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Published: October 26th 2007
Propaganda
The Vietnamese Communists, like the Russians, use art to press moral messages and goals. This propaganda art is seen all over the country.I didn't grow up during the Vietnam War. In fact, it was more than twelve years after America's misadventures in Asia that I was even born. But, like many a young man, I was fully absorbed in movies like Apocalypse Now, Deer Hunter, Full Metal Jacket and Platoon. Such raw and uncompromising portrayals of war were as fascinating as they were disturbing. As the first 'televised' war, the reality of the war in Vietnam was brought into the homes of everyday America. A picture of a young girl running naked down the street crying, her body scarred from napalm; a disturbing snapshot of a monk setting himself on fire in protest; and video footage of villages being burnt to the ground by American soldiers created anger amongst a sympathetic public in America. Add to this a pinch of LSD, a few poets carrying around Mao's little red book, spouting off Marxist rhetoric, and a bunch of angry and disobedient college students and you have the Vietnam War in America.
As for the American War in Vietnam, well, it seems the Vietnamese had trouble understanding why
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The same rules apply on the river as they do on the roads - bigger vehicles always have the right of way. America was involved in the first place. The American's saw Vietnam as a dangerous ideological pawn in the cold war chess match, not realizing that their presence forced Vietnam into a delicate balancing act, seeking support from the communists - the Soviet's and Red China.
It took millions of determined men and women, fighting a savage and brilliant guerrilla war against the stronger and better equipped French and Americans. In 1975, as the last of the remaining American's were airlifted to safety atop the American Embassy, the North Vietnamese troops stormed through Saigon in their tanks and Vietnam had finally had it's independence, but a long road ahead.
But that was then, this is now - water under the bridge, as they say. Though there are still the visible footprints left by French and American presence, the Vietnam of today seems to be looking forward. As Vietnam's doors continue to slowly open - the government realizing the certain benefits to private enterprise - foreign investors already have their feet in, looking to make a dollar; and thousands of tourists ride buses up and down Vietnam's long coastline each year trying to get a taste of this intriguing and
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Working in the fields. fascinating country. I was going to give it a go on my bike.
I awoke in Chau Doc to the rumble of a motorbike engine turning over. Soon an orchestra of noise followed. I could hear dishes crashing in a nearby kitchen. The steady clank of a monk making his alms run faded as he passed, and a young maid sang along with a pop song playing too loudly on the radio. I mashed around the nightstand looking for my watch. It was 5:30am. Fuck, I'm in Vietnam. Surely I wasn't the first person to utter those words.
I came out of my room to a dark sky and the patter of steady rain. Considering it was only be a short ride to Long Xuyen, my destination for the day, I had a leisurely breakfast with an interesting old American sculptor. A victim of Thailand's tightening immigration policies, after four years in Thailand he was suddenly told he could no longer get a visa extension. Now, he was left wandering around Cambodia and Vietnam, trying to find a way back to Chang Mai - his apartment, his work, his life.
Checking out of my hotel
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Plenty of fresh fruit to eat along the way. I ran into the first of what would become a long line of frustrations in Vietnam. It's standard beaurocratic policy to surrender your passport to reception when checking into hotels and guesthouses in this country - an easy way for government to keep tabs on foreigners. After paying my bill for the night's accomodation I asked for my passport back, only to be flatly told that it had already been given to me. Clearly it hadn't, or I umm, would have had it. I calmly explained to the old lady that she hadn't given it to me yet, but she was having none of it, waving her hands about indignantly and refusing to be even remotely rational. My refusal to leave her and the entire situation alone (I needed my damn passport) had her almost hysterical. Her hands were flapping around so quickly I wouldn't have been surprised to see her take flight. Finally her son came from his daily chores to see what the problem was. I explained the situation, and he swiftly dug into the box where my passport had been stashed the night before, and produced, ta-da, my passport. He apologized for the misunderstanding, handing me my
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An overcast morning on the river. passport, as his mother gave one last wave of her arms and marched off, still convinced she was right. Welcome to Vietnam, I thought.
After the relative ease of navigation in Cambodia the many streets and side-alley's made it a chore getting out of Chau Doc. I finally found the highway heading east - a wide, paved road - that would take me to Long Xuyen. For the next three days I would be riding pancake flat roads, along, over, in and about the mighty Mekong river - that muddy brown mess of water, synonymous with the mystique of the Orient.
Starting high up in the mysterious plateau's of Tibet, the Mekong (Mother River) flows south east, through China, Myanmar, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam before finally dumping itself into the South China Sea. As the Mekong diverges near the Cambodian/Vietnamese border into an upper and lower arm, the rivers snake their way through the delta in a neverending series of tribituaries, streams, runoffs and canals that form the lifeblood of this fertile area. The millions of inhabitants living along and around it's banks depend on the Mekong for fishing and the production of the areas many crops
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Morning on the Mekong - rice, sugarcane, coconuts and a colourful variety of fruits, vegetables and flowers.
I rode alongside the lower arm of the Mekong with a steady stream of traffic, which I knew would only get worse as I neared Saigon. There was a wide shoulder to ride on but I was forced to occasionally swerve onto the road to avoid the various blankets of coconut shell, firewood, and fruit left to dry roadside. The road was flat apart from the many bridges taking me over the mighty rivers tribituaries, but was rarely quiet as I passed by an assortment of cafes, restaurants, homes, cathedrals and the occasional pagoda.
Thanks to Jesuit missionaries who converted the Vietnamese from Chinese characters to a Romanized alphabet I was semi-literate, making it possible to read road signs and recognize popular Vietnamese foods like Pho (noodle soup). The pronunciation of this tonal language, I soon learned, would not come as easily.
Vietnam has gained a reputation among traveler's as a land of scams and rip-off's. On Mr. Pumpy's bike site he warns that unlike the Cambodians and Laotians the Vietnamese are 'turned on'. Cambodian's tended to use much more harsh adjectives when describing
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Getting closer to Kurtz. their larger, more powerful neighbours - a result of long and heated history between the bordering countries. I expected that I was prepared for Vietnam and all it could throw at me, but I wasn't.
To get a sense of the pricing system, before I stopped for lunch or water breaks I would ask around at various stalls and restaurants the prices of things like water, soup, and cigarettes. It seemed everyone that I asked would give a different price, sometimes the prices seemed to come randomly off the top of their heads. I was quoted 10,000 dong for a 600ml bottle of water at one stall. Less than one kilometre down the road I was charged 5000 dong for a 1.5 litre bottle of the same water. The same bowl of soup ranged from 7000 dong to over 30,000 dong.
As I approached Long Xuyen and the search for reasonable accomodation began I was already beginning to feel frustrated - the traffic, the people, the hassle. I was starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn't have skipped Vietnam, like so many traveler's had recommended.
From Long Xuyen to Vinh Long was another short eighty kilometre day.
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Uncle Ho infront of City Hall. Outside of the city I followed a throng of motorbikes and bicycles onto a ferry that took me across the river where a narrow and bumpy road took me east. Coming from Cambodia, I couldn't help but make comparisons.
With a population hovering around 80 million, and in a very densely populated area, the roads were never quiet. Everyone rushed about, making even the simplest of tasks seem urgent and important. Men worked hard, adding to the already tangled mess of powerlines; women worked around the home, piling firewood and doing chores. People's homes, whether just a small hut with a corrugated roof or a modern home, all seemed well taken care of, with fresh coats of paint and usually a colourful personal touch. When I passed by local schools there seemed to be actual teacher's and they were running organized activities for the children. Everything seemed to be in direct contrast with Cambodia. In a strange way crossing into Vietnam from Cambodia made it seem like I had stepped back into Asia.
But frustrations continued to pile up. Prices seemed to fluctuate depending on the person's mood, the weather, or perhaps how much of an annoyance
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As any good photographer knows, the best time to take pictures is the middle of the afternoon when the sun is shining from directly above. my presence was to them. My only reprieve came in the form of sugar cane juice which I drank lazily in the comfort of one of the many roadside hammocks, used by truck and moto driver's as a coffee stop and rest area. Even then I had problems. One boy, who couldn't have been less than twelve years old, thought that I was apparently there as his playtoy. He didn't see anything wrong with pulling on my hair, tossing my book around in abusive fashion, burping up noodles onto my pants, or pulling on my saddlebags as his mother watched on saying nothing. As he was working on breaking my odometer off of my handlebars, seeing his mother wasn't going to do anything, I gave a quick bark and he finally scooted off into his home.
By the time neared the outskirts of Vinh Long in the pouring rain I had had enough of Vietnam. I stopped hastily at one of the many roadside cafe's for a shot of coffee and condensed milk and dug for my map, hoping to find a border crossing nearby where I could make my escape. I knew it was futile though - that
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Saigon is not short of people selling postcards. the only nearby border was the one that I'd crossed just yesterday, and I wasn't going to take a bus to Laos. Maybe I just had to take a breather, and calm down. Maybe a pep talk was what I needed?
'Okay man, slow it down. What in the hell are you getting all worked up about? A few people trying to overcharge you, what, 50 cents? One obnoxious little kid? Shit, you must be getting old - turning into a Princess. Jesus man, what ever happened to adventure? If you gotta eat dirt, you eat dirt. Knee deep in piss and mud? No problem. You are in a new country - new people, new language, new rules. If you have to play the game, you play the game. And remember, a smile goes along way. Now get your shit together, put your game face on, and get out there!'
My little conversation with myself seemed to help, even if it made me look a little bit insane. I set off determined not to be bothered by petty annoyances. I promised myself that any problems that came along I'd handle calmly. The results were immediate. With a big
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Reading about how the Vietnamese used bicycles to transport food and supplies along the Ho Chi Minh Trail makes my trip look easy. goofy grin on my face, pedalling around Ving Long looking for a place to stay in the pouring rain I was approached by a woman on a motorbike who showed me to a cheap guesthouse that I otherwise would have never found. She had to head back to work now, she said. But would I want to meet up later and she could show me around town? Why, I'd love to.
For the first time in Vietnam I met a genuine and kind woman and she took me on a motorbike tour of Vinh Long, treating me to dinner and dessert. Yup, a smile goes a long ways.
With renewed spirits I set off early to the city of Mytho, crossing the upper arm of the Mekong over a monsterous bridge that looked like it had been only recently finished. I was on the #1 Highway, the main vein of the country, connecting north and south - Saigon and Hanoi, some 1600 kilometres apart. It was busy and hectic - the city of Saigon loomed in the distance.
The city of Mytho is a large run down affair. Many tourists in Saigon take a boat to Mytho
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The traffic. for the day to get a glimpse and taste of the Mekong river. Tour companies charge outrageous fees to drive tourists around on boats, taking them to nearby islands where they can see how real locals live. I managed to arrange an early morning trip on a small boat for $5, from 6:00 am - 9:00 am before riding the last leg into Saigon.
My guide didn't speak any English, but she took me on an early morning ride through the quiet canals where tall palm leaves reached out across the water as dark clouds formed in the sky. I was Martin Sheen, knee deep in Charlie's territory, on my way to bring back Kurtz, and I was getting close. I could feel it in the air.
The fantasies didn't last long, though. At 9:00 am I was back at Mytho, with seventy kilometres until I'd be in the belly of the waking beast. Amongst a mob of traffic and huge billboards I set off to Ho Chi Minh City in nervous anticipation of what was to come.
'Riding a bike in Saigon, you're crazy man!' seemed to be the most common response from traveler's I'd met,
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The refurbished Majestic Hotel. 'Good luck, mate! I've never seen traffic like that in my life.' was another.
But like Mr.Pumpy says, the traffic always looks worse from the inside of a speeding bus. When you are out riding things make a little more sense, and I'd had no problems with the traffic in the country so far, apart from the honking horns.
As I drew closer and closer to the city traffic continued to increase to a feverish pitch, the constant drone of horns making my ears ring. It seemed the city was a large magnet, drawing to it the entire country. I half expected that upon entrance to the city, the culmination of all the moto's, cyclos, the buses, the trucks, was going to be a huge spectacle, the crashing of symbols perhaps or some grande parade taking place - some animistic sacrifice would have been the most fitting to close the day. Instead I followed the maze of vehicles that eventually took me to the heart of the city and backpacker central.
I remember when I was back in Canada a friend asked me what it was that I found so appealing about Asia. My well
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Protection against bad moto drivers? thought out and articulate response was along the lines of, 'Dude, it's awesome, that's why!' Though surely not as wonderful and descriptive as my answer, I thought Norman Lewis hit the nail on the head when he said:
"...the lives of the people of the Far East are lived in public…. The street is the extension of the house and there is no sharp dividing line between the two... it was the diversity of occupation that was so remarkable.' That extension of the house into the street was the appeal that Asia had always held over me, leaving me spellbound. The white picket fence doesn't exist in Asia. The lives of Saigon spill out into the open, in the crooked alley's and numbered quarters of the city.
I was fortunate to spend a few days in one of these crooked alley's in the gracious and welcoming care of a small family. It was comforting to wake up in the morning to the smell of home cooking and a smile. And every evening as the afternoon rain flooded the streets and the sun tucked itself away for the night, this devout buddhist grandmother would be on
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Inside a pagoda in Cholon - Chinatown. her knees before her red and gold alter, chanting her prayers to the god's. As an early riser, she'd already be in bed by the time I got home, but her middle-aged son was always found sprawled out on the couch. With 5000 dong coins tucked into his ears for luck, his days were spent playing cards with neighbours, his nights watching football. Somehow, I managed to squeeze myself into the equation.
My days were spent riding around the city, imagining what it would have been like to be a journalist here during the wars, sitting atop the Caravelle Hotel when the fighting broke, listening to the sounds of war, wondering how it would all play out. The nights were cheap bowls of hot soup and jugs of draft beer drank on little red stools. But after a few short days, I knew it was time for me to be going. Maybe it's just me, the type lacking of will-power, but big cities generally leave me feeling restless. There always seems a sense of urgency in the air - too many promises, too much at one's disposal to ever relax and let time pass. So before the currents of
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Chinese Pagoda the cities could drag me under I loaded my bike and set off in search of clean air.
The smog of an industrial city and a heavy traffic guided me east along the Number 1 Highway. I knew it would be a headache riding the Number 1 north along the coast, so the best course of action would be to head directly north, into the highlands. I'd have some good climbs ahead of me, but I figured the best chance for peace and quiet in this country would be Highway 20, leading me to the old French town of Dalat. I was glad my initial escape plan had failed.
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Ryan Hillstead
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Wow Travis!! I've just spent the past hour pouring over your entries and I;m blown away. Having been to a few of the places you have described, and being on the cramped bus, paying $50 to get in and $50 to leave the airports, and being part of the craziness which Asia has to offer, I jut am thinking to myself, " How could one have a more amazing travelling experience. " We must have some beers when you get back to korea. Good luck the rest of the way.