A mere thirty miles outside of Seoul sits one of the most heavily guarded borders in the world. Spanning the entire 160-miles across the Korean peninsula, the demilitarized zone creates a 2.5-mile wide proverbial  no man's land .

The following piece documents what it felt like to stand on the border of North and South Korea, also known as the  scariest place on Earth ,coined by Bill Clinton after his visit in 1993.

Heather and I would normally never hop on a tour. Sitting on a bus and listening to a voice through a speaker is not in our travel DNA at this point in our lives. We’d much rather wander the streets of a new place, immersing ourselves in its surroundings.

In fact, that’s how most of our memorable adventures have started. It’s a rush of raw emotions when we turn a corner and discover something beautiful when we least expect it.

We had booked flights to South Korea with no set plans, knowing little about the country itself other than it was the cheapest ticket to Asia then.

Amidst the hours of reading, there was one tour that kept surfacing: visiting the border with North Korea. At first it was a joke. Both of us had come across it, brought it up to the other with a hint of a chuckle, and brushed it aside. It was a “hah, can you imagine if we went there?” moment more than anything else, but each successive time we laughed, the more real it became.

By the second day of researching, we had convinced ourselves to visit the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), hoping for an opportunity to step over the line of demarcation and into the territory of their neighbors to the north. We booked the tour, gave each other a “what the hell are we doing” smile, and packed our bags.

Before we knew it, we awoke at dawn in Seoul, anxious to see where the day would take us.

With any new adventure comes adrenaline. There’s excitement for what lies ahead, accompanied by a nagging fear of the unknown. That’s normal. Yet as we stood on the street corner in the crisp morning air, something seemed off. I could feel a slight wrench in my gut, not out of concern but curiosity. We had traveled nearly 6,000 miles around the world and were about to visit an active war zone, one that continues to affect the daily lives of millions of people. It was going to be different than anything I had ever experienced before.

We arrived at the meeting point, handed over our passports for verification, and boarded the bus. The seats were far from full and we quickly realized we were the only Americans present.

After a short wait, a middle-aged South Korean woman climbed the steps and explained that she would be our guide today. It was time to go.

The first stop was the War Memorial of Korea. We didn’t have nearly enough time here to visit every exhibit, so we quickly shuffled our way to the “History of the Korean War” wing. It was here that we relived our days as college students, cramming as much knowledge as possible into our heads. As is the history of the world’s largest conflicts, that of the Korean War is quite complex and convoluted. This isn’t the platform to expand on it, but I would encourage you to look far beyond what the media presents to gain a better understanding.

Alas, it was time to continue the tour. Our driver turned right out of the parking lot, trading the sanctity of the museum for the chaotic streets of Seoul.

We continued driving along highway 77, flanked by the Han River to our left. I began tracking the bus’s movement on my phone’s GPS. Sure enough, we were heading due north, straight toward North Korea.

As I glanced out the window the skyscrapers of Seoul had been replaced by barbed wire fences. This was the first sign that we had reached the DMZ.

We veered to the right and began heading east, continuing to follow the fence line as we went. Guard towers whizzed by our windows every mile until we reached Imjingak Park.

Constructed in 1972, this park was built on the southern side of the Bridge of Freedom as a sign of hope for unification. It has since expanded on that role, now serving as a popular tourist destination.

As we left the comforts of the air-conditioned bus and surveyed our new surroundings, we were both immediately taken aback by old photographs of Korean families sitting along the barbed wire fence, hanging messages of hope and peace as they prayed. Messages, to this day, still cover the barrier that separates them from their loved ones in the north.

It all felt delicate. Physically it was there: The reinforced fencing, the beautifully placed banners, and more. It was palpable and sturdy.

The environment, however, was fragile. Yet within it grew a mob of tourists, elbowing and shoving for the perfect selfie of the South Korean flag that, although weathered, hung proudly on the fence and symbolized the strength of the people that placed it there.

Maybe it was out of respect that we felt we had to quietly shuffle along the walking path, observing and learning as we went. After all, we showed up as tourists to a place that has experienced so much grief and heartbreak. To this day, South Koreans still ride the DMZ train from Seoul to sit in the park, stare north through the fence, and patiently wait for the day it comes crumbling down. They continue to tell themselves that somewhere out there exists an alternate universe, one where they can move freely throughout the peninsula and reunite with their families.

We took a break to eat lunch, trying to process what we had just witnessed. After slurping the final drops of broth we made our way up to the third floor where a viewing platform provided our first look at the expanse of no man’s land.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. War ruins? Abandoned homes? I found none of that. Pure is the only I can describe it.

It has been reported that around 800,000 landmines are buried throughout this 160-mile long sliver of land. In a way, these weapons serve as protectors, allowing nature to grow without intervention from the human race.

Humbled by our visit, we returned to the bus. It was time to head farther north towards the Joint Security Area.

As we sat back down in our seats, the mood shifted. The chatter in the back of the bus was silenced by our guide explaining that we now must display our “United Nations Command” visitors pass at all times.

From that point on, we would be inside an active war zone. The bus began to slowly swerve as we continued on. Left, right, then back to the left, avoiding barriers as we crossed a bridge that spanned the Imjin River below.

A slight feeling of unease came over me as we passed through the military checkpoint, but it was time to visit the Joint Security Area (JSA), also known as the village of Panmunjom. It was here that we hoped to step foot into North Korea.

Our bus rolled to a stop at the entrance to Camp Bonifas, located just 400m south of the border. A mere quarter of a mile is all that separated us from the border. We filed into an auditorium, joining with other tour groups. As the seats filled, our new guides from the U.S. Army began dispersing visitor declarations. These documents stated that the U.S Army, UN Command, and the Republic of Korea could not guarantee the safety of visitors and may not be held accountable in the event of a “hostile enemy act.” Comforting, to say the least.

We signed on the dotted lines, nervously laughing at one another’s slight hesitation, then climbed the stairs onto a new bus and continued driving north.

Finally, we reached the Freedom House. Located on the South Korean side of the Joint Security Area, the structure was built to house the reunification of Korean families. It has yet to see such a day.

We received final instructions from our leader: At no time should we place our hands in our pockets. If we wish to use our phones for pictures, we must hold them the entire time. No waving, pointing or making any motion towards the North Korean side.

We were to remain in a single file line at all times. The Korean People’s Army would be closely monitoring our movements from their guard towers. Any misstep may be recorded and used as propaganda.

Interested in learning more about South Korea? Check out these posts:

• Dancheong: The story behind South Korea’s beautifully painted temples

• 5 Common Misconceptions About South Korea

With these warnings in mind, we were led into the foyer, up the stairs, and to the back doors. One by one we silently walked onto the platform outside, getting our first glances at North Korea.

Across from where we stood was the north’s version of the Freedom House, built taller than it’s South Korean counterpart as a sign of strength. Motionless in front of the door was a lone soldier from the Korean People’s Republic Army. To the far right was a guard tower, monitoring our every move. Directly in front of us stood three South Korean soldiers, attentive and facing the border.

Separating the two countries were three long, blue buildings that served as conference rooms. Here is where leaders from both sides come together for negotiations. Horizontally bisecting these buildings was a small block of cement; the official demarcation line between North and South Korea.

Part of me couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It wasn’t awe-inspiring or beautiful beyond words by any means. Rather, to visualize where we were on a map of the world simply dumbfounded me. I was being watched by actual North Korean soldiers. I could see one for myself, close enough to yell at across the way.

The person next to me began to move, breaking my thought as we were ushered into the center building; an empty conference room awaited.

Three more South Korean soldiers were standing guard inside, one firmly planted in front of the door directly across from where we entered. That door led outside, straight into North Korea.

I took about ten steps forward, flanking the edge of the large conference table in the middle of the room. As I turned to glance out the window, I realized that I was looking back towards the cement demarcation line. Technically speaking, I had just crossed into North Korea.

After twenty minutes we were escorted back out of the southern entrance of the building, returning to the steps of the Freedom House for one final glance at North Korea. It was quite possibly the last one I’ll ever have.

What we didn’t know at the time was that those same buildings would be where Oh Chong Song dashed across the border, making his  daring escape from North Korea  a mere four months later.

To be honest, I’m still unsure what to make of the whole experience. Yes, we had just stepped foot in an active war zone, but the reality is that it’s as safe as possible. Up to 3,000 people tour the area each day. 

Is it for everyone? Certainly not. 

Was it one of the most humbling experiences of my life? Absolutely.

As we rode the bus back to Seoul that afternoon, I couldn’t help but admire the strength, resiliency, and patience of the South Korean people. Although the struggle for peace continues, many feel that it has never been closer. 

I truly hope that’s the case.

Thank you for reading and as always, stay safe & happy travels.

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