In a blend of optimism and bureaucratic foresight, South Korea has preemptively reserved a series of highway numbers for future roads that would connect the country to North Korea in the event of reunification. This logistical strategy, embedded in the nation’s long-term infrastructure planning, underscores the quiet but persistent hope for a unified peninsula—even as political tensions remain frostier than a Pyongyang winter.
The reserved numbers, including routes like Highway 1 and Highway 50, are earmarked for corridors that would link Seoul to Pyongyang and other key northern cities. Currently, these highways either dead-end at the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) or exist only on paper. For example, Gyeongui Highway, which once connected Seoul to Sinuiju in the North, now terminates abruptly at the border, its asphalt dissolving into barbed wire and guard posts. South Korea’s Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, and Transport has maintained these designations since the early 2000s, ensuring that future engineers won’t need to renumber routes if reunification ever shifts from dream to blueprint.
This planning isn’t purely symbolic. It reflects lessons from Germany’s reunification, where mismatched infrastructure hampered integration. By reserving road codes, South Korea aims to streamline future construction, avoiding the bureaucratic tangles that plagued post-1990 Germany. The government has even drafted proposals for rail lines and energy grids, though highways remain the most visible sign of this “quiet preparedness.” Critics argue it’s akin to buying a wedding dress before a first date, but proponents see it as pragmatic optimism.
The reserved highways would traverse some of the peninsula’s most challenging terrain, including the DMZ’s minefields and the North’s crumbling road networks. Current estimates suggest rebuilding the North’s infrastructure could cost over $1 trillion, a price tag that makes even reserved highway numbers feel like a bargain. Meanwhile, South Korean civil engineers joke about keeping their “unification construction manuals” dust-free but ready.
The policy also carries diplomatic weight. By publicly committing to reunification-ready infrastructure, South Korea signals to the North—and the world—that it views division as temporary. It’s a subtle nudge toward dialogue, wrapped in asphalt and route markers. Of course, Pyongyang hasn’t reciprocated; its state media dismisses such plans as “feverish fantasies.”
But South Korea isn’t alone in this forward-thinking. The Asian Development Bank’s Trans-Asian Railway Network includes conceptual lines through a reunified Korea, linking Seoul to Europe via Siberia. Even Google Maps tentatively extends some South Korean highways into the North, though the routes vanish into pixelated voids at the border.
The humor here is drier than a DMZ no-man’s-land. Imagine a South Korean traffic sign reading “Pyongyang: 195 km” followed by “(Closed for Renovations).” Or picture a GPS voice calmly redirecting drivers around minefields. Yet the gesture is poignant—a nation building roads to nowhere, hoping they’ll someday lead to reconciliation.
So, while the two Koreas remain divided by ideology and artillery, South Korea’s highway reservations are a tangible expression of “what if.” They’re the automotive equivalent of keeping an extra seat at the dinner table—just in case the prodigal neighbor finally comes home. And if reunification ever arrives, at least the road numbers will be ready. The potholes, however, are someone else’s problem.
