‘My name is Specialist Jang and this here is Corporal Casiano and we will be your security escorts from here on in.”
Jang and Casiano are the kind of guys who come without first names. They are American military officers who speak in acronyms and clipped preciseness and they are the ones who are taking us through the Joint Security Area (JSA) as part of a tour of the Demilitarised Zone (DMZ) on the border between North and South Korea, an area controlled by a United Nations and United States coalition, a sort of no man’s land between the two countries.
“When you exit the bus you will enter a building to our left. There should be some blue badges. Put ’em on your left collar and from there you will fill out a declaration,” Jang says.
He is a bit jumpy, short, fresh-faced and a “Kyopo” — Korean slang for a Korean who grew up in a foreign country, in this case the United States. The tour group — some US military, a couple who look like teachers, two French students and me — files into an auditorium on the coalition military base. It is big and bland and functional like a well-kept high school. We fill out a declaration that boils down to us not blaming the US military or the UN if we get killed.
“This is Specialist Jang’s first presentation. Go easy,” Casiano, in pale grey camouflage, orders our group. He is burly, dark-skinned and slightly older than his twentysomething colleague.
“On behalf of the United Nations Command Military Armistice Commission, I would like to welcome you to Camp Boniface,” Jang says, by way of introduction. He tells us about the DMZ, which stretches 241km long and is 4km wide and is patrolled by North Korean forces on the northern side and a 16-member UN coalition headed by the US on the southern side. It marks the boundary between where Soviet-backed North Korea met US-backed South Korea at the end of World War II and became the official border.
Stark contrast
Jang explains that June 25 2010 marked the 60th anniversary of the start of the Korean War. He outlines the major sights of the tour as we board the 55-seater bus to see the sights first-hand.
There is Taesondong — or Freedom Village — on the South Korean side where locals still farm rice and that looks a lot like a diorama of normal life, in stark contrast to the military structures that surround it. There is also Gijundong, dubbed Propaganda Village, on the North Korean side where, from a telescope at least, it seemed the buildings were just façades. Jang says that until 2004 North Korean propaganda was broadcast on loudspeakers 24 hours a day, presumably to convince South Korean citizens within earshot of their superiority.
Nearby there is the North Korean Peace Museum, which contains copies of the 1953 peace armistice that, we are told, has no shortage of Soviet-style pro-Kim Jung Il propaganda.
We passed the Bridge of No Return, which crosses the demarcation line between the Koreas where, after the war, prisoners were given the choice of which side they could go but once they had decided there would be no return.
Finally, we arrived at the JSA, which houses periodic diplomatic talks between the two Koreas.
The bus stops alongside a grandiose-looking building inside the JSA, where North and South Korean soldiers stand face to face, constantly on guard against attack from the other side.
“Once you enter Freedom House, form two lines on the stairs where I’ll be located,” Jang tells the group. There is a nervous excitement as we regroup on the stairs. Jang and Casiano instruct us to follow them outside and form a line at the top of the flight of stairs.
There is a yellow painted line at the top of the stairs beyond which it is forbidden to photograph the JSA or its soldiers — South Korea’s Republic of Korea soldiers are in dark aqua-tinged uniforms and mirrored shades whereas North Korea’s People’s Democratic Republic of Korea soldiers don green Soviet-style coats and caps. Guards stand extremely still in a never-ending staring contest as the tourists take pictures on the steps.
Closely monitored
Next, we file into the Military Armistice Commission building, one of the sky-blue rectangular buildings that lie between the two Koreas. Jang explains that in this building tours from both sides are allowed to cross into the other country without actually leaving the building.
This produces a wave of excitement because the closely monitored tours to North Korea have been suspended since two highly emotional North Korean incursions last year — the March 26 sinking of a South Korean navy ship, which left 46 soldiers dead, and the November 23 bombing of a South Korean island, which killed two soldiers.
Suddenly, I am aware that Casiano is staring at me. I make a questioning gesture and he narrows his eyes and shakes his head with a tiny motion.
I make a clumsy attempt to tear out my notes. As soon as we are back on the bus Casiano says gruffly: “I’m gonna need to see that notebook,” and upon receiving it adds, “and the notes you tore out.”
I explain that I am writing an article about the DMZ and that I made this clear to the tour organisers when I booked the trip in Seoul.
Casiano is nonplussed. “I may give these back later. No more notes.”
A pissing contest between the two Koreas
I dutifully follow the group as we board the bus and take a short drive to a lookout point where we can see the 160m flagpole in the deserted Gijundong village. Apparently this is one of tallest flagpoles in the world, the result of a pissing contest between the two Koreas — it’s only purpose was that it be built taller than a South Korean flagpole in Taesondong village.
We take our last 15-minute bus ride to the JSA gift shop. I hang back from the tour group and hear Casiano talking on a walkie-talkie.
“I’ll look them over and take it from there,” he tells the voice on the other end. I cautiously stand next to him. “I think I will be able to give these back but I will have to read them as a precautionary measure,” Casiano tells me. I freeze as he reads over my notes aloud.
“Okay, I think I will be able to give these back,” he says handing back my notes. “Some people went on the tour and wrote down things that they shouldn’t have written ’cause they were spies.”
I nod, glancing down at my crumpled notes and Hello Kitty pencil.
Casiano suggests I proceed to the gift shop where you can pick up a mounted piece of barbed wire from the DMZ for 35 000 Korean won, or around R200. For about the same price you could buy a pair of traditional Korean wooden ducks — twice what you would pay in the tourist traps in Seoul.
There are also DMZ mugs and keyrings and little figures wearing hanbok — brightly coloured traditional Korean clothes. Further inside there are mounted photographs of, among others, George W Bush and Hillary Clinton, with text underneath that reads: “Attracted by real-world tension and its importance in maintaining peace, 60 000 tourists, including many distinguished guests representing many countries, visit the DMZ every year.”
The DMZ has been called the last remnant of the Cold War and it is difficult to think of a place where more contrasting ideologies live in closer proximity. The world has changed in the past 60 years — South Korea has built itself up to be one of the top economies whereas North Korea has become isolated even as its allies Russia and China have opened up — but the border between them remains as frozen as it was after the war.
For more information on the tour,
go to www.affiliates.uso.org/Korea