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Why Vietnam? |
Vietnam. Why do you want to go there, people ask. The short answer is, I have known that I would go for as long as I can remember. I am 29 years old, and the Vietnam War has had a huge influence in my life, and in the lives of others who share my generation. Our parents don’t understand, I think, how much of an influence the war has had in our lives. They tell us that we weren’t alive then, we don’t understand what was truly happening, our brothers weren’t dragged off to a backwater country to die by the hands of children. We weren’t gassed at peaceful rallies for exercising our simple civil rights. We didn’t watch our families torn apart by sides and politics and an international policy that no one understood. We didn’t watch our President fall from grace in the worst way possible. In short, we weren’t there, so we cannot understand, and therefore that time could not be as huge an influence in our lives as it was for our parents.
What they don’t understand is my generation has been entirely shaped by those events. Our fathers and grandfathers fought in the war, some drafted and some voluntarily, while others vehemently sided against it. Our parents and teachers and leaders were young back then, and they themselves didn’t quite understand that they were witnessing the death of their innocence, and had no idea how to cope. Most spent the rest of their lives reacting to that death; many turned inward and sparked the greediness of the 1980’s, others retired to communes or small communities where they no longer had to interact with the world in such a close manner. Others sought solace in the faith of their youth, while others converted to a completely different faith. Still others became wanderers, square pegs desperately looking for a fit, but finding only round holes. Others lost their minds to PTSD, and were dumped on the streets when Reagan decided the government no longer owed them help.
My generation grew up under this huge cloud that no one would discuss, except in bits and patches. Our entertainment gave us Rambo and Platoon, our history teachers preached from their pulpit, our fathers and uncles sat in chairs late at night, drink in hand, staring out the window into nothing. The 1980s was such a desperate attempt to pretend that nothing bad had happened, and we saw the superficiality, but were too young to decipher what was being covered up with loud makeup and neon pink shirts. As we got older we began to ask questions. Some of us were handed pat answers, others were asked to give their own interpretations, but each adult shared the same quality, a sense of betrayal, and we saw that. As children, our lives are shaped by those around us, and everyone around us was still reeling, in shock, from their own experience. We may not have been alive during the events of 1965-1975, but our lives have been indelibly shaped by its aftermath.
Our distance from the war itself allowed us to grasp the reality of what was happening, both on the international stage as well as the domestic front. Perhaps our distance has given us a unique perspective on the idea of soldiers firing on students, of soldiers dropped into a warzone and told not to act as though they were at war. We learned about these events without the innocence of our parents, who still believed that the government would do the right thing, or at least, had lines that it would never cross. My generation never had those delusions, and as such, we can study the history without the deep sense of betrayal that still affects my mother and others who lived during that time. They still mourn an innocence I never had.
So, there is this country, Vietnam, whose importance on the world stage was secondary, if not tertiary, and yet it has captured the attention of Americans for the last 40 years, and shaped two generations of her children. How can this be? I have read scathing stories of Vietnamese corruption, of filthy streets and dangerous nights. “Everyone is a con artist”, they say, and worse. I have also read beautiful renditions of the stark beauty of the land, of the sandy-white beaches, the red clay of the earth, and the deep greens of the foliage. Which rendition is correct? Which is false? I needed to find that out for myself, and that is why I went to Vietnam. |
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Ha Noi |
Ha Noi is a crazy city, with crazy people and crazy traffic and everything else that’s great! It was strange stepping off of the plane in the airport; Ha Noi in my mind has always been the base for North Vietnam, Communist country, and although time has moved on, there is a certain feeling that things aren’t as forward as the new facades would have you believe. I sat most of the 45 minute drive into the city from the airport in silence, watching the Communist propaganda that cropped up on huge billboards, happy workers toiling for a greater Vietnam. I wondered to myself how that matched with the fact that Vietnam is facing a huge rice shortage, while their farmers can’t get the equipment or technology to improve their rice paddy yields. Well, that was for another discussion….
Ha Noi proper is fairly chaotic at first blush, and the streets seem to blend into each other as seamlessly as the motorbikes that choke the streets with their exhaust and the sound of their horns. Walking down a main thoroughfare, the same street can turn from Hai Dong to Hai Gai to something completely different in the space of a few blocks, and caused some confusion for the first day or so, until the rhythm of the city kicked in. Once tuned in, we were free to explore the markets, the lake, and the beer halls. There are stalls at almost every corner where the people who both live and work there make beer out of rice, and serve it to you in glasses as you pull up a small plastic stool. Come nighttime, locals and foreigners alike can be seen scrunching on these stools, sipping their beer and having a good time.
Bargaining here is quite the art form, and seems to be expected. You bargain for almost anything, from tourist trinkets to clothes to motorbike rides, even bus tickets and tour prices. To be perfectly honest, it can become quite tiring at times, and although I never thought I would say this, it was nice once in a while to walk into the few places where the price listed is a reasonable price and you don’t have to haggle. Most stores take US dollars, and some credit cards, but they pad the exchange rate, so sometimes it is better to just pay in Dong, which is the Vietnamese currency. When we got to Ha Noi, the exchange rate was ~16,100 VND to 1 USD. If the price is in Dong, such as 150,000 Dong, and you want to pay in USD or with a credit card, sometimes they drop their exchange rate to 15,900, so as to get more dollars. Therefore, it is always a good idea to keep track of your currency and your exchanges, especially if spending a nice amount of money here.
In all, the experience was a good one. Hanoi is a city, like any other, but the French quarter has some beautiful old colonials left over from the French Occupation, and the Lake at the center of town is peaceful and beautiful, and gives a sense of how Ha Noi must have been like before war took hold. |
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Hoa Lo Prison (aka Hanoi Hilton) |
Walking up to the prison, I couldn’t help but get chills up the back of my neck. I told myself to relax, that it’s not what it used to be, but the stories of past prisoners have always been a poignant part of the Vietnam War story, and I remember learning their accounts in history books and in documentaries. I felt my breath catch walking through the doors, and I imagine that if this was 35 years ago, my entrance would most likely be a completely different experience then this, greeted by a ticket taker and given a chance to buy chopsticks in the shop. The tour is self-guided, although you could pay extra for a guide to give you a tour, spouting Communistic propaganda in halting English. I opted to guide myself.
There are many places that the tour expects you to go, and the exhibits focus primarily on the experiences of Vietnamese resistance fighters against French Occupation. It is easy to forget that the Vietnamese didn’t make the Hanoi Hilton on their own; this prison was designed and built by the French, who gave their Vietnamese prisoners high quality instruction on the intricacies of torture. They proudly display a monument, constructed to memorialize the only successful prison escape by 150 Vietnamese who dug holes and braved the dank sewers to be free, and even have on display a section of the sewer that provided freedom to the prisoners.
Walking along the line, you enter a room about 20 feet wide and 30 feet long, lined with old wooden tables, about 6 feet wide and 20 feet long on either side. All along the bottom of these tables are bolted shackles, and prisoners were kept side by side, their legs locked down in the shackles, for days, sometimes weeks on end. The walls of the room, of the whole prison for that matter, have been painted a two-tone of gunmetal blue on the bottom and light grey on the top, but the floor remains as it was, and it isn’t hard for the imagination to see what this room used to look like, before the lights, before it became a tourist attraction. The next stop is the Cachot section, which is where “special” prisoners were kept in solitary confinement, strapped onto stone floors by metal leg shackles, for weeks at a time. The tiny rooms have been freshly painted, but the craters left by small caliber ammunition remain, and stepping into one of the cells feels like stepping back in time, and I felt as if a huge weight has been lifted onto my shoulders.
Going to the American portion of the exhibit was surreal, to say the least. The party line is that the American POWs were well treated and well cared for, that they received top notch medical attention, and were treated more as guests then as prisoners. They have pictures of pilots playing chess, smoking while watching movies, playing volleyball in the courtyard, planting gardens, going to mass, eating feasts for Christmas, getting medical treatment. While I was there, there was an older man of about 55 who was taking a guided tour, and stopped to stare at one of the pictures. His guide walked up to him, smiled, and said see, see how well the pilots were treated here? The man took a deep breath, shook his head, then turned to the guide and pointed out something in the photograph, which was of prisoners sitting down in front of a huge feast. “They didn’t eat the food”, the man said, and the guide shook his head, and insisted once again that the photographs were proof of how well they were treated. The old man looked at him, and said “Young man, pilots devised a series of hand signals with the purpose of getting messages to intelligence. Some of them were initials, to tell who was there, some were rank or serial numbers, and some were simply to convey the message that the scene in the photograph was not to be believed.” He pointed to one of the men’s hands in the photograph. “That sign means that the picture is not to be believed, which means that those prisoners did not eat”. The guide didn’t seem to know how to react to that, and insisted that they continue on with their tour. It was a surreal moment to watch, to be a part of.
Overall, the experience was unnerving. I couldn’t help but look at everything through the eyes of the prisoners who were kept here, and the attempts to “pretty” up the place only seem to highlight what can’t be covered up. Beautiful murals of happy workers adorn one wall, but above them and below them are craters made from thousands of rounds of ammunition, and seeing that, you can’t help but wonder that the soldiers weren’t shooting only at the wall. In a courtyard, a beautifully landscaped grass lawn has been laid down, and a monument erected in stone to commemorate another victory over the French. Off to the left, a wall has been painted white, but there are a number of hooks sticking out about 6 feet up, each set about shoulder width, and have a corresponding set lower down, at ankle height. The mind can’t help but wonder what those were used for, who was shackled there. I can’t remember who, but someone once said that the measure of a people is how they treat their prisoners. This prison was retired in 1994, which means that it was in operation a full 19 years after the Americans left.
Half of the prison is gone now, demolished to make room for a new luxury condominium high rise as the city embarks on a modernization scheme meant to bring Vietnam into the 21st century as an economic player on the world market. If only the wounds created here could be done away with as easily. |
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Hue, the DMZ, and the Vinh Moc Tunnels |
Hue is a town that lies in Central Vietnam, and is about 13 hours from Ha Noi by bus. Just getting there was an adventure, as I had hooked up with a crew from the hostel we were all staying at. Upon boarding the bus, we realized that the “Sleeper” bus was really a bus that was half regular seats, and half Sleepers. These sleepers were the same dimensions as the seats, and were 2 a piece, so 2 people were essentially sharing a twin bed-sized compartment. Those who ended up in the far back had to sleep 5 people, side by side. Not fun! So, needless to say, almost no sleep was gotten on the bus trip to Hue.
Once there, I walked around the city, which was in preparation for a bi-annual festival that they hope will attract thousands of people from around the world. Flowers were everyone, in people’s hair, on the sign posts; there were even huge-sized replicas in the river! In all, it made wandering around the city a very pleasant experience.
My real interest in this town was about 100 km north of Hue, the DMZ, an area around the 17th parallel that was designated a no-man’s land by the Americans stationed at Doc Mieu, the base that held the DMZ under its guard, and the Vinh Moc Tunnels, an area about another 20 km away. I was curious to see if Doc Mieu still existed. This area was one of the most heavily bombed in the war with defoliants and napalm, scorching the earth to allow North Vietnamese troops and Viet Cong no quarter or protection. I wanted to see the amazing tunnels, Vinh Moc, built by villagers living on this piece contended land to allow them to survive the bombs and the incursions, by both sides. So, I went.
Doc Mieu is no more, the walls and outposts have been torn down and reclaimed by the jungle and metal strippers. For a reminder, the only proof that there had been a base here is the old American tank that peeks out of the jungle, mangled and old, rusting. Where a watchtower used to be, on top of a hill with a perfect view of the DMZ, stands a monument to the victorious North Vietnamese army, and when you walk up the steps to look out over this former hot zone, all you see are rice paddies and plantations, as the entire area has been given over to farming. At first sight, it seems that the area has reclaimed itself completely from the ravages of war, and returned to the business of living. That is, until you see old men walking with missing limbs, and children, too young to have known the war, with missing hands or legs. Every month, 7-8 people in this area fall victim to mines or unexploded ordinances left by both sides of the conflict. No one knows how many bombs and mines are left, and although 40,000 have been found and disarmed/removed, estimates of as many as 35,000 more are thought to remain here.
After leaving Doc Mieu, we continued north, towards the original border between North and South Vietnam, the Bien Hai River. There isn’t much to see there now, just a red-brown strip of water lazily making its way to the sea, with fishermen tending their cages of river fish. About 20 minutes later we made our way to the Vinh Moc Tunnels, an impressive system of tunnels and rooms carved out of the burnt orange clay soil that served as a home to some 300 Vietnamese villagers fleeing the bombs and gunfire up above. The tunnels were never hit directly, although one drilling bomb managed to fall close enough to provide a badly needed ventilation tunnel for the network.
Before going into the tunnels, the guide asked us if any were claustrophobic, or prone to it, as they would be required to walk at the end of the line. Once we entered the tunnels, it was easy to see how even a non-claustrophobe could have problems. The tunnels are very narrow, just wide enough for one person to walk through, and most of us had to hunch our shoulders to prevent scraping our head on the ceiling. The “rooms” were barely that, small crevices carved out of the earth, some as small as 5 feet deep by 3 feet in width by 4 feet in height, which was home to a family of four. Although a bit kitschy, the mannequins of a family of four that was placed in one of the rooms to showcase how tight things were did have the intended effect. |
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Hoi An |
Hoi An is a very cute town, with a lazy river that winds its way through sleepy streets filled with silk shops and leather shops, all with tailors ready and waiting to make whatever is your heart’s desire. When I left, I had a very positive impression of the town, but that wasn’t how it started…..
The trip from Hue to Hoi An started off well, waking at 5:30 AM to catch a bus to the DMZ and Vinh Moc Tunnels. I had purchased a half-day tour that would bring me back to the hotel at 1:30 PM, with 30 minutes to shower and catch the bus to Hoi An. The tour went well, up until the point where it was time for me to head back to Hue. As I was the only person on the tour who was doing a half day instead of a full day, I was put on a local minibus back to the city, which would have been fine, except for the torrential rain that pelted down into windows that had to be kept open due to the humidity. Every 3 minutes or so, the driver would slow down to yell at people on the street; I soon picked up on the fact that he was soliciting passengers for the trip into Hue. So picture this, if you will. Torrential rain pouring down on a little VW bus, the driver driving like a maniac through 2 feet of water as the roads were flooding, his partner hanging out of the open sliding door yelling at people, the live chickens that belonged to the woman up front squawking, and the bus screeching to a stop every time a prospective passenger looks his way. Anywhere else, you would think we were filming the latest Jim Carrey movie, but this is Southeast Asia, and nothing was out of the ordinary.
Eventually, we pull over to a small patch of dry land, and everyone files out. I am a bit confused, as I had paid for transport back to my hotel, but no, I was expected to get out of the bus as well, and we were nowhere close to Hue. It is still torrentially pouring, and a guy on a motorbike comes up to me to tell me that he will take me to my hotel. So, I end up on the back of this motorbike, racing like crazy through 2 feet of water, for about 20-25 minutes, until I get back to the hotel. Needless to say, I was not happy.
Twenty minutes in a hot shower managed to calm me down enough to be ready to look forward to the next part of my trip, a six hour bus ride to Hoi An, which is supposed to cover some absolutely amazing terrain. I was not disappointed. It never ceased to amaze me to see the countryside, where deep green foliage opens up from time to time to reveal the earth, the color of a burnt red-orange. It stormed most of the time, and watching the dark grey clouds roll down the mountains was an absolutely amazing sight. By the time we reached Hoi An, my mood was restored, and I was excited for what would come next. Except……
In Southeast Asia, there is a common practice of hotels and guesthouses to pay commissions to bus drivers, taxis, and motorbike drivers if they can convince someone to stay at that particular establishment. What results from this is that when you catch a ride and are carrying your gear, there is a very real possibility that you won’t be taken to your chosen hotel, even if you have reservations, they will try to convince you to stay somewhere else. This happened to me, as I was supposed to be dropped off at the center of town. Instead, I was dropped somewhere completely different, and they tried to coerce me to stay at a particular hotel. When I refused, my backpack was thrown off the bus, and I was left with a 3 Km walk to my hotel. Needless to say, my previously good mood had fast disintegrated, so that by the time I reached my hotel at around four in the afternoon, I was ready to call it a day.
Everything after that was wonderful, although how much of that can be attributed to the town and how much can be attributed to the fact that things had nowhere else to go BUT up, I have no idea. The town of Hoi An is small and quaint, and resides next to a sleepy river that winds its way to the sea. This town is known for its silks and its tailors, and you can go there with pictures of what you want, and they will make it for you, in any fabric that they have available. They also have shoe makers and leatherworkers who will make any purse or shoe that you desire, all they need are a few pictures. Anna and I had heard about this amazing book store, and so we set off looking for it, Randy’s Bookshop, and finally found it near the end of a little street on the opposite side of the river. True to the hype, he had the most extensive collection of books I had seen yet in Vietnam, and he turned out to be a pretty cool person himself. Altogether, it was an amazingly wonderful experience there, and I can definitely see myself going back. |
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Saigon and the Mekong Delta |
Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC), has had an interesting history, and its future is shaping up to be even more interesting. In the north, this city is called Ho Chi Minh City, and no one refers to it as Saigon. However, I noticed that once I reached central Vietnam, the locals began referring to it as Saigon, even the officials, which I found interesting as its name has been HCMC for the past 33 years. Saigon was an interesting place, crazy and metropolitan, yet still distinctly Vietnamese. More modern than Hanoi, Saigon is the center of Vietnam’s burgeoning business sector, and has received a huge boon in the last 10 years as the government has opened the country to foreign investment. Signs of this new economic influx are everywhere, as building in the city sends condos and towering monuments to business to the skyline. Little is left of the old colonial town it was 50 years ago, and instead it is packed with shops and buildings and shacks and motorbikes and people, all vying for the foreign currency that flows in from tourists and foreign business.
Prices are a bit higher in Saigon than in other parts of Vietnam, but it is still very inexpensive by Western standards. A good meal can be had for about 2-3 US dollars, 4-5 with an alcoholic drink. There is plenty of nightlife for the night owls, but the day hawks can still find plenty to do as well. Oh… and the food… As Saigon is an international city, the culinary options are pretty fantastic, especially for Asian cuisine. I had some spectacular Vietnamese food, along with very good Thai and Indian, which I was craving for some strange reason. Overall, I wish that I had more time to explore the city, and will definitely be returning.
The Mekong Delta both was and was not what I had expected, and turned out to be a very good learning experience for me in terms of managing my expectations. One of the things that I have learned as I’ve been traveling is that all expectations need to be let go of in order to truly enjoy and experience Asia, especially when you are putting yourself in a situation where everything is so different from what you know. Every time I think that I have finally let go of my expectations of what will come next, what should come next, I find that there is an even deeper level of surrender that needs to be explored, and the Mekong was a wonderful lesson in this.
Anna and I signed up for a 3 day, 2 night tour that would combine a trip up the Mekong with entry into Cambodia, and transport up to Phnom Penh. I discovered that with this trip up the Mekong, I expected to be transported back in time, to see sleepy fishing villages peacefully living beside this lazy river. Instead, that first day up the waterway was going through one city after another, along with canned tourist stops where you were expected to purchase items. I actually did purchase some absolutely amazing peanut brittle made with caramel that was derived from coconut instead of cane sugar, but that is beside the point. After a succession of boats and buses we arrived at our hotel in Can Tho, a concrete block with beds not much better, I was disappointed and none too pleased, as we were in yet another city, with its streets choked with motorbikes and pollution, and no restaurants to be found.
Finally, I decided to regroup and figure out why I was in such a bad mood, and realized it was because I had something completely different in mind for this trip, and hadn’t gotten it. I had to take a deep breath and let go of what I wanted, and take a fresh look at what was. When I did that, I was able to appreciate the fact that although we had been taken to a canned tourist trap that afternoon, the items for sale were made in that village, and were quite beautiful. I had learned how rice paper was made, and am eager to get home and try my hand at it, as it looked deceptively simple, and yet I foresee many hours of work in that regard. During lunch, we had been treated to a traditional Vietnamese musical performance, where the musicians performed three songs that told the story of a forbidden love, and although I couldn’t understand the words, the message was still made clear by their voices and instruments. I was able to appreciate the fact that under conditions of 90 degree heat and 90% humidity, our hotel room had an air conditioner that worked very well, and provided a much needed relief from the oppressive heat. After that, I began to truly enjoy the rest of the trip up the Mekong.
On the second day, we rose at 6 AM, and went out to the floating villages and markets on the water. Unfortunately, the markets were closed for the Half New Year holiday, but we still were able to see the boats that are home to the river families, and have been for generations. We ended the day in Chau Doc, a sleepy border town that is the last major stop on the Mekong before you reach the border, and started the next day at the break of dawn. We visited one of the fish farms that dot the river, an absolutely remarkable set of nets that brings about 70-80,000 fish to market every year for the family that operates it. In the end, they can net up to $6,000 for the year, which is a very good amount of money here, and many of the river people have come to depend on this income. Unfortunately, I learned that the Vietnamese government is close to closing down the fish farms, as the pollution that runs down the Mekong River from China, Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia has created extremely high levels of toxicity in the fish.
Eventually, we made our way to the border. This stretch took us up the Mekong for three hours to reach the Cambodian border, and we passed through the rural landscape that I had imagined when this whole trip began. It was beautiful, with water buffalo and children playing in the river’s waters, and the simple stilted houses that dot the riverbanks, and I entered Phnom Penh a little changed for the better. |
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