Travelling by heavily monitored guided tour is a necessity here, and Kim Jong-il 's regime is liable to change the route and the attractions almost daily. The North Koreans frequently decide they'd rather not let anyone in at all. If you are lucky enough to make it through no mans land, you'll have to sacrifice your passport, phone, video camera, and anything else that guards deem inappropriate for North Korean eyes for the duration of your trip to a pre-World War II existence. Before the war, Korea was amongst the poorest nations on earth. While the South has moved on to the heady heights of the 11th largest world economy, seclusion and the lack of international trading has left the North leading a hand-to-mouth existence.

The landscape instantly changes. Gone are the sweeping woodland hills of the south, replaced by a scarred, barren landscape. The greenery has all been burnt for cooking and heating, and the ongoing fight for survival has allowed the weather to turn the hills into nothing but mile upon mile thick mud.

Every 100 meters a heavily starched guard, seemingly nailed to the spot, carefully inspects the passing tour bus, muttering into a portable radio and raising a white flag when the bus reaches the next man without incident. Except for the military, local citizens are hidden carefully from view.

Periodical breaks in the foliage along the route reveal huge rock faces, invariably inscribed with oversized Korean letters proclaiming the glory of either the current or former dictator. At the peak is a small plateau of farmed land--perhaps a demonstration of socialist efficiency--coupled with a former Buddhist Temple. Religion is banned here, so the temple and Buddhist iconology are regarded without reverence.

North Korea is one of the few places in Asia where the symbols of Buddhism can be freely photographed. A halved bamboo pipe pumps water into a nearby well. Dripping from the roofs of candlelit caverns water trickles to its resting place in the temple courtyard. It's easy to imagine a group of red clad monks silently practicing Korean Zen Buddhism on the remote mountainside, but the ancient practice is long gone. North Korea worships only the Kim regime, its current leader Kim Jong-il and his father before him, Kim Il-sung.

At the base of the hill there we come to a towering waterfall, a clear pebbled pool, an exceptionally well-designed plaza and vendor stalls offering a range of overpriced nutty, fishy and herby snacks for sale. Parts of the national park could easily be one of the many green zones surrounding Seoul, though we are never far from a stark reminder of which side of the North/South line we're on. Silent and efficient women sporting Kim Il-sung pins seem to represent the entire hand picked staff. They do nothing to attract customers to their stalls. The concept of marketing simply doesn't exist here. Behind the stalls the flickering of the falling water occasionally reveals further messages of loyalty stamped into seemingly inaccessible contours of the rocky backdrop.

The international cuisine available in the south is replaced here by a more traditional, banquet-like spread, served in a dozen or so small bronze dishes. Chicken, fish, beef and assorted vegetables are all mixed with grainy rice, and preceded by a head-rush inducing shot of Soju, the highly toxic local spirit. The waitresses drift silently by in heavy make up and full national dress, their traditional Chos'n-ot (North Korea) is the traditional Korean dress. It is often characterized by vibrant colors and simple lines without pockets in stark contrast to the drab monotone cotton of the locals not dressed for tourism. It's difficult not to wonder when the local population last tasted chicken or beef.

Outside the chandeliered dining hall the dusty, derelict city of Gaeseong stretches before you. A towering statue of Kim Il-sung dominates the skyline, alongside a host of chunky propaganda platforms and a total lack of advertising. The guards cordon you in to a small area around the restaurant, and the hundreds of locals walking purposefully past look straight ahead, pretending not to see the foreign visitors.

From one corner of our small pen you can see 'Gaeseong Namdaemun', this city's version of the beautiful gateway, once considered Seoul's most treasured cultural possession until it was burnt down in 2007. Seoul's version of the arched city-wall gateway was surrounded by a roundabout; Gaeseong's is overgrown with leaves and enclosed by ugly concrete buildings. The other side of the road--which we are adamantly refused permission to photograph--is a slum district stretching to the horizon along crooked gravel tracks, cracking and tumbling under gravity's pull.

Up the road a stone bridge marks the spot where a loyal supporter of an old King's opponent was murdered, leaving a red smear of blood that supposedly still scars the ancient stone. The blood is said to be so thick with fertile goodness that shoots of bamboo grew for years on the spot where the proud rebel died. Over the fence a group of locals wait for a rickety old bus while others roll past on rusty old bicycles, eying the tourists from the corners of their eyes. Gaeseong's traffic is thin but purposeful, and everyone seems to have somewhere to be, with no time to waste in the streets Gaeseong streets>.

The national museum glorifies Gaeseong as the former capital of unified Korea, and also contains some stunning examples of the grassy mound style burials favored by ancient Korean royalty. The perfectly rounded hilltop contain entire royal families who chose to create prominent marker hills on their graves rather than dig down. These hilltop mausoleums are adorned with decorative white fences and bridges. A nearby farm has invaded the neighboring commoners' graveyard, filling the fertile ground around the headstones with corn and waterlogged rice fields. Incongruously, there is a delicate green pagoda entrance that has been blighted by a block of concrete, declaring in stark red text the glorious achievements of the Kims.

Looking out over the city, Kim Jong-il's stern portrait stares threateningly out from every rooftop. Tour destinations aside, a view over the city is the best a visitor can hope for. Any attempt to leave the tour for a furtive glance of any housing areas or facilities for locals apparently would have dire consequences for the visitor. These presumably unphotogenic sites are carefully shielded from view. The real side of Gaeseong will remain a mystery until North Korea--someday in its distant future--rejoins the international community.

Propaganda is intense here, and even permeates local legend: the north facing sides of monuments are frequently nominated 'lucky' and must be touched by every passer by. This is more a sign of loyalty then superstition, and touching the southern side could be considered a dangerous political statement. Even North Korea has its tourist shops, except that these are filled with the wise words of Kim Jong-il and his scholars, as well as communist influenced stamps, flags and local liquor. One of the few references to the South Korean side of the border shows the meeting of the two North and South Korean leaders several years ago.

The return to the South takes you past the Gaeseong industrial complex, the one volatile hope for reunification. For several years South Korean companies have been taking advantage of cheap North Korean labor, a practice North Korea allows in exchange for substantial aid. The controlled northern life is so far from the rampant consumerism and hurried hustle of Seoul, however, that it's difficult to see the two halves ever being a whole again.

As the guards flick check and filter every traveler's photographs at the border, the nerves that come with the 'big brother' feeling slowly dissipate. This is an intense travel experience, uncomfortable and overwhelming. Gaeseong offers only a glimpse of North Korea's Orwellian lifestyle. The thought-provoking trip is enough to make a normal 24-hour lifestyle in a tumultuous big city such as London, New York or Seoul seem an incredible liberty.

As for the 'hikers', our suspicions were well founded. Every 'tour member' with a headset turns back at the border. They can only be North Korean. The rest of the group, having experienced one of the most unique and closed countries and cultures in the world, are extremely glad to see the last of them. On reaching the south we can be sure who is a tourist, and no longer have to apply a headache-inducing filter to every word that passes our lips. Our first words are of liberty. Returning to South Korea after only a day in the totalitarian North, liberty feels normal once again.

Gaeseong (also known as Gaesong, Kaeseong and Kaesong) is a politically volatile destination that opens and closes according to the relationship between the governments of North and South Korea. When open it is accessible only by organized tours, which leave from Seoul. Reservations must be made at least a month in advance, and accompanied by a large amount of paperwork. Entry may be accepted or denied according to North Korea's current feeling about your country of origin. Bookings are subject to a certain amount of luck, but if the north is in an uncooperative mood, a full refund is usually available

Tours are only organized by one company, Hyundai Asan (http://www.hyundai-asan.com), though a whole host of other companies also act as resellers. Prices are in the region W250,000 per day (around US$170 at the time of writing).