A Cosy Fit in Cu Chi Tunnels…..

A Cosy Fit in Cu Chi Tunnels…..

Today’s programme produced a more reflective day than most:

Thanh and Speedy Gonzalez (Khoa) picked us up at the ungodly hour of 07:30. “Hurry, hurry, time to go” chirped the irritatingly bouncy Thanh. I was in a mild grump, having slept very little due to a stinking cold, but the banter soon started up. We were setting out early in order to arrive at Cu Chi tunnels before the convoys of tour coaches arrived. Thanh was really enthusiastic about this trip because it’s his home village. A brief stop along the way to view some rubber plantations didn’t delay us much.

Before leaving the UK I had gotten hold of a number of films about the Vietnam war and had watched propaganda films made by both factions as well as some excellent objective documentaries. So I wasn’t really sure how I would feel when we arrived. And at first it seemed we were just going to visit another typical tourist attraction anyway.

We were given a full explanation of the structure and extent of the tunnels by Thanh: 250km of tunnels and underground kitchens, bunkers, workshops etc in 3 tiers. Then we were shown a Viet Cong film about Cu Chi, which was made in the ‘60s. The flickering black and white images showed villagers, remarkably similar to those we have met, going about their normal lives in a rural idyll. Then came the images of war and the commentary made strident comments about the USA sending B52 bombers to destroy their plantations and villages. And talked of women and children slaughtered. Finally the images were of men and woman from the villages who joined with the communist forces to fight a guerrilla war against the Americans. Several villagers were named as heroes for destroying three tanks or killing eighteen Americans. Absurdly small numbers compared to the mass slaughter they experienced from above - and later as a consequence of Agent Orange. We saw their graves later in the day.

At this point some Americans were clearly upset at the one-sided perspective. But what did they expect? “God Bless America - thank you for sending Lieutenant Calley and for the Mai Lai Massacre in Mai Son Province?”

In places the woods surrounding the area were deserted - the only sound that could be heard was gunfire from the range, where thrill-seekers got to be macho for a few seconds.
But if you looked around it was not hard to imagine the ghosts of the Viet Cong crawling silently through those tunnels - of the hesitant tramping of fearful GIs, who knew an unseen enemy could pop-up and slaughter them, only to vanish in an instant - and of the gruesome bear traps and spiked bamboo booby traps and mines concealed under the fallen leaves.

The mood changed when Thanh invited us to enter one of the tunnels. It had been widened and heightened to allow Nguoi Tay (Westerners) to get through. Needless to say they hadn’t envisaged Happy Buddha, complete with bulging camera belt, trying to pass through. I simply got wedged. But the surprise of the day followed immediately: Jan, who had insisted that she wouldn’t go down even before we left Wales, suddenly nipped down the steps and was gone, like a ferret down a bunny-burrow! Now I was in a real quandary - I knew she would brag about her bravado ‘till I was forced to throttle her - so the camera bags were passed to Thanh … and orft we jolly well went!

It was so tight I had to crawl on hands and knees, my shoulders scraping the arched tunnel roof. In stygian blackness the tunnel would weave left and right, leaving no straight section for enemy fire. The air was stifling and I began to dissolve in sweat. Thankfully this was just a short, sample section and I was relieved to see my beloved standing ahead in the sunlight.

We finished the tour, examining utility buildings such as sandal workshops, kitchens and combat clothing manufacturing. Then, on to the sobering expanse of the VC war cemetery where 50,000 fighters of both sexes are remembered. Thanh was very sombre here - the cemetery was home to members of his family.

Our last stop in Cu Chi was a visit to Thanh’s parents. His father was 86 years old and had fought both the French and the Americans. He had been a POW for seven years before being exchanged for captured American pilots in 1973. The parent’s home was beautiful, with well tended gardens maintained by Thanh’s father. He was an impish individual and his wife, Thanh’s mother, had a wonderfully warm smile. We drank tea before Thanh said “Hurry, hurry, time to go!”
We took a ‘photo or two before we left, but sadly neither parent smiled for the camera, so you don’t get the warm feeling we experienced.

Now we really were in a rush: we had to get to Tay Ninh to see the noon ceremony at the Cao Dai temple. Well, we arrived seven minutes late - but still in plenty of time to listen to the haunting music and watch the congregation at their devotions. BUT the place was inundated with tourists like us, so the atmosphere failed to make an impact. Fascinating to see, but we have experienced far more moving ceremonies in Nepal where we were alone and could absorb the atmosphere.

A ghastly luncheon was left untouched (although 4 beers somehow managed to slither down our gullets) before we headed back to Saigon.

Now our plan was to repeat our wonderful last night in Hanoi, by wandering around before eating. Jan was keen to visit the market and we had just about enough time to walk there. Except we never found it. A rather corpulent individual shuffled up and, in reasonable English, asked where we were trying to go. (Can you feel a scam coming on?) “BenThanh Market” quoth we. “Oh No, that one close now. Let me take you to American or Chinese Market - they don’t close till late” And suddenly we found ourselves in a taxi, hurtling through the rush-hour to the far side of Saigon.
When we arrived I couldn’t make head or tail of the meter. “How much on the meter” I asked. “3” he replied - suddenly forgetting how to speak English. He then said “show me you money” and helped himself to 300,000 vnd. (£10.00)
We Wuz Robbed! Not only that, but the Chinese Market was clearly closing!
We wandered around aimlessly, getting hopelessly lost, before realizing we would need another taxi to get home. But (gulp) neither of us had the Hotel address on us.

An attempt to communicate with a taxi driver failed miserably, and he drove off. Only to return with a mobile ‘phone! Another Basil Fawlty-esque mobile ‘phone conversation then ensued, with a supposedly English speaking woman shouting “Herro - What you say” down the ‘phone at me. Finally I gave up and handed the ‘phone back to the driver, who jabbered briefly then said “OK, you get in!”
So off we hurtled again, not knowing what could possibly go wrong next, while I watched the digits on the meter racking up. Suddenly our driver exclaimed “This your Hotel” …. And it was!
“How much on meter?” I asked nervously. “3” quoth he.
With sinking heart I started to dig out another 3,000,000 dong. “No, No” he said, impatiently, so I began adding more to the pile. “No, No” he said again - and helped himself to just 3,000 dong, with a big smile on his face.
Just 20 cents for International Rescue!
I could have kissed him!

Back in the hotel we vowed to have just a sandwich, before going for a last stroll.
So here I sit, bashing out the last Vietnamese Blog, before taking a walk in the park with my beloved.

Don’t miss tomorrow’s episode: Angkor’s away!

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