Locals say Saigon

April 12, 2007
1640

“…War does not make sense. War senselessly wounds everyone right down the line. A body bag fits more than just its intended corpse. Take the 58,000 American soldiers lost in Vietnam and multiply by four, five, six—and only then does one begin to realize the damage this war has done. Project outward from the two million slain Vietnamese and see, for the first time, an entire continent of loss. War, when necessary, is unspeakable. When unnecessary, it is unforgivable. It is not an occasion for heroism. It is an occasion only for survival and death. To regard war in any other way only guarantees its inevitable reappearance.” From Tom Bissell’s short story, War Wounds.

Arriving in Viet Nam was different, and more exciting, than arriving in any other port. We traveled up the Saigon River and docked in Saigon, or to be politically correct, Ho Chi Minh City. Still though, locals say Saigon. We passed other river traffic, billboards, factories and homes on the way to our port. The same river scenery was alive at night; when it got dark the port was bright with city lights and the panoramic lounge on the top floor of the Rex was visible from the seventh deck.

Motorbikes crowd the city streets and freeways—they are the preferred way to get around and everyone rides them—women in high heels, masks, hats and long gloves so the hot sun doesn’t tan their skin, whole families with two adults and three kids piled onto the bike. We even rode them to get from the port area to the heart of the city. It was only a few minutes ride but exhilarating nonetheless. I was apprehensive and didn’t want to hold on to the shoulders of the man driving the cyclo—I didn’t know him and culture seemed to awkwardly separate us—but I didn’t want to fall off of the bike, either. Around corners and through crowded intersections, if he hit the gas just a little too much the bike would scoot out from underneath us—I took a gasp of dirty air and grabbed the shoulders in front of me, this time without hesitation. Luckily I didn’t get burnt by the exhaust when I released my grasp on the poor guys shoulders—undoubtedly leaving fingerprints—and crawled off the back of the cyclo…lots of people did and for the next week had salve and bandages on their lower legs (which couldn’t have been pleasant in the heat.)

Our first day in Viet Nam I went to the Cu Chi tunnels, about a two hour drive outside of the city. Getting there was fun, we drove on highways at first and then through small villages and past lone homes on dirt roads. I wondered what this place was like forty years ago…the vegetation looks like it’s right out of a war movie, and there is a complementary feeling you get when you realize you’re in rural Vietnam, in once enemy territory, that was filled with hidden Viet Cong troops and is probably still filled today with people that were Viet Cong forces then. Lunch was traditional Vietnamese food—none of which I know the name of—about six courses and lots of fish, vegetables and rice. Once we arrived at the tunnels, we were briefed in a dark room with cement walls that shut the damp heat out. A mural sized map on the wall with built in lights signified certain points of interest within the three layered extensive tunnel system that we were about to climb through. First though, we saw booby traps used by the Viet Cong and an above ground entrance to the tunnels. Both were so well hidden that I didn’t notice them until our guide pointed them out. It looked like my 90 pound, chicken winged little brother wouldn’t fit into the tunnel that the guard proceeded to crawl down into, so I got a little worried about crawling through it myself, but luckily we crawled to a “widened” version of the old tunnels. Our section was about three feet high and a foot and a half across, although it seemed even smaller because we were underground and it was very dark. At one point I thought I was going to have an outright anxiety attack because I couldn’t see the person in front of me, but by then I had reached the end of the crawl, and the guide offered to take my picture before I climbed up the steps to the light of day. On the way back to the ship we stopped at a war memorial. It very bright, filled with flowers and graves. The same patriotism you can feel, say, at The Mall in Washington D.C. floods over you and you get a strong sense of the fact that pride is very indifferent.

That night we went to the night market outside of the Ben Thanh. We rode cyclos there, through the hot dusk air. The market inside was closing as the sun set but we wandered through part of it anyway. It smelled awful in the way one can expect foreign markets will smell awful. A scent mix of fish, rotting fruit (or maybe just durian) and dried shrimp hung in the air. Walking back outside was refreshing. Bright fluorescent lights from inside the shops flooded onto the streets and alleyways, filled mostly with semester at sea-er’s and Europeans. We browsed through rows of DVD’s, shoes, bags, clothing, jewelry, etc… all fake, but some real. “Same same, but different!” as the Vietnamese vendors would say, trying to convince us to buy anything except what we were looking for.

The next morning I was up early—6:00 am—for a day trip to the Mekong Delta, which was like a scene out of a war movie—where wounded marines are evacuated by a helicopter that lowers its line into the brown river, blowing the water outwards in a radial patter, and lifting mud-caked, lifeless bodies into the air. First we traveled from one side of the river to the other, to what seemed like a small island in the mouth of the river. We did this by a motorized boat with big red eyes painted on the front of it—round shaped eyes mean South Vietnamese, oval shaped eyes indicate the boat is from the north. We stopped there for some traditional Vietnamese music, and a tea/fruit tasting. Women in traditional dress—a slender long tunic slit to the waist and matching pants—served us mango, pineapple, watermelon and jackfruit, which is waxy, very sweet and in my opinion repulsive. We made another stop later to taste Durian candy and more tea—which was delicious and fragrant, a mix of honey, jasmine tea and juice squeezed from a kumquat. Afterwards we were shuffled into smaller boats, four to a boat, with a petite woman who was wearing a conical hat paddling for us. She hunched at the front of the vessel, balanced on the back of her calves, like a catcher, paddling long deep strokes in the muddy water and narrowly avoiding the other boats that were headed in the opposite direction. All of the people in the boats chatted with and smiled at one another. I was lucky enough to be the first in the boat, and each time the woman would make a long stride with the paddle I got a whiff of sour body odor; I quickly thought about what it would be like to shower in one of those huts?… maybe the people bathed in the river?, I wonder what the sewage is like? And then in my mind I paddled past the unpleasantness of that stream of thoughts and focused again on what was around me. We passed thick mangroves, lush plant life, small houses, huts, villages on the island, all visible from the waterway we were making our way down which was like the equivalent of a street in a neighborhood at home. How the people literally lived off of the river was marvelous—they got their food from it, they traveled by it, they even shopped from boat to boat on a floating market.

The third day in Vietnam I wandered around the city and ate some noodles (pho!). Contrary to my mother’s worries (her reaction when she saw the itinerary: My god—Ho Chi Minh City!? my dads response: Oh hell she’ll be safer there than in San Diego…) it seemed safe to go out alone. People in Viet Nam don’t seem to hold a grudge about the war. (Hear CSNY harmonizing “don’t let the past remind us of what we are not now…”) When you think about it, it’s kind of funny how we define this other country in terms of something so negative, nonetheless monumental, but yet such a short blip in the history and culture of the place. Maybe it’s easier to get over the fact that Vietnam isn’t a war, but rather a country when you are there, seeing the place for yourself. This, despite the street vendors selling all kinds of old war memorabilia… dog tags and lots of other things left over by American G.I.’s—cameras, cantines, hats and helmets. Browsing through these remains, I run my fingers over the name of a solder who is probably long gone, brushing over his religion and blood type—what does it feel like to be a name on a piece of metal? Victims of atrocious acts of war—agent orange, pink, purple or whatever other kind of chemical was dumped out of the airplane the day that person, as a child, was outside playing—are easy to spot, but only if you look carefully at everyone walking by. Some people walk with their hands, dragging their atrophied legs underneath them, folded Indian style permanently. A man whose face has literally been melted off hangs out in the same spot regularly, I saw him every day squatting with a hat upside down in his hands, chatting and joking with the passersby. I gave him my extra dong, hell that’s the least I could do, right?

That night I went back out with a friend and we got robbed (however, this does not prove that you were right, mom). It was pretty scary and disorienting. We were crossing a street, and two men on a motorbike were making a u-turn. They always tell us to walk slowly and steadily out into the traffic and the cars, buses and bikes will go around you. If you cross quickly you’ll just get hit, but if you wait for them to let you go, you’ll never get across. So, we walked slowly and steadily out into the road, and the bike got closer to us than any other had, but we kept walking, knowing they would go around us… only they didn’t… they got even closer, and pulled my friends purse off of her neck, breaking the strap and scaring the bloody piss out of us. That was when we went back to the ship.

Day four was spent in much the same way. But day five included a trip to the UPI photography exhibit, war remnants museum and a visit with a former war photographer. Our bus pulled up along side the busy highway we had been driving on and we all filed out, and through a heavy red metal gate that had to be unlocked. Through those fire red doors was an oasis—it was like I had walked into Vietnam circa 1960—an old transistor radio playing, weapons leaning against the trees, an old military jeep parked on a slab of cement. I have to admit I got a little restless, sitting on the wooden floor of a hut built in the trees; we climbed a ladder to get into the one room filled with old photographs and other odd, dusty relics. The mans dog was sitting next to me, panting and sharing its fleas with me. We (the group, not the dog and I) talked about the conflict a photographer feels when they can’t help the people they are taking pictures of, and instead choose to record the atrocities of war and death. In this ethical situation, stories are told and history is recorded, but a person’s last pained expression is also forever solidified on film, eternally taking from them the dignity dying without a shutter clicking in their face would allow. We talked about how the government is still very sensitive, censoring a lot of media and how this man would like to publish his story, but can’t. President Clinton visited this same guys house, he showed us pictures, but I was still more distracted in the hot dusty space by the dog drooling on me and rolling around, writhing on his back, in search of relief from the heat.

Next we went to the actual museum, which was full of even more pictures, all of which were very reminiscent of Time magazine covers. It’s so easy to become desensitized to such photos. In a way the glossy or matte finish blocks what was really being felt at the time and you can’t get a true sense of the situation by simply looking at the photo. I think what I took from the exhibit was really only a false sense of understanding. There was also a war love section, showcasing love letters preserved from corresponding lovers throughout the war, wedding dresses and more photos. There weren’t any stories of American soldiers and Vietnamese women, though. In a walking path that seemed out of order, after you walked by the stark photography exhibit and through the war-love room, your eyes immediately noticed a glass case with two jars inside. Both were filled with babies in jars of formaldehyde—to forever solidify in your mind what it looks like when a fetus is effected by pesticide (as if browsing through Ben Thanh hadn’t already accomplished that). So, there are three wrinkled, soft looking babies, behind two layers of glass, and a jelly layer of preservant. And, what’s creepy is you’re standing there looking at the pruney babies, and in the glass you can see your own reflection. Without a doubt that could have easily been me, or my child. And the interconnectedness of all people becomes lucidly clear. So I think, what makes people kill? We like to think we wouldn’t do that. Or, that we don’t have the capacity to kill like soldiers do. But, the truth is, those soldiers and Vietnamese forces, they were just people like me, like you. We never know what we might do under the conditions they were under. In that situation, far away from home and afraid, brainwashed, lacking an understanding of the truth, or perspective on the situation, hot, wet and hungry, how do you know what you would do when some one of higher ranking screamed “fire”?

Vietnam was groovy. As always what was most moving was feeling the complete and total sensory overload that being in a place so far away from home provides… and loving it.

Peace.