Through binoculars mounted atop a tall building, I followed two women slowly making their way from the other side, across the bridge. The rusted device was a military type, and what I saw made them look as if they were targeted.
It was very cold and I struggled to place my lens on the binoculars to take a picture. I was on the border between China and North Korea with my usual reporting partner on such stories, Sue-Lin Wong, on a week-long road trip.
What we saw β from dirt-poor daily lives to clandestine economic activity on the Korean side β included scenes not yet witnessed in foreign media. On the same rooftop as us, two tourists were holding hands as they watched the women. They pulled out a selfie stick and took a picture with the border in the background. Soon after, they gave up sightseeing. But Sue-Lin and I stayed until my fingers were totally frozen from taking pictures. Then we went down, too.
It was going to be dark soon, and the only light across the bridge was from the portraits of North Korean leaders. On the Chinese side, under the tower, very relaxed border guards were having fun filming themselves with a video camera.
We should have followed the women but I didn't know what direction they went in. Instead, we went searching for the best Korean barbecue in town. I'm not a stranger to borders - I've spent a good part of my life and most of my career between countries, between war and peace, between "us and them. Whether it's the desert between Iran and Afghanistan, the gates of a diplomatic compound in the former Soviet Union, or the frontline of a besieged city in the bloody Balkan wars, they all have one thing in common - they look very different depending on what side you are looking from.
