THE DEMILITARIZED ZONE
(Hue, Vietnam 13:02.15.4.2004)
Along the 17th parallel, Vietnam was divided. Ho Chi Minh, with support from China, the Soviet Union and Cuba controlled the north. France struggled to control the south and would soon be aided by an American government vigilant of the increasing Communist momentum: Ho Chi Minh's national movement had ousted the French from the north and was quickly looking to unify a whole, and wholly independent Vietnam. The 17th parallel ran from the coast to the Laotian border and was established as a demilitarized zone in an agreement between the Vietnamese and French. There was supposed to be no fighting in this area. Because the United States was not a signatory of of these conventions, it was not subject to its guidelines. America entered the conflict. And destroyed this area.
I am on a really slow bus, full of tourists and in the front is a Vietnamese woman explaining the Vietnamese perspective of "The American War."
"We have had so many wars, that to us, it's not THE Vietnam War." I'm the only one on the bus who laughs at this.
Every month, there are deaths from the 200 million land mines that were planted in this area. People deformed from the carcinogenic legacy of agent orange can still be spotted in the area. Most of those I see are simply limping, struggling to beg for a little money. One approaches me. His body is bent in strange ways. He smiles and salutes. Others with more serious conditions -- born without eyes or noses -- are taken care of in facilities, the guide explains, to help them lead more normal lives.
You wouldn't really know what you were driving through if you came here. It seems pristine and beautiful enough. And then the guide explains that large circular gaps in the rice fields were left by detonated land mines. Until you realize the shallow foliage on the hillsides carry the effects of agent orange.
"Before agent orange, this area had elephants, tigers and huge trees." The guide explains.
Agent orange was used by American forces to defoliate huge stretches of jungle thus exposing Ho Chi Minhs Trails. These trails, a vast network spanning 20,000 km, were used to transport military supplies to the south. Along with exposing these trails, agent orange had a devastating ecological impact from which the area is still reeling. Adaptable and fast-growing eucalyptus trees now dominate the landscape, replacing the thick jungle that was once there. The ground was poisoned, contaminating vegetables that gave the Vietnamese cancer and deforming their babies. And while the ground can now support crops, it is still not as fertile as it once was.
The tour stops at Khe Sahn, which had been the military stronghold of the Americans. There are abandoned tanks and foxholes. I am approached by a man carrying a tray of Viet Cong medals that he has found with a metal detector.
Also on his tray are American dog tags.
Perry, J.R., Methodist, A positive, a series of numbers.
Another name, Catholic, another blood type, another series of numbers.
For 50,000 dong, roughly $3, I can buy one. I am startled by this. I refuse to buy one and start to walk away.
My imagination goes nuts: There are still bodies out there. There are thousands of MIAs out there, dead by now. Men on both sides killed and not recovered, or worse, men lost and then left behind.
But the man trails me. "Please buy one....please." I look at him one last time before walking away. This is the way some men are forced to make a living.
(Hue, Vietnam 13:02.15.4.2004)
Along the 17th parallel, Vietnam was divided. Ho Chi Minh, with support from China, the Soviet Union and Cuba controlled the north. France struggled to control the south and would soon be aided by an American government vigilant of the increasing Communist momentum: Ho Chi Minh's national movement had ousted the French from the north and was quickly looking to unify a whole, and wholly independent Vietnam. The 17th parallel ran from the coast to the Laotian border and was established as a demilitarized zone in an agreement between the Vietnamese and French. There was supposed to be no fighting in this area. Because the United States was not a signatory of of these conventions, it was not subject to its guidelines. America entered the conflict. And destroyed this area.
I am on a really slow bus, full of tourists and in the front is a Vietnamese woman explaining the Vietnamese perspective of "The American War."
"We have had so many wars, that to us, it's not THE Vietnam War." I'm the only one on the bus who laughs at this.
Every month, there are deaths from the 200 million land mines that were planted in this area. People deformed from the carcinogenic legacy of agent orange can still be spotted in the area. Most of those I see are simply limping, struggling to beg for a little money. One approaches me. His body is bent in strange ways. He smiles and salutes. Others with more serious conditions -- born without eyes or noses -- are taken care of in facilities, the guide explains, to help them lead more normal lives.
You wouldn't really know what you were driving through if you came here. It seems pristine and beautiful enough. And then the guide explains that large circular gaps in the rice fields were left by detonated land mines. Until you realize the shallow foliage on the hillsides carry the effects of agent orange.
"Before agent orange, this area had elephants, tigers and huge trees." The guide explains.
Agent orange was used by American forces to defoliate huge stretches of jungle thus exposing Ho Chi Minhs Trails. These trails, a vast network spanning 20,000 km, were used to transport military supplies to the south. Along with exposing these trails, agent orange had a devastating ecological impact from which the area is still reeling. Adaptable and fast-growing eucalyptus trees now dominate the landscape, replacing the thick jungle that was once there. The ground was poisoned, contaminating vegetables that gave the Vietnamese cancer and deforming their babies. And while the ground can now support crops, it is still not as fertile as it once was.
The tour stops at Khe Sahn, which had been the military stronghold of the Americans. There are abandoned tanks and foxholes. I am approached by a man carrying a tray of Viet Cong medals that he has found with a metal detector.
Also on his tray are American dog tags.
Perry, J.R., Methodist, A positive, a series of numbers.
Another name, Catholic, another blood type, another series of numbers.
For 50,000 dong, roughly $3, I can buy one. I am startled by this. I refuse to buy one and start to walk away.
My imagination goes nuts: There are still bodies out there. There are thousands of MIAs out there, dead by now. Men on both sides killed and not recovered, or worse, men lost and then left behind.
But the man trails me. "Please buy one....please." I look at him one last time before walking away. This is the way some men are forced to make a living.
WHAT $45 GETS YOU IN VIETNAM:
A misadventure tour of Ha Long Bay & Cat Ba Island
(Hanoi, Vietnam 19:48.11.4.2004)
It doesn't help that I'm with a paranoid Canadian, who -- within seconds of entering a new situation -- can point out all the possible ways we are going to die.
"First of all there are no life preservers, which is more a problem for you, Jose, since you can't swim and I can."
OK.
"Also the air tanks in the front and back of this kayak are open, so if water gets in there, we're sinking."
OK.
"Third, our guide with our boat has disappeared."
Minutes later, I am ducking under a rock on a small island. The "S.O.S." I have scraped onto the sand is quickly disappearing under the rain. This Canadian -- a twenty something woman educating the ethnic villagers in the north about the sex trade and AIDS -- is meanwhile, collecting her favorite kind of shell. She looks at me and laughs. My one and only pair of pants are drenched and I am still emotionally recovering from the insufficient breakfast: An undercooked and dense crepe so lacking in flavor and nutrition that it nearly compelled me to gnaw the ballasts of the boat.
I look down at my pants. I think about how good one fried egg with a chunk of rice would be. I frown. The Canadian laughs again.
"Well Jose, maybe a pretty shell can make you feel better." Har har har.
When you sign up for a 3 day all-inclusive excursion and pay only $45, you should assume certain things. While the dollar goes much farther here than anywhere else I've ever been, it still is only $45. But I wanted to visit the northern coast of Vietnam for several reasons. 1) I needed a break from Hanoi. 2) I had seen pictures of massive limestone islands that seemed -- and would prove to be -- spectacular. 3) The guy at my hotel kept selling me the idea and I wanted him to shut up. 4) More than anything, it advertised spending a night on a boat, some jungle trekking and kayaking.
It took all morning to drive to the port. Everything seemed great. A beautiful boat with three levels. A small friendly group of fellow travellers. Bathrooms, beds.
A couple hours away from the coast, we were surrounded by limestone islands that resembled an aging infantry of giants. Each one was unique but all were aggressively cut in sheer angles. One mistep atop one of these suckers meant certain physical incapacitation. (I didn't know I would be climbing one the next day.) And there were so many. Each row of islands was backed up by another, and another, eventually disappearing in a low mythical mist. I could never really tell how many islands there were. For a really good idea of what this looks like, rent The Goonies and look at the end of the movie where the Fratellis are finally caught and the ship of One-Eyed Willie is seen in the distance. Now imagine me on that ship. Except instead of treasures and skeletons, mine has a bunch of Vietnamese boys running around in flip-flops compusively cleaning the boat and cutting vegetables.
Lunch and dinner that first day were fine. Just OK, actually. But the novelty of being on a boat in the middle of nowhere, compounded with the refreshing conversation of new acquaintances were useful distractions. The wine also helped. So we chatted about ways to prevent dysentary in India, the upcoming American elections, the plight of the Aborigines, LA vs. NYC, how Canadians speak so slowly, liquified petroleum, how the German language has silly rules. Decks of cards showed up, along with Jack Daniels and cheap vodka. It was a great night that ended with me falling asleep by myself on the roof, surrounded by utter silence and the silhouettes of these massive rocks. I woke up when I felt rain drops. I found my way to the cabin in total darkness. They had turned off all electricity.
The Canadian and I were the only ones who signed up for the three day extravaganza. The seven others opted for the more relaxed and abbreviated two-day tour. So she and I jumped off on Cat Ba Island early the next morning and checked into the hotel included with the tour.
"Please go upstairs and come down in 30 mins."
This is when things started going a little weird. The hotel was huge but we were the only guests. And by the time we got down, our guide was gone. We stood stupidly in the lobby until an unfamiliar face approached us.
"Oh your guide go back." He said in broken English. "The guide had to go back on boat. You're here to kayaking?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"OK, come with me."
So the Canadian and I look at each other. Do we just follow a stranger?
"OK, you do know our tour guide, right?" She asks this man.
"Yes, I know. Chun."
We look at each other and shrug. I am struggling for a sense of security here. "Well if he knew our original guide's name it should be OK, right?"
Apparently. A minute later she and I are on a small boat. The boat is the size of those small hydrofoils they use in the swamps of Lousiana and in the Everglades. With the big fans in the back. Except on the back of our boat is a Vietnamese boy wearing flip flops and girly jeans.
This new guide was a fisherman before this job. The locals don't mind the tourists. They bring in money and have created a new industry. Ferrying around Westerners, walking right next to them up a mountain and throwing them into unsafe kayaks is a whole heck of a lot easier than catching fish and hoping to sell them. Easier and more lucrative too. Cat Ba island had only 8 hotels five years ago. Now it's up to 80. In the summer, the population swells as thousands of Vietnam's elite fill the islands newly paved streets. They get drunk, squeeze into tiny karaoke parlors and sing traditional Vietnamese and Britney Spears songs.
We approach a floating house. An array of trash-can sized air-filled tanks support a wooden framework on which a tiny shack is propped. There are several nets in the back that, from the smell of it, are there to catch fish. There's also a dog running around on a few planks. And then a couple of kayaks. The girly-jean wearing boy unties one of the kayaks and we hop in. No life preservers. In fact not much by way of instructions.
"OK," the guide said. "Be back in an hour."
We start kayaking and within minutes it starts to rain. Hard. In the meantime our original boat had sped off in quick evasive maneuvers behind a string of islands. OK, so we strategize and decide that a small island with a beach is where we should wait it out.
We jump off the boat, I find a stick and write "S.O.S." on the sand before finding a dry spot. Because I'm a champ, I change my attitude. The rain will eventually stop and it was about time my pants were cleaned anyway. I have worn them everyday since I left home and they have yet to see any kind of detergent. The Canadian and I commiserate about the food situation and we make plans to find pizza at whatever cost later that night.
The rain eventually stops and we paddle around until we see the boat. An hour later we rendezvous at the floating shack.
For all of our effort -- I didn't even talk about the jungle trek -- the Vietnamese gods granted us our wish. Hours after being drenched and pissy on the island, we were sitting in a restaurant back on Cat Ba Island, voraciously inhaling pizza.
A misadventure tour of Ha Long Bay & Cat Ba Island
(Hanoi, Vietnam 19:48.11.4.2004)
It doesn't help that I'm with a paranoid Canadian, who -- within seconds of entering a new situation -- can point out all the possible ways we are going to die.
"First of all there are no life preservers, which is more a problem for you, Jose, since you can't swim and I can."
OK.
"Also the air tanks in the front and back of this kayak are open, so if water gets in there, we're sinking."
OK.
"Third, our guide with our boat has disappeared."
Minutes later, I am ducking under a rock on a small island. The "S.O.S." I have scraped onto the sand is quickly disappearing under the rain. This Canadian -- a twenty something woman educating the ethnic villagers in the north about the sex trade and AIDS -- is meanwhile, collecting her favorite kind of shell. She looks at me and laughs. My one and only pair of pants are drenched and I am still emotionally recovering from the insufficient breakfast: An undercooked and dense crepe so lacking in flavor and nutrition that it nearly compelled me to gnaw the ballasts of the boat.
I look down at my pants. I think about how good one fried egg with a chunk of rice would be. I frown. The Canadian laughs again.
"Well Jose, maybe a pretty shell can make you feel better." Har har har.
When you sign up for a 3 day all-inclusive excursion and pay only $45, you should assume certain things. While the dollar goes much farther here than anywhere else I've ever been, it still is only $45. But I wanted to visit the northern coast of Vietnam for several reasons. 1) I needed a break from Hanoi. 2) I had seen pictures of massive limestone islands that seemed -- and would prove to be -- spectacular. 3) The guy at my hotel kept selling me the idea and I wanted him to shut up. 4) More than anything, it advertised spending a night on a boat, some jungle trekking and kayaking.
It took all morning to drive to the port. Everything seemed great. A beautiful boat with three levels. A small friendly group of fellow travellers. Bathrooms, beds.
A couple hours away from the coast, we were surrounded by limestone islands that resembled an aging infantry of giants. Each one was unique but all were aggressively cut in sheer angles. One mistep atop one of these suckers meant certain physical incapacitation. (I didn't know I would be climbing one the next day.) And there were so many. Each row of islands was backed up by another, and another, eventually disappearing in a low mythical mist. I could never really tell how many islands there were. For a really good idea of what this looks like, rent The Goonies and look at the end of the movie where the Fratellis are finally caught and the ship of One-Eyed Willie is seen in the distance. Now imagine me on that ship. Except instead of treasures and skeletons, mine has a bunch of Vietnamese boys running around in flip-flops compusively cleaning the boat and cutting vegetables.
Lunch and dinner that first day were fine. Just OK, actually. But the novelty of being on a boat in the middle of nowhere, compounded with the refreshing conversation of new acquaintances were useful distractions. The wine also helped. So we chatted about ways to prevent dysentary in India, the upcoming American elections, the plight of the Aborigines, LA vs. NYC, how Canadians speak so slowly, liquified petroleum, how the German language has silly rules. Decks of cards showed up, along with Jack Daniels and cheap vodka. It was a great night that ended with me falling asleep by myself on the roof, surrounded by utter silence and the silhouettes of these massive rocks. I woke up when I felt rain drops. I found my way to the cabin in total darkness. They had turned off all electricity.
The Canadian and I were the only ones who signed up for the three day extravaganza. The seven others opted for the more relaxed and abbreviated two-day tour. So she and I jumped off on Cat Ba Island early the next morning and checked into the hotel included with the tour.
"Please go upstairs and come down in 30 mins."
This is when things started going a little weird. The hotel was huge but we were the only guests. And by the time we got down, our guide was gone. We stood stupidly in the lobby until an unfamiliar face approached us.
"Oh your guide go back." He said in broken English. "The guide had to go back on boat. You're here to kayaking?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"OK, come with me."
So the Canadian and I look at each other. Do we just follow a stranger?
"OK, you do know our tour guide, right?" She asks this man.
"Yes, I know. Chun."
We look at each other and shrug. I am struggling for a sense of security here. "Well if he knew our original guide's name it should be OK, right?"
Apparently. A minute later she and I are on a small boat. The boat is the size of those small hydrofoils they use in the swamps of Lousiana and in the Everglades. With the big fans in the back. Except on the back of our boat is a Vietnamese boy wearing flip flops and girly jeans.
This new guide was a fisherman before this job. The locals don't mind the tourists. They bring in money and have created a new industry. Ferrying around Westerners, walking right next to them up a mountain and throwing them into unsafe kayaks is a whole heck of a lot easier than catching fish and hoping to sell them. Easier and more lucrative too. Cat Ba island had only 8 hotels five years ago. Now it's up to 80. In the summer, the population swells as thousands of Vietnam's elite fill the islands newly paved streets. They get drunk, squeeze into tiny karaoke parlors and sing traditional Vietnamese and Britney Spears songs.
We approach a floating house. An array of trash-can sized air-filled tanks support a wooden framework on which a tiny shack is propped. There are several nets in the back that, from the smell of it, are there to catch fish. There's also a dog running around on a few planks. And then a couple of kayaks. The girly-jean wearing boy unties one of the kayaks and we hop in. No life preservers. In fact not much by way of instructions.
"OK," the guide said. "Be back in an hour."
We start kayaking and within minutes it starts to rain. Hard. In the meantime our original boat had sped off in quick evasive maneuvers behind a string of islands. OK, so we strategize and decide that a small island with a beach is where we should wait it out.
We jump off the boat, I find a stick and write "S.O.S." on the sand before finding a dry spot. Because I'm a champ, I change my attitude. The rain will eventually stop and it was about time my pants were cleaned anyway. I have worn them everyday since I left home and they have yet to see any kind of detergent. The Canadian and I commiserate about the food situation and we make plans to find pizza at whatever cost later that night.
The rain eventually stops and we paddle around until we see the boat. An hour later we rendezvous at the floating shack.
For all of our effort -- I didn't even talk about the jungle trek -- the Vietnamese gods granted us our wish. Hours after being drenched and pissy on the island, we were sitting in a restaurant back on Cat Ba Island, voraciously inhaling pizza.
