Glimpse into daily life in North Korea(2)
More than 535,000 people in North Korea now use cell phones, a huge jump from 70,000 in 2009, according to Orascom Telecom, the Cairo-based firm that launched North Korea's 3G network in December 2008. Most can only make domestic calls.
The digital revolution comes amid a succession movement and a campaign to improve the economy. Last year, Kim Jong Il, now 69, unveiled to the world the son he is grooming to succeed him: Kim Jong Un, Swiss-educated and said to be keen on computers and technology.
Orascom is also said to be pumping money into the construction of the pyramid-shaped Ryugyong Hotel, which rises 105 stories high and serves as a glistening backdrop to the towering bronze statue of Kim Il Sung on Mansu Hill. The concrete Ryugyong had stood abandoned for years, a reminder of Pyongyang's decay, until the Egyptians stepped in to help amid the mad rush to get the city ready for the 100th anniversary celebrations next year of Kim Il Sung's birth.
Buildings across Pyongyang are getting a facelift. Theaters are being refurbished, and apartment complexes repainted in pastel pinks and greens. There's more to come: restaurants, a park and "deluxe" twin tower apartments, according to the state-run Korean Central News Agency. On one corner, men with mallets were knocking down the walls of a building to the rousing blare of a military band parked on the sidewalk.
The amusement park near the Arch of Triumph got an overhaul last year, with brand-new rides from Italy and a hall filled with Japanese arcade games. Children race around. Grandmothers watch from the sidelines, tending to the babies. Two girls in Minnie Mouse shirts step gingerly onto rocks in a pond to pose for a photo, and then shriek as they nearly lose their balance.
"Welcome! Welcome!" a young couple calls out in English, waving to us to join them on the rollercoaster. Moments later, we are screaming in unison as the ride dips, flips and shoots around the rails at lightning speed.
Officially, North Koreans detest us Yankees. Tour guides, officials and soldiers state as fact that the South Koreans and the "miguk nom" _ American bastards _ started the Korean War in 1950.
But once you get away from the rhetoric, North Koreans love Americana, whether they realize the source or not. You see Mickey Mouse everywhere, on backpacks, shirts, bags. They know "The Lion King" and "Terminator." One orchestra played "Camptown Races," perhaps as a welcome to the Americans in the audience.
I never thought I'd see an Oompah band in North Korea, but there was an all-female troupe of tuba and trombone players in white suits and brass buttons led by majorettes twirling batons. John Philip Sousa, famous for composing patriotic American odes, would roll over in his grave.
Pyongyang's foreign community is a small and select group of diplomats, aid workers, entrepreneurs and English teachers. But our hotel was full of foreign visitors: Russian dancers and Italian singers in town for an arts festival, a French parliamentarian traveling with his son, Chinese tourists in sunglasses and sweatpants, American doctors in scrubs on a medical mission.
The common thinking is that North Koreans are shut off from the rest of the world. But Robert Carlin, a former U.S. State Department official who has made dozens of trips to the country, once said it's the opposite: We know less about North Korea than they know about us.
For years, Pyongyang has been subject to international sanctions for illicitly building nuclear bombs and long-range missiles. South Korea, reversing a decades of warming ties, has largely cut off trade and aid, incensed by Pyongyang's nuclear defiance and two attacks that killed 50 South Koreans last year.
The aim may be to isolate Pyongyang, but North Korea has neighboring China as its chief benefactor and protector. So much of North Korea is "made in China" these days, or perhaps passed along through China, from the BYD sedans to "Die Hard" DVDs.
Foreign fashion is also seeping into Pyongyang. While you still see women in traditional dress, they're also wearing pantsuits, platform shoes and polka-dotted wellies. They're getting perms and plastic surgery. Some wouldn't look a bit out of place in Beijing, Bangkok or Seoul, apart from the red Kim Il Sung badges pinned to their bright, belted jackets.
We could be anywhere from Paris to Peoria, and maybe that's the point. The government seems determined to convince its people they can have all the riches of the West even if they're not at peace with the West.
It's hard to tell whether they believe it. There's a self-restraint and self-censorship inevitable in a country so defined by rules and order. Criticism of North Korea's leadership is taboo, and questions that may seem innocent often are met with a beseeching look that begs: "Please don't ask me that." Trust is only earned after many rounds of Korean wine and beer.
North Korea is a country in transition; you can see it on the streets.
Most people walk or cycle to get around, and you still see trucks packed with people in the back. But new buses and more sedans and SUVs are filling the roads, from locally made Pyonghwa "Cuckoos" to imported Land Rovers and Toyotas.
Pyongyang now has traffic lights, though the iconic traffic ladies in turquoise blue remain ready to jump in, white gloves flashing, when the power cuts out.
One day, we got stuck in traffic along the Taedong River amid the rush of construction consuming downtown. Drivers leaped out of cars and buses to argue with two police officers trying to reroute traffic.
Tempers flared. The drivers shook their fists, shouted and slammed their car doors.
It was a sign that one of the endemic ills of modern life has reached North Korea: road rage.
