On the border at the historic DMZ
KOREA | Visit to historic DMZ brings Cold War symbol into sharper focus
SEOUL, South Korea -- It's human nature to be intrigued by things that are off limits -- to want to sip a mojito in Cuba, use the lavatory in the first-class cabin and sneak a peek through doors that shout "Do Not Enter!"
Places that are verboten hold an undeniable appeal. Add a little dose of danger and a lot of historical importance, and you've got a sight worth seeing.
(AP)
That's what lured me into loitering around the Berlin Wall as a college student, and, more recently, to another vestige of the Cold War: the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ, between North and South Korea.
The DMZ is a nearly two-mile-wide, coast-to-coast buffer zone slicing through the middle of the Korean peninsula. It resulted from the Korean War cease-fire signed 56 years ago last Monday. The cease-fire brought an end to three years of bloody battles but didn't defuse the simmering tensions that, more than half a century later, are on the verge of erupting into a full-blown boil.
North Korea, thanks to its bizarre leader's increasingly bellicose behavior, has become a regular on the nightly news. I wanted to get a look at this place I'd heard so much about -- without landing in a labor camp next to Laura Ling and Euna Lee. So while I was in Seoul, I signed up for a half-day tour of the DMZ with Cosmojin Travel Service (cosmojin.com).
The DMZ is an easy day trip from South Korea's capital city. Thirteen people, mostly Americans, had registered for the $55 tour. One of them happened to be a businessman from west suburban Elmhurst.
"This is my second time visiting the DMZ," Jim Berg told me, as we rode on our small tour bus out of Seoul. "If you just want to see the tourist spots, you're better off going to a temple or museum. But if you want to get a better understanding of the conflict, you do this."
Technically, the two Koreas remain at war since the 1950-53 Korean War ended in a truce, not a peace treaty. That helps explain why the DMZ is the world's most heavily fortified border, laden with barbed wire, watchtowers, land mines and hundreds of thousands of troops at the ready.
After about an hour's drive out of Seoul, our bus dropped us off at Imjingak, which my guidebook described as a "park that was built to console the homesick refugees who left North Korea during the Korean War."
Apparently nothing cures homesickness like ice cream and a spin on the Tilt-a-Whirl, because this park was brimming with carnival rides and food stalls. I thought the park's shiny black locomotive train was just another amusement ride until a nearby plaque set me straight: The train used to run the entire length of the peninsula, north to south, until Korea was divided along the 38th parallel. The plaque said the "train's whistle is a cry from the heart of the people, exclaiming aloud their aspiration of once again seeing the nation united."
We left the park and its kite-flying kids and picnicking families to get on another bus for the short drive into more serious territory.
The mood grew more somber as our bus driver pulled up to a checkpoint, where the South's Republic of Korea soldiers stood stone faced, clutching their automatic weapons.
A man in fatigues came on board and silently inspected each of our passports. When he noticed a passenger snap a photo out of the bus window (a big no-no), he marched over and made him delete it.
We continued on, past a U.S. Army camp and fields of rice, soybeans and ginseng before arriving at Dora Observatory, where we lined up behind a row of telescopes to spy on North Korea below.
Visitors to the observatory can sometimes see farmers tilling the fields or elementary school kids getting military training. I saw neither, but I did see what is reportedly the world's tallest flagpole at 525 feet. It stands in North Korea's so-called Propaganda Village, one of only two villages within the DMZ.
Until a few years ago, Propaganda Village would broadcast messages over loudspeakers about how great life is in North Korea. These announcements were partly for the benefit of a couple of hundred South Koreans living in the DMZ in Freedom Village, where the perks of residency include subsidized housing and no mandatory military service for men. The downsides: a nightly curfew of 10 p.m. and a next-door neighbor that likes to play with nuclear weapons.
"If they pay me $1 million, I don't want to stay there," said our Cosmojin guide, Justin Choi. Not because it's dangerous, Choi added. "It's boring," he said.
From there we moved on to the Third Tunnel, one of several underground passageways secretly dug by North Koreans beneath the DMZ.
The idea, Choi said, was for North Korean soldiers to dig their way into South Korea to launch a surprise attack. That plan fell apart when the tunnels were discovered in the '70s.
"They painted the inside of the tunnel black to pretend it's a coal mine," he said, "but we know it's an invasion tunnel."
Visitors have been allowed in the Third Tunnel only in the past five years. We donned hard hats and ventured into the dark, dank passageway hidden 240 feet below ground. I had to hunch over slightly to avoid hitting my head.
The North Koreans never finished the Third Tunnel, but they managed to dig within 30 miles of Seoul. That thought gave me goosebumps as I pictured thousands of armed troops quietly streaming through this subterranean highway, in yet another bid to take over the South.
Like many areas around the DMZ, photography wasn't allowed in the tunnel. That was OK with me because the real appeal of the DMZ isn't what you see. It's what you feel.