We arrived at the frozen river separating China and North Korea at 5 o'clock on the morning of March 17. The air was crisp and still, and there was no one in sight. As the sun appeared, our guide stepped onto the ice. We followed him.
We had traveled to the area to document a grim story of human trafficking for Current TV. During the previous week, we had interviewed North Korean defectors, women who had fled poverty and repression only to find themselves in a bleak limbo in China. Some had found work in the online sex industry; others were forced into arranged marriages. Now our guide, a Korean Chinese man who often worked for foreign journalists, had brought us to the Tumen river to document how these smuggling operations work.
There were no signs marking the international border, no fences, no barbed wire. Our guide began making low hooting sounds, which we assumed was his way of making contact with North Korean border guards he knew. The previous night, he had called his associates in North Korea trying to arrange an interview for us. He was unsuccessful, but he could, he assured us, show us the no-man's land along the river where smugglers pay off guards to move human traffic.
