Saigon

This was the part in the trip where I was going to pretend to be Canadian. I have a feeling I've done this elsewhere on my travels. After all, who feels hostility towards Canadians? I've never heard anyone chant "Death to Canada!" I remember Chris telling me that during the Bush Administration, many American ex-pats in the UK would claim Canadian citizenship, probably as a way to avoid rants and unwanted debates with Bush-haters. Luckily I came over to Britain in 2009 and didn't experience any such harraunguing, as everyone was still aglow with having Obama in office. I don't care about Obama's critics; I find that he's been great for foreign relations.

It turns out that all this didn't matter. American, Canadian, British--all are welcome in Vietnam, as long you have money to spend.

On our first taxi ride in Ho Chi Minh City (once known as Saigon), we were scammed. As on most long-distance bus rides, we were dropped off in some obscure section of the city and had to catch a taxi to the tourist district. Up until that point, we had no problems with taxi or tuk tuk drivers. We usually negotiated a price beforehand (and I was finding that I was very good at this), and handed the said amount over at the end of the journey with a tip. So it kind of threw us to catch a taxi with a meter. Having arrived in a new country, we were thinking this was the norm. So we trusted the meter. First lesson learned--do not trust metered taxis in Vietnam. Our short ride cost us about the same amount of money a black cab ride would cost in London. I can't remember the figure now, but I remember it being outrageous, especially for Southeast Asia standards. We didn't argue with the taxi driver, as it was our own fault for trusting the meter. After all, how can the meter lie? It wasn't worth an argument so we handed over the money and tried to walk off the shock of departing with such a large amount of cash.

Fortunately the area we had been dropped off in was excellent. District 1--the backpacking district. It had that bustle that you expect in Asian cities. But it was the bustle of the city mixed with bars and good restaurants. The street we were on was pretty much lined with rows of the little red stools that are ubiquitous in Southeast Asia. You could grab a drink and sit on the street and people-watch. In fact, this was the only place I had seen set up specifically for people-watching.

The first line of business in HCMC was to find accommodation. The prices were higher than they had been in Cambodia, and as we had just lost a huge chunk of money to our cab ride, we were choosy. The guesthouses were located in buildings that were both narrow and tall. That meant that there was one or two rooms on each floor with lots of stairs in between. We found an adequate, though spartan, room in a guesthouse located down a narrow alley, away from the hustle and bustle of the street. This suited us, as we were surrounded by locals who were going about their daily lives. It seemed the bottom sections of buildings were open (perhaps because of the hot climate), and we could see into businesses and homes, laundry being hung and noodles being eaten and such. Oh yes, wherever you looked, noodles were being eaten. We seemed to have entered into the noodle capital of the world.

Pho is probably the national dish of Vietnam (I say probably because I'm too lazy to look it up). I've heard it pronounced all different ways; it doesn't really matter, all that needs to be known about pho is that it is wonderful. For breakfast, for lunch, for dinner--it's the meal that works any time of day. I think it's because pho is quite bland, especially compared to other cuisine in Southeast Asia (though chilis can be added to make it hot). Noodles and broth and lots of fresh herbs. It's the herbs that really appealed to me. Chris was more about the pho than I was, maybe because I found it hard to eat with chopsticks. At almost every restaurant, he ordered the pho whereas I mostly ordered fresh spring rolls. These were unlike anything I had encountered back home. The rolls were thin, almost transparent, and held fresh veggies and herbs. Nothing was seasoned, though sauces were provided for dipping. Overall, we found ourselves impressed with Vietnamese food as it was simple, fresh and satisfying.

Memories of War

The main tourists sites were within walking distance from our guesthouse. Crossing some really busy streets (not an easy task in HCMC), we came to a lovely park where the locals were relaxing on a Sunday. It was hard to believe the chaos which had once existed here. Nobody seemed to mind that Saigon had fallen to the Commies. In fact, nobody looked bothered living in a communist country. Vietnamese flags were everywhere--a single yellow star on a red backdrop. I found it strange to be in a communist country, and yet it seemed no different than the other countries we had visited in Asia. I'm no political expert, so I may be mistaken in even calling Vietnam communist. Socialist, yes, along with China, Cuba and Laos, in that they are all single-party socialist states. What's the defining factor between socialist and communist? Is it how much control the government has over the economy? I'm sure this was all discussed with Chris at some point, but I don't remember. I knew that we couldn't access Facebook while we were in Vietnam, but it was nice to take a break from social media. I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was an American in Vietnam. And it felt great to move around freely without even a glance from the locals.

While walking through the park, we came across Boy Scouts at play. I say Boy Scouts because they were dressed like Boy Scouts, but they were engaged in more patriotic activities. Commie cadets--that's what we called them. They were playing games, like the wheelbarrow, only a Vietnamese version of it, while a leader was shouting in Vietnamese. We weren't sure what was going on. After snapping some photos (there didn't seem to be a ban on cameras anywhere) we continued on to the Reunification Palace.

This was a significant site for Chris, who knew a lot more about Vietnamese history than me. I have to note here that I don't remember learning anything about the Vietnamese War in school. Sure, my high school history teacher (I forget his name, but he's a legend) went on about the protests and movements made against the Vietnam War in the U.S., but the war itself--nope, I don't remember being taught anything. Strangely enough, Chris had studied it in college, along with other facets of American history. This is why Chris knows so much more than me about my own country. This is probably indicative of all American students. Ok, side note over, we bought tickets for a tour of the palace. Once through the ticket booth and gift shop, we could wander around the grounds. A tank was on the scene to remind us of the event that had happened on April 30, 1975, when Saigon fell. A tank crashed through the gates and the palace was overtaken. The Republic surrendered and the Vietnam War was over. The Americans had left by this time, and the overtaking of Saigon was inevitable. Though the "reunification" wasn't without its problems, the country seems to have moved on. The new generation appears to be more interested in making money than the do in making war. For this, Vietnam has done well economically, far ahead of Cambodia and Laos.

Still, the Vietnamese will not let you forget about the war; at least the winners won't. After visiting the Palace, which had been frozen in time when overtaken on 1975, we continued on to the War Remnants Museum. I had read that this museum was hard-hitting with grisly photos and tales of the atrocities committed by the South Vietnamese and American armies. Yes, this was one-sided, as atrocities were committed on both sides, but still, it was eye-opening. There is nothing that can really justify a photo of a GI smiling while holding up the mangled corpse, or the victims of My Lai where villagers, old and young alike, were massacred, where infants were killed in the arms of their mothers, and women were gang-raped and mutilated by American soldiers. You can call this display "propaganda" against America, but the camera doesn't always lie, and these things actually did happen. If this was propaganda, then it did have the desired effect on me, as I went from one photo to another with such a blaze of disgust and anger. Again, I'm no political or historical expert, but I can still formulate an opinion on the things I've read and observed, and I think it was a terrible misstep for America to have entered into a civil war in Vietnam, especially under the premise that they were helping the South Vietnamese. The way I see it, it was about containing Communism in Asia, as Communism was the number one threat during the Cold War. Just as they didn't win again the Communists in Korea, they couldn't stop the Communists in Vietnam. And is Communism really the thing to be feared? Looking at Vietnam today--not really.

The Vietnam War was a senseless war with many lives lost--most of them Vietnamese. Not only was there the human cost of lives, but the environmental cost as well, as the Americans destroyed much of the country through their bombing campaigns. They were intent, as Curtis Lemay put it, to "bomb "them back into the Stone Age." They used chemicals to destroy both forests and crops. The use of the toxin Agent Orange was the most damaging, as it not only destroyed ecosystems, but it had an impact on human health, causing deformities and cancers. A whole section of the museum is devoted to the impacts of Agent Orange, and perhaps this was the most disturbing section, looking over photos of the innocent victims, many of them grotesquely deformed. To know that the U.S. was responsible for this is hard to swallow.

It is impossible to walk through the War Remnants Museum and not feel anger. Yes, I felt anger towards America, but also anger for war in general. Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot comes to mind when considering the futility of war:

"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light." Carl Sagan--The Pale Blue Dot.

Carl Sagan--always the voice of reason.

A Journey Into the Unusual

We signed up for a day tour from HCMC. This included the Cu Chi Tunnels and the Cao Dai Temple. The former I knew a little bit about (tunnels dug and utilized by the Viet Cong during the war), the latter, absolutely nothing. We boarded a bus with young backpackers and headed northwest, out of the city. Our guide appeared to be a retired Vietnamese school teacher who continually quizzed us, throwing out questions such as "What is the 5th largest river in the world?" Nobody on the bus knew the answers to any of his trivia questions, but at least it made the journey fun.

My main interest in the tour was to visit the tunnels, to go along with the whole war educational experience. I found it odd that we were going to some temple. Even stranger, it was some religion we had never heard of: Caodaism. I mean--what is that? Turns out that Caodaism is mainly a Vietnamese religion, with over 6 million adherents. It's a blend of Taoism, Buddhism, and Catholicism, though it's hard to find any of these aspects in their worship. The symbol of Caodism is an eye. Yes, that's right--a giant eye. Reminiscent of Freemasonry or Illuminati or Lord of the Rings, I find this symbol to be slightly creepy. The main temple in Tay Ninh is called the "Holy See" which sounds very Catholic, but I'm guessing that it pertains to the giant eyeball staring down from the alter. It's hard to make an eyeball look loving or benevolent, even with a nicely arched eyebrow, and the whole vibe I got from the Cao Dai Temple was that of a cult. Enter the adherents, all dressed in white, to really give the religion a cult-like feel.

Though I wasn't sure why this temple was on the tourist route, I appreciated how we were allowed to observe a religious service. They didn't ask for money or donations, in fact, none of the worshipers engaged us at all. They merely tolerated us, or waved their hands at us when we tried to take a picture. One of the quirks in this temple--you could take photos, but only of the adherents. Try to snap a shot of the Eye of Sauron and you'd have a stern-faced Caodaist waving for you to stop. We tried to be as respectful as possible and stayed out of the way. We were ushered up to a balcony where we could watch the service. And what a service it was! A strange band struck up on on a balcony adjacent to us. There were instruments that I've never heard before, which made the music bizarre and otherworldly. Of course there was the dong-dong of bells and gongs, as this comes with all religious ceremonies in Asia. Worshipers in white moved in lines below us, moving to incantations from the chorus on the balcony. Symmetry seemed to play a role in the service, as the rows had to be perfectly aligned. Designated members of the church moved through the rows, adjusting adherents as they went along, even if it was just an inch in order to keep everything in perfect formation. This was certainly interesting. I have never seen a religious service so synchronized. Three Dongs--the adherents knelt in unison. Three more Dongs--the adherents prostrated themselves to the all-seeing eye. The music went on, with bells, stringed instruments and chanting, rising and falling and mesmerizing all who stood there looking on. We snapped pictures and recorded sections of the service, trying to capture the bizarreness.

I'm not a great advocate of religion, as I've seen firsthand the harm that it can do, so I'm probably sounding harsh in my assessment of this experience. I think perhaps it's because the adherents seemed so hardcore, and frankly, miserable. Not a smile or a ounce of joy was found in that temple. Still, different aspects of religion appeal to different people, and this no doubt filled the needs of those worshiping there. The service lasted about half an hour, then we tourists filed out into the bright sunlight and wondered what exactly we had just seen. It was like watching a religious service on another planet, it was that weird. But that's what travel is about, exposure to new things.

We continued on to more familiar territory (of the mind anyway). The Cu Chi Tunnels. Though there are tunnels virtually all over South Vietnam, these are the most tourist-oriented. These tunnels were dug by the Viet Cong, or the National Liberation Front (also known as Charlie by American troops). Mostly made up of peasants, they were industrious buggers, digging through the dirt like moles and creating all kinds of havoc. Initially underestimated by America at the start of the war, they were the proverbial thorn in the side of the U.S. army. Not only did they move weapons and other supplies through their network of tunnels, they placed booby traps in the jungle to maim and kill American soldiers. Some of these booby traps, though rudimentary, were really nasty, as demonstrated for us. Pits with spikes to take a leg or a foot, or a board with a arrow to spring into the face--yowch. They didn't have the force that the U.S. Army had, still, they had their devices.

They also had endurance, stamina and tenacity. They would have to have these things to exist in these tunnels for any amount of time. While it's true that most things in Asia are Asian-sized (clothes, airplane seats, the ubiquitous Asian stool, etc...) these tunnels went beyond the normal tiny. Some passages were so narrow that one could only crawl on hands and knees through them. Though this doesn't communicate much in words, to be in one of these tunnels is quite another experience. Though the Cu Chi Tunnels are 75 miles in length, there are only two sections where tourists can experience them. Of course, they've been modified to accommodate tourists, wider and higher (twice the size of the original tunnels) with lights glowing in intervals. Oh yes, and there are also escape doors if the experience proves to be claustrophobic.

I had the attitude that I would traverse these tourist-friendly tunnels with ease. After all, there was nothing really to fear. It was like a haunted house in a theme park--fear is only in the mind. And yes, I thought it would be fun. So we were left to it with our guide waiting at the end for us. One-by-one, our group descended into the tunnel. There was one guy in front of me. I could see his hunched figure up ahead as I followed at a comfortable distance. I was thinking it wasn't too bad. The intermittent lights really helped, though they seemed to taper off the further in we went. There were bends, and areas where the tunnels sloped downward, which was a little daunting, as it was dark and you couldn't tell what was ahead. Even though you knew you were safe, you couldn't convince yourself entirely. Chris was at my back, but I was too hunched over to communicate with him. There came a burst of light ahead and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was an escape door. The guy ahead of me went "Fuck this, I'm out of here" and took the stairs up to the door. Feeling brave enough to push onward, I went past the door, only to find a set of stairs that went deeper underground. Claustrophobia kicked in big time and I backed up to the escape door. Chris was right behind me. One-by-one, each member of our group popped out of that escape door. We hadn't even gone a fifth of the way! It really makes you appreciate how badass the Viet Cong must have been, living in these tunnels for weeks, even months at a time.

There were all kinds of classrooms set up at the Cu Chi Tunnel attraction. It's a good educational center for those interested in war tactics. In the background, we could hear the pop-pop-pop of gunfire, as there was also a shooting range on the premises. Similar to the range in Phnom Penh, one could fire AK-47s and other such weapons. But after all this war education, the desire to fire another gun was totally lost on me.

We headed back to HCMC, the fair city of Saigon, with some new experiences tucked under our belts. We found ourselves thankful for the bustle of the city, where we could buy a drink and sit and people-watch, and for the moment, not have to contemplate the horrors of war. This American in Vietnam--I felt privileged to even be there.