Finally, nearly the last moment of my 12-year world journey has arrived. Originally, I planned to end my overseas travels in Taiwan and then return to Korea, but after looking at the map, I decided to change my plan. I chose to cycle along the Amnok River and the Tumen River that flow between China and North Korea, all the way to Mount Paektu. I had dreamed of returning through North Korea after safely completing my bicycle journey across six continents. But to cross North Korea was still impossible. So I decided to console myself by doing this instead.
I arrived in Dalian, China, by plane because my Chinese visa only allowed for 30 days, and there wasn’t enough time to cycle from Hong Kong to Northeast China. The airport was quite large, but surprisingly, there were no ATMs. I had heard that China was moving towards a cashless society, but I never expected them to remove ATMs even at airports. I didn’t have the tools to assemble some parts of my bicycle, so I needed to take a taxi to my accommodation. But without an ATM, I couldn’t get cash for the taxi. So, I had to assemble some screws by hand and rode my bicycle to the accommodation, arriving at 1 AM.
The next morning, as I walked around the area, I found Korean letters at some restaurants. It seemed to be due to Dalian’s geographical location. Fortunately, there was an ATM in the city, so I was able to withdraw money. With the help of an acquaintance, set up an Alipay account and deposit money into it. It was definitely more convenient to travel without cash.
In the first map, I have marked the relevant region in black for this post. Dalian was the first place I arrived at on this journey through China. The border between China and North Korea is divided by rivers: the Amnok River to the west, the Tumen River to the east, with Mount Baekdu lying between them. Baekdu is Korea’s spiritual mountain; it appears in the South Korean national anthem and is frequently referenced in various places as a symbol of reunification, among other things.
From October 2016 to the spring of April 2017, I traveled by bicycle from northwest China’s Xinjiang to southern Yunnan. Returning to China after six years, I wondered what had changed.
One of the things I loved most about traveling in China was the food. After so long, I finally tasted Chinese cuisine again, and it was still delicious. Six years ago, I thought prices weren’t particularly cheap, but with global inflation, Chinese food prices now seemed affordable. A meal cost only around U$2~U$3, even cheaper than in the Philippines, which I had recently visited.
In Dalian, there was a theme park modeled after Venice, Italy. It resembled the original to some extent.
One place I had to visit in Dalian was the Lushun Prison, where Ahn Jung-geun, the most significant independence activist in Korean history, was incarcerated. Built by Japan in 1902 as part of its colonial ambitions in China, the prison held many Chinese detainees and was also used to imprison and execute Korean independence activists. The prison was operated by Japan until 1945. Walking through the preserved exhibits showcasing torture methods, execution sites, and forced labor records, I felt a heavy sense of sorrow.
Ahn Jung-geun assassinated Ito Hirobumi, the Prime Minister of Japan, in Harbin, China on October 26, 1909, because Ito was responsible for forcibly taking Korea’s sovereignty and depriving the rights of the Korean people. He also saw Ito as the leader of Japan’s imperialist policies, which threatened peace in East Asia. Therefore, Ahn carried out the assassination as an act of righteous retribution.
Ahn Jung-geun was captured and classified as a national criminal. He was held in solitary confinement next to the chief guard’s office, under constant 24-hour surveillance. Unlike the interconnected cells for other prisoners, his cell was a separate building not connected to any other.
Leaving Dalian, I began cycling and was surprised to see a six-lane road in a rural area with barely any traffic — perfectly paved. It made me wonder why such roads were built. I kept encountering roads like these. It costs about 59,000 to 177,000 USD to pave 1 km of asphalt, and a 6-lane road can cost up to 615,000 USD per kilometer. Why pour that much money into a rural road with almost no traffic? “Is it because the government has so much money that they can build roads like this without issue? Or was a corrupt politician trying to profit off construction? Was the area under development but abandoned? Or is it just paused before the next development stage?”
I arrived in a rural village, and even there the asphalt roads were wide and nicely paved. Since it was a countryside area, I began to see three-wheeled vehicles.
🚨 (Warning: The next photo is of a toilet. If you’ve just eaten or are eating, please scroll quickly.)
Despite the six years that had passed, rural toilet was still shocking. There were still no partitions. The exterior was so fancy that I assumed the inside would be decent too — but I almost threw up upon entering. Since it was an emergency, I had no choice but to use it.
Sometimes I have nightmares about toilets. In those dreams, I enter a restroom but the door doesn’t close, or every stall is so dirty that I can’t use any of them. On this trip, I had to face those nightmares again — in real life.
One thing that had changed in six years: tampons! Back in 2016, even Carrefour in big cities like Xi’an or Chengdu didn’t have them. So I was shocked to see them available at a rural supermarket this time.
Indoor smoking in restaurants still seemed common. I heard you won’t see this in fast-food chains like KFC or clean restaurants in big cities, so perhaps there’s some unspoken rule at play.
While passing through a quiet area, I spotted a hotel and went in. Surprisingly, there were quite a few people staying there. It looked like a repurposed school. Some families seemed to be on summer vacation, maybe visiting for a mudflat experience nearby.
It had been a while since I’d seen a traditional Chinese market. I bought some freshly fried crispy donuts, and they were absolutely delicious. After riding hard, I arrived at a city and suddenly had to stop in shock.
Despite the lack of cars, the city had a massive 10-lane road, reminding me of North Korean cities shown on TV. I was so startled, I checked my map — had I accidentally entered North Korea? Thankfully, the map confirmed I was still in China. There were rows of empty buildings, but no cranes to suggest ongoing construction. They looked too desolate to be considered fully completed. Did the development fail? Or was it just on hold for phase two?
Eventually, as I entered the city, I began to see more people. At a plaza, a large crowd was dancing. In China, it’s common to see people dancing in parks at sunset.
The feeling of cycling through unfamiliar roads at dusk — I never get tired of that sunset view.
For the first time on this trip, I was denied at a hotel. During my 6-month trip in China in 2016, I had never once been rejected, so I was quite surprised. The daughter of the hotel owner initially told me I could stay and even showed me the room. But after a phone call with her father, she said the place was full and they couldn’t give me a room. However, when she showed me around, several rooms had been clearly vacant. I heard the word “Hangguo” (Korea) during the call, so I assumed it was because I was a foreigner.
I checked another place afterward, but it looked like it could collapse any minute, so I left immediately. Thankfully, I found a decent-looking guesthouse. The owner only glanced at my passport and let me stay for 100 RMB (14 USD).
There were cameras everywhere in China — even on branches along nearly deserted rural roads. In particular, there were more cameras near the North Korean border. North Korean defectors are known to travel through China to reach Mongolia or Southeast Asia before heading to South Korea. But with the increase in facial recognition cameras, it must be getting harder to defect. In 2019, about 1,000 defectors arrived in South Korea, but by 2024, the number had dropped to just 200.
Eventually, I reached the North Korean border.
To my surprise, North Korea was very close to the road. It was hard to believe that the land just across the river was actually North Korea.
Next to the barbed wire, signs warned: “Do not cross the barrier, throw things over, talk across, or engage in bartering.”
While cycling along the Amnok River fence, I finally arrived in Dandong. On the other side of the river lay North Korea. What shocked me was how far some Chinese people waded into the river to fish. When North Koreans see this, what would they think? Would seeing relaxed Chinese people fishing stir a longing for freedom? Or have they become so used to oppression that they no longer recognize freedom and simply accept life as it is?
In the parks, telescopes were lined up for people to look into North Korea. The relationship between China and North Korea looks very weird.
Most of the people fishing seemed to be locals. I wondered what they thought when looking across the river into North Korea. There were many apartment buildings near the riverfront — I was curious what it would be like to see North Korea as your everyday view.
North Korean buildings in the fog.
Even with a low-end camera, zooming in revealed the buildings clearly.
From the Dandong riverside, you could see the North Korean landscape. The building on the far left is known as the “Sun Apartment” and is said to display the slogan “Single-hearted unity.” on the top of the building. Its exact purpose is unclear — some speculate it’s for propaganda toward China, or used to train workers before they’re dispatched to China. The building on the far right had no lights, while most of the lights in the Sun Apartment were on.
At that time, it was peak summer holiday season in China, so local Chinese tourist crowds were enormous. (The photo was taken late at night after the crowds had left.)
People were dancing in the park, playing instruments, and families were enjoying themselves. The park was lively and brilliantly lit with lights, while the other side — North Korea — disappeared into darkness.
It was heartbreaking to realize that the land fading into the dark made up half of our Korean Peninsula. During my time in Dandong, I often visited this area. Each night, seeing North Korea plunged into darkness was a painful reminder of reality. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of sadness.
This area was once part of a thriving Korean business district, but now it’s mostly deserted. Tensions between South Korea and China had intensified, and the Chinese government was placing pressure on Korean residents specially in this area. Even those with 5-year Chinese visas had to leave the country every 6 months to South Korea and come back and were under constant surveillance.
Also, despite the end of the COVID-19 situation, most of the ferry routes between South Korea and China have not resumed.
In stark contrast, the Dandong night market was packed with people — so crowded
Chinese people looking across the Amnok River with telescopes.
I was curious, so I also put in a coin and took a look — and was amazed at how clearly I could see.
There were several North Korean restaurants in Dandong, but I heard they would outright reject Korean customers, so I didn’t even try to go in. I was afraid that being rejected would make me face the tragedy of our Korean Peninsula right in front of me.
North Korean landscape beyond the sunset.
Seeing the dim North Korean side compared to the bright Chinese city was sad.
I was once asked: “If I’m happy but those around me are not, is my happiness still valid?”
My answer was, “As social beings, it’s difficult to feel true happiness when those around us are suffering. True happiness comes from living well together.”
In China, many people ride scooters — especially those in yellow uniforms, who are food delivery workers. I also ordered food often while staying in China. It only cost 2-3 USD including delivery, and it arrived incredibly fast. I heard delivery workers can earn close to 700-1000USD a month and are generally satisfied with the job. The government has banned regular gas scooters, so most people use electric scooters.
Within just a month, traveling by bike from Dalian to the Amnok River, Baekdu Mountain, and the Tumen River was tight, so I tried to extend my visa at the immigration office — but was immediately denied. Back in 2016, I had successfully extended my visa three times despite the strained relationship between China and Korea due to THAAD, so I was surprised.
(In 2016, the United States strongly urged the deployment of the THAAD missile defense system in South Korea to counter North Korean threats, and South Korea accepted the request. China opposed it, claiming that THAAD’s radar system threatened its security, which led to economic retaliation badly such as banning group tours in South Korea and so on. This caused the relationship between South Korea and China to deteriorate to its worst point.)
Then another issue arose. The immigration officer asked where I was staying, so I showed the booking page of my accommodation — which I had reserved through Trip.com. The site clearly stated that the accommodation accepted foreign nationals with accommodation registration. (Trip.com was acquired by China’s Ctrip, making it a useful platform when staying in China.)
But when I returned to the accommodation, the police arrived — it turned out my accommodation registration hadn’t been properly filed. They loaded my bags into a police van and took me to the police station, where I had to sit and wait. Even though I tried using Google Translate, they just kept telling me to wait. I began to wonder if they were going to handcuff me. After 4 hours, around 10 p.m., they finally let me go, saying they tried to call an official translator but couldn’t, so I could return and should come back the next morning.
I booked a new hotel, and the police escorted me there, stayed until check-in was complete, and followed me to my room. They said they would come to pick me in the morning. But the next day, I got a text from the police saying everything had been resolved and I could continue my journey without returning to the police station.
Though I’ve camped at police stations or received help from patrol cars while traveling world before, this was the first time I was taken in a police vehicle by force, and had to wait in a station like a criminal. It was an unpleasant experience.
I reported the issue to Trip.com, and they compensated me with 15,000 coins (150 USD) in vouchers. Since it happened in a foreign country — and in China, no less — legal action would have been complicated, and I had no experience with lawsuits, so I accepted the vouchers.
Some might say I got free money, but honestly, I would rather not have gone through that ordeal at all.
In a WhatsApp group of Chinese Visa with over 300 foreigners, I was the only one who got rejected for the visa extension. I wondered if Dandong was just a sensitive region. So I decided to head to Shenyang — the largest city in the northeast — hoping I could get an extension there.
Due to time constraints, I had to take a train. They said my bicycle would arrive the following day.
After arriving in Shenyang, I called a taxi through an app, but to my surprise, the driver was watching TV while driving. What was even more surprising was that the driver had a very high rating.
The immigration building in Shenyang was quite large. When I went inside and inquired about extending my visa, they flatly refused, saying that 30 days was more than enough. In the Chinese visa WhatsApp group, which has more than 300 foreign members, I was the only one who had ever been denied a visa extension. Whether they were in small towns or big cities, everyone else found it easy to get an extension. I began to wonder if something that seemed so easy for others was somehow impossible just for me. Since Shenyang and Dandong are in the same regional jurisdiction, I decided to try my luck in Beijing instead.
The problem was getting to Beijing with my bicycle. If I shipped it as cargo, it wouldn’t arrive for four days—and since I needed to come back quickly in case the visa extension was denied again, that was too long to wait. I tried to leave the bike at a hostel, but they said they didn’t have any storage space. I visited several hotels and explained my situation, even promising to stay with them upon my return, but all of them refused.
Time was running out before my scheduled train departure, and I was about to lose my ticket because of the bike. While checking around various hotels, it suddenly occurred to me to try asking at a bicycle shop. The larger shop turned me away but suggested trying the smaller one next door. The second shop was much smaller, but the owner kindly told me not to worry and offered to keep my bicycle. When I tried to pay a storage fee, he politely declined.
Throughout my travels around the world, I’ve occasionally met people like this. Some people refuse help even when they have plenty of space. Others go out of their way to make room, even when they barely have any. Do such people carry a special gene? Or are they just innately altruistic? I’m not sure, but every time I meet someone like that, I feel a deep sense of respect.
The terminal in Shenyang was fairly large, but thankfully I arrived on time and boarded my train. The distance to Beijing was 700 km(434mi) . But with the high-speed rail, it took only three and a half hours. During my last trip to China six years ago, I had only traveled through the northwest and central-southern regions. This was my first time in the east.
As the capital, Beijing was definitely more expensive. In other cities, I could get a room at a hotel for about 100 RMB (14 USD), but in Beijing, I had to pay 200 RMB (28 USD) just for a shared six-bed dormitory.
The next morning, I headed straight to the immigration office. There were two security guy at both the front and back of the bus.
(Beijing’s morning scene)
When I arrived at the immigration office, a official told me that a visa extension was possible. I was relieved and felt that coming to Beijing had been the right decision. I had to show my accommodation records from Trip.com. Because of China’s newly strengthened anti-espionage laws, I had only stayed at hotels, which turned out to be a good decision. However, the interview process became rather intense. She asked me to list the places I had visited in China and then proceeded to verify my claims by checking the photos on my phone. She even clicked on the photos to view metadata, such as the date taken. She questioned why the location data didn’t show up, and I replied that I had disabled GPS because I didn’t want to share my personal information with Google. (It’s true that I always try to minimize the data I share.)
During my 2016 travels, I had extended my visa three times without any issues, so this level of scrutiny was surprising. When I asked the WhatsApp visa group, none of them had experienced phone checks like I had. Luckily, I had kept only tourist photos in my phone gallery and hadn’t brought my main camera, so nothing problematic was found such as the dirty toilet.
I was then given a black jacket provided by the immigration office, had my photo taken in the next room, and paid the extension fee. The officer said they couldn’t tell me yet how long the extension would be and told me to wait for further notice.
The next day, I took a walk in a local park and witnessed something unusual. There were dozens of profiles hanging along the walkway of people seeking marriage. Each sheet listed a name, gender, age, job, a rough description, and a phone number—but interestingly there was no photos. I heard that sometimes parents post these profiles without telling their children
I wanted to visit some tourist sites in Beijing, but everything was digitalized and had to be reserved through apps several days in advance. Since it was peak season, most of the limited-entry attractions were already fully booked. The apps were difficult to navigate and had no English support, so I had to screenshot the pages, translate them one by one using Google Translate, then go back and forth just to figure things out. Entry fees could only be paid via WeChat Pay, which requires a Chinese bank account—so I couldn’t even use it.
Thankfully, I discovered Jingshan Park, which didn’t require digital reservations, and from there I could see a full panoramic view of the Forbidden City.
While I was sightseeing, I received a message informing me that I had been granted only a two-week extension.
The visa extension process itself took ten days, which meant there was little point in staying in Beijing the entire time. I kept checking the WhatsApp group, but once again, I was the only one who had received just a two-week extension. Every foreiner got one month extension.
Although I had to leave my passport at the immigration office during the process, they provided a yellow slip that could be used in its place—for boarding trains and checking into accommodations.
Since staying in Beijing during the ten-day processing period was pointless for two weeks visa extension, I had no choice but to pay a significant amount to return to the place where I had left my bicycle.
Back in Shenyang, I met the bike shop owner again. Then I headed off to the next city.
China’s paved roads were quite good, but riding a bicycle in urban areas alongside cars was often dangerous.
Once again, I came across a strange, half-developed city. There were quite a few of these in northeast China. The buildings were unfinished, shops around the area had gone out of business, yet the roads were unusually wide and well-maintained.
Because of limited time, I often had to ride at night.
One evening, I arrived in a rural village and checked into a small hotel. While walking outside, I came across a restaurant selling pigeon. I wondered—do the pigeons know they’re about to be eaten?
The next morning, as I was leaving the village, I could see that it was quite different from Beijing. South Korea also has its own regional development imbalance issues, but China’s vast territory makes this gap even more pronounced. In Beijing, driverless taxis and buses are in use, while in the countryside, people still rely on old three-wheeled vehicles.
As I moved eastward, I saw more and more cornfields along the roads. I’ve heard that corn is widely cultivated in the northern regions of North Korea as well.
One day, it rained heavily, and I had to ride late into the night, even through a downpour. When I finally reached the hotel, I unpacked all my bags and laid everything out to dry. I really wanted to rest the next day, but I didn’t have the time—I had to move on.
Later, in the next city, I experienced something I couldn’t understand. Every single hotel refused to let me stay. Even the best-equipped hotel in this small city, which cost about 35USD, turned me away. Because of registration issues, camping wasn’t an option either, and I had no idea what to do. I decided to try one more hotel, and if that didn’t work, I would go to the police station. Fortunately, the last hotel agreed to take me in.
Back in 2016, I was never turned away for being a foreigner. In fact, many places accepted me without issue because I looked like the locals. But on this trip, I was rejected several times. I’m not sure whether it’s because I was in a sensitive region or if the Chinese government has become stricter.
After biking hard every day, I finally arrived at Songjianghe, a village near the western slope of Mount Baekdu, Korean spiritual mountain. It appeared in the South Korean anthem song and many different places. The next morning, I had to catch a train back to Beijing, and thankfully the hotel owner let me leave my bike and luggage.
I woke up early, took a taxi to the train station, and boarded a soft sleeper train with three-person compartments. The train wasn’t crowded. I later transferred to a high-speed train bound for Beijing.
Finally, in Beijing, I got my passport back.
Some young people in Beijing had incredibly unique and creative fashion styles. I didn’t manage to capture them in photos, but sometimes on the street, I would see someone and think, ‘Wow… that looks so hip.’ Seeing their expressive outfits made me wonder how people can still express themselves so freely even in such a politically controlled environment.
Eventually, I had to fly back to Songjianghe near Mount Baekdu due to a lack of time. Although the visa extension had cost me a lot of time and money, I still believed it was worth it.
I decided to visit the western side of Mount Baekdu, but the process for applying through the Chinese government’s mobile app was very complicated. In the end, the hotel owner helped me. Since I couldn’t use WeChat Pay for the payment, I gave the hotel owner cash, and they made the reservation for me instead. The bus stop for the western side was near the hotel. After getting on a large bus, I had to switch to a minivan halfway.
As I climbed higher up the mountain, the fog became denser.
To reach the western side of Baekdu, people have to climb 1,422 stairs, but for those who found it difficult, there were people carrying them in sedan chairs. The weather was so bad that I waited at the shelter for a long time. Surprisingly, many of the group tourists were Koreans, and most of them were middle-aged or older. There were almost no young people. When I asked the staff about the last shuttle bus, he told me that there was no set time; the last person to get on the bus would be the last bus. I waited, hoping the fog would clear to see Baekdu’s Cheonji (Heavenly Lake/crater lake), but Baekdu remained hidden in the fog.
I just started my climb in the afternoon. The group tourists had all descended, so I was able to climb in peace. I waited at the top, feeling disappointed, hoping for a break in the fog. Eventually, only a Chinese couple and I remained. Then, a guard spoke to me, but we couldn’t communicate, so I pulled out Google Translate.
I was shocked when I read the translation. Baekdu’s Cheonji is located at the border between China and North Korea. It seemed like the Chinese staff and tourists were leaving before the North Korean border patrol arrived to inspect the area. I almost ran into North Koreans. Though I was disappointed not to be able to fully experience Baekdu, there was nothing I could do. The bus I took back turned out to be the last bus.
On the way back, the bus stopped at a place where we could go for a short trek, and I realized that Baekdu isn’t just a place with the Cheonji; it’s home to a diverse ecosystem.
After returning to Songgangha, I couldn’t shake the feeling of regret. To reach the border by bike, I had to hurry, but it was too disappointing to leave like this, so I asked the hotel owner to make a reservation for the southern part of Baekdu for the next day.
The southern part doesn’t have any public transportation, so I need to take a taxi, and it’s more sensitive compared to the western and northern sides, so Korean tourists don’t often visit.
After reading reviews, I was worried because they mentioned frequent passport checks.
The hotel owner arranged a taxi for me, and the weather was so clear that I was excited. At the checkpoint before heading to the southern side, they checked my passport, but since it was a taxi arranged by the hotel owner, I passed through easily. When I arrived at the entrance and showed my passport, I was allowed through without any problems. The taxi driver said he would wait at the parking lot until I returned.
After getting into a minivan, I understood why the southern part of Baekdu is so sensitive. The entire way up, North Korea was just next door. By a beautiful blue stream, the barbed wire fences felt out of place. I even saw North Korean soldiers at a border outpost. There were also warning signs that read, “Unauthorized crossing of the border is strictly prohibited, and all drug trafficking is strictly prohibited.
As I continued towards the top, the sky remained clear, and I was thankful. The southern part had dense trees at the base, but as I got closer to the summit, open fields unfolded before me.
Along the way, I kept seeing barbed wire on the right side of the window. The green wire was installed by China, and the white wire by North Korea. The North Korean barbed wire was made with wooden posts and painted white, so you had to look carefully to notice it. I also saw sections of the Chinese green wire lying on the ground, which made me feel that China didn’t take much care in maintaining the wire.
Unlike the western side, there were no stairs to climb in the southern part, and it only took about five minutes to walk to the Cheonji from where the vehicle stopped. On that short path to the lake, I saw something unbelievable: North Korean soldiers were repairing the barbed wire and painting it. This was the first time I had seen North Koreans up so close. Chinese staff were watching the tourists, so I only glanced at the North Korean soldiers. On the other side of the barbed wire, one North Korean soldier was holding a rifle, while four soldiers were repairing the wire without weapons.
As I watched this, I couldn’t help but think that while Chinese tourists like me could travel freely, the North Korean soldiers couldn’t even step out of the area outside the wire. It was a complex feeling, and as I took each step toward the Cheonji, a breathtaking scene unfolded before me.
Baekdu’s Cheonji was so magnificent that I forgot about the worries of the world. The awe-inspiring landscape reminded me of places like Peru’s Machu Picchu and Bolivia’s Uyuni Salt Flats.
As someone born and raised in Korea, I had seen countless photos of Baekdu, so I wasn’t expecting much from the scenery. Climbing Baekdu felt like overcoming the painful history of division. But I never imagined such a magnificent natural landscape would unfold before me. The cliffs surrounding the lake, in particular, were truly stunning.
The color of the water was incredibly beautiful.
Commemorative photo at Mount Baekdu
After visiting Baekdu’s Cheonji, I bought corn at a convenience store across the road and watched the barbed wire scenery. There, I saw several North Korean soldiers walking together. Their small physiques made me feel a sense of sadness.
After visiting Baekdu’s Cheonji, the minivan stopped briefly on the way down, and I was able to see another stunning landscape of Baekdu. The landscape in China was so diverse, and I began to wonder what the landscape on the North Korean side might be like. Will I ever see Baekdu again on the Korean Peninsula? Our older generation believed that reunification would happen someday, but my generation is skeptical about that possibility. The next generation might not even have such a wish.
China has 56 ethnic groups, with Han Chinese making up about 92% and ethnic minorities comprising 8%. Most ethnic minorities have histories spanning hundreds or even thousands of years, but the Joseonjok (ethnic Koreans in China) are the only minority with a relatively short history of just over 100 years. The Joseonjok migrated from Korea to China during the late Joseon Dynasty (Korean last Dynasty) and the Japanese colonial period, prior to the division of the Korean Peninsula. Many of them came from the northern part of Korea, which is why they still speak a dialect similar to North Korean.
One of the notable issues involving the Joseonjok is the Northeast Project, initiated by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences in 2002. This state-led research project promotes the claim that the histories of Korean kingdoms like Goguryeo and Balhae are part of Chinese regional history. Through this project, China aims to strengthen the historical legitimacy of its Northeast region and solidify the status of ethnic Koreans in China as a minority group, which also appears to be an attempt to influence relations with North Korea.
This situation and several past issues made me uneasy whenever I encountered symbols of Korean culture, like Arirang or hanbok, during my trip in Northeast China.
At the opening ceremony of the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics, China showcased elements such as hanbok (Korean traditional clothing), pungmulnori (Korean traditional folk performance), and yutnori (a traditional Korean board game). This sparked outrage among many Koreans, who saw it as an attempt to appropriate Korean culture and present it as part of Chinese heritage.
China’s official stance was that “hanbok was included simply because Joseonjok(ethnic Koreans) are one of China’s recognized minority groups, and hanbok is indeed a unique part of Korean culture.”
However, the reality is that many Chinese people already perceive hanbok as a traditional Chinese garment.
In 2021, the Chinese game Shining Nikki featured traditional Korean hanbok outfits as launching Korean server. Chinese players then sparked controversy by insisting that these outfits were Chinese and must be written as Chinese hanbok, which led to outrage South Korean users. The situation escalated, and the game eventually deleted hanbok outfits and shut down its Korean server.
Another issue arose with the Chinese YouTuber Dianxi Xiaoge, who has 11 million subscribers. She posted about Korean food, presenting them as Chinese, which also stirred controversy. Although she is a village girl, she has a huge YouTube channel, despite the fact that YouTube is banned in China.
However, since the history of the Joseonjok(ethnic Koreans) originates from the Korean Peninsula, it is not right to prohibit them from singing their ancestral folk song, Arirang, or from wearing hanbok. This made the situation all the more complex and difficult to address.
Behind the complicated politics are ordinary people like us. The hotel owner who helped me during my trip to Baekdu was one of them. When I told him I was Korean, he smiled and introduced me to a local Joseonjok. No matter how complicated the political situation may be, I believe that ordinary people like us should continue to connect with one another.
Even those living in South Korea and North Korea—ordinary people—should stay connected, despite the political complexities. That is my sincere wish
After viewing the majestic Baekdu Cheonji under the blue sky, I left Songgangha with a happy heart. The next city I arrived at was Erdaobaihe, a place where people usually stay when visiting the northern side of Baekdu. Perhaps because of that, I saw many tourist buses and noticed Korean group names written on the buses’ windows.
As I was leaving Erdaobaihe and heading to the next city, I had a deeply unpleasant experience. A car slowed down and began driving alongside me, with the driver asking if I had eaten. Since I usually enjoy talking with people and it’s rare for strangers in China to strike up a conversation, I smiled, said thank you, and told him I had eaten, then kept pedaling. But the car continued to follow me slowly, and the driver asked something like, “Do you like it?” I only speak basic Chinese, so I couldn’t fully understand, but then he made a vulgar gesture with his fingers—clearly sexual thing. Horrified, I ignored him and pedaled away as fast as I could. Eventually, he drove off. I had thought China was relatively safe, so being sexually harassed like this on the road left me angry and shaken.
Not long after that, another car approached me. This time, the man showed me a phone with a translation app—surprisingly, it wasn’t in English but in Korean. The message said something like, “Let’s be friends. I’ll give you money.” And we all know what that implies. I was so fed up that I shouted at him and kept riding. Then a sense of fear crept in: how did he know I was Korean? Had word somehow spread in the area that a Korean woman was traveling alone by bike? It was the first time I had experienced sexual harassment twice in a row like this, and I started to feel genuinely afraid. I briefly considered going to call the Chinese police, but I couldn’t speak the language, and it didn’t seem likely that they would give me a ride to the next town. I had no choice but to keep pedaling forward.
After passing through the unpleasant road from Erdaobaihe, I arrived at a small rural town and felt a sense of relief. However, I began to notice Korean writing on the store signs. I wondered if it was a town where Joseonjok people lived, but no one seemed to speak Korean.
When I checked into the hotel where I would be staying for the night, the owner seemed to be having trouble entering my passport information into the system. She showed me the screen and asked where she should input the details. I realized that they weren’t registering it in the hotel’s internal system, but likely in the police database. It seemed that some hotels might not even accept foreigners, either due to the complicated registration process or simply because they don’t have the proper authorization to do so.
As I traveled towards Yanbian, I kept seeing road signs written in Korean. It felt weird to see Korean being used in a foreign country, as I had thought it was only used in Korea. It reminded me of when I traveled to Xinjiang, in northwest China, six years ago, and saw Arabic script on the roads there. It’s the same kind of situation, but because it was my native language, it felt strange.
When I arrived in Yanbian, I went to one of biggest banks to exchange money, but they told me that I couldn’t do it without a local bank account. One bank staff member told me that there is money changers around the corner of the bank. Since Yanbian is the largest city in the Korean-Chinese autonomous region, I expected that Korean would be understood, but to my surprise, the bank staff didn’t speak any Korean at all.
When I went around the corner, I saw a group of 4 to 6 middle-aged women sitting there — they were Joseonjok(ethnic Koreans). I asked them if I could exchange money with Alipay, but they replied harshly, saying, “Go to the bank,” in a very cold and irritated tone. I was taken aback.
Most of the store signs featured both Korean and Chinese writing, likely because this was a Joseonjok city. Shops run by Han Chinese used stiff, traditional fonts like Gulimche, while those run by Joseonjok used modern Korean fonts similar to what you’d see in South Korea today. I stopped by a few restaurants with Korean signage. The menus were written in both Korean and Chinese, but the Korean translations were terrible. I thought to myself, “The food probably won’t taste good either,” and walked out.
Later, I found a restaurant with refined fonts. The interior looked Korean, and the Korean on the menu was accurate, so I decided to eat there. And the food was delicious. Historically, people from northern Korea (now North Korea) migrated to China in the early 1900s, so tofu dishes — common in North Korean cuisine — have developed well in this region. In the third photo from the left, if you look closely at the food the man is eating, he’s scooping seasoned tofu with a spoon. In South Korea, we don’t eat the tofu like that way, so I can see clearly difference.
In the fourth photo, it’s the sundubu-jjigae, South Korean food (soft tofu stew) I ordered.
Unlike other parts of China where people use a large, deep, and flat-bottomed Chinese soup spoon, Korean-style metal spoons were used here (on third picture), which I found very convenient.
As I was about to cross into Russia and needed to take a ferry, I wanted to withdraw my remaining money in Alipay. I went into several supermarkets to ask if they could take my Alipay payment and give me cash in return, but everyone refused.
Then I entered one store where the staff member spoke excellent English, which surprised me. In China, English isn’t widely spoken, so I was curious. It turned out she was Joseonjok. She explained that no one carries much cash anymore and she didn’t have time to go to the bank. But she said she will withdraw money the next day and asked me to return in the afternoon.
When I went back the next day, the staff member from before wasn’t there. The boss told me she was her daughter. Eventually, I succeeded in getting the cash I needed from my Alipay. I tried to offer some money as a token of appreciation, but the owner firmly refused. We chatted for a bit, and when I told her I was on a bicycle tour, she kindly gave me various pickled vegetables to eat while camping, saying they would go well with a instant ramyun.
With cash in hand, I tried another bank to exchange money. Again, a bank staff said I couldn’t do it without a Chinese bank account. Then, she pointed to a woman near the ATM and told me to exchange money with her. The lady was also Joseonjok. The exchange went smoothly, but I felt uneasy — after all, this kind of street-level currency exchange is probably illegal. It was disheartening to see ethnic Koreans being the ones handling such transactions, seemingly with the bank’s silent cooperation.
The parks in Yanbian were full of people singing and dancing, but most of them seemed to be Han Chinese. I didn’t hear any Korean songs.
Not far from them, under a bridge, I found a group of Joseonjok people singing and dancing. As I listened to Arirang, Korean folk song, I felt a wave of sorrow mixed with complicated emotions. Exchangers on the street, the store owner, the dancers under the bridge — they were all part of the Korean diaspora.
While riding my bike, I arrived at the Tumen River. There was a building with a viewing deck that allowed you to see all of North Korea. At the entrance, they asked for ID. When they saw my passport, they denied me entry. So many thoughts raced through my mind, but there was nothing I could do — this is the reality.
I walked down to the riverside park and looked across the river into North Korea through the barbed wire. Watching birds freely fly over the barbed wire made me reflect — perhaps humans are the most constrained of all creatures. Birds don’t need passports to travel thousands of miles, but humans cannot even leave the country of their birth without one.
Looking across at North Korea from the other side of the river
If I removed the barbed wire in this photo and asked foreigners where this was, not one person would guess it was North Korea. It looks like any other plain somewhere abroad. But up close, it’s a land filled with tragedy — a land that makes up half of our Korean Peninsula. That thought broke my heart.
The river repeatedly narrowed and widened. Since the river was narrow here, I could imagine that there might be people trying to escape North Korea.
Eventually, I left China and entered Russia. This Chinese journey was filled with feelings of sorrow, sadness, and emotional turmoil.
After arriving in Vladivostok, Russia, I visited the Shinhanchon Memorial, a monument honoring the history of Goryeoin (ethnic Koreans in Russia). It was established in 1999 on the 80th anniversary of the March 1st Movement by the Korean Heritage Research Institute. The memorial had been looked after by the head of a local Korean-Russian group, but since his passing in 2019, his wife had taken over the responsibility. She seemed to be struggling with the upkeep. The gate was locked, so most visitors couldn’t access the facility, but I was fortunate enough to meet her in person and hear her speak about the pride of being a Goryeoin.
Not only in China but also in Russia, there are many ethnic Koreans. In 1937, Stalin deported 200,000 Koreans to barren lands in Central Asia. The journey was so harsh that 25,000 died along the way.
Most of the Joseonjok who settled in China migrated for economic reasons — they were largely farmers and laborers. While some were independence activists, the majority moved for survival, similar to Korean immigrants in the U.S. or Australia. Just as European-Americans say, “I’m American,” Joseonjok say, “I’m Chinese.” That’s why I won’t find monuments or symbols related to Korea or hopes for reunification in their cities.
The woman managing the Shinhanchon Memorial invited me to the facility beside it.
Unlike Joseonjok, many of the Goryeoin who migrated to Russia were reformists, intellectuals, or independence fighters. The Russian Far East was a key location for Korea’s independence movement, so Goryeoin have a deeper connection to that history. Some still identify as Koreans and express pride in their heritage, along with hopes for peace and reunification. I saw such sentiments clearly displayed in side of the building next to the memorial.
Both Joseonjok and Goryeoin are part of the Korean diaspora born out of the collapse of the Joseon Dynasty and the tragic era of colonization. If Joseon hadn’t collapsed, if it had successfully modernized and avoided Japanese colonization, perhaps these sorrowful and complex stories wouldn’t exist. And the Korean Peninsula wouldn’t be divided. It’s been 80 years since the division — and perhaps Korea may remain tragically split forever.
I had the honor of taking a photo with the manager beside the memorial.
Recently, some Korean asked me, “Why are you so obsessed with this?”
I answered, “It’s not an obsession — it’s a dream of a peaceful Korean Peninsula. Traveling the world and meeting people everywhere, I realized that no matter how famous Korea becomes with BTS, movie of Parasite, or even Nobel Prize achievements, we can never escape the shadow of North Korea. Even people without electricity in some regions of Africa know Kim Jong-un, but they don’t know the South Korean president. When I say I’m from Korea, people from all over the world constantly talking about Kim Jong-un, mocking me. It’s frustrating to experience firsthand how South Korea lives forever in North Korea’s shadow.”
When I lived in South Korea, I never realized it. But after traveling the world, I finally saw the truth — no matter how well South Korea performs globally, we can never escape North Korea’s dark shadow. We are still trapped in a tragedy that began over 100 years ago. The only way out is peace on the Korean Peninsula. That’s the only way to overcome the downfall of Joseon Dynasty and the tragedy of Japanese colonization.
Countries that experienced colonization rarely escape its scars, even with time. Often, it leads to division, civil war, dictatorship, famine, poverty, political corruption, and instability. We can’t change the past, but shouldn’t we at least try to change the future?
Finally, I boarded the ferry to return to South Korea — for the first time in 12 years.
Towards the end of my trip, I experienced some distressing incidents. They weren’t physical injuries or thefts, but emotionally painful events. Looking back, they might seem insignificant, and maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’ll write about them someday if I get the chance to publish a book — or maybe I’ll just keep them to myself forever. Either way, they were probably the final and biggest challenge of my journey. Still, I overcame them — and that’s something to be thankful for.
As the ferry departed, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’m finally returning to my safe homeland.”
On the final leg of my world journey, I confronted the reality of the Korean diaspora and the painful reality of the division of the Korean Peninsula that I faced at the Amnok River, Mount Baekdu, and the Tumen River. My heart was heavy, but I felt that almost the last puzzle piece of this world journey was being completed as I faced the historical roots of the place where I was born.
The true final puzzle piece of my world journey is the bike trip in South Korea.
What will South Korea, which I am visiting for the first time in 12 years, look like? The ferry from Vladivostok to the East Sea takes 24 hours. There was also a way to fly directly from Yanbian, but since it has been 12 years since I’ve been there, I thought it would feel empty if I arrived in 2 hours, so I wanted to go slowly, very slowly.
Wouldn’t 24 hours be enough to mentally prepare for returning to Korea after 12 years?
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===China Travel Video Collection===
