In the morning I made my way to the tour operator’s office where I had to leave my phone, my Kindle and my laptop; none of these would be allowed into North Korea. Then, they led me to what seemed like nothing more than a car park, where I met the rest of the tour group. There were around 25 Chinese and seven Westerners. The tour leader read a role call; it was like the weirdest package holiday ever. We were reminded that once in North Korea we would be led and observed at all times by our guides, who are effectively members of the secret police.  We were told not to criticize the country or the government, to take photos only when instructed and, if taking a photo of a statue of a leader, to ensure that entire body was included in the photo; not to do so would be disrespectful. Photos of any soldiers or military installations were obviously prohibited too. We were then told that we should make no attempt to take any printed text into the country.

After the Chinese immigration officers had taken photos of each other standing next to us Westerners on their own personal cameras, we boarded a bus to cross the (intact) Sino-Korean Friendship Bridge. This river had seemed utterly impassable the night before, so crossing it in an everyday coach felt ridiculous. We were being allowed to visit North Korea. We hadn’t asked for special permission; it all felt too easy. The bridge rattled rhythmically as the coach crossed its metal slats, the hubbub of the Chinese riverbank getting lost behind us as we took in our first close-up views of the Korean city of Sinuiju. Its iconic, dilapidated ferris wheel – supposedly built for propaganda purposes – stood proudly over a muddy bank where men stood casting out fishing lines.

We were told to get off the bus and proceed through North Korean immigration. My friend and I were sharing a bag but, with the queue segregated by sex for no discernible reason, the responsibility to carry the bag through security fell on me. The soldier motioned for me to open and unpack. It suddenly dawned on me that I’d been lumbered with all my (female) friend’s clothes. With the atmosphere in the security hall very tense, and a vague inkling of the North’s view on transvestites, I became a little nervous.

The point where I was holding bras up to a North Korean soldier’s face and frantically pointing at my friend as explanation will definitely go down as one of the stranger moments of my life. However, the soldier barely batted an eyelid and I was allowed through. Nothing was asked about the South Korean stamps in my passport. 

In contrast to the mayhem of China, the place was deserted. Grimy buildings with broken windows lined the road while the empty pavements were cracked, with weeds bursting out from beneath the tiles. The city was a miserable expanse of grey, the only injection of colour coming from the propaganda posters at the side of the road. As we turned a corner the bus slowed down and I caught sight of a scuffle on the pavement. A man was desperately clawing his way through a barbed wire fence to escape a mob that was beating him while others tried to drag him back by his legs. The bus drove on.

On boarding the train, we were visited by our tour leader who came in a panic to tell us, “don’t take any pictures on the train. No pictures out the window!” Looking back at it, that was simple, unambiguous advice; I probably should have followed it.

Matt's account will continue in part three, where he first encounters the Secret Police.