Vietnam 2002

Yeah, I been to Nam. That’s what I now say when war stories start to be told. Usually they look at me and say that I look to young to have been in the war. And go on to ask when I was there, 71, 72? I say under my breath “February”. But the point is I have been to Vietnam and it was an experience. How I got there is a story unto itself. But as usual, there is a back story and few countries have such historical, emotional and political attachments to America.

Fans of history know that Ho Chi Minh composed a Declaration of Independence modeled in part after the American Declaration of Independence. Many in the country had hopes of independence from French colonial rule after WWII. They had reason to be optimistic. During the war they fought Japanese occupation and received aid from the United States. Unfortunately Vietnam was dominated by Ho Chi Minh’s Communist and not given independence. This led to the Franco-Viet Minh War from 1946-54, and eventually to American involvement.

At barely three years of age, some of my earliest memories were of living with my father just off base. Dad was stationed to Fort Stewart in Georgia. Seven months later we were living near the Ohio State campus in Columbus, approximately 150 miles south of Kent State. I remember the killing of students. Protests, curfews and the National Guard dominated my neighborhood. Fortunately my father came home from the war relatively unscathed, both mentally and physically. He started off a PFC in the infantry as a point man. Point - means that when his squad or platoon went out on a mission, he got to be in front. Later he was promoted to Sergeant and became a sniper. He received numerous decorations including one Purple Heart and turned down a second Purple Heart. He never hesitated to share stories and answer the endless barrage of questions that I would heap upon him regarding the war. All of this led to me having an early and somewhat simplistic opinion of the Vietnam conflict. Such as; we should not have been there but since we were, our leaders should have let the military fight to win. In other words, I blamed our government not the Vietnamese for our involvement in the war. Conversely, if the Vietnamese held any animosity, it was not at all apparent. I felt much more anti American sentiment in Paris than in Hanoi.

Which brings me to how I ended up going to Vietnam in the first place. For over five years Egypt has been my number one choice as my next major adventure. Every year something comes up that change my plans. Usually it is matter of timing and better current travel bargains. This time it was the 9/11 attacks that thwarted my October 3^rd departure plans. I was still seriously considering going to Cairo. I called an Egyptian friend, two travel agents and searched the Internet for government travel warnings. Sadly all sources encouraged me to yet again postpone my travel plans. Furthermore, family and friends were considering an intervention or deprogramming abduction to stop me from going if need be. It was then that my friend and frequent travel companion, Mark, brought to my attention a fantastic Malaysia Airlines special that would get us to Kuala Lumpur. From there we would have our choice of East Asia destinations. We decided to drive from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore and stay just long enough to get our visas to Vietnam. Vietnam should be exotic enough to get my mind off Egypt for awhile. Only recently open to tourist, it has the appeal of being unspoiled. Adventure travel is my thing. Pyramids, safaris, hiking, climbing, exploring, discovering; this is why I travel. Vietnam promised to have enough natural beauty and historical curiosity to temporarily satiate my wanderlust. So the plan is to fly to Hanoi in the north and to fly out fifteen days later from Saigon in the south. In between we hope to see the interior, the coast, the Delta and hopefully a two-day visit to Angkor Wat in Cambodia.

I arrive in Hanoi tired but excited. Vietnam offers a lot of inexpensive lodging choices. But for our first night in the country we made reservations ahead of time at the Hilton. The $60 rate is a bargain, but not compared to the many clean $10 to $20 rooms available elsewhere. So we are staying at the Hanoi Hilton. Just about two weeks ago I discovered that there really was a Hilton in Hanoi. Unbelievably, they have a hotel that shares the same name as the now infamous one given to the POW camp by our servicemen. Senator John McCain and others have often spoken of the torture and beatings at the Hanoi Hilton. It is surprising that Hilton would want that associated with their hotel. The official name is -Hanoi Hilton Opera- as it is located next to the Opera House. But the words “Hanoi Hilton” are prominent throughout. I was convinced that when I got there I would never see those words together. Surly that was only on the internet reservation form. I did not have any big philosophical problem with the name but never stopped thinking that it was an odd choice.

I am tired but there is a couple hours of daylight left. My travel motto is -I’ll sleep on the plane! So it is time to explore the city. The first thing to master is crossing the street. I have crossed many seemingly chaotic streets in my travels but here there was one difference, the size. The wideness of many of the streets and intersections add another dimension to the experience of stepping of the curb into a rush of traffic. The trick is to walk in a straight line at a steady pace so that the mopeds, motorcycles, cyclos and taxis can anticipate your projection and weave around you. It is that simple. Imagine a wide rushing river. Now picture that instead of water, it is rushing with motorbikes. Pause, try not to contemplate horrific possibilities and jump right in. With every safe crossing, confidence grows. Soon I was rescuing stranded tourist. Many found it hard to believe the method, even though they were witnessing it. The other tourists were mostly Asians and Australians with a few Europeans. I always consider myself an ambassador when traveling, aware of the often earned title of the “ugly American” tourist. Between the history of our relations and the lack of other Americans, I am more of an ambassador now than ever before. There are a lot of local shops to explore and a good selection of interesting mask carvings. For me, masks are the perfect travel mementos. They are often unique to the culture and land and can be small and sturdy enough to survive weeks in my backpack. Often the search for an interesting mask, or in some places the search for any mask, is an adventure by itself. Just by setting out with the single purpose of finding one can lead to back allays, distant villages and private homes. My travel plans, purposely kept flexible, have often been influenced by the people I meet on my search for the cool mask. There is no shortage of masks in Vietnam. Mostly Buddha faces with prices starting at under a dollar. Finding a particularly interesting shop, I ask if there are more carvings in the back. I am led to the back, through a courtyard, up stairs and into the home of the merchant. A good chance to see how a local lives. I compliment her on the view of Hoan Kiem Lake from her balcony as she unwraps dozens of wood and stone carvings from a five by six foot stack. Eventually I buy twelve, all made of wood and well wrapped on the spot. They should survive the rest of my journey and make it safely home to family and friends. She hands me a small stone turtle as a parting gift. Outside clothes are hanging to dry above and below are skinned snakes in a bucket. She thinks that I am crazy for wanting to take a picture of the courtyard. I explain that I get that reaction a lot but I am interested in how real people live. She is adamant about me not taking the picture so I do not. I thank her for her hospitality and continue my exploration. Later I purchase some good film for about a dollar fifty per roll but pass on the many bootleg CD’s at the same price. There are also a lot of coins for sale. A bunch of American silver dollars from the 1800’s catch my attention. I ask to see one of the coins. Once in my hands it is immediately obvious by the weight alone that it is counterfeit. I tell the woman that it is fake. She shyly repeats “yes, replica”. Okay, fake or replica, but do you have any that are real? The answer being No, I continue on with the amusing picture in my mind of the United States Secret Service flying to Hanoi to put a stop to the counterfeiting and picking up a –Rolax- watch and a few CD’s while in town.

By nightfall I had made my way back to the Hanoi Hilton and was thoroughly enjoying watching the NFL play-offs on tape delay courtesy of ESPN. There is something extra special about being able to enjoy my favorite American sport on television and then stepping out into such a different culture afterwards. It is like having my cake and eating it too. Around halftime ESPN chose to promote their next game, effectively ruining the game that we were watching by divulging the outcome. The room was full of grown men in various stages of tantrums. Most had gone out of their way to avoid all newspapers and other media so as to not know the final score before seeing it on tape delay. I suggest going to the ESPN web site to complain. Yes it will take an hour for the internet connection but now they have the free time during the second half of the spoiled game. My suggestion did not lighten the mood much. I got the feeling that a few were going to wait until they were in choking range of someone from the network. It was around then that I realized that there were other Americans in town or at least a few in the hotel lounge with me.

I had some questions for my compatriots. What brought you to Vietnam? Have you noticed many other Americans around? What do you think about the name of the hotel? The answers were fairly unanimous. They were all here on business. There were very few Americans in Vietnam in general. All thought that the hotel name was in bad taste. The absence of other Americans has a certain appeal. If you want to have experiences that can’t be found at home, being one of the few Yankees around is a good start. Of course after a few beers and yelling at the television, I am even more tired than before. But we are not staying very long in Hanoi, so I must go out to see what the city is about at night.

The temperature is at a ten-year seasonal low. It will be hot in the south so the cool air is a welcome start. The local restaurants have a large selection of meals ranging from $3 to $6. I enjoy the first of what was to be many great tasting pizzas. Yes I could have had turtle, lizard, dog, etc. but I love pizza and there will be plenty of time to taste more local food later. I feel myself reverting back to being a vegetarian again as I pass by tanks full of snakes, other reptiles and mammals. I happen upon a place that offers massages for $6. The price is right and all the flying and backpacking has taken a toll on my neck. The best thing I can say about the experience is that it was cheap. I would have really felt ripped off if I had paid $7. It started off all right, with a steam bath that was really just a small shower stall with steam. It is always worth go out of the way to learn a few local words when traveling. Usually phrases like please, thank you, greetings and directions. This was not of much help to me on the massage table. I quickly got the impression that she was making it up as she went along. Leaving me to wonder if she had any training or even an idea of what a massage should feel like. It was easy enough to direct her to the pain in my neck and shoulders. Unfortunately it took twenty painful minutes to get across my desire to have some lotion or oil and put an end to the rug burn technique. Thankfully there was some baby oil around. Finding out later that they use the oil for what is called the “happy ending”. I was content to settle for the regular ending and just happy that it was over.

The next morning begins with prayers, meditation and my kata. My kata is a series of stretching and deep breathing techniques. A combination of Yoga, Tai Chi and a bunch of stuff I made up. I like to find a peaceful place, preferably outdoors, atop a bolder, on a rooftop or in a meadow etc. Our hotel balcony overlooking the Opera House will do nicely. The view and the air are both cool. I find this ritual very beneficial to my overall health while traveling. Now if I could only remember to do it when at home.

Mark and I spend the day exploring the city and trying to figure out our next destination. To the east is the Golf of Tonkin and Halong Bay “where the dragon descends into the sea”. Over three thousand islands, spectacular limestone formations and Cat Ba National Park are only a few of the reasons to go there. Halong Bay is one of the more beautiful and well known destinations in the country. As we are here in the coldest time of year, we decide to save our beach trip for a destination further south and go north to Sapa instead.

It is on the border with China. We are told that there are over eighty minority hill tribes in the area. The potential for adventure and experiencing a different culture is high. The drive alone will surely be an experience. The guy who drove us from the airport told us that we could rent him and his car for $14 a day. When we called him the price changed to $60 a day. He went on to explain that the lower rate was local only then changed the local rate to $20. It was easy enough to find another driver for half the price to meet us in the morning for the big drive north. Time in town is spent just strolling around. We do find a local car. The driver does not speak English but with pointing and voice inflection we make do.

On our short list of things to see are the Old Quarter and the Army Museum. The Old Quarter is just that. An older district with small roads lined with merchants. A chance to step back into the past, with or without leaving the car. The Army Museum was established in 1959, near Lenin’s statue and just west of Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum. Sharing the grounds is the hexagonal Hanoi Flag Tower, constructed between 1805 - 1812. I pay the entrance fee of 10,000 Dong, or around 60 cents USD, as my friend Mark gets his wheelchair out of the car. Once they see that Mark is a wheelchair user, they chase us down and give him his admission fee back. It is really important to them that he enters for free. We imagine that they assumed he lost the use of his legs in the war. They didn’t ask why he was disabled but were very insistent that he not pay. What we call the Vietnam War, they call the “War of Liberation”. There were a lot of ominous images in and outside of the building. The rows of fighter pilot helmets were especially creepy as were the twisted pieces of planes and tanks that were welded together like a dark modern art exhibit. Most interesting were the many photographs with propaganda statements. One shows an American soldier standing in the mud and leaning on his rifle. The text reads “GI rest after another failed mission” another one reads “GI runs for his life”. Under a picture of a weary looking President Johnson was the caption “failure of war and other factors...the American President does not seek re-election”. Most quotes under the Presidents pictures are contributed to his book. There are pictures of protest gatherings. The protests are of course in the United States. It doesn’t take a political scholar to know that the Vietnamese government wouldn’t have allowed their people the freedom to protest. The picture of Jane Fonda was interesting. Actually documenting the moment that she crossed the line, in some people’s opinion, from activist to traitor. That moment is when she was photographed smiling and sitting on a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gun that was used to kill Americans. It doesn’t take skepticism towards authority to laugh out loud at some of the propaganda. Some inaccuracies are too obvious, as if they were not even trying to be good liars. But even with the Communist slant, it was overall a fairly accurate, in your face experience. We were invited to go to one of the tunnels a short drive away but quickly and politely declined. Heights, open spaces, skydiving, anything but a tunnel. They open up into big rooms and are surely interesting. But between the History Channel and the tunnel exhibit at the museum, we had seen enough tunnels.

When driving around it is impossible to not be impressed by the general cleanliness. Every block, no matter the poverty level, is clean. People are often sweeping, cleaning, replacing the clay tiles on the walkway and the like. Much cleaner than many American cities. Mark opts to hang out at the hotel for the evening and enjoy the amenities. Predictably, I choose to enjoy my last night in town by walking around. Circling Hoan Kiem Lake a couple of times is a good way to meet and chat with the locals. Everyone is very friendly and when they discover that I am American they are even more cordial.

Hanoi is the second biggest city in Vietnam with a population of over three million. Therefore it is a surprise to meet a number of people who said they remembered me and my friend from briefly passing through town earlier. I find myself in front of the “famous Water Puppet Theatre” with the show just starting. Mark and I had joked earlier that “if this was the main attraction in town, we should leave for Sapa immediately”. 40,000 Dong later and I am in the front row enjoying a water puppet show. My first two questions are quickly answered. The puppets are not made of water but they are in water. The audience is in normal dry theatre seats. Not in the water. The puppeteers are behind a curtain and they control the puppets with poles that run parallel just below the water surface. The puppets are people, animals, dragons and fish. All are very colorful with an occasional sparkler attached and fireworks going off. As a puppet show it is good but it is the music that makes it worth attending. Just stage right are the musician / actors. They play traditional music, sing and perform the voices of the puppets. The music is good and the fact that it is all done in Vietnamese, only opens ones imagination as to what the little puppet must be lamenting about.

The next morning our price-switching driver is late. We use the wait time to think about our future travel options. As seasoned travelers we tend to take a casual approach to routines such as making tentative reservations. Unfortunately Vietnam Airlines was a little more complicated than usual. We took it in stride and forged on seeking options for flying within the country. If possibly a short visit to Phnum Penh, Cambodia for a jaunt to Angkor Wat would be perfect. Perfect for anyone who is into ancient cultures and temple complexes. There is some confusion from the airlines as to what flights connect to others but they are clear about charging Mark an incapacitation fee. The fee is mandatory for all wheelchair passengers. Furthermore they require a doctor’s note before allowing him to fly. So I tell my friend “screw them, don’t pay, just buy the ticket”. He figures out that there is likely not an easy way around the fee and resolves to pay it. He draws the line at bringing a doctors note and states that he won’t. This much appeals to my rebellious nature and I tell him not to worry about it. I will write the doctors note. In other countries on other trips we have been faced by people, in person, asking for written proof of his disability. Some bureaucrats just can’t believe their eyes. Usually we make a Xerox copy of his handicap-parking permit that hangs on the review mirror and I put my signature on it in big bold letters. Amazingly this often makes them very happy. They are now ready to declare our entire travel party as handicapped, offering all services, discounts and access.

Humor is a must, in life in general and while traveling in particular. So privately we go into great depths about the meaning and ramifications of the incapacitation fee, deciding that he should be fully incapacitated by the time we arrive at the airport. Any combination of sleep deprivation, excess alcohol or good acting would do the trick. Will he be carried to his seat like an emperor or feed by hand? Should he drool a lot so they can constantly wipe his chin? If I pay the fee can I get the same treatment? By the time we stopped laughing our driver had arrived. His name is Tron.

The drive to Sapa is as interesting as expected. It will take us 9 ½ hours of almost continuos driving to get there. The train can make it in 13 hours. The spectacular views are sacrificed as most of the scheduling has the train going at night. We share what is often a one lane, or less, road with bikes, mopeds, cars, trucks, people and oxen. The rule of the road is “the biggest vehicle has the right away”. About a year ago I lived through the nearly indescribable death defying experience of a three week driving tour of India. Only surviving that experience kept me from being terrorized by this one.

Less than a half-hour into our drive and we are stopped by a police officer standing in the road. Our driver is compelled to pay a bribe of 30,000 Dong (about two Dollars) and is then free to go. Shakedowns are often part of the travel experience. I have personally encountered corrupt cops on every continent except Antarctica. The best way to deal with the situation is to negotiate the cheapest bribe and do so before more officials arrive wanting a cut. Remember to never give up the passport. Say it is back at the room or being used for official business at the American Consulate’s office. Whatever it takes but keep it safely out of site. Obviously the only thing to fear while traveling is fear itself, and the drinking water.

We pass a lot of rice paddies and clean little villages. Further north the sights of natural beauty only increase. The road is surrounded by step agriculture that seems to be in perfect harmony with the mountainsides. It is here where the eating of dog is still very common. A man ties a dogs legs to a pole and then carrying him away. There are live dogs and puppies crammed into small wicker or wire cages. They are packed in as tight as one might cram a pillow case to capacity with dirty clothes. Puppies can be seen on the back of motorbikes being taken to the restaurants. Tron’s English is only good when compared to my Vietnamese but we manage a conversation about using dogs as food. He wants to know if I want to eat some dog. Next he wants to know why not. I try to explain that I am not a hypocrite. I know that pigs are smart, sheep are cute, lobsters mate for life, cows have feelings etc. and that Americans eat them daily. The difference is that we have a special relationship with dogs. A bond that goes back thousands of years. They are companions and protectors. They rescue us from the rubble after an earthquake; they dig us out of the snow after an avalanche. I am curious about what dog might taste like but would not be going out of my way to find out.

Later Tron stops for lunch at one of the small restaurant that line the road. I grab my camera and walk around to see what there is to see. The encounters with friendly, smiling people continue. I have a huge pocket full of jellybeans to share with the children. They go crazy for the treat and I get some great pictures. Soon the word about the candy spreads and people of all ages are stopping to say hello. This scenario would play out over and over during the rest of my trip. I purposely brought a lot of fancy jellybeans and pennies to give away. And I got into the habit of giving away things from the hotels. Things like fruit, candy from the turndown service and the thin little slippers in the plastic bags, were all potential gifts. Sharing with the locals is fun. Without a doubt, it was the jellybeans that were the biggest hit.

After walking around for about twenty minutes it is time to drop in on Tron and experience the local eatery. He invites me to join him and offers to order for me. I say, Yes to a beer and No thanks to the food. He invites me to taste his food that has just arrived. It is way too early in the trip to risk eating village food but it looks well cooked and the place is clean. The opportunity to taste some real local cooking is too much to resist.

Picking up a set of chopsticks and soaking up the moment, I forgot three things.

1. Our previous conversation about eating dog.

2. That this is dog eating territory.

3. To ask if anything on the platter was dog.

The plate had three different servings. What looked like small black sausages, sliced pork loins, and a pate’. One small cautious bite of each was enough. The sausage tasted really bad. Not a spoiled kind of bad but more like some horrible secret recipe. The loin did taste like pork, but very tough and overcooked. The pate’ tasted like any other pate’. Tron asked me my opinion. I replied that it was “interesting” and that “the sausage must really be an acquired taste”. Almost as an afterthought I asked if any of the three meats were dog. “They all are” he casually replied. So from my single experience I must conclude that I did not enjoy the idea or the taste. I politely decline further offers of food and quickly finish my beer. Words worth remembering from the 3 by 5 feet restaurant sign are “THIT CHO”, meaning, “We serve dog”. That may not be the literal translation but that is what it means.

As we continue north, every turn reveals a postcard worthy view. Not that a picture could fully capture the diversity and beauty. Such as the small homes tucked between two mountains, or by a lake, or along a river and most always near a rice paddy. The mountains are starting to look very Chinese. An astute observation considering that they are part of the Chinese range.

These mountains are ancient. Old and worn. Smooth and rounded at the top, sloping one into another with low vegetation that looks like painted green moss from affair. The river winds through the valleys and snakes by the road at times. Homes, farms, small boats, rafts and people can be seen around the river. There is a lot open space between most dwellings. Any combination of rice paddies, palm trees, meadows, ponds and foothills, separate the neighbors. It’s as if every home and hut comes with a private secluded view. We are getting closer to the border.

An encounter with one of the hill tribes reveals the physical similarity to tribal people in both North and South America. The earliest immigrants to the Americas likely came from the steps of Asia and these people are their cousins. Clouds roll in as we rise 4,800 feet in the last 30 km. Our pace slows down as darkness just barely beats us to Sapa.

We are staying in a large lodge at the foot of Mount Fansipan, the highest mountain in Vietnam. Tron found a room just a few streets below the entrance to the lodge for $3 a night. Neither room has heat but portable heaters are available. We were in a large family room with four single beds and two bunk beds. It was see your breath cold and Mark must have had every available heater brought to the room. With all the lights out, the room was still bright from the heaters. Actually, they were better at lighting than heating. We woke up the next morning to find ourselves enveloped in wisps of white and gray, completely and totally inside the clouds. This was really interesting, at first. Visibility was at less than four feet. Soon the thrill of being blinded in a cloud was gone. A break in the clouds, lasting about twenty minutes, unveiled a fantastic view. A small mountain town was below and the huge mountain was above. Breakfast is in the large restaurant. The seats by the fireplace are the best. The entire room is surrounded by windows that are whited out by the clouds. While dining we invite a couple that we met to join us in seeing the sites.

Together we drive off to the recommended destinations. The first was a waterfall. As waterfalls goes this one was pleasant enough. But as an attraction it was a joke. We literally laughed out loud when we arrived and realized that before us was the whole waterfall.

The next attraction was the village Cat Cat. Why this was on a list at the lodge of things to see is a mystery. It looked like every other stretch of road around. There was a small bridge, a few homes and some agriculture. Fortunately by keeping travel plans loose, one can not only take off to unexpected places, but leave early from them as well.

The market was the best part. It is a mix of produce, crafts and locally made garments. H’mong and Doa tribal women in traditional dress, with leathery faces and broad smiles, sell goods from fixed stands or blankets. The more mobile merchants sell goods right out of their homemade backpacks. They wear large flat silver jewelry with either a kufi like hat or a bright puffy headdress. This is the off-season and there isn’t another Westerner around. The market seems to be full of locals only and this makes me a merchant magnet. Everyone was very friendly and excited. I buy a lot of colorful shirts and take a lot of colorful pictures. The dye on the clothes is not set. The blue gets on my skin and on most everything else. The strong, distinct smell of the local campfires permeates the garments. A couple cold water wash cycles should take care of the problem. Until then the shirts are isolated in plastic bags. The market is the place to meet tribal people and even arrange to spend one or more nights at their village. Such an overnight stay would involve trekking in. A good pair of hiking shoes and a zero degree sleeping bag would be a must. Maybe next time.

Leaving early the next morning for the beach, means missing the traditional Love Market. So be it. Before inquiring about the market, I have already determined that asking the same question to ten people will result in ten different answers. Also different tribes have different courtship traditions. So the deal with the Love Market is lovers meet once a year, or once a month, in the dark. Songs help them find each other. Sadly, singing is now being replaced with prerecorded music. A promise gift like a bracelet may be given. Next year they might marry. Depending on who was telling the story, the couple may or may not sneak off and spend the night together.

The next morning I am offered a Betel nut from an old man as I make my way through the clouds and to the car. The nut is chewed by the locals and provides a mild caffeine type euphoria as well as stained teeth.

The drive back to Hanoi was just as interesting as the drive out. More jellybean distribution leads to an invitation into a cafe for tea and smoke. I decline to smoke from the big wooden bong, explaining that tobacco is not my thing. There is a whole technique around smoking. They hold the long wooden pipe straight out into the air and exhale halfway through. The exhale only takes place out of the corner of the mouth, blowing the smoke out in a long stream. They finish by removing the end piece and inhaling the remaining smoke. Local experiences are the best but this seemed like a lot of work just to make myself gag. A brave sip of tea will have to do instead. The stuff floating in the cup must be tea, right? I take pictures of them smoking. The guy who invited me in pulls out a disposable camera and takes my picture.

This time the drive takes nine hours. The flight to Ho Chi Minh, or Saigon as everyone still calls it, takes two hours. From there the drive to the coast takes over three hours. Cold mountains to a warm beach in less than a day. All we had to do was travel south the length of the country and make a left turn.

By the time we get to Phan Thiet and book the room it is 2:30 A.M.. The hammock that swings invitingly between two palm trees on the beach is too much to resist. Kicking back in the moonlight as the waves crash in is inspiring.

The next morning I casually glance down at an international newspaper. The headlines read; Malaysian police arrest 215 African con artist and drunken troublemakers. Singapore cripples terror ring with suspected links to radical Muslim groups in Indonesia and Afghanistan. United States Justice Dept. spends $8000 to cover two 1930 era statues. The statues representing justice, depicts a woman wearing a toga with one exposed breast and a man wearing what looks like a towel around his waist. Now I remember why I don’t read the paper while on vacation.

The beach resort is not quite ready for prime time. Maybe three people speak English adequately and they are hard to find. At the beach activities hut I am told that the surfboards, wind boards and boogey boards are all broken. The snorkel and fins are missing. Looking around at all the old broken gear prompts me to ask why they are even open. They don’t understand the question so I rephrase a few times with no luck. The resort brochure has a lot of typos and funny use of English. This is supposed to be one of the best resort chains in the country. They have five in the south, two in the north and one in the middle with more on the way. It is the fact that this is their version a five star resort that makes all the shortcomings amusing.

The people are very nice and go out of their way to be helpful. But when it comes to tourism, they are still trying to get the hang of it. Hicks of Asian tourism - was the term used by a passing stranger to describe his Vietnam travel experience. I went on reading and laughing out loud at the brochure. At the bottom of the list of things to do, right below rafts, (also broken) is kites. So it has come to this. Kite flying on the beach. Not as cool as wind surfing but could be fun for a while. The attendant, who as already had to tell me that everything I’ve asked for so far, was broken, looks genuinely embarrassed by the kite request. He points to the ocean and says, kite not broke but fishermen using all the kite string for fishing. Once I get what he is saying, I can’t help but to laugh until I cry. He is amused at my amusement. Apologetically, he tells me that maybe in a couple months one of the wind boards will be fixed. The ocean and the beach will be activity enough.

I swim and hang out a few hours and then it’s off to tour the small row of resorts. The plan is to see the sites, eat some dinner, meet some people and maybe find a better deal on a room. Or at least find a place that will be showing the Super Bowl tomorrow. A tour of the coast leads to meeting more friendly locals. No luck finding a place with ESPN. It appears that Star Sports is a little cheaper so the hotels all carry them instead. Jon Paul, a French-Canadian hotel owner, has his receptionist make a few calls to find the big game. He shares a lot of insight on what it is like to try to run a business in this country. They passed a law years ago to make it illegal to charge foreigners more for utilities and the like. Unfortunately for him and for tourism, the laws have yet to be enforced. He claims that he pays a thousand percent more for electricity and that keeps a lot of investors away. Confirming my suspicions that the government is finding it awkward to balance Communism with tourism. He goes on to relate how far the country has come in turning around the poverty rate. From like over 80% to under 30%. There were other improvements like making motorbikes available to the masses and building big streets. Apparently not long ago most people were walking or on bicycles in dirt roads.

Jon Paul then invites us to dinner and stiffs us with the check. Oh well, he probably needs the money for the utility bills. We catch a cab back to our beach pad. The driver has a tattoo on his forearm. The word is that only mobsters have tattoos in Vietnam so I asked him what his means. He tells us that when the Americans left he had this pro Castro slogan tattooed in hopes of avoiding trouble with the North Vietnamese government. It didn’t work. He spent over two years in a Re-Education camp. He told us that he misses the Americans and wishes more would come back. He asks me if I could get a message to General Westmoreland? I look over to my buddy Mark, and say - I don’t know which is odder; that he thinks that because I am American I know General Westmoreland or the fact that my ex-roommate just married the General’s granddaughter? I give him my email address and tell him that oddly enough I might be able to help him.

Back at the resort the manager regrettably informs me that he had no luck finding the football game. Thanks to the International Date Line, my Super Bowl Sunday was a Monday, a beach day. The next day we take a big slow bus to Saigon. It stops at a resort two miles away. A couple gets on and tells us that the game was on at their hotel. We say oh well, we’ve only called the place three times over the last two days and were told that they didn’t have it. There will be time to forget about the game as our bus crawled along at about 30 mph.

The road was good, wide and often clear of traffic. Little mopeds continually zip pass us. The slow speed was a mystery. Maybe all the power was diverted to the horn. The loudest horn ever heard on a wheeled vehicle. On the bus we have plenty of time to make a list, in geographical order, of lodging possibilities.

Saigon is the largest city in Vietnam. With an official population of over four million. The true number is probably closer to seven million. The government does not count those without official residency permits. Many had their permits transferred to re-education camps after the war and have since snuck back into the city and multiplied. The bus stop is on Biet Thu Street. Biet Thu is the center of what I would call the backpacker area. Lined with travel and tour agencies, internet cafes, restaurants and cheap clean hotels. Rooms can be found for $2 to $15 and meals go for $2 to $5. The shops vary from clothes to crafts to drugstores. One shop carries only backpacks. The rumor is they come from unlucky cyclo passengers who were taken down secluded streets and had their pack snatched by passing motorbike bandits. The story goes on to include that sometimes the Cyclo driver is in on it. This is about as bad of a crime that one might encounter here. In other words, it’s a lot safer than back home. As a precaution, it is wise to stay alert. Keep all lose articles such as cameras and purses safely secured while walking or cycloing the city streets. I am told that I would probably never be targeted because I am so big. At six feet / 190, I never thought of myself as big. I smiled and replied, Yes, like John Wayne. He just stared blankly at me. We have a lot more growth hormones in our meat supply, I said. More blank stares. It’s the diet, get it? He did not. Oh well. He smiles and says that his name is Bat Man. He will be right here if anyone needs a Cyclo ride. He and about thirty other drivers line the street. It is an exciting and cheap way to travel. Weaving in and out of traffic. Making left turns into 900 oncoming motorbikes is especially exhilarating.

A very useful item is the pair of small walkie talkies brought along for hiking. Thought being, hike in to some destination and use the walkie talkies to communicate with Mark. Together we decide if the site is worth him trekking to. We did this a total of one time. But on separate cyclos, the walkie talkies were invaluable for pointing out things and for keeping track of each other. I recommend the Motorola T5100. They are small, sturdy, and have a slightly better range than others at the price. They can be found for under $50 a pair.

Before cruising for a hotel, we take advantage of all the travel agencies. After briefly visiting three of them, we learn that a trip to the Delta is simple but a trip to Angkor Wat will require a visa. Ideally one can avoid having to obtain a visa by treating it as a stop over. Typically, the three agents each gave us three very different stories. There may be a way to have a visa waiting at the airport or to hook up with a tour group with special clearance or we may not be able to go at all. So we decide to worry about it later and set off to find a room.

A score was finding a place that was a cross between a hotel and an apartment. There were two bedrooms, a living room, large bathroom, kitchen and a small room with a combination washer dryer. The price was quadruple that of the smaller rooms on Biet Thu Street but is still a bargain. While checking in we think we spot an American and rush over to introduce ourselves and drill him for the 411 on Saigon. His name is Samuel. He does us one better and invites us to join him for dinner.

Soon we join Samuel and his friends and coworkers for cocktails. As one might imagine, the few expats all seem to know each other. Some in the party have lived here for almost two years so they know where to eat. We go to a crowded place that has a large open entrance and occupies two large rooms. They serve only one dish. Grilled thin steak, a slice of ham, a pate’ and a fried egg. All sizzling loudly on a hot iron plate. On the side are small plates of french fries, sliced cucumber and carrots. There is a basket of bread and of course, beer. One brand of beer at one tempature, warm. No need for a menu here. The food is great. It is a kick listening to the Americans speak Vietnamese. It is an especially hard language to learn. They way one sings a vowel at the end of a word could drastically change the word to numerous meanings.

We take a taxi to shoot some pool. The green taxi’s are the best or any taxi that has a running meter. The cab passes by the Majestic Hotel, one of the main hangs for the CIA and the press during the war. This prompts the conversation to take an interesting turn. The questioned is asked if I thought that we were being loosely watched while in town. Not really, I reply. We move around a lot with no fixed plans. They have been snooping in my apartment says another person. In China they follow you from like three feet away, adds Mark. I chime in with well I hear that in Libya you have a private police escort and.... I am interrupted with why would you want to go to Libya? Well it is full of Roman ruins and it is close to Egypt, I say. Mark pleads no more Egypt talk. I ask why, is it too soon to plan our next trip?

Once back at the room one of my new friends points out the little park below us. It is a small patch of grass with shrubs and trees, all surrounded by walls. We are looking down at the actual grounds that the United States Embassy once occupied. The exact corner where the compound was overrun is pointed out. It is a bit eerie to be staying so close to a place I’ve seen on TV so many times. The black and white image of helicopters flying out and Vietcong storming in is a familiar one to any fan of the History Channel. Now it just looks like a small park. It is usually empty. Occasionally some employees from the government building next door play soccer on their lunch break.

The next morning we stroll around town and enjoy the sites of small side streets that each seem to have their own specialties. Rows of meat, vegetables and of course rice. Furniture, large and small, is being made and sold right out in the street. Dragon and other fruit, twice the size of basketballs, beam in bright colors of yellow and red. In Vietnam the oranges are green on the outside. This leads me to try, in vain, to find out if the color orange is the same as ours. Also does the word for the fruit mean green? The next question was going to about grape and purple color, but I never got that far. Hey, one subject is as good as the next when no one speaks English.

One of the ways Americans are spoiled is that we can travel most of the world and never have to learn another language. Apparently this is one of the few places where one can go to the most expensive establishments and have trouble communicating. The American Dollar seems to help people learn English quickly. But English has yet to be mastered here. If you want to see a country largely unaffected by tourism, better get here fast. It is just a matter of time before they figure it out.

Passing through a Chinese section we meet a little boy with a traditional haircut. He was sporting three patches of hair, one in front and one on each side. The sights and smells keep coming as the street narrows to a mud and gravel path about 18 inches wide.

Flowers are all around as the whole country is getting ready for New Years. The Chinese Lunar New Year is the longest chronological record in history, dating from 2600 BC, when the Emperor Huang Ti introduced the first cycle of the zodiac. The calendar is a yearly one based on the cycles of the moon. Because of this cyclical dating, the beginning of the year can fall anywhere from late January to the middle of February. This year it falls on February 12th. A complete cycle takes 60 years and is made up of five cycles of 12 years each. Each of the 12 years is named after an animal. Legend has it that the Lord Buddha summoned all the animals to come to him before he departed from earth. Only 12 came to bid him farewell; as a reward he named a year after each one in the order they arrived.

The belief is the animal ruling the year in which a person is born has a profound influence on personality, it is said - this is the animal that hides in your heart. The coming New Year is the Year of the Horse. I was born during the year of the horse but could not find a way to make this pay off. There weren’t any Horse only parties or discounts. There were however, a lot of festivities in the parks and on the streets.

We made our way back through the flowers and New Year paraphernalia back to Biet Thu Street. Here, cold beer and great seafood pizzas can be found at the restaurant with the corny name. Good Morning Vietnam - is run by two Italians and the food is good. It was disappointing to find out from the local travel agents that we could not get a single-entry visa to Cambodia. The government visa offices closed yesterday for New Year and will remain closed for over two weeks. It was even more disappointing to find out later, when it was too late, that the offices were open all along. In many countries the locals will say yes to everything even if it is not possible. Likely not wanting to disappoint or be the barrier of bad news. Here we keep running into people telling us no to everything even if it is easily possible. Leaving us to speculate as to why. Here the phrase - don’t take no for an answer - are words to live by.

Back at the room our washer dryer combo has been washing or drying one single load for over five hours. No wonder these never caught on in the United States. Around midnight the laundry finished. The clothes are clean but also look battered and cooked from the experience. I slip on my wrinkled gray pants, that used to be tan in color, and flag down a Cyclo to explore town.

First to a nightclub interestingly named - Apocalypse Now. The driver pedals along and gives warnings on how to tell the good girls from the bad. He speaks English well enough to have an actual conversation. Apparently the prostitutes are shy at times and the girls that just want to dance can be aggressive at times. This can be confusing and I should be aware. Staying just long enough to have a beer and check the place out, I ask him if he thinks that we might encounter bad girls that are not prostitutes? He shrugs and offers to take me on a tour of the city. It is late and there is very little traffic.

We make another quick stop at a club called - The Underground, before cruising around the river area and the People’s Committee building. He tells me that he is sorry about the Americans that died in the big building and that he is sorry that Americans ever left Vietnam. He is the third person to offer condolences regarding the 9/11 attacks and the 5^th person to voice regrets about the outcome of the war.

Apparently there is still a large divide between the north and south. Hanoi in the north is where the capitol is but Saigon in the south is where the big city culture is. There are also still hard feelings from having a large part of the population sent to re-education camps. There may well be bad feelings between the north and south but I only encounter friendly people and smiling face from every region. They seem to enjoy meeting an American. Especially so, according to the story of when President Clinton came to visit. The officials tried to keep his arrival very low key but the word got out and the streets of Saigon were blocked for miles. From the airport to the heart of the city; people wanted to see the American president. Did he give a speech, what did he say? I ask. He spoke of freedom. Was the reply. The president’s speech was recorded on bootleg tapes and CD’s. They were widely sold, traded and given away. The word is it was an embarrassment for Hanoi. There will not be a similar invitation anytime soon. The people are hungry for political reform and they look to America as the ideal.

It was easy enough to hook up a tour to the Mekong Delta. A day trip is affordable and worth doing. For around $8 one can join a small tour on a minibus or van. The tour includes a visit to two islands, lunch, live music, a stop at a candy making area and a rice wine still. We found that for $10 extra we could have a private car and stop at three islands instead of two. Both deals include a driver and a tour guide. Is it really necessary to have both a driver and a tour guide? It would be all right with us if the driver pointed out things to us along the way, or if the tour guide drove. The agent insisted, saying that two people were needed. Maybe we were finally going to meet a professional tour guide who speaks English.

Even though the tour office is less than two miles away, the car arrives almost an hour late. Like everyone else we have met, the guide is very friendly and speaks very little English. On the drive we start to see a trend that we noticed from our earlier drives. Apparently when we ask the driver to pull over for water or for a toilette etc., he interprets it to mean pull over whenever. We would drive for half an hour and pass a lot of places. At first we thought that the drivers must have a special place in mind to stop. Soon realizing that we had to use stern voice inflection and demand to - Stop here! Or the driver would never pull over.

The Delta was very cool. The boats are painted in colorful shades of blues, greens and orange. Flowers were all around adding to the visuals of people getting ready to celebrate the New Year. A short boat ride brings us to the first island. We are treated to a big helping of mixed fruit and live music. Two men play traditional guitars and two adorable young girls sing. They girls aged 8 and 10 sing separately and then together. They are very good and not put off by the video camera. They are thrilled to see themselves in the viewfinder / monitor.

Everyone loved the jelly beans and pennies. They have some things to sell to the tourist. Made mostly from coconuts. I buy three coconut masks and an instrument that the guitar players use to tap out a beat with their foot. The language barrier prevents me from sharing what the instrument is called. It is shaped like a sideways V. The V is made of thin sheet metal and there is a wooden ball on one end and a wooden disc at the other. The musician uses his foot to tap the ball against the disc. After the show another short boat rides us to the next island for lunch. Visitors are free to order other items but the standard lunch is the elephant fish. Wanting to try the most local of foods, I agree to order the fish. The fish is flat and is named after an elephant’s ear.

The meal arrives deep fried, covered in coconut flakes, standing whole and upright on a special serving platter. A woman proceeded to remove pieces of the fish meat and wrap it in a mint leaf. Next she dips some thin rice pieces in water and wraps them around the fish and mint. When she gets three finished, she serves them to me and continues to make the little fish wraps until all the fish meat is gone. I take a small walk after lunch and discover the elephant fish in a large cement pond. This is a sight to see before lunch or not at all. The fish were barely alive. They were swimming sideways, skin flaking off and their eyes were completely fogged over. I have seen dead fish that looked fresher than these. I can’t vouch for the other items available, but avoid the elephant fish!

It was a short walk to see the local candy factory. There is a large area without walls but covered by a thatch roof. A taffy like concoction of peanut and coconut is rolled into a ball and then into long strips. The strips are shaped on a long table in a wooden mold. The pieces are uniformly cut, wrapped in edible rice paper and then in a wrapper. At the next table they are put in rectangle shaped baggies. The label, Kim Phat Coconut Candy, is inserted and it is taped shut and ready to go. I buy three of the still warm packages. The price for all three is around $2.

On the next island we are treated to a drink of strong rice moonshine right from the still. A canoe ride through the canals of the island is a pleasant diversion. A woman squats on the bow of the small craft and rows with a thin paddle. The Delta offers yet another opportunity to meet interesting locals and take a lot of pictures. In general it is easy to get the impression that they sort of just threw together a few stops and called it a tour. People do their everyday routine and stop to play host to the sporadic groups of tourist. Depending on ones expectations and desires, this could be a good or a bad thing.

The last night in town is spent partying with some locals and Westerners at a private home. It is a birthday party and they have a jam session. They make fun of their musical abilities but they are good. A local pop star joins in for a song and a good time is had by all.

On the way out my video camera seems to upset the restaurant on the corner. They have a lot of different animals in wooden cages. We assume they are serving endangered species. We pass by some restaurants and are told the name on the sign translates to - Beer and Hugs. The lack of tables, chairs and food is pointed out to us. We decline the invitation to stop as much as we all love beer and hugs.

There is time stop for one last souvenir. Every few blocks there are people selling Vietnamese and Communist flags for New Years. The big red flag with the hammer and sickle is a must have item. The guy selling the flags is confused by my choice. He really wants me to buy the Vietnamese flag instead. He implies the Communist flag is no good. I tried, without success, to find out why he was selling the flag if he didn’t want anyone to buy it. I tried harder to explain to him that the Communist flag was much funnier and that was why I preferred to buy it instead of the other. He never did get the idea but he did reluctantly take my money and give me the flag.

My practice of making up for lost sleep on plane should be easy on the flight home. The flight is well over 20 hours. The efficiency of the stopover in Tokyo on the way here is in sharp contrast to the mayhem of the stopover in Taipei on the way back. As in the Tokyo stop, we are told that we must exit the plane with all belongings, make our way through the airport and re-board the same plane shortly.

The difference in Taipei is that there is nobody directing passengers as to which way to go. We come to two separate places that are not marked. Each time half of the passengers go one way, half the other. Luckily I make it to an area where an airline employee is leaning in a doorway and sort of directing people. I inform him of the passengers that went the opposite way. He smiles and replies - too bad for them. Next is the line to be searched right before re-boarding the plane. They look through the suitcase and shopping bag that I am carrying and insist on keeping the disposable shaver that I was given on board. I point out to them the airline logo on the shaver and tell them that it came from the very same plane that I am about to enter. It is no use. They keep the shaver but do not ask to look through the huge backpack that I am wearing.

The system is no less frustrating than at LAX. On the way out from LA, while my shoes were being scanned, I talked the woman who was searching me into giving me a quick shoulder rub. She was patting me down anyway and I had to wait for my shoes. She confided that I should not feel bad about the delay. Last week Charlton Heston and his wife were held up for almost an hour because Mrs. Heston had fingernail clippers on her.

Once back on the plane in Taipei we are delayed because, surprise, some passengers are missing. I tell the attendant that they are lost in the airport and that I tried to report it earlier. She thanks me. The decision is made, after about ten minutes, to leave them. And left behind they are.

On the flight back I remember a story that my father told me about his plane ride home after the war. He said that he just looked around the plane. Everyone was very quite. It was a modern commercial airline. Everything was clean and new. He had just spent over a year in the mud and jungle and now he was coming home. The contrast, and the quite, was an emotional experience.

After being home awhile from a big trip and having been asked a dozen times about my experience, I inevitably start to repeat myself. The experience gets condensed so that I can share it easily. I find myself saying of Vietnam - They are having some trouble mixing Communism with tourism. They don’t have as many temples and other attractions that can be found in places like Thailand. But the country is beautiful, the people are friendly and the prices are cheap. If you want to experience a place that is not yet spoiled by slick tourist traps, better get there soon. And bring jellybeans.