The Pyongyang overture

Ox-drawn carts squeak by towering marble monuments — with slogans such as “Live forever our father [Kim Il Sung]''.

Remnants of four-lane highways snake parallel to a single train track that handles all traffic through the northwestern corridor.

Schoolchildren play near stiff-faced sentries — the kids wield sticks, the soldiers automatic rifles.

Such dichotomies reflect the perplexing world that is the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (DPRK), a hermit kingdom that may harbour a half-dozen nuclear weapons while simultaneously being on the brink of a famine that could doom most of its peasant population.

Hazy road ahead

Now with outside reports that North Korea strongman Kim Jong Il is ill, international attention is focusing once again on this nation.

The world's leaders, however, remain befogged about the road ahead for North Korea.

The reason for this is simple: almost nothing — news, Western luxuries, even people — is allowed in, or out.

But here I am, riding a German-imported train with 30 other Chinese tourists and plenty of North Korean guards patrolling the cabins, on our way to Pyongyang. I've come to see what life here is like for the Koreans.

What I didn't expect was a history lesson on my own cultural heritage (I moved from China to the US when I was 6), for I had inadvertently stepped through a time portal into 1970s Red China, right down to the Orwellian surveillance and forced confessions.

My holiday began in Dandong, a wood-print of any other Chinese boomtown, its streets spilling with traffic, gaudy billboards and all sorts of touts living out the capitalist dream.
Journey of realisations

On the train to North Korea, while there was indignation from some of the Chinese tourists — “Look at how many people they've shoved into that train,'' one woman exclaimed — most passengers were understanding.

“They live better than the farmers in Shaanxi and Gansu,'' said another man.

Even though it has a burgeoning middle class that can now afford to vacation in Thailand or Hawaii, China still has many people who journey to North Korea each year — hundreds every day in August and September during the Arirang mass games, a staged gymnastics spectacle.

It could be the red-carpet treatment they receive (five-star hotels, buffet feasts, VIP tickets) but I sense that for my fellow travellers, most in their fifties, this trip was a chance to revisit their still painful adolescence in China and say: “Look how far I've come.''

The head guide, Ju Rol, a North Korean, greeted us at Pyongyang's Soviet-era train station.

He didn't wear the ill-fitted suits popular with most North Koreans but Western-style collared shirts.

Along with his near-perfect Chinese accent, he endeared himself to the group — or at least to the women.

He herded us on to a sleek tour bus, which became our classroom for the next three days.

The first day's lesson, as we rode from the captured USS Pueblo to the Pyongyang Metro, covered the “three beauties'' of North Korea — the greenery, the air and the women.

As if on cue, one of his new female admirers declared: “You'll never see blue skies like this in Beijing.''

On Day 2, he focused on the “three frees'' of Korean society — education, healthcare and housing. Because we had a two-hour bus journey to Mt Myohyang, home to a 400-room fortress where gifts to the DPRK are proudly displayed, he invited questions.

“How much grain is allotted to each worker a month?'' asked Wang Zhelu, a teacher from Dalian.

“Twenty-seven kilograms,'' Ju replied, which led to murmurs of approval from a group that had grown up with ration coupons (according to the UN's World Food Programme, the actual figure is closer to five kilograms, with meat available only on national holidays).

“How big are the apartments?'' asked Zhao Heping, a retired engineer from Beijing. “800 to 1,500 square feet.''

This caused more grumbling, as a Beijing resident said that was bigger than his place.

“Where do we apply to live here?'' somebody else quipped. As the laughter died down, Liu Yi, a human rights activist from Hong Kong, queried: “Can you buy a car?'' After a long silence, he countered: “Yes, if you're a movie star.''

Wistful comparison

Later, at a six-course lunch, the mood was wistful. “Life is so carefree here,'' one of the real-estate agents said. “In China, you have worries from the first day of preschool.''

Still, to some of the travellers, it was becoming apparent that one of the North Koreans' main objectives with the tour was not to make money ($350, or Dh1,285, for an all-inclusive four days) but convince the Chinese that a country of 30 million peasants has somehow achieved the ultimate worker's paradise.

By the end of Day 3, many of the Chinese, however pampered by the food and concerts, were getting restless.

The stream of rules governing what they could photograph and where they could go was something they had not experienced since the Cultural Revolution 30 years ago.

And they missed their cellphones (kept by customs agents at the border, along with their passports).

My foray — unsupervised for once — into downtown Pyongyang one afternoon brought its own adventures.

At 6-feet-4 and sporting a “I heart Brasil'' T-shirt, I was not inconspicuous and the North Koreans I passed avoided all eye contact.

I caught a glimpse of everyday life in North Korea. To my surprise, it wasn't much different from your generic third-world city.

Conditions were stark, yes, but not as outlandish as many in the West might imagine. There were sidewalk vendors, electric trollies, bicycles and neighbourhood shops.

There was also one notable difference: the unparalleled sense of paranoia and Stalinish control.

Take my six-hour ordeal with the Public Security Bureau. I got caught in their net when I snapped some fidgety shots of a vibrant indoor bazaar.

Stocky women in pink dresses suddenly appeared and turned me over to the feared police, who only let me go after securing a self-criticism that would have made Mao proud.

But this was not to be my last brush with the authorities. The night before our train back to China, the ever-friendly Ju, our guide, refused to leave my hotel room until he could search for the “missing'' memory card from my camera.

Fortunately, my roommate chose this moment to dash out of the shower. Ju apparently decided this was too much and scampered off into the night.

The next day, on the trip back, our train car went quiet at the North Korean border town of Sinuiju.

A cadre of North Koreans, decked out in military fatigues, ordered everyone to empty their bags, checking for ill-gotten photos.

Finally, with a loud cheer from our group, the train lurched from the station, towards the bright lights, the Kentucky Fried Chicken and the honks of taxi drivers awaiting us across the river in China.