de Triomphe—their Arch of Triumph.

It was enormous, dwarfing even the original in Paris, a colossal structure built to commemorate Kim Il-Sung’s role in resisting Japanese occupation. Like so many things in Pyongyang, it was designed to impress, overwhelm, and send a clear message of power.

A City Without Life

Driving deeper into the city, I began to notice unsettling details.

The streets were almost completely empty.
There were hardly any cars driving, no people strolling along the sidewalks, and no vehicles parked anywhere. The broad avenues looked built for massive parades, but day-to-day life seemed conspicuously absent.

There were no stores, no restaurants, and no commercial advertisements.
Instead, massive billboards depicted colorful murals of workers, soldiers, and farmers marching toward a bright communist future. Slogans in bold red characters promoted loyalty to the state and the ruling Kim family.

Everywhere, the architecture was bleak and utilitarian—dour communist-style apartment buildings stretched into the distance, each block blending into the next. It was clear that Pyongyang wasn’t built for comfort or community—it was built for control and spectacle.

A City Built to be Seen

Pyongyang felt more like a stage set than a living city. Every building, every monument seemed part of a carefully orchestrated performance. And now, we were part of the audience.

Our bus continued deeper into the heart of the city, making its way toward our hotel—the place that would become our heavily monitored base during our days inside the world’s most secretive country.

Me standing in Pyongyang

Communist Propaganda Murals

Arrival at Our Hotel: A Glimpse of “Luxury” in Pyongyang

The Twin Towers of Pyongyang

Our hotel in Pyongyang was surprisingly grand—a pair of twin towers connected by a skybridge at the top. It was, without a doubt, one of the nicest buildings in the entire city.

The hotel had an old-school glamour to it, a kind of 1950s-style luxury, with marble floors, glitzy chandeliers, and a faded sense of Cold War prestige.

While we waited for our room keys, Andy and I wandered around the lobby. We bought some North Korean beer at the bar and chatted with the waitresses and an older bartender. To our surprise, a few of the staff—including an elderly man—complimented us on how good-looking we were.

It was a funny moment that reminded me just how isolated this place was. I asked the waitresses if they knew who Michael Jackson was, and none of them had ever heard of him. To me, this was the ultimate test of true isolation: a country so closed off that the King of Pop himself was unknown.

Missing Our Room Keys

While we were chatting and sipping our beers, we accidentally missed the announcement for room key distribution. As a result, we had no choice but to haul all of our luggage straight to the next event—the Mass Games.

But first, there was dinner.

Dinner and First Impressions of Pyongyang Nightlife

Traditional Korean Dinner—Empty and Silent

Our bus took us from the hotel to a nearby restaurant.
Dinner consisted of traditional Korean food—kimchi, various small dishes, rice, and beer.

As with all our dining experiences in North Korea, the waitresses wore traditional Korean hanbok dresses, and we were the only patrons in the entire restaurant. In fact, every restaurant we visited during the trip was set up exclusively for our group’s arrival, creating a surreal, sterile dining experience.

At dinner, Andy and I connected with two other travelers:

• One from Washington, D.C.

• Another, originally from Georgia, who was living in China.

For the rest of the trip, the four of us usually sat together at meals and occupied the back seats of the bus—a little corner of camaraderie in an otherwise heavily supervised environment.

Driving Through a Darkened City

After dinner, we boarded the bus and set out for the May Day Stadium to witness the famous Mass Games.

As the sun set, Pyongyang descended into darkness.
The city was eerily quiet—no streetlights, few cars, and only a handful of apartment windows glowing faintly. From the street, you could see into the units: usually a single, dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting weak shadows around otherwise bare rooms.

Driving through the city at night felt less like passing through a capital and more like navigating a forest in the dead of night.

Our guide, Hopney, explained that while housing was provided by the government, citizens had to pay separately for their own electricity and heating—luxuries that not everyone could afford regularly.

The Mass Games: A Jaw-Dropping Spectacle

Arrival at May Day Stadium

We arrived at May Day Stadium, the largest stadium in the world. The parking lot was vast and almost completely empty except for our buses.

From the darkened streets, hundreds of North Koreans were marching into the stadium in orderly lines. It was a surreal sight—the only movement in an otherwise silent city.

We followed them inside.

As soon as I stepped through the entrance, I was immediately blown away by the size, the scale, and the sheer intensity of what awaited us.

The Mass Games: A Surreal Spectacle of Loyalty

A Stadium Like No Other

May Day Stadium was colossal, an open-topped giant said to be capable of seating 150,000 participants. Even knowing the numbers, it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed upon stepping inside.

Across the entire far side of the stadium, tens of thousands of people sat in perfect formation, holding up colored cards that formed enormous living pictures. These “human pixels” changed with every new scene—one moment a giant North Korean flag, the next a portrait of the Great Leader smiling over fields of bountiful harvests.

On the field itself, hundreds of performers marched, danced, and sang in hypnotic, synchronized patterns, their movements so precise they seemed almost mechanical.

The Story of a Nation—Through Dance

The Mass Games unfolded for about an hour and a half.
Each scene, each dance, and each song was carefully choreographed to tell the story of North Korea—the struggles against invaders, the revolutionary victories, the hardships, and the promised bright future under the guidance of their leaders.

Watching the Mass Games, it became clear that the participants must have dedicated years of relentless practice to achieve this level of mastery. Children, teenagers, adults—all moving as one unit in a performance that demanded absolute discipline and devotion.

The setting added to the dreamlike quality of the evening:

• The booming revolutionary music

• The vibrant flashes of red, gold, and blue

• The sheer scale of the performance

• And above it all, the full moon shining through the open roof, casting an ethereal glow over the stadium

It was like watching a grand, living piece of propaganda theater—and I had to keep reminding myself it was real.

A Powerful, Divided Audience

The North Korean spectators were seated separately from the foreign visitors. Their faces were stern, focused. Meanwhile, among our group, emotions ran high.

Several Korean-Americans from our bus openly wept during the performance, overwhelmed by the sadness, beauty, and tragic irony of what they were witnessing—a country using art to tell a story of unity and pride, while hiding the suffering behind it.

In the end, the Mass Games were a breathtaking spectacle of loyalty and propaganda, designed not only to celebrate the Great and Dear Leaders but also to reinforce the mythology of the revolution. It was, without question, one of the most surreal and unforgettable things I had ever witnessed.

North Korean spectator section of Mass Games

Mass Games

Great Leader

Me at the Mass Games

Human Pixels-people holding cards to create scenes in the Mass Games

Scenes of the Revolution 

Mass Games Dancers

Female Revolutionaries

Mass Games

Reflections After the Mass Games: A Profound First Night

A Powerful Emotional Impact

Propaganda or not, the Mass Games proved to be a profoundly emotional experience.
As the final performances ended and the last human mosaics dissolved back into the crowd, we slowly made our way back to the bus in a tight group, constantly herded by our guides if anyone strayed too far.

In the darkness, groups of North Koreans marched off in perfect lines into the blacked-out city.
As we waited by the bus, I spotted a group of North Korean children smiling and waving down at us from a balcony. I waved back, feeling an unexpected surge of warmth and sadness.

We boarded the bus and drove back through the eerily empty streets of Pyongyang, the city cloaked in near-complete darkness.

Settling Into Our Hotel: Surveillance and State TV

Our Room on the 27th Floor

Back at the hotel, Andy and I finally received our room key. We made our way up to the 27th floor and dropped our bags into what turned out to be an impressive room—at least by North Korean standards.

The room itself felt like a time capsule from the 1970s:

• A boxy, old-fashioned television sat in the corner.

• When we turned it on, for a brief moment the BBC flickered onto the screen—but then quickly vanished.

• After that, only two state-run channels remained, both dedicated to endless footage of military parades, “on-the-spot guidance” by Kim Jong-Il, and glorified documentaries about the regime’s supposed triumphs.

We also had a radio with two state-run stations, simply labeled Channel A and Channel B. Both played endless Korean opera, undoubtedly filled with patriotic messages and praise for the Party.

Andy and I talked freely in our room—careful never to say anything too bold against the Dear or Great Leader. We couldn’t shake the feeling that the room might be bugged, and that someone, somewhere, might be listening.

Exploring the Hotel and Meeting Our Guides

Strange Journeys Beneath the Hotel

After settling in, Andy and I decided to explore the hotel.
We wandered into the basement, following dimly lit hallways that felt more like something out of a spy novel than a luxury hotel. Before we could get far, a guard appeared from the shadows and firmly escorted us back upstairs.

It was clear: unsupervised wandering was not welcome here.

Drinking with the Guides

Back at the lounge, we ordered beers and rejoined some of our fellow travelers. A few of the North Korean guides were also there, relaxing over drinks and cigarettes.

Andy and I were eventually invited to join their table.
Oh, our quieter guide, and another more fluent guide were deep into their beers and seemed in a chatty mood.

They complimented Andy and me again, joking that we looked like movie stars. We talked casually about our ages, wives, girlfriends, and children. Oh told us he had married in his thirties and had two children, a rare glimpse into the personal lives of men who were otherwise rigidly professional during the day.

An Awkward Moment

The conversation took a strange turn when I asked Oh what he thought about America.
He looked at me seriously and said, “I hate the American Imperialists.”

Not exactly sure how to respond, I nodded politely and forced a small smile.
Oh quickly clarified, however, that he did not hate the American people—only the government.

It was a small but telling moment, and it reminded me that even in moments of casual drinking and laughter, the deep ideological rift between our worlds never really disappeared.

My Hotel Room Television airing only programs of the Dear Leader, providing on-the-spot expert guidance to government ministries and industry

Day 4: A Chilling Start in Pyongyang

I woke early and slid open the balcony door for some fresh air, only to find there was no safety screen—just a sheer, 200-foot drop straight to the ground below. It was a jarring reminder that safety standards here were different, if they existed at all.

The streets below were eerily empty, the city silent under a pale morning sky. After shaking off the shock, Andy and I gathered our things and prepared for another day of touring, ready to dive deeper into the carefully controlled world that North Korea wanted us to see.

View from my hotel room

Breakfast and a Glimpse Outside

After a shower, I headed down to the dining hall for breakfast, accompanied by the usual soothing Korean opera music that drifted through the hotel—no doubt full of praise for the Great Leader. The coffee hit the spot, and after eating, I stepped outside to see a glimpse of morning life in Pyongyang.

Our hotel, positioned in the heart of the city, offered a rare view of the streets below. We were warned not to wander more than 100 feet from the entrance, so I pushed it to the limit—stepping exactly 100 feet out—and stood in quiet awe.

It was supposedly rush hour, but the streets were nearly empty of cars.
In the middle of an intersection, a woman in uniform performed a perfectly choreographed routine, directing the few vehicles with the grace of an acrobat. When one traveler from our group carelessly stepped into the road, she instantly snapped to attention, blowing her whistle sharply—a clear reminder that every move here was tightly controlled.

Female Traffic Cop

North Korean Man with pin depicting Great leader

The Surreal Choreography of Pyongyang

Something about the city felt deeply unnatural.
In the distance, a haunting siren-like music blared from a hidden loudspeaker, echoing across the empty streets. The sound was eerie—strangely mechanical—and reminded me of the alien cries from War of the Worlds.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was some kind of signal, calling citizens to their workstations. Whatever its purpose, it only added to the surreal, tightly controlled atmosphere that clung to everything around us.

The next morning, I heard the exact same sound again, at exactly the same time.
People continued to walk quietly past, rarely speaking to each other, their expressions blank. Despite being in the heart of a city that supposedly held two million residents, the streets felt eerily empty.

A Rush to Rejoin the Group

As I stood absorbing the strangeness of it all, Oh, one of our guides, approached to fetch me. The bus was waiting to depart, and Hopney—our other guide—pulled me aside to inform me that I needed to provide a copy of my return ticket.

Apparently, North Korean authorities required proof that I intended to leave the country. It was hard to imagine too many tourists deciding to overstay their visa. 
I rushed back to my room, grabbed my documents, and sprinted back to the bus, where the rest of the group was already waiting, casting amused glances as I stumbled aboard.

The day’s official sightseeing was about to begin.

Street Scenes Pyongyang

Street Scenes Pyongyang

On the Road to the DMZ: A Glimpse Beyond Pyongyang

After loading onto the bus, we departed Pyongyang for the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ).
The journey would take about three hours to cover roughly 100 miles—and I was eager to leave the showcase capital behind and catch a glimpse of real life in the North Korean countryside.

As we rolled out of the city, the first scenes we encountered were striking.
A battalion of children marched in formation along the roadside, dutifully following a flag bearer. Along the way, we also passed scattered groups of locals walking along the highway, carrying bundles or simply making their way to wherever life demanded.

The Long Empty Road

Our guide Oh wasn’t overly strict about photography from the bus, occasionally warning us not to photograph specific things, but otherwise giving us some freedom to capture the view.

The countryside was surprisingly beautiful—lush green fields, rolling hills, and vast open spaces untouched by industry.
We traveled along the Reunification Highway, the main artery connecting Pyongyang with Kaesong and the DMZ. The road itself was large, wide, and in excellent condition—yet almost completely empty.

In over a hundred miles of driving, we encountered barely a handful of vehicles.
It was as if the road had been built for a grand parade that never arrived, stretching silently across the landscape.

Empty Road to Kaeson

Into the Countryside: Life Beyond Pyongyang

As we continued south toward the DMZ, the scenery shifted dramatically.
We passed collective farms and small villages, watching farmers—men, women, and even children—toiling in the fields. Many worked with bare hands or relied on oxen to plow and harvest, with only the occasional ancient Russian tractor in sight.

The bus never stopped for photos, and we were strongly discouraged from photographing the farmers.
At one point, a woman from our group cleverly asked for a bathroom stop in hopes of creating an opportunity to photograph the countryside. But the bus kept driving until we were in a barren, empty area before finally pulling over.

The landscape grew harsher the farther we traveled—barren fields dotted with small hills, stripped of the idyllic greenery we had first seen.

Arrival at the DMZ: A Different Perspective on the War

When we finally reached the Demilitarized Zone, strict rules were again emphasized—no photos without permission.
Still, I managed to snap a quick picture with a North Korean soldier, who stood beside me wearing a disdainful expression that said everything without words.

Inside the visitor center, an officer delivered the North Korean version of the Korean War: that the United States provoked and attacked North Korea.
It was, of course, the exact opposite of everything I had learned growing up.

While there, I also noticed a curious figure—a Spanish national, dressed in a North Korean military-style uniform, conversing with local officers.
He was reportedly the leader of a communist organization abroad and the only foreigner formally employed by the North Korean government. Flashy and conspicuous, he wore a giant gold watch, an ironic symbol of why communism so often collapses under its own hypocrisy.

Standing on the Edge

Our bus took us to the demarcation line itself—the tense border between North and South Korea.
Standing there, I realized I was only about 50 feet from the spot where I had stood five years earlier, on the South Korean side.

We weren’t allowed to approach the line too closely—perhaps because officials feared a tourist might try to cross and trigger an incident.
Unlike the South Korean side, where U.S. and South Korean troops stand rigidly at attention, the North had only four or five soldiers guarding their post.

In the distance, I could see the towering North Korean flagpole, a massive structure built atop a foundation the size of a skyscraper.
The flag itself was so large—nearly 200 feet tall—that it barely fluttered, even when the wind picked up. Beyond it stood Propaganda Village, a pristine but hollow settlement designed to give the illusion of prosperity to anyone peering across the border.

Me posing with North Koreak soldier who posed with me after I gave him a cigarette.

General explaining North Korean version of war and how North Korean soldiers defeated Americans

Looking at the South Korean side of the DMZ

Lunch in Kaesong: Glimpses of the Ancient and the Strange

A Quiet, Empty City

After visiting the DMZ, we continued south to Kaesong, the ancient capital of Korea.
Despite its historical significance, the town felt as eerily empty as everywhere else we had seen. A few worn apartment buildings stood scattered along wide, barren streets.

True to North Korean form, a traffic lady stood in a painted circle at an empty intersection, waving her wand dutifully—even though there were no cars to direct.

At the top of a hill, looming over the town, stood a giant bronze statue of the Great Leader, a familiar sight by now, always reminding citizens who was watching over them.

Lunch and Secret Snapshots

We ate lunch at a restaurant set up exclusively for our group.
Afterward, while waiting by the bus, we carefully snuck a few photos of daily life along the street—children playing, women hauling goods, farmers returning from the fields.

I had heard rumors of a nearby park in Kaesong featuring grotesque anti-American propaganda displays: a dartboard with a caricature of an American soldier sporting a beaked nose, and a target hole through a soldier’s head for throwing balls. Thankfully—or perhaps intentionally—we did not visit this park.

Touring the Ancient King’s Home

Our final stop in Kaesong was the site of an ancient Korean king’s home, a peaceful area surrounded by towering oak trees.

The architecture was traditional Korean, beautifully understated compared to the grandiose monuments of Pyongyang. We wandered the grounds, taking in the quiet serenity, though the modern regime’s touch was never far—photos of the Great Leader adorned the exhibit halls, seamlessly blending the ancient history of Korea with the propaganda of the present.

A local guide explained the history of the site and ancient Korean culture, but always through the lens of the current regime’s narrative.

Empty Road in Kaesong

Buddhist temple, one of the few allowed, and this one was controlled by govt

street scenes

street scenes

Traffic cop controlling empty street

Bicyclists in front of propaganda murals

Returning to Pyongyang: Glimpses Behind the Curtain

After finishing our visit in Kaesong, we boarded the bus and began the long drive back to Pyongyang.

Along the way, we stopped for a bathroom break at the side of the road.
While the others took care of their business, I quietly slipped into the bushes with my camera, seizing the chance to capture a forbidden glimpse of rural life: farmers tilling their fields by hand, using oxen and simple tools.

Scenes like this were exactly what our guides worked hard to prevent us from seeing—or documenting. The stark lack of modern equipment would have been deeply embarrassing for North Korea, a country that so carefully managed every image presented to outsiders.

Farmers toiling in the fields

Farmers toiling in the fields

Waving at Friendly Farmers

A few hours later, we reached the symbolic gateway into the capital—the Arch of Reunification.

Two enormous statues, each around 100 feet tall, stretched out from either side of the road, their arms joining together to hold a map of a unified Korea.
It was another grandiose monument, projecting dreams of reunification—but only on North Korea’s terms.

As we exited our bus to take photos of the arch, I watched a procession of locals marching down the street—women, men, and children, many of them climbing onto an old bus.
They looked tired, likely returning from a full day’s labor in the fields. And yet, as our bus rumbled past, many smiled and waved at us warmly—a rare and genuine human connection in a country where so much else felt artificial and rehearsed.

Farmers waving at me

A Night of Propaganda, Casinos, and Strange Dreams

After passing under the Arch of Reunification, we drove to a restaurant where we ate another traditional Korean dinner. From there, we continued to the birthplace of the Great Leader, located on the outskirts of Pyongyang.

Although it’s widely believed in the West that Kim Il-Sung was actually born in Russia, the official North Korean story insists he was born here, on DPRK soil. His birthplace was a brand-new traditional Korean hut, meticulously maintained to fit the patriotic narrative. All the North Koreans present wore formal attire, adding to the air of reverence.

Following local custom, I drank from the well on the property—a ritual said to bring good luck.

Nightfall in Pyongyang

As darkness fell, the streets once again became eerily empty.
We made a brief stop at a propaganda stamp store, where most of the stamps featured glorified images of the Dear and Great Leaders.

Afterward, a few people from our group decided to venture to a different hotel, located on an island just outside the city—a rare opportunity to explore without minders, since the island’s isolation made control easier.

The Island Hotel and Its Secrets

The hotel itself was massive but mostly unlit, with only a fraction of the building in use.
Rumors swirled about a golf course and that all the workers were Chinese laborers, not allowed to leave the island. North Koreans, meanwhile, were forbidden from entering the casino downstairs.

Inside, the casino was tiny and silent as a library.
There were a few slot machines and a single blackjack table, manned by a sluggish dealer. Only travelers from our bus were playing, and most walked away a few dollars richer.

Next to the casino, there was a massage parlor, whispered about as a place offering “special services.” My friend Andy ended up delaying our departure because he had gone for a massage.

Eventually, we returned to our original hotel.
Exhausted, I crashed into bed but made the mistake of leaving the TV on—blaring state propaganda and operatic songs praising Kim Jong-Il. That night, I drifted in and out of sleep, haunted by strange dreams that seemed to blur reality and the surreal world I was now deep inside.

Me posing in front of the Great Leader

Day 5: Paying Respect at the Bronze Statue of Kim Il-Sung

We awoke, had a quick breakfast, and set out for one of Pyongyang’s most iconic sites—the bronze statue of Kim Il-Sung, the founder of North Korea and its “Eternal President,” even decades after his death.

Standing 80 feet tall atop a hill overlooking the city, the statue radiated power and reverence. Originally cast in gold, it was later recast in bronze after the Chinese, who largely funded North Korea’s economy, pressured for a more modest display.

Before approaching, our guide Hopney informed us that it was mandatory to show respect by offering flowers.
On behalf of the group, we purchased a bouquet, a small but expected gesture toward the overwhelming cult of personality that permeated every corner of the country.

Standing beneath the towering figure, with its outstretched arm commanding the skyline, was yet another surreal moment in a trip already filled with them.

Bowing Before the Eternal President

We were then instructed to march single file toward the statue and bow in unison.
I made sure to bow as minimally as possible, keeping my movements subtle but respectful enough not to draw unwanted attention.

At the base of the statue, we placed our bouquet atop a growing heap of flowers, all offerings laid carefully at Kim Il-Sung’s feet—an enormous tribute to a man whose presence still dominated North Korea’s past, present, and future.

North Koreans in formal wear paying respects to Great Leader

North Korean censorship posted over un-approved media

The North Korean Narrative of the War

As we approached the museum, we passed a large assembly of North Korean troops, crammed tightly into the backs of rusted military trucks, while others marched in rigid formation along the road.
Before we even entered, our guides made it clear: absolutely no photos allowed.
I couldn’t help myself and snuck a quick shot, but unfortunately, it turned out too blurry to salvage.

Inside, the museum was dark, cavernous, and mostly empty.
Our tour guide, dressed in a North Korean soldier’s uniform, led us through a series of massive, dimly lit halls filled with carefully curated exhibits.

At every turn, the message was the same: the United States had provoked the Korean War and committed countless atrocities against the North Korean people.
It was a version of history entirely at odds with what I had learned back home—but in North Korea, there was only one acceptable truth, repeated with unwavering certainty.

Lining the walls were copies of supposed supporting documents—grainy images, old newspaper clippings, and heavily edited reports—all presented as undeniable proof of American villainy.

It was both fascinating and unsettling to witness how deeply and meticulously the regime controlled its historical narrative.

America War Plane wrecked during the Korean War now in the museum. The museum walls were built around the plane. 

Inside the American War Crimes Museum: Propaganda in Every Corner

Anything that didn’t support the official narrative was covered in Korean writing, reframing the story into something more flattering to North Korea.
We were shown disturbing photos of tortured and dead North Koreans, with captions blaming the Americans. There were also documents from captured American POWs, supposedly confessing to conducting biological and chemical experiments on North Korean civilians—whether genuine or coerced was left unsaid.

The museum displayed captured airplanes, tanks, and artillery, relics of the war preserved as trophies of victory.

The most fascinating part was a vast, rotating panoramic replica of the battle for Pyongyang.
The diorama was incredibly detailed, showing waves of North Korean soldiers heroically charging hills, stabbing and shooting fleeing American forces. The entire scene glorified North Korean bravery and cast the Americans as cowards and villains.

It was history rewritten in the most vivid and theatrical way possible.

After Lunch: Touring North Korea’s Hollywood

Following the museum visit, we ate lunch at another government-approved restaurant, then headed to North Korea’s film studios—the pride of Kim Jong-Il, who saw cinema as an important tool for exporting the regime’s ideals.

The ambition to create an international North Korean film industry was almost laughable, but the visit itself was fascinating.
We wandered through various film sets—replicas of Japan, Korea, and generic cityscapes—all built to serve the country’s limited cinematic output.

We even met a handful of North Korea’s most famous actors, though it was clear they had little choice in the matter.
One actor, dressed in traditional Korean costume, sat stiffly in a chair, posing dutifully for photos with us, looking as if he had been planted there hours before we arrived.

It was another surreal chapter in a day already packed with layers of control, fantasy, and performance.

movie studio

USS Pueblo

Touring the USS Pueblo: A Tale of Defiance

We were led aboard the USS Pueblo by an elderly North Korean guide in uniform, who proudly claimed he had participated in the ship’s capture.
Before exploring, we were shown a propaganda film celebrating North Korean heroism and depicting Americans as imperialist aggressors.

As we toured the ship, Simon Cockerell, our British trip leader, shared a fascinating story:
During their captivity, American sailors were photographed repeatedly to demonstrate they were being “well treated.”
However, unbeknownst to the North Koreans, the sailors extended their middle fingers in every photo—a hidden act of rebellion mistaken by the North Koreans as a friendly American gesture.

It wasn’t until an American newspaper exposed the stunt that the truth came out.
When the North Koreans realized the insult, the sailors were tortured for a month in retaliation.

Outside the ship, I noticed the river, like the streets, was eerily empty, devoid of boats or traffic. Somewhere nearby, I was told, were two giant fountains capable of shooting water 250 feet into the air, but we didn’t see them in operation.

The Juche Tower: The Heart of North Korean Ideology

Next, we headed to the Juche Tower, one of Pyongyang’s most prominent landmarks.
Rising over 300 feet tall beside the river, it symbolizes the Juche philosophy—a doctrine of self-reliance fathered by Kim Il-Sung.

Juche had devastating consequences for religion in North Korea; Christianity and other faiths were effectively wiped out.
I had heard that Christians were often executed or sent to work camps—a brutal reminder of how ideology ruled every corner of life here.

As I took photos near the base of the tower, I noticed a few bicycles passing by—rare sightings in a country with so few vehicles.
Interestingly, every bicycle had a license plate, and the people pedaling past seemed oblivious to our presence.

We even spotted a woman in a wedding dress, posing for photos with her bridesmaids, both dressed in traditional Korean hanbok—a rare glimpse of personal joy in an otherwise rigid city.

Ascending the Juche Tower: A View of Isolation

We took an elevator to the top of the tower.
The view was spectacular but hazy, a thick smog hanging over the city, likely from coal-burning plants rather than cars, which were still a rarity.

In the distance, I spotted the Ryugyong Hotel—a giant pyramid-shaped skyscraper, intended to be the largest hotel in the world.
The building had been structurally completed in the early 1980s, but the interior remained unfinished.
Simon explained that when engineers attempted to install elevators, they discovered the structure was off-center and possibly unstable.

Our guides weren’t particularly eager to discuss the building, brushing off questions by vaguely saying it was “still under construction.”
In reality, it’s widely believed that construction halted when funding dried up, leaving the hotel as a towering symbol of broken ambition.

Later, when I stopped to use the bathroom inside the tower, I couldn’t help but notice that one of the guides followed me—another quiet reminder that even in the most mundane moments, we were always being watched.

 Juche tower

View from Juche tower

Defunct Pyramid Hotel

Into the Depths: Pyongyang’s Surreal Subway

After visiting the Juche Tower, we continued to one of Pyongyang’s most curious sites—the subway system.

There are rumors that the subway doesn’t actually function as public transportation. Instead, it’s believed to serve two secret purposes:

• As a nuclear bunker to protect the elite.

• And as a staged attraction, where actors pose as commuters whenever tourists arrive.

Whether or not the rumors were true, the experience certainly felt strange.

The escalator ride down seemed endless—as if we were descending thousands of feet underground.
When we finally reached the bottom, North Koreans were wandering about, seemingly without purpose. No one smiled. No one spoke. It was hard not to wonder if they were planted there, instructed simply to exist within view of foreign eyes.

A Subway or a Bunker?

We passed through massive steel blast doors, evidently designed to seal the tunnels in the event of nuclear war.
Beyond the doors, the subway station itself was lavish and surreal—a cavernous hall resembling a ballroom, complete with glittering chandeliers and ornate columns.

Dominating one wall was a giant mural of Kim Il-Sung, walking triumphantly among the smiling masses.
It was a strange contrast—the artwork portrayed warmth and jubilation, yet the station felt cold, sterile, and deeply controlled.

We boarded a subway car and took a short ride down the line.
Conveniently, a few North Koreans boarded the train just as we disembarked, as if on cue.
Then we rode the long, endless escalator back up to the surface, emerging once again into the muted gray of Pyongyang’s streets, where our bus was waiting.

Great Leader Mural at Metro

Metro

Empty Streets and Symbols of Revolution

Back on the surface, Pyongyang’s streets remained eerily empty.
The few people we did see wore uniform-style clothing, blending into the city’s muted, gray landscape.

There were no advertisements, no storefronts, no colorful signs of commerce.
Instead, propaganda posters dominated every open space—depictions of workers proudly marching, women in uniform aiming rifles, and slogans glorifying the achievements of the Communist Party.
The atmosphere felt sterile, almost like we were walking through an elaborate, controlled movie set.

The Monument to the Workers’ Party

Our next stop was another grand monument—a giant sculpture featuring three towering symbols:

• A painter’s brush

• A pickaxe

• And a hoe

These represented the three pillars of the Workers’ Party:
Culture, technology, and industry.

Once again, we observed North Koreans in formal dress visiting the site, paying their respects in the same solemn, orchestrated manner we had seen at every monument.
Everything in Pyongyang seemed perfectly curated to reinforce the message: loyalty, unity, and devotion to the state above all else.

Hammer, sickle and paint brush monument

rare sight of Public bus

Street Propaganda

street propoganda

Life Under the Surface: Final Impressions of Pyongyang

After a few days in Pyongyang, the strange, controlled reality of the city became even more apparent.
I could now see why it’s said that the handicapped, extremely elderly, and pregnant women are not allowed to live in the capital—because I hadn’t seen a single one.
In all my time there, I spotted just one person on crutches, and that was it.

I also realized that despite all the grand boulevards and massive buildings, I had seen no functioning stores, no inhabited restaurants, no food vendors, and hardly any advertising.
The only advertisement we did spot was near the airport—a billboard for a North Korean car that, according to rumors, had never actually been built and likely never would be.

A Houseboat Dinner and the Eternal Flame

That evening, we went for dinner aboard a houseboat anchored on the river.
It was dusk, and across the water, we could see the everlasting flame burning at the top of the Juche Tower—a symbol meant to represent the eternal spirit of Kim Il-Sung’s philosophy.

The sight of the tower, the flame, and the heavy, muted atmosphere of the city left me with an unmistakable 1984-like feeling—a world where nothing was quite real, but everything was tightly, meticulously controlled.

Dinner itself was excellent, and I enjoyed one last beer with the guys, but exhaustion quickly won out, and I returned to the hotel.

I passed out, the ever-present hum of propaganda music and state television still murmuring somewhere in the background.

Day 5: Departing North Korea — A Bittersweet Goodbye

We awoke early to find darkness still hanging over Pyongyang.
After a quick breakfast, we loaded onto the bus and began the drive to the airport. Along the way, we passed through the Arch of Triumph, North Korea’s version of the French monument—only larger, of course. In typical North Korean fashion, size and spectacle were everything.

Chaos at the Airport

When we arrived at the airport, chaos ruled.
Even the customs officials seemed unsure of what to do.
Those who had their phones, books, or electronics confiscated earlier were finally handed back their belongings, though the process was slow and disorganized.

Before boarding, I had a quiet moment with my guide, Oh.
I gave him a $20 tip, and to my surprise, he looked deeply touched, almost on the verge of tears.

I thanked him sincerely and told him, “I hope someday our two countries will be friends.”
He asked if I really believed that would happen. I said yes.
Then he asked if I believed that North and South Korea would one day reunify. Again, I said yes.

Oh smiled sadly and explained that it makes him sad when the tourists leave.
I shook his hand firmly and told him that if it were ever possible, he was welcome to visit me in America.

It was a surprisingly human moment in a place so often defined by walls—both physical and invisible.

The Final Flight

We boarded another aging Russian jet operated by Air Koryo, with only our group as passengers once again.
A flight attendant wheeled a duty-free cart down the aisle, offering up strange souvenirs: bottles of snake wine (complete with an actual snake inside) and gaudy trinkets.

Simon, who sat next to me, laughed and said, “I’ve never seen anyone buy duty-free here.”
Evidently, these flights typically fly almost empty, carrying freight more often than passengers.

Shortly after takeoff, we left the strange, hermetically sealed world of North Korea behind.
Upon landing in Beijing, the spell was broken immediately.
We found ourselves back in the chaotic rat race of connecting flights, crowds, and the familiar rush of modern life.

The surreal memories of North Korea already felt like they were slipping into the realm of a strange, vivid dream—one that would stay with me for the rest of my life.