Delving into Vietnam War History

One of our first excursions upon reaching Saigon was a visit to the Cu Chi Tunnels - an underground network spanning some 200 kilometers of varying depths that could hold up to 10,000 Viet Cong soldiers during the Vietnam War*, portions of which have been reopened for tourism. The site isn't so far, as the crow flies, from the city center, but the traffic made it seem so, as did the gradual giving way of multi-lane thoroughfares and modern buildings to modest houses and unpaved roads.

The main entrance to the complex felt like a museum, what with a gift shop and displays of antiquated weaponry and missiles. Once our guide squared away our tickets, we descended into a short stretch of tunnel (not part of the original network), emerging onto what could easily pass for a film set from Apocalypse Now, replete with distant gunfire. Though it was not a hot day (thank god), the air beneath the thick, green canopy of trees was heavy with moisture and rife with a still somberness befitting a site of war. Military-style tents housed exhibits and dioramas illustrating the construction and use of the tunnels, while employees in khaki uniforms milled about, demonstrating how soldiers accessed the tiny, hidden entrances.

Another tunnel entrance.

Ventilation holes, incorporated into what's meant to look like a natural rock formation from above.

The system was ingenious; the underground network had areas for designated uses like bunkers, latrines, and kitchens - with disguised openings for ventilation above ground. Certain areas even had river access should soldiers need to escape by waterway. Up top, in addition to designing entrances so well camouflaged and small that even if Americans located them they wouldn't be able to fit, the Viet Cong also set myriad sorts of traps for the enemy.

One sort of a trap - a false floor above a pit of spikes.

An employee leads us into a section of the original tunnel network.

A short stretch of original tunnel is open for tourists. As a petite woman, it was cramped for me and my camera. I could walk, bent double, but the 6' 4" Canadian in front of me had to shuffle whilst practically curled up in the fetal position. We had handed our bags over to the members of our group who had opted not to go for the full experience; I tried to imagine what it must have been like during the war, staying underground for days at a time with my weapon and gear. Minutes later we reemerged above ground, gratefully stretching our legs and backs and gulping in the humid air.  

The gunfire we'd been hearing, though somewhat amusing and atmospheric from afar, was decidedly less so up close. Our guide, a local, joked that criminals were executed on site; in reality there is a shooting range where visitors can fire authentic guns used in the war - with real bullets, he assured us. Bullets can be purchased in increments of 10 for a wide range of firearms. I have never held a gun, nor do I desire to; I cannot reconcile shooting as recreation when, nearly every day in the country I call home, there is news of gun-related violence.

As we turned away from the shooting range, back toward where the bus had dropped us off, I thought about the tunnels I'd visited in Okinawa, how warfare has evolved over the years, and how different cultures choose to commemorate it. Our guide said that such tunnels would be ineffective today, when there are smart missiles that can pinpoint exact targets and burrow through layers of concrete before detonating. This reminded me of the film Eye in the Sky, a timely drama about drone warfare and the human sacrifice that still persists in battles waged through technology. These new methods may reduce the collateral damage suffered in decades past, but at the same time desensitize us to the violence and destruction still intrinsic to war.

A defunct tank.

*Or, as locals call it, the American War.

Saigon in Photos

We didn't spend nearly enough time in Saigon, but in our two days there managed to immerse ourselves in the city's smells, tastes and legacy. Our hotel, the Continental Saigon, dating back to 1880, was located just across the street from the opera house in an area dotted with architectural vestiges of the French colonial days. The double room I shared with my mother was cavernous and stately with ceilings of church-like proportions and a dainty sitting room area. At the same time, crossing the street away from the opera house brought on aggressively modern skyscrapers, designer stores, locals selling everything from street food to knock-off sunglasses, as well as hip new purveyors like the Gingko concept store. The city's disparate identities is perhaps best reflected in the fact that it has two names: Ho Chi Minh City and Saigon.

Like many other Southeast Asian metropolises, Saigon can best be described as organized chaos. Millions of motorbikes sort of, mostly, obey traffic lights and laws, at night forming an endless, slow-moving sea of lights amongst the honking cars. The bikes congregate ahead of the other vehicles at red lights, surging forward like an angry swarm the moment it turns green.

Despite the many many marks of history on the city's geography, it's also decidedly cosmopolitan - we passed many European designer stores, ethnic restaurants representing cuisines from around the globe, and even a subway project in conjunction with a Japanese company.

Photos below. 

Our first meal in Saigon - noodle soup at Pho 2000, made famous by Bill Clinton's patronage back during his presidency.

City hall, with statue of Ho Chi Minh.

A street vendor near our hotel.

Our hotel, another vestige of the colonial era.

A saleswoman portions coffee beans for a member of our group at a local market.

Post office.

A local purchasing fresh fruit.

Saigon Notre-Dame Basilica.

Opera House.

Sa Dec Market in Photos

Before visiting the lover's house, we passed through Sa Dec Market - a mostly covered and narrow marketplace bustling with activity. Scooters and bikes constantly zipped through, weaving their way between local shoppers. Baskets of sedate chickens sat waiting to be plucked, while at the seafood stalls shallow pans of water showcased shellfish, snails, frogs, eels and fish - most still wriggling and occasionally even leaping into the air. The vast majority of stalls were tended by women in conical hats who filleted and butchered with deft hands. While as outsiders we felt the most drawn to the meat and seafood vendors (because they made the farmer's markets back home look oh so tame), there were plenty of others hawking exotic fruits, fresh vegetables, spices and a larger variety of rice than I knew existed. Some photos below. Not for the squeamish or vegetarian.

Live poultry. 

Not live poultry. 

Yes, those are bees. 

Blue crabs. 

Sheep's(?) head. 

Little girl accompanying a parent on a shopping excursion. 

Bamboo. 

De veining. 

The ladies who run the market stalls can butcher and filet as fast as the cooks in Michelin starred restaurants.   

Creepy fish heads.

The Lover

After walking through the lively and vibrant Sa Dec Market, we visited the former home of the eponymous lover from Marguerite Duras' famous novel. This semi-autobiographical tome draws upon her experience growing up in Vietnam where, as a teenaged girl, she became romantically involved with a Chinese man twelve years her senior. From what I understand, the novel - despite its Lolita undertones - is largely romantic and tragic, because ultimately the literary couple doesn't end up together. But throughout her life, Duras - as many of us do, changed her own story multiple times.

Displeased with the film adaptation of The Lover (which our guide screened in the dining cabin one night and a fellow passenger subsequently deemed "soft porn"), she later published The North China Lover, which was billed as a more detailed and "truer" account of the relationship. Notebooks that were posthumously made public, however, paint an altogether different portrait, with one passage describing the "revulsion" she felt after their first kiss (see: Wartime Writings). These lesser known writings hint at possible sexual and emotional abuse, even prostitution.

Duras passed away in 1996, and with her left the truth regarding the nature of the affair. Undoubtedly, how she felt about it as an adolescent, as it was unfolding, differs from how she must have felt as an adult. She was seventy when the first fictionalized iteration was published; seventy-seven when the second came out. Both novels probably served as attempts to come to terms with the relationship; to figure out and clarify her feelings, perhaps even find some profound conclusion.

As we toured the beautiful old home, with its floors warped with age, intricate craftsmanship belying aristocratic wealth, and black and white photographs of both Duras and Huynh Thuy Le, sipping jasmine tea while listening to our guide wax romantic about the ill-fated lovers, I was reminded of my own failed relationships.

Each time things doesn't work out we want there to be some deeper meaning or lesson learned, so it's not just time wasted and feelings spent. But maybe a solution or antidote doesn't exist. Maybe the leftover pieces are just a burden that remains with us. For as Duras' experience seems to suggest, even a lifetime is not enough to make sense of something so raw and intimate. 

A River Economy

Having grown up in Seattle, I'm used to living by water. But seeing the lifestyle that its proximity fosters, even from the very window of our cabin, was another matter entirely. As we got closer to (and finally reached) the Mekong River, the economic activity that our ship passed only intensified - at one point there was enough boat traffic it was like driving on the highway back at home during rush hour! The color of the water is a result of the rainy (read: muddy) season. Some photos below.  

Fish farming. 

Sacks of rice being unloaded via conveyor belt.

We passed many barges practically weighed down to the very water level with soil.

A woman taking a break at a floating market.

A little boy grins at us from the back of a vendor's boat at the floating market. These boats have long bamboo poles on which they hang examples of what they're selling. (Although a hat affixed to the pole means that the boat is for sale).

A boat leaving the floating market. 

Phnom Penh in Photos

The Cambodian capital had a much different vibe from quiet Siem Reap; it reminded me a lot of Taipei with all its greenery and claustrophobic streets. Upon arriving we had some free time, so the majority of the group went to check out the Royal Palace - a complex, really, of gilded, elegant structures with high peaked roofs and colorful embellishments. To my surprise it's still in use. The current king, at sixty-three, is still single and childless, so he will likely select one of his nephews to be his heir. 

Inclement weather slightly disrupted scheduled activities, but we still managed to squeeze in a cyclo tour around the city's main sights before departure. A 'cyclo' is essentially a bicycle with a seat for a single passenger affixed to the front. It was a bit nerve-wracking being in the face of honking traffic but our drivers proved most trustworthy. 

Side view of the Silver Pagoda at the Royal Palace. It gets its name from the thousands of silver tiles that comprise the floor, and houses Buddhas and other trinkets made from precious materials. 

Detail of a restored portion of a mural at the Royal Palace. 

The cyclo drivers sizing us up. I had the sense that they were all jockeying to have me as their passenger because I was the smallest. 

This cheeky little boy was running around naked (don't worry, his mother was nearby) in the area that we stopped to admire the Independence Monument. 

A view of the parliament building on the left, ironically located just next to a casino (gambling is illegal). 

Blessings

Disembarking at Kampong Chhnang, we were received by little local girls bearing flowers and intricately folded leaves. A team of rickety carts awaited, each pulled by a pair of oxen. The animals seemed well-fed enough, but they had curiously flappy skin hanging from their necks. With two passengers per cart, our group became a slow-moving caravan that attracted much attention as we trundled along past rice paddies and new houses being built on stilts.

We reached the temple a bit behind schedule, so the monks had already eaten, but local women were already preparing rice noodles for their next meal. We received a water blessing from a bespectacled monk, who tied bright colored strings to our wrists (left for women, right for men) that are meant to be kept on for at least three days.

Once back on the ship we stopped at nearby Koh Chen island, where the prominent local industry is metal smithing - particularly copper and silver. We entered one household workshop where several family members, male and female, used mallets against various tools on thin sheets of metals, expertly lending the medium spectacular shapes and designs.

Walking further into the village, all the while drawing the curious eyes of the local children, we met Oum Son Thon, an 82 year-old Khmer Rouge survivor and math teacher. Seated on the wooden pews of in his outdoor classroom like pupils from a bygone era, we listened to his experience under the Pol Pot regime, a time of fear and terror, which set the tone for the following day.

Oum Son Thon takes us through some math problems after giving us his history lesson. 

Soldiers hung speakers from this tree to drown out the sounds of the victims. The stupa containing excavated remains is visible in the background. 

Having reached Phnom Penh, one of our first excursions was out to the Killing Fields - the only preserved mass grave site out of over 400 used by the Khmer Rouge. Some of the graves on site have been excavated. Every year with the rains the mass graves get shallower; upon visiting one can see scraps of cloth from the victims' clothing protruding from the soil, and occasionally bones and teeth too.

A puppy and its mother frolicked near the tree adorned with bracelets, where soldiers smashed babies against the trunk before killing their mothers. Another grave is demarcated, this one for the headless bodies of Khmer Rouge soldiers given the ultimate punishment. A large 'stupa' contains skulls and remnants recovered from the excavation; a memorial for the lives lost where one can buy incense and flowers.

A look inside the stupa. 

Artist and former prisoner Bou Meng thanks us for purchasing his memoir.  He is younger than Oum Son Thon but the torture he went through in the prison aged him.

Back in the capital city we stopped at what was formerly the S-21 Jail, now a museum. Here we met several other survivors - one, a boy recovered by the Vietnamese army when they stormed Phnom Penh, the other two adults who'd been imprisoned, tortured and interrogated. They've returned to this place of trauma to share their stories.

Cambodia seems a place of inherent tension working toward reconciliation; where former Khmer Rouge leaders run the current government and live side by side with those whose families were killed by the regime. We hear multiple times that the latter often would like nothing more than to exact revenge, but the prospect of a life sentence stops them.

Reflecting on all of the lives lost and families shattered, I am grateful to have known three of my four grandparents; to have grown up without fear. My country is not perfect but, then, whose is?