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Thursday 2006-09-07 - P’yŏngyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea
Transportation
Bikes
Apart from public transportation (more about that later) the main means of transportation seems to be the bike and you see them in a large variety of shapes and ages. If you want to have a bike, you have to buy it in a shop (many second-hand from Japan; most local bikes are still of inferior quality, although there is now a joint venture with China to produce bikes). Once bought, the bike must be registered at the district security office (the equivalent of a police station) and you get a little round license plate, usually attached at the ubiquitous front basket on the handle bars (I have actually seen only a single bike without such a basket). These little baskets are used to transport all sorts of things, from schoolbooks and other papers to pet dogs and even small children.
Apart from the simple luggage rack (sometimes used for very heavy loads), there may be a basket mounted on the luggage rack as well, and once I saw a man peddling by with a whole gaggle of ducks in his back basket, all curiously peering around.
Apparently at one time women were not allowed to ride bikes but that is definitely not true any longer: I’ve seen women on bikes, and our Uni rides a bike as well. One remarkable feature about bikes in the DPRK: I see not a single bike with a lock — apparently bikes are not stolen here. In all, variation and usage of bikes here is very much like that in China, with the most noteworthy difference the lack of locks, and the fact that on average they’re a little older.
Cars
Apart from buses and trucks, there are actually very few cars in the DPRK, most of them “public” (state-owned) but there are some private cars as well. One way someone may get a private car is as an award for a special service to the country (say, winning at an international sports championship). Another is that relatives living abroad may send someone a car as a present. There are (at least) three different kind of license plates by which you can tell what type of car it is: all publicly owned cars (ordinary cars, taxis, buses and trucks) have a white plate; black is for the army, and yellow is for private cars — I noted only two of the latter, but of course with so much to see, I did not only look at license plates!
A huge problem is a serious shortage of oil (the country has none of its own, and the military comes first). This explains the curiously smoking trucks we sometimes see, especially in the countryside: they are powered by cokes, with a little gasification plant in the back (the part that is producing all the smoke — similar to how many cars were run in the Netherlands during the second world war: it’s a little more complicated than oil, but ingenious and effective.
The shortage of oil also causes blackouts, making the trams and trolleybuses used for public transportation not always very reliable, with the result that buses in P’yŏngyang are usually packed. Buses may have a series of stars painted on the side: one each for 50,000km safe transportation — I see quite a few with a whole series of stars.
Wednesday 2007-04-04 - Amsterdam, the Netherlands
No problem, just a light panic
I had been clever and ordered a taxi via an Internet taxi broker. The whole ordering process went smoothly, and I expected the taxi at 8:15 — ready with my luggage outside. Except the taxi doesn’t appear and I had forgotten to put the phone number of the taxi company in my phone. Maybe he’s going to Carla’s house first? I call Carla and get her son: Carla is — just like me — ready outside with her luggage. Helpfully, he looks up the number for me in Carla’s email. But just when I start entering the number, the taxi arrives. We’re just on our way when Carla’s son calls me: what’s happening? “We’re on our way”, I say. The driver had told me he’d just come from the airport, and it was exceptionally busy on the road. Great. And he wants to turn on the meter. No, no - we have a fixed price!
So, we pick up Carla, and (via a slight detour because the driver doesn’t seem to know the fastest route to get out of the city) we’re on our way to Schiphol, Amsterdam. That’s stretching it: we do a lot of waiting at first — it is indeed very busy. Carla has a bright idea: let’s call Sander (the director of the tour operator who’s awaiting us at the airport with our tickets) that we’re on our way. Except I had also forgotten to put Sanders phone number in my phone — and my papers with the number are in the trunk — brilliant. Using my phone, Carla calls home, and manages to call her daughter in law out of bed, who helpfully looks up the number. Then I call Sander, who tells me: “I see happy faces here that you two are coming, too!”.
We’re definitely late now, but the traffic has cleared up. Then when the driver wants to enter the area before the gates, he misses the beam coming down after the car before him, and steps on his brakes. I shoot forward, bump my hand into the driver’s seat (it seems lightly contused) and my hat jumps off my head and lands in the driver’s lap. He apologizes, but I’m irritated. We don’t give him a tip when he drops us off.
Sander is there to welcome us — this must be a great day for him, sending off the first group of his new company! We’re not even the latest. Then, when we start to check in, another panic: Maria suddenly misses her ticket… She’s positive she did get it from Sander, but it’s nowhere to be found. Did she drop it? I call Sander again, hoping he can assist — luckily he’s not far, just upstairs, lingering around for he didn’t know what — my call, obviously. He soon reassures Maria: she can come, all the tickets are in the computer. That helps: now she finds here ticket after all!
From then on everything goes smoothly, and we arrive in Istanbul on time.
