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Capitalist pigs infiltrate the last Orwellian state

There is a capitalist pig in Ri Dok-sun's garden. There are also two capitalist dogs and a brood of capitalist chicks. But even though Ri, a 72-year-old North Korean, lives in the world's last Orwellian state, this is no animal farm.

The beasts are the product of the growing free market pressure on a government that claims to be the last truly socialist country on earth.

Although Ri and her family live in Chonsan -- a model cooperative farm -- the bacon from their pig will be sold on the open market. The dog is there to guard their private property. And their chicks -- kept in a box in the cosy, brightly decorated living room -- are being raised for individual gain rather than the good of the collective.

It is a form of private enterprise -- one of the innumerable microfarms that have sprung up in gardens, and even on balconies, particularly since the late 1990s. Initially, they were just for survival, a source of food in a nation that has been devastated by famine in the past decade. But increasingly, they are also a means of pursuing profit as the government ventures further into capitalist waters.

Although its military is locked in a nuclear standoff with the US, the world's last cold war holdout has cautiously pursued economic reforms that are already making an impact in the countryside and on the streets of Pyongyang.

Over the past year, far more cars have appeared on the formerly deserted roads -- even the occasional six-vehicle tailback. Building sites dot the city, a new culture museum is under construction and the skyline has a new feature: more than a dozen giant cranes.

Three months ago, the first government-sanctioned market in the country's history opened. Compared to the dusty, quiet, almost empty state department stores, Pyongyang's Tongil Market is a hive of activity and noise. Shoppers haggle noisily with the 150 or so stall holders for a staggering range of goods; second-hand Japanese TVs, Burmese whisky and Korean dogmeat. Most of the goods are from China.

Some -- including western diarrhoea pills which sell for US$0.05 apiece -- are kept under the table.

Prices are determined by the market, not -- as is the case everywhere else -- by the state. Even staples, usually provided under the public distribution system, can be had here. A kilogram of rice costs 165 won, about US$0.17, but it would cost about US$1.72 from the government because the black market traders offer a much better rate for foreign currency than the state.

A stallholder said business was booming.

"Since we opened, the number of customers has surged. They really like this place -- but we have to fight for business because the competition is growing all the time," Ri said.

Outside, builders were constructing new stalls for the fast-expanding market.

In the past foreigners were not permitted to see semi-legal farmers' markets, but here they are welcome to come shopping. The openness and activity suggest that Tongil market is the best hope for North Korea's future -- one that would bring it closer in line with the successful economic reforms that have transformed neighboring China.

Nobody here dares to call it capitalism, but that is the direction North Korea is headed. Last year the government liberalized prices, gave private enterprises more independence and encouraged farmers to pursue profits.

"We are still building our socialist system, but we have taken measures to expand the open market," said So Chol, a spokesman for the foreign ministry. "They are only the first steps and we shouldn't expect too much yet, but they are already showing positive results."

It is impossible to say whether the reforms are really a success. But harvests are said to have improved. Compared with a year ago, there appear to be many more tractors in the countryside, and huge quantities of foreign aid have eased malnutrition.

But there are still limits on capitalist activity. Farmers said they had more money, but no freedom to spend it.

At least some of the barriers are psychological, the result of years of being told to simply obey the "great leader" Kim Jong-il.
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