An ‘Aggressive American Wolf’ in Dandong
Smiles and laughter … with North Korea next door
DANDONG, Liaoning — The children were North Korean. But their smiles were universal. They really appeared to be enjoying themselves, splashing around in the Yalu River, sitting out in the sun. What kid in the world wouldn’t? It was a beautiful day.
I sat in a boat a couple dozen meters away — North Korea doesn’t like it when foreigners get much closer — and took photos. Now I could show my friends and family back in the States: See, North Koreans smile, too.
They also wave. Waving and smiling, the kids motioned for me to come join them. For what, I had no idea. Was this some kind of a joke?
My boat cruised slowly beside the banks of North Korea and left the waving children in its wake. I and the other tourists on the boat — all Chinese — continued to peer into perhaps the most secretive and isolated country in the world. And, you know what? It looked a lot like rural China. Shouldn’t come as a surprise — China was just 300 meters and one invisible boundary line away.
But because this was North Korea, a country famous for being infamous, everything we saw took on a different, usually darker, color. Smoke stacks became ominous. A ferris wheel became eerie. Old rusty boats became proof of a socialist economy in ruin.
But the men on the boats, upon seeing my white face, they smiled. I started to wonder who was on display here. I spent two bucks for my glimpse into another world. They were getting their look for free.
And what to make of all the smiles? Did I happen to catch North Korea on a good day? I had read reports of natives chucking rocks at tourists, of children looking longingly at tour boats passing by, perhaps wishing they could hop aboard and sail across the river to that big funhouse of freedom on the other side — Communist China.
I’m not sure what I expected to see on North Korean shores, but friendly smiles weren’t high on the list. I expected to see very little, actually — just a little marching, some oppression and perhaps the manufacturing of nuclear weapons. You know, run-of-the-mill North Korean stuff. Stuff I could write home about. The kind of stuff we read about in the newspapers. But what was I to do with all these smiles? We don’t read about North Koreans smiling, swimming, having a good time.
All these smiling North Koreans disgusted me. How dare they? How dare they go against my preconceived notion of their nation? I assumed they were placed there by Kim Jong Il — the “Dear Leader” himself — as some sort of ploy, some kind of attempt to fool foreigners into thinking that everyone is happy, everything is hunky-dory in the good ole DPRK. Move along folks. There’s nothing to see here.
But scattered among all the smiles were some straight faces. These people looked either sad or angry, I could not tell which. But their expressions were most definitely serious. They raised their arms up high and drew some sort of shape in the air with their fingers. Was it a rectangle? A triangle? A square? And what on earth did they mean by it?
Johnson didn’t know. Lisa didn’t know, either. I figured it would remain one of the hermit kingdom’s many mysteries. And I took my seat as our boat headed back to Dandong, a city tourists visit because of what it is near, not what it is.
What it is: An unspectacular city of 2.3 million in eastern Liaoning Province, about a three-hour bus ride southeast from Shenyang. Dandong, situated at the mouth of the Yalu River, where it flows into the Korean Gulf, began its modest rise in 1907, when it was linked by rail with both northeastern China and Korea. The Japanese industrialized it during their occupation of Manchuria from 1931 to 1945. And the city grew during the Korean War (1950-1953), which is called “the anti-American war to support North Korea” in these parts.
The first thing I noticed about Dandong was its lack of stop signs or stop lights or anything else that might tell a driver when to stop. So instead of four-way stops, these intersections become four-way free-for-alls, a confused game of chicken where drivers don’t give way until they see the whites of their enemy’s eyes — or, at least, their make and model. Relying on the discretion of Chinese drivers is never a wise move. Unfortunately, you often have no choice — and seatbelts don’t come standard in most Chinese taxi cabs.
On our bus, which arrived in the middle of the afternoon, we were treated to the movie China Strike Force, which featured Asian pop stars Aaron Kwok and Lee-Hom Wang … and Coolio. That’s right — Coolio. Coolio played, of course, a drug dealer … and he played up every African-American and American stereotype in the book. His character’s name? Coolio.
Hotel touts headed toward Johnson and Lisa as we exited the bus. I, as usual, headed in the opposite direction, so that my “whiteness” would not adversely affect the bargaining process. I waited on the corner, drawing curious stares, until Johnson gave me the phone call that said I could finally show my face.
The Si Hai Zhao Dai Suo, or Four Seas Hotel, was nicer than expected — new and clean — and directly across from the police station, which I think was used as a selling point. It was also very, very cheap. My room was RMB 30 (around $3.75) a night. Of course, it was little more than a closet. The bed was almost bigger than the room itself — three of its sides landed flush against the wall. Next to the remaining side, there was about two feet of room, just enough space for the door and a tiny color TV. Everything in the room — the walls, the ceiling, the bedding — was white. All that was missing was the straight jacket.
My bathroom was across the hall. I shared it with several others, but it was always spotless. (If it had been in Beijing, it would have definitely been a four-star john.) Johnson and Lisa opted to pay a little more, and they got their own toilet — a Western one! — and shower. They could even walk around their bed. This was the first time Johnson — whose very traditional father always tells him to “save for a rainy day” — ever willingly paid more than me for anything. I have a feeling Johnson would also have been staying in a closet — likely one smaller than mine — had he not been traveling with his girlfriend.
The three of us headed to the riverside, because that’s where North Korea was. There are two bridges jutting out from Dandong across the Yalu River to the North Korean town of Sinuiju. Only one of the bridges actually reaches North Korea. The older of the two bridges — the one that America bombed in 1950 — only makes it to the mid-river boundary line. North Korea dismantled its half. All that remain are concrete supports, some still sporting 54-year-old scars from shrapnel.
Tourists, for RMB 15, are allowed to walk on the bridge that doesn’t go anywhere. The only people who walk on the newer bridge — the steel span called the Sino-Korean Friendship Bridge — seem to be North Korean business men, recognizable by the red Kim Il Sung buttons pinned to their shirts, who arrive each day to purchase wholesale goods in markets near the border. They scurry back across the bridge before nightfall.
We wandered and took photos from the bridge, on the bridge, under the bridges, beyond the bridges. Really, there is not much worth photographing on the river or alongside it. You take photos because you think you should, because you can point to them later and say, “I was this close to the Axis of Evil.” There was one image that unfortunately I didn’t capture, but it has stayed with me. I saw a man water skiing down the Yalu River, speeding past North Korea, its smokestacks, its ferris wheel, its swimming children and old rusty boats. I’m pretty sure I heard the man let out a scream of joy. Think he was North Korean?
The Dandong riverside is random and raucous. I know the ferris wheel is across the border, but the carnival atmosphere is most definitely on the China side. Seriously. There was even a guy selling cotton candy. Perhaps Dandong feels so carefree because it can so easily be compared to that strange and shadowy place on the other side of the bridge. Or perhaps Dandong really is carefree because of its shadowy neighbor. It’s a celebration of sorts. A declaration of independence — or, at least, a declaration of progress.
The contrast is obvious. It is clear. The Chinese can point across the Yalu River and say, This is what we once were. Then they can look around themselves and say, This is what we are today. It’s not often that the Chinese can look at their personal freedoms and feel a sense of pride.
At night, the great divide the Yalu River cuts between the two countries is most apparent. Dandong glows. It buzzes. North Korea simply disappears. The riverside parks on the Dandong side are filled with light and laughter. Across the way in Sinuiju, all you can see are faint outlines of smokestacks. There is no sign of electricity at all.
From the bridges, we walked north along the river, past statues of elephants and milk cows. Bizarre. It was a Monday night. It was after 9 p.m. Adults had to work the next day. Children had to go to school. But the parks were packed. Really, I have never seen anything quite like it before. Everyone — from toddlers to senior citizens — was doing something. They were skateboarding, rollerblading and bicycling. They were playing badminton, mahjong and Chinese checkers. But most people — a noticeable majority — passed the time by kicking a feathered object back and forth with some friends. This is called jianzi, which can best be described as Chinese hacky-sack.
(There’s actually a statue of a girl kicking a jianzi in one of Dandong’s parks along the Yalu. We thought perhaps the game was invented in Dandong. Maybe we had arrived on some sort of jianzi anniversary, or perhaps the annual “Jianzi Marathon.” That would explain the flurry of weeknight activity. But we were wrong. We asked the owner of our hotel about it. Her answer was simple: “That’s just the way we are.”)
Everyone in the park was smiling or laughing or both. And that made me suspicious. It was like walking through a television commercial for chewing gum or toothpaste, where everyone is having so much fun it hurts. People can’t really enjoy themselves that much, can they? Maybe in Dandong they can. I looked around for television camera crews and didn’t see any. The smiles, the laughter, it was all genuine.
“Don’t these people have to work tomorrow?” I asked Johnson. It was now almost 10 p.m. and the crowds hadn’t gotten any smaller.
“Probably not,” he replied. “Unemployment is very high here.”
The smiles and laughter stayed with me that night as I slept in my closet. This was good, because I would need a sense of humor for our first stop the following day: The Museum of American Aggression, a Sino-Korean take on the Korean War.
I went in knowing what to expect — an old and outdated museum with antiquated and one-sided views of an often ignored and overlooked war — but I got the unexpected. The photos weren’t faded. Paint was not peeling from the walls. The museum looked recently renovated, complete with flat screen TVs and interactive displays. But it was the same old propaganda, just packaged for a new generation. The lies didn’t need a makeover, I suppose.
Now, I’ve never been labeled a patriot. In fact, one of my former editors used to call me a “commie” — but I think that was because I liked soccer. No, I’m not “patriotic” in the Bush Administration definition of the word. I don’t have an American flag on my Japanese-made car. I don’t wear T-shirts that scream “These Colors Don’t Run.” I don’t support the war. I don’t think it’s a crime to criticize the president. I don’t own a gun. I don’t go to church. I don’t know who’s on the pole at Darlington. I watch the Daily Show. I know what “xenophobe” means, and I am not one. I think Budweiser tastes like horse piss. And I’ve met French people — and liked them.
But I am an American. And I am proud to be an American, even though I would never listen to that song. And I must say, that parts of the Museum of American Aggression pissed me off, even though I knew to expect the propaganda, the bluster and the blather. I just didn’t expect it to be so slickly displayed, so easy for visitors to accept the “information” as the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
(And no, I’m not so naive to think that my government doesn’t lie to me, that it doesn’t spin. I was awake for the past couple — OK, 30 — years. But I don’t think we’re going to be breaking ground on the Museum of Iraqi Aggression any time soon, either.)
The museum’s foyer — the one with the big bronze statue of Mao Zedong and Kim Il Sung shaking hands — sets the tone for the place. There we learn that “in order to aid the liberation war of the Korean people and resist the attack of U.S. imperialists and its running dogs and defend the interests of the Korean people,” China had its Voluntary Army “aid the Korean comrades in their fight against the aggressors for a glorious victory.”
Also displayed prominently is the Joint Declaration of Democratic Parties in China, signed by such often-heard-from organizations as the China Democratic League, the China Democratic National Construction League, the China Association for Promoting Democracy, the Chinese Peasants and Workers Democracy Party, the Taiwan Democratic Self-Government League and the New Democratic Youth League of China. All of these groups agreed that “the U.S. imperialists are repeating the same old tactics of the Japanese aggressors.”
The Joint Declaration, signed November 4, 1950, also explained that “the aggressive ambitions of imperialists are limitless. The U.S. imperialists waged the aggressive war against Korea on June 25 this year. Their scheme is not only to destroy the DPRK but also annex South Korea, invade China, rule Asia, even conquer the whole world.” [italics added]
Later in the museum, you can learn how the Chinese — using inferior weaponry — defeated the U.S. imperialists and their “modern technical equipment” en route what was most definitely a glorious victory. And with a simple brush of a touch-screen monitor, you can celebrate the victory by singing along with “The Song of the Voluntary Army.” (A Chinese friend of mine described the Voluntary Army thusly: “If you don’t volunteer, you’ll be damned.”)
Here are some translated lyrics from the song: “All the good sons and daughters of China, join hands and fight the United States in support of North Korea. Let’s beat the aggressive American wolves! Aggressive wolves!” Anthemic, no?
My favorite part of the museum, however, had to be the propaganda leaflets that the Chinese and Koreans distributed to American troops. They are of high quality, both in content and production value, and look like newspaper advertising inserts or greeting cards. One said, in a fancy Christmas-ish font, “Greetings from the Chinese Peoples Republic.” (Actually, the English used on these items — more than a half century ago — is much better than anything I have seen on almost any modern-day sign or document in China. What happened?)
One of these leaflets showed a photo of a smiling American housewife, happy her husband had become a POW and was “no longer risking his life on the front lines.” It came with the friendly reminder: “The Koreans and Chinese are lenient to their prisoners. They guarantee you life, security and freedom from maltreatment.” (A different section of the museum displays many photos of happy American POWs.)
Another leaflet explains “How The Rich Dodged The Draft” and shows two photos: one of the Princeton University campus, the other of the front lines. But my personal favorite was the one that came with the Christmas-like greeting. Because on the other side was a caricature of an American infantryman’s corpse and the warning, “ONLY DEATH AWAITS YOU.” This card went on to tell its reader that “Eisenhower is driving you to death” and “You are being thrown into a hell of fire of the Korean Peoples Army.” Scared soldiers are given the following pointers:
“Advance means death!
Desert your columns while the officers are not watching you!
Sabotage the order to attack!
Find a way to save your lives!
Surrender before it’s too late!”
The only other visitors to the museum on this day were young Chinese soldiers, dozens of them, dressed in fatigues. I was curious to find out what they thought of the U.S. imperialists, the aggressive American wolves. “What do you think of America?” I thought the question was simple enough, but Johnson refused to help me ask it. “That’s a sensitive topic,” he protested. “They are … Communists.” Lisa wasn’t afraid to ask, however, and the soldiers politely evaded her question. “We know little about this war,” one said after an initial shrug. “We are just visiting.”
The soldiers, to a man, were friendly. They said “Hello” when they saw me. They posed for my photos. More than one came up to shake my hand. We were in the parking lot when the soldiers were hopping in to the back of their green military truck, getting ready to leave. Before pulling out, the soldier behind the wheel beeped to me and waved goodbye. Later, I saw the same group of soldiers down at the bridge. They smiled and waved in acknowledgement. And even later, I happened to be in a taxi driving alongside — you guessed it — the same green military truck. The boys in the back spotted me, pointed and waved. One of them smiled and saluted.
Before leaving Dandong, I wanted one last look at North Korea. A closer look. So I hired a speedboat, which could go closer to the North Korean shore than the tour boat we had taken the previous day. I had the boat to myself, just me and the driver. And as we passed under the old bridge, he turned to me and asked, “Where are you from?”
“America,” I said.
He nodded and said, “You know your country bombed this bridge.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed, and we sped on. I got more photos of smokestacks, swimming children and old rusty boats — just a little bit closer this time. I also got a better look the smileless young boys. The shirtless ones who drew some sort of shape in the air. I still couldn’t make out the shape, but I could see their faces. They didn’t look happy to see me.
“What are they doing?” I asked the driver.
He laughed, and drew a half circle on the seat beside them.
“What does that mean?”
He answered, but I couldn’t understand what he said. I had him write it down. Later, I showed the slip of paper to Johnson and asked him to translate it for me.
“You really want to know?” Johnson asked.
“Of course.”
Johnson took my pen and scribbled in my notepad: “Long live General Kim Jong Il — the Sun of the 21st Century.”
Click here for photos.
14 Comments
This entry should become a magazine feature article. Nicely written.
Great.
I remember playing ‘Jianzi’ when I was a kid growing up in Singapore. There, it was called ‘chatek’. The object was constructed with three or four feathers attached to a weight of sorts; usually rubber discs. The goal was to pass this object to your friends using any part of your anatomy but your hands. If it fell to the ground within your immediate vicinity, you got a demerit point. The person with the least points won.
Haven’t played it in years…
You should have signed a newspaper or magazine contract before you made this trip, your writing is that excellent. Guess you can always do it later, but it would have been very cool if it had been immediate. Did you try?
Great article Dan. And yes, it should most definitely be published as widely as possible. You have a great talent, and I’m looking forward to more.
Hey,you are up in our neck of the woods. My wife comes from Fenghuangcheng (Phoenix City, located just under Phoenix Mountain) just up the road. I went to Dandong once before my wife and I started dating and never got around to The Museum of American Aggression. I’ll have to stop by during our Spring Festival holiday. Wonderful article.
When we were in Baishan city—also one of the three Chinese cities closest to North Korea—Ilearned local people were just crazy about kicking Jianzi too. You can see them playing everywhere; it was like their only thing for recreation; and I bet there are kids who love kicking Jianzi more than the online games.
I went to Dandong in Oct and didnt see anyone swimming in the Yalu. It was freezing during the national holiday!
Ash.
I love the way you ended the article there. Make me think if I have been brainwashed by Fox news too. I can’t help it, Long live President Bush!
I was one of the tourists on the Yalu River speedboats unfortunate to have been attacked by projectiles thrown by North Korean longshoremen.
I was told they don’t like to have their pictures taken and are annoyed because the speedboats go to the same little dockside destination along the North Korean shore all day long.
In Dandong there is a neat antique market where you can purchase Korean War memorabilia (military medals) and North Korean currency as well as those Kim Il Sung pins. Another highlight is “Tiger Mountain” located 30 minutes to the north where the Chinese have reconstructed a part of the Great Wall overlooking a small parcel of land north of the Yalu which officially belongs to North Korea.
Chinese tourist literature touts an attraction there called “Yi Bu Kua” where you can literally take “One Step Over” onto North Korean soil.
See my Hushan page at VirtualTourist.com for more details.
Best wishes to Dan in southeast China!
Confucius
Re: “What happened?” about English skills in the PRC. 50+ years of Communism happened. When Mad Mao and the Commies took over China, China still had a vibrant, Western-educated elite in places like Shanghai. By the time Mao passed away, those who were not prescient enough to flee had been sent to the countryside, tortured to death, or driven to suicide; and their children had been denied anythng more than a basic education.
Thats simply not true Richard. The so-called Western educated elite were the tiniest percentage of a fraction, hardly enough to make a difference and to argue that if the communists had not seized power that the calibre of English in China is nonsense. Just look at Japan, Engrish all over the place and barely a commie to be seen. In any case, I think the propaganda leaflets used during the Korean war were likely issued by the central government who would obviouslly have access to a significant number of speakers fluent in English. I would wager that most public signs are likely fashioned by local governments who likely do not have access to the same calibre of skilled personnel.
“I think the propaganda leaflets used during the Korean war were likely issued by the central government who would obviouslly have access to a significant number of speakers fluent in English.”
I doubt it. Think about all the atrocious signs around national tourist destinations in Beijing (which is basically controlled by the national government) and this is after 25 years of “opening up” — those propaganda leaflets were created just a few years after the end of the civil war. There were precious few fluent English speakers around at the time.
I’d put money on them being designed in the Soviet Union.