When the United States withdrew from Vietnam in 1973, the nation's armed forces left behind approximately 1600 unaccounted-for servicemen. Since that time, efforts to find and bring home these MIA's have proven to be a considerable roadblock to normalized relations between the two countries. Over the course of the subsequent three decades, however, the relationship has improved to the point where droves of Americans choose to make Vietnam their temporary home. This burgeoning community of expatriates has thrived in resurgent Saigon, Vietnam's most modern and market oriented city. Many of you have probably been wondering if we hadn't fallen into one of these two categories. Not quite...
We've been home in Fairbanks for almost a month now, struggling to readjust to life in the states, life as students, and life plagued by familiarity. Now, as classes are starting, our cabin is furnished, and our cupboards relatively stocked, we can finally catch up with the blog and finish this thing off. Prepare yourselves for a whirlwind ride- the end of the trip seemed to fly by, and we're sure it will appear even more manic in the condensed version we have to offer you. Stay tuned for Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore- for now:
AU REVOIR, SAIGON!
Saigon (correctly, yet far less colorfully known as Ho Chi Minh City) was a study in contrasts. For a variety of reasons, many of which we've already discussed, our time in South Vietnam's former capital was an emotional roller-coaster. One minute, we'd be laughing and joking with cyclo drivers who wanted nothing more than to share their stories of relatives living stateside. The next, we'd be face to face with double amputees, their limbs left behind on some distant battlefield three decades prior. The war we've all grown familiar with happened in the south. The north certainly felt the impact of the years of sporadic aerial and naval bombardment, but it was in South Vietnam that nearly all of the brutal ground combat took place. Agent Orange, the notorious defoliant used to unmask VC positions, was sprayed almost exclusively in the south. Of the approximately 5 million tons of bombs dropped on Vietnam from 1963 to 1973, 4 million fell on southern soil. Thirty years later, Saigon has only begun to recover from the war era. Adding to the already overwhelming collection of casualties are scores of recent victims, their injuries owing to the vast amounts of unexploded ordinance spread throughout the countryside. We were also struck by the noticeably high rates of mental retardation and birth defects in Saigon. Much of this has been attributed to exposure to Agent Orange and other similar defoliants. There's little doubt that other factors are at play here. Malnutrition, poor prenatal practices, and a host of other natural causes have surely contributed to this phenomenon. Still, one can't help but notice the direct correlation between the ages of the majority of victims and the war era. The Vietnamese estimate that as many as 400,000 people (most likely a bit of an exaggeration) suffer the effects of dioxin poisoning, a carcinogen found in the defoliants used by the U.S. during the war.
Two of the men we regularly encountered near our hotel. Both men, amputees, seemed determined to carve out a living for themselves without begging. We were constantly touched by this characteristic stoic determination.These unfortunate reminders of Vietnam's terrible past sprung up at nearly every turn. Walking from our room, nestled in a bustling back alley, we'd pass a collection of barely functioning adults, some of whom seemed to not be able to speak, eat, or even stand up. Emerging into the main backpackers drag, we'd run into a serious looking middle aged man selling lottery tickets from his wheelchair. He had no legs. On most days, we would head around the block to a small bakery named Sozos, where we were served cookies, cake, and coffee by a young girl with oddly disfigured arms and one of Saigon's many street children. Nothing was more gut wrenching, however, than our visit to the War Remnants Museum. We walked across town on a slate gray afternoon punctuated by intense bursts of rain, our minds flooded with somber thoughts of the impending trip home. We stopped briefly at the old Presidential Palace, now a tourist attraction dedicated to the 1975 communist victory, and then carried on to our intended destination.
One of many "Tank 843's" immortalized across Vietnam, this one displayed on the very grounds where it made history. The Russian made T-54 broke through the Presidential Palace gates on April 30, 1975, a symbolic moment that signaled the end of the war. Admittedly, we expected the museum to be a bit of a joke, another outlandishly propagandist display similar to the ones we'd seen in China and other parts of Vietnam. We spent a few soggy moments touring the static displays of captured American and South Vietnamese military hardware before moseying in to "The Hall of Historical Truths," a name that practically screamed "Beware, Propaganda Ahead!" Apparently, the truth is tragic enough on all sides for the government to step back. The devastating collection entitled "Requiem" showcased the last photos of international photojournalists who died or disappeared while covering the war. The photographs themselves, even without knowing the story behind them, showed clearly the horror of war for all participants. American Larry Burrow's famous series "One Ride With Yankee Papa 13" along with the work of hosts of other Americans, stood alongside the work of North Vietnamese, Japanese, French, British, Australian, and German journalists. Instead of portraying anyone as the Enemy, the exhibit showed the humanity of both sides. We paid our respects alongside a steady stream of other tourists, looking at these final frames with teary eyes. As if to showcase the act of reconcilliation and shared grief these photos epitomized, each caption was written by an acquaintance of the photographer. The lack of politics made the very real "historical truths" even harder to bear; we couldn't shield our emotions by boxing the exhibit up as propaganda.
A captured American A-1 Skyraider on display outside the War Remnants Museum. The displays inside were much more difficult to digest.Walking back across the hardware strewn courtyard, we silently entered the main exhibit hall. Here, the displays were more one-sided. Yet, for the most part, they remained unembellished. We took exception (more from a scientific than human standpoint) to the fact that nearly all instances of physical or mental handicap were blamed on Agent Orange. Clearly, this is a gross exaggeration. The rest of the exhibit hit a nerve, however, reminding us in an all too lucid way that similar events were taking place at that very moment half a world away. Nary a word was spoken as we left the grounds of the museum and hailed a taxi back to our hotel. A similar, unspoken thought crossed both of our minds: Someday, maybe twenty, maybe thirty years from now, we'll be walking through that same damned museum in Baghdad. If we're lucky.
Even the most joyful of our Saigon experiences were somewhat overshadowed by residual sadness from the war years. We'd grown quite fond of Vietnamese city tours via cyclo. The three-wheeled contraptions are invariably driven by charming, knowledgeable men who tell stories of local history flavored by their own unique experiences. The cyclo drivers in Saigon have established a particularly good reputation. This is not at all surprising when one considers their backgrounds. Many of them are former professors, doctors, lawyers, or members of other highly educated fields who, because of their allegiances during the war, are no longer allowed to practice in their former occupations. Men who were once societal elite now struggle to survive. The cyclo drivers are under attack once again, as city officials are threatening to ban their use in favor of the far less charming motos that serve the same function. Tellingly, no such threats are being leveled in northern cities such as Hanoi.
A dying Saigon trademark? Cyclos are under attack in the city, as officials try to reduce street congestion and possibly fulfill political agendas. This particular driver took us on a memorable excursion through town, and then saw us off the next night with a huge grin and a handshake.After turning down one driver and watching his thin face immediately fall beneath his bright blue Dodgers cap, we knew it was time to take our ride through Saigon. We chased after him as he peddled morosely away, and enjoyed the sheer pleasure of watching him perk up and settle the cushions for us as we caught up and asked to hire him. Weaving through some of the most congested traffic we've ever seen, he took us away from the city center and into Saigon's Chinatown. Nearly every person we passed, from the mechanics tinkering with motos to grandmothers sitting on the sidewalk, seemed thrilled to see us in their midst. The number of people who turned to wave at us or smile for a hurried photo in passing was mind blowing. These overt displays of friendliness reminded us once again that, contrary to popular belief, the world DOES NOT HATE AMERICANS!!!
Saigon celebrities! This motley crew of schoolchildren were just a few of the dozens of people who took the time to wave and smile at us on our ride through town.The next day, we witnessed another reminder of this undeniable fact. We both had fulfilled lifelong dreams by filling up our passports, and needed to pay a visit to the relatively new American Embassy in order to get a few extra pages. We settled into line outside the compound walls, mingling with dozens of anxious looking Vietnamese citizens. Mothers nervously bounced babies in their arms and tired looking veterans leaned on their crutches while clutching official documents. Armed guards waved individuals through or shooed them away, depending upon the type of service being requested. We momentarily joined the latter group, but soon convinced the gatekeepers to let us through. We shared a waiting room with three families. The fathers paced with their folders full of papers, and young mothers tried to keep their babies quiet. Whenever one was called to the desk, intense anxiety swept the room. As their cases were dealt with, each family seemed relieved for the others, and everyone smiled. Those who had just braved the process of claiming citizenship for their child beamed. Our business was painless- we handed over our passports, waited 45 minutes, and left much the same as we entered. For these families, the business conducted in that room could determine the course of their lives. It was immensely humbling to realize how privileged we are to hold American passports, and how desperately other people seek that privilege.
Happy to know that we now had enough blank pages in our passports to accommodate the remainder of our travels, we went back to our hotel and began packing for what we thought would be a morning departure for Cambodia. Walking back from dinner, we were surprised to see our cyclo driver friend from the day before enjoying an evening date with the local bia hoi establishment. He sprung from his knee-high plastic table and rushed out to greet us, arms extended and goofy smile beaming. We thought it was an exceptionally fitting way to end our stay in Vietnam, a place where we had been overwhelmed by the warmth and friendliness of the people since the moment we crossed the border. Unfortunately, the most fitting endings aren't always the ones we end up with.
Our cyclo driver, who showed us the city and then bid us a genuinely warm farewell. Unfortunately, we'd end up spending one more in Saigon before embarking for Cambodia.We woke up early the next day and caught a local bus across town. We were hoping to get to the border town of Chau Doc, where we'd then catch a boat traveling up the Mekong River to Cambodia's capital city, Phnom Penh. It was a debacle from the get go. When we reached the bus station, we were shoved into a tiny minivan that had no empty seats and no room for baggage. We still had 50 pound bags. We also needed seats. We weren't quite sure what our relatively expensive tickets had bought us, and of course, our non-English speaking hosts weren't offering any explanations. A series of gestures conveyed that we needed to go back and buy extra seats for our bags, an action we were especially unwilling to do since there were, to anyone with eyes, no such seats on the bus. After much storming about, loading an unloading of luggage, and near-violent, unintelligible arguments with unobliging ticket women, we refunded our tickets and took a taxi back to the hotel we'd just vacated. The taxi ride cost as much as our bus tickets had. Frustrated beyond words, cursing Vietnam's tourist infrastructure for the apparent advantage it was taking of us, we headed straight to the colonial era post office to ship our dead weight home. Perhaps we'd have better luck the next day if our packs were miniaturized.
We stopped by the French-era Notre Dame Cathedral on our way to the post office. The twin spired goliath is testament to the continued influence of Catholicism on Vietnam. Saigon is a lot like most Vietnamese cities, yet at the same time, it isn't. Like all Vietnamese cities, it lacks the fundamental characteristics that mark major cities in other countries. Missing are the downtown high-rises and shiny commercial districts of Shanghai or even Ulaanbaatar. Residential neighborhoods aren't just apartment blocks, but twisty little alleys full of doors that open to the street, whose denizens operate small shops and stands on the sidewalk. Cities in Vietnam seem to grow organically as small villages spread out, intersect, and merge, amoeba-like. Urban planning and true city centers are unrecognizable. Saigon, for instance, looks almost exactly like Ninh Binh. It's just bigger and more crowded. But there is something noticeably different in Saigon, something made readily apparent by our frantic visit to the post office. We also mailed things from Dien Bien Phu and Hanoi, one a regional capital and the other the capital of the entire nation. Both times, our precious belongings were shoved unceremoniously into decrepit, rapidly dissolving cardboard boxes and tossed into a corner. In the Saigon post office's massive hallway, under vaulted ceilings and map-adorned walls, we encountered brand new boxes, rolls of tape, and helpful, well-informed postmistresses. It seems like a small thing, but that post office drove home what investors have known for years: despite 30 years of Communist rule, Saigon remains a market-oriented city prepared to meet the demands of international business. Consequently, it receives nearly all of Vietnam's Foreign Direct Investment.
Saigon's main post office, a government structure seemingly unrivaled in the country. Certainly a pleasant surprise after our post office visits in Dien Bien Phu and Hanoi. 
Saigon is Vietnam's center of FDI, owing to its inherently capitalistic nature and its history of dealing with market based economies. After a short but reinvigorating ride with a local taxi driver who energetically spoke to us of his relatives in the United States and his distrust of the former South Vietnamese regime (a diatribe that sounded canned and somewhat fake), we reemerged at our hotel and realized that, even after all of the effort, we still didn't have packs that would fit on the bus to Chau Doc. Reluctantly, we purchased bus tickets straight to Phnom Penh and repacked our belongings for our departure. The next morning, we bid our farewells to Vietnam. We had reluctantly set an end date for our trip while in Saigon, and knowing that the experience was coming to a close made us more pensive and reflective. We barely spoke a word as we rolled out of Saigon's suburbs and into the Kansas-like flatness of the upper Mekong Delta. Vietnam had captured our hearts, and Saigon broke them and patched them countless times in our brief stay there. The relentless hope and friendliness behind every desperate attempt to earn a living, and the stoic determination that kept every person, even those missing multiple limbs, begging not for handouts but for legitimate work, defined the people of the city and twisted our guts every moment of the day. For the smallest thing- just exchanging conversation instead of brushing off their offers of food or books- we were rewarded immensely with friendship. Children who belonged in kindergarten tried to sell roses and grew more downcast every time a tourist told them to scram ("Didi mau"), brightened up and giggled if we pretended to sneeze on their wares. This experience, more than any other, drove home the impact our smallest interactions can have. We can be rude and make a hard life more difficult and depressing, or we can be friendly and ease it even in a tiny way. It costs us nothing. Like our time at the embassy, these brief moments were, above all else, humbling.
Saigon (HCMC) Photos- Part 1
Saigon (HCMC) Photos- Part 2
1 comments:
Love the motor scooter videos. They really put us right there with you. Be sure to include them in your blog for the next trip.
-Joe
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