Chapter Thirteen
Garnet’s interest in North Korea could easily be traced back to his first visit there in 1989, but the truth was that he had been monitoring both economic and political events in the East Asian republic for several years beforehand, and his earliest encounter with Juche philosophy dated back almost a decade before that. He had read a newspaper article around 1980 about North Korea’s leader Kim Il Sung, and he could not help but be impressed by what he had discovered. Kim’s apparent cult of the individual appealed to Garnet’s sense of vanity, and the concept of Juche philosophy, which Kim had managed to get his population to adopt as a dictate for a design for living, appeared a con trick of the highest order, and one which Garnet had considered, at the time, admirable. The concept of self-reliance appeared to be a sound proposition when it was applied to a country as a whole - particularly one that was functioning well economically - the situation where a country had no need to trade with its neighbours for its own well-being was an almost Utopian ideal. When the same concept is applied to individuals, though, in a country not performing to such high standards, the ideal is more pernicious. When you are hungry and go cup in hand begging for food, to be told that you must be self-reliant is not the answer you would wish for. A good proportion of the newspaper article, as Garnet recalled, had been speculation and was written in the outraged and sensationalist terms of the journalist who is recounting second-hand information and has obviously never visited the country, nevertheless it whetted Garnet’s appetite to discover more about the Hermit Kingdom.
At a time when the communist world had been in apparent terminal collapse, at the precise moment that the Berlin Wall was tumbling down in Europe, Garnet had been touching down at Sunan International Airport twenty miles west of the city of Pyongyang on the afternoon Koryo Air flight from Beijing. Outside the temperature had been hovering above freezing point: Garnet had never considered the idea of whether it snowed on the Korean peninsula or not. He was about to discover that it did. Regularly and heavily. His wheelchair had not been best equipped for speedy manoeuvrings in blizzard conditions. Despite the fact that it snowed every winter in New York, Garnet had consistently shunned the opportunity of upgrading his faithful means of conveyance for any more dynamic - perhaps even motor-powered - or streamlined model, instead preferring to see the change of the seasons as a challenge to - and therefore measure of the forbearance and ability of - his current carer. As the first snowflakes had begun to settle on the tarmac of the runway, Garnet had urged his current helper to hasten forward in a similar fashion to the way a sled driver would encourage his team of huskies.
It required strings to be pulled in order for an American to get into North Korea in 1989: diplomatic strings at a very high level. That, and money. There were rumours in the New York press that Garnet’s invitation had been issued from the man at the top himself: the man that the North Koreans called Great Leader, Kim Il Sung. Garnet had been unperturbed by the speculation. There was now a certain kudos to being called a Red: as with everything else, as soon as it is gone, people become nostalgic over what has been lost - “it wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?” So it was with the effective end of the Cold War. Communism was now viewed with pity rather than fear: a brave experiment that had failed, only further reinforcing the correctness of the ruling political system in the West, allowing all right-minded men and women to sleep safely in their beds once more, not having to trouble themselves with whether the ideology they live by is either right or wrong. When there is no alternative, there is no doubt. Communist fashion had been one of the ‘in’ looks that season in Greenwich Village: thick, deep-pocketed, mule-coloured trench coats and straight furry hats and caps with red stars. Any garment that could be proven to be authentically from the Soviet Union or any of its vassal states was especially in demand. For the first time in his life, Garnet acquired something approaching street cred.
Back in 1989, Garnet had been met at the entrance to the terminus building by a delegation of three, dark-suited men, all looking slightly anxious, perhaps fearful that their important visitor would not show up; perhaps scared that he would and unsure of the correct protocol for receiving him. The first man to step forward to shake Garnet’s hand, pumping the limb up and down energetically like a labourer working a hand-pump, had displayed a nervous smile and a mouth of white teeth, which he had been struggling to control from chattering in the freezing weather conditions. Garnet, unused to physical contact of any kind, had attempted to pull his hand away from the friendly grip and, then, when failing to achieve the release he sought, had looked around for his carer to come to his assistance, which the faithful servant did by means of a firm shove and an unequivocal gesture. One man was subsequently introduced as Mr. Wendelson’s translator for the duration of his stay in the North Korean capital, the other two men his personal guides. The story had been much the same, when Garnet had visited for a second time, in December 1993, although then he had been kept waiting himself, this time no longer the VIP visitor, forced instead to play second fiddle to a delegation just arrived from Pakistan, and led by the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto, who carried with her the nuclear secrets which were to shape the world’s changing international policy towards the previously shunned nation.
Now returning once again, seventeen years on from his first journey to the North Korean capital, the snow was just the same, but the greeting was markedly different. Kim Il Sung had been succeeded by his son Kim Jong Il, the blatant feudalism of the succession upsetting only the most ardent observers of Marxist theory, none of whom publicly felt able to voice their dissent; and rule of the country had passed from the Great Leader to the Dear Leader. For almost a decade of the younger Kim’s supremacy much remained unchanged within the Hermit Kingdom, to the eyes of the outside observer: rumours of nuclear and chemical weapons stockpiling continued; the isolation from the rest of the world continued; poverty within the country increased; and relations with its nearest neighbour continued to be finely balanced, although chiefly it was propaganda and not bullets which were exchanged across the demilitarised zone. Of Kim Jong Il, himself, there was rarely ever any sign, raising speculation in the West and in South Korea that the leader was perhaps ill, or handicapped, that he was an alcoholic, or perhaps mentally unwell. All this was to change, though, with the sudden phenomenon of the, so-called, cult of Kim, established in Seoul in 2000, but which rapidly spread across the globe, particularly amongst disaffected Western youngsters, who adopted the image of the stocky, glasses-wearing recluse as their current in-vogue icon. The heightened global awareness of the East Asian country coincided with a thaw on the part of Pyongyang’s own foreign policy, particularly towards its southern counterpart, and with world interest being focused on the region by such events as the football World Cup in 2002, it became clear that Kim Jong Il and North Korea had decided that it was time that they had a slice of the action. Six years on from the turn of the new Millennium the previously dormant backwater transformed itself into one of the most dynamic growth economies on the planet.
For Garnet, though, his first emotion upon returning to the New North, was one of annoyance: his luggage had been lost at the airport; the airline had made enquiries, telephone calls had been made, but there was no trace of it either back in Beijing, or anywhere in the Sunan complex. The counter staff were apologetic, but ultimately powerless: “this sort of thing happens all the time, there are more and more thefts, you should see Airport Security, it is their department”. Another, older, worker remarked, wistfully, “there was none of this before the Great Reawakening”. Martin helped Garnet to fill in the numerous bureaucratic forms which were requisite for the absolution of culpability of any member of airport staff for the loss of property, and after leaving the address of their hotel with the manager in charge and receiving, in return, a postage stamp size receipt written entirely in Korean, and a vague promise that “the bag would be
forwarded on as soon as it was located”, Martin pushed his employer unhesitatingly through the chicane of dividing walls which comprise Customs, past the weary-eyed officials at Passport Control, who barely so much as glanced at their much-stamped documents before waving them forward across the sumptuous, airy foyer of the newly-renovated airport terminal, and out into the twilight and their first glimpse of the New Korea.
For Martin it was his first trip to Pyongyang. It was four years, now, since the fateful trip to Iraq which had ended with Garnet’s hospitalisation and had forced Martin to reassess his plans to leave his service. On the whole, though, on reflection, he was pleased with the way things had turned out for him. Garnet had been lucky too. He had suffered what has become known as a DVT - a Deep Vein Thrombosis - but he had been operated upon in time, by the best surgeons that money could buy and, after a relatively short convalescence period, had made an almost complete recovery - the only reservation being that it was thought, by the doctors at the time, that he had also suffered a mild stroke, brought on perhaps by the stress of the operation and which had left him, for a few days immediately afterwards, mildly disorientated and locally paralysed in the left-hand side of his face. These side effects had been purely temporary, though, and it was not long before Garnet was discharged from hospital and given a clean bill of health to travel once again. One longer-lasting effect, be it as a direct physical result of the stroke, or perhaps just from the mental wake-up call of his own fragility, was to Garnet’s temperament: the man who was notoriously cantankerous, was suddenly transformed into a pussycat. It took Martin some time to realise that the sweetening of nature was permanent - and genuine - and not, as he had previously suspected, some long-running prank that his employer was playing, with the ultimate intention of berating his gullible attendant. It took him even longer to decide that he actually quite liked the new Garnet.
The thick white snow gave the city the appearance of virginal purity, the awesome, tapering structure of the Ryugyong Hotel rising, like a bizarre, illuminated Christmas tree, above the quiet, moonlit streets and huge, clear squares devoid, at this time of evening, from the new influx of tourists, most of whom were secreted away in the capital’s numerous new casinos, happily losing their currency in warmth and comfort. When Garnet had visited in 1989, the Ryugyong was in an early stage of construction, anticipated as being the future shining testament to the correctness of Juche ideology: by 1993 the huge structure was a forgotten ruin, gradually falling into disuse, shed like a discarded larvae case, except in this case there was no beautiful butterfly preparing to emerge from amongst the ruins. Lack of funds had meant that the building project had never been completed; shoddy materials had ensured that the structure would never be safe for occupation. The Ryugyong had become a white elephant, ironically, more accurately symbolising the state of the disintegrating nation than ever Kim could have originally intended. Still uninhabited, at least now the Ryugyong finally appeared to have the prospect of a brighter future: its distinctive silhouette had been adopted as the logo for the New Korea, and although still an empty shell - the inside décor never having been completed - the structure had been reinforced to insure its longevity and had received a cosmetic makeover so that it did not look out of place amongst the burgeoning new buildings surrounding it. The building had been taken to the people’s hearts too: no longer viewed with contempt and derision, the Ryugyong truly captured the spirit that was sweeping the new country - a giant leap into a brave new world.
Some aspects of the old state had managed to survive the tidal wave of change which had washed away so many old ideals: there was already an army of street cleaners at work on the city’s sidewalks, erasing the current day’s grime even before the clock had signalled that it was time for a new day to begin; there were still the iconic sculptures and vast monuments to past industrial and sociological achievement, although these were now viewed with irony, something that would have been unimaginable in the not-so-distant past, when any negative comment against the state was viewed as a treasonable offence; there were also the pictures of Kim - both father and son - everywhere, but as with the image of Che Guevera which dominates every billboard in Havana, the impression of the two leaders was as though they were gazing down benevolently upon their people and city, rather than watchfully.
Despite teetering so close to the edge of complete economic meltdown towards the end of the previous Millennium, the seemingly miraculous, phoenix-like rise of the New Korea should come as no great surprise to analysts of the region, indeed the country was almost perfectly placed for such a revival. Five decades of isolation and self reliance had resulted in the formation of a huge manufacturing base, complemented by skilled workers unexpectant of commensurate pay packets for the hours and enterprise that they provided. The only problem that had held back this manufacturing giant was the lack of countries to trade with: the combination of sanctions and the Juche ideology did not make for a spirit of international co-operation, and exports, and the important revenue that they provided, were practically non-existent. Naturally, in these circumstances, industry fell into decline - North Korea’s own industrial revolution mirrored that in most other nations, except that its rise and fall occurred in a matter of just decades rather than centuries - but the fabric and structure of manufacturing industry remained, waiting, like a dormant giant, for the political environment to change.
The other factor which had prevented the old North Korea from exploiting its heavy industry productivity was its crippling debt: Kim Il Sung had borrowed vast amounts of money in the 1970s in order to invest in technology and equipment for his burgeoning factories, but then defaulted on any repayments whilst maintaining the products of his investment. For decades North Korea had been on the West’s financial blacklist, crippled by trade sanctions and unable to obtain any more support for development projects. The reason behind North Korea’s debt being wiped out at a single stroke of a pen was equally straightforward: as exchange for an agreement by Kim Jong Il to surrender his nation’s nuclear capability. Since the 1980s Kim’s father had been purchasing technology and expertise with the intention of developing a nuclear capability on the eastern frontier of the Pacific Rim, a situation that was to draw the attention of the International Atomic Energy Agency in 1991, which declared that they suspected North Korea of constructing nuclear weapons at its reactor plant at Yongbyon, north of the capital city. When IAEA inspectors were denied access to North Korean nuclear facilities in 1993, it looked as though their suspicions were well founded. Several years of posturing across the Demilitarised Zone with South Korea resulted in an eventual withdrawal of all US owned nuclear weapons from the southern territories, and after a personal visit to North Korea by former American President Jimmy Carter in June 1994, an initial declaration was made that North Korea’s nuclear programme would be halted, and relations between the two Koreas reached a new accord in 1997 when President Kim Dae-jung of the South declared his new diplomatic strategy towards the North, Haetpyol Chongchaek, his so-called Sunshine Policy, paving the way for potential reunification. The final political obstacle preventing North Korea’s repatriation with the rest of the world was overcome in 2003, and the President of the World Bank declared the end of North Korea’s debt, and the presidents of the two divided countries shook hands at the ceremonial creation of the New Korea: not a unified country - New and South still remaining as separately governed nations - but a country, at least, assimilated back into the global conscience.
New Korea’s story since the Great Reawakening of 2003 had been one of unprecedented buoyancy: tourists had flocked to the newly created country, both eager to witness a final glimpse of a nation previously isolated for so long, but also keen to spend their cash in the multitude of new attractions that had sprung up, Vegas-like, from an entertainment desert. Unlike in the West, though, where service and financial industries had replaced so much of the traditional manufacturing base, the New Korea was now able to ex
ploit the investment that previously had been poured into its heavy industries and quickly established itself as the world’s production centre: by the end of 2005 a staggering 60 percent of the eligible workforce was employed in light and heavy industry, a figure higher even than that in the Soviet Union during the period of the Five Year Plans, and a deluge of cheap consumer products was the new nation’s gift to the world. The veneer of success was only thin, though. Scratch beneath the surface of the booming economy and enviable trade figures and it was apparent that they were only achieved at continuing expense of the itinerant population, the majority of whom still lived way below the standard of living attained by their contemporaries both in the West and in other Asian countries, and decades of oppression and the relentless subjection to propaganda on the public psyche could not be dispatched so easily as could the missiles that had, inadvertently, resulted in the changing fortunes of the new state.
The new Garnet was barely less unreconstructed than was the new Korea: he cared not a jot for the welfare of the local population; people were to him little more than labourers, just another line on a budget sheet of profit and loss, they each had a price, and it just so happened, to his good fortune, that the price of labour in New Korea was substantially lower than in equivalently developed countries. This fact, plus the interest and dynamism that currently circulated around the former Hermit Kingdom, had finally convinced Garnet that now was the time to act: he was an old man, his monument could not wait much longer.
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