MEKONG DELTA 20,000 DONG

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"Ponies! Why did it have to be ponies?"

As moaned by Karen Richards


From its source on the Tibetan Plateau the Mekong River travels over 4,000 Kilometers to Southwest Vietnam where it splits into 9 tributaries known to the Vietnamese as ‘Cuu Long’ or the ‘Nine Dragons’ as it enters the Gulf of Thailand. The Mekong is Asia’s third longest river. (If you want to know what the first two are then look it up yourself.) The Mekong Delta produces nearly forty percent of Vietnam’s food. A vast network of irrigation ditches and canals helps in controlling the seasonal floods that afflict the area.

Karen and I looked at the maps and at the calendar. We decided to invest three days looking around which would give us the barest glimpse of the Delta but sometimes you gotta take what you can get. There are limits you know. Even on a four-month trip. We pulled out of Saigon at 8:30 in the morning with twenty other interested parties. A hodge-podge of Europeans, Asians and South Americans. Behind Karen and I, in the back of the bus, sat two Brit girls who appeared to have just consumed a very large liquid breakfast. They spent the first half-hour of the trip doing a half-assed version of the BBC show ‘Simply Fabulous’. It was going to be a long ride. We headed SW out of Saigon; our bus threading its way through flocks of scooters, all heading into town for a day’s work. There are 4 million scooters registered in Saigon alone. About 2 million more commute to town every day. Traffic started to thin and as our bus picked up speed our guide introduced himself as Mr. Giang (Vietnamese word for River). After a ten-minute spiel on his plan for the day he told us to feel free to ask him any questions that we wanted to but he absolutely refused to discuss politics with anybody. Did that mean no more Obama questions for the next three days? Our outlook brightened appreciably. Through my window I saw roadside carts displaying shiny-brown roasted ducks hanging from racks by their scrawny necks. Cone-topped villagers squatted along the highway with large plastic tubs of mud crabs and snails for sale. I watched two men as they stripped old asphalt from the road. Their task, defined by white spray painted boundaries, ran a good hundred meters up the right-hand lane. One guy used a 5-foot pry-bar to cut the pavement into perfectly square two-foot sections which his partner slung onto his shoulder and placed by the side of the road. Perfect stacks of thick black tiles. They looked to be half done with the job by the time I saw them. Further along, large stuffed green, red and blue plastic wrapped Teddy bears sat watching the passing traffic in a wide-eyed row, awaiting a buyer.

We crossed bridge after bridge over canals and streams. It was like driving through the outskirts of New Orleans or down US 1 to Key West. Four white crypts filled the corner of a recently planted field just outside the city of My Tho, our first stop. My Tho has a population of 200,000 and was an important American military staging area during the early 1960’s when the US was still in the ‘advise only’ stage of the war. John Kerry and the infamous ‘Swift Boats’ were docked here when they weren’t patrolling the Mekong. The boat we were transferring to wasn’t swift but it was practical. Near the port I saw a large man-made lagoon populated with wooden swan paddleboats. As we stepped off the bus the first natives we encountered were female vendors selling postcards and coned hats wrapped in clear plastic. There were a total of five tour buses here from Saigon and they had all arrived simultaneously. At the end of a lengthy sun-baked pier we boarded a convoy of Sampans; long flat-bottomed boats offering welcome shade. I looked about me as our boat filled to capacity and pulled away. The cone hat sales girls had done well. The boat had taken on the appearance of a table lamp show room.

The Mekong was wide and muddied the day we saw it. This river is the area’s drinking water source, transportation hub and sewer system. Large barges filled with sand and aggregate were being towed upstream to construction sites. Drying laundry hung from the windows of the wooden box-like living quarters mounted to the barge decks. Crewmen napped in hammocks as tugs pushed them to their destinations. Our boat turned south into a canal near Ben Tre. Barely wide enough for two boats to pass one another, the canal was lined with beautiful palms. Women paddled their boats gondola-style past us. Our guide offered to take a picture of anyone who wanted one, sitting on the bow of the boat. The craft rocked as a dozen people jumped up to be first in-line. We stopped at a fruit plantation for a healthy snack and some tea. A four-man band of dour-faced Mekong folk musicians played for us while a trio of singers belted out mournful local hits for a merciful ten minutes. Before the last note died we were headed down the trail to a paved path where an open pony cart awaited us for a hot and bumpy ride to the ‘Honey Tea’ plantation. Here we drank shot-glasses of tea mixed with honey and lime and watched sugar intoxicated honeybees drown themselves in half-filled glasses of the surprisingly tasty concoction. A duo of young Swedish girls occupied themselves by running a bee rescue mission at every table. If the bees weren’t frightening enough there was a man with a Python that he would gladly wrap around your neck. Another Kodak moment. It appeared that we had joined a jungle river cruise. Waitresses swept through the group offering fresh honey, sugared nuts and glazed strips of coconut for 20,000 Dong a portion.

At the honey plantation’s rickety pier we boarded a small, unsteady native boat hewn from a single log. It seated only four people. Karen and I took the front. Behind us we heard a rerun of the ‘Simply Fabulous’ show. The ride to our ‘big’ boat was beautiful but due to our company, less than tranquil. Back on our original vessel we landed at the ‘Coconut Candy’ factory after a five-minute ride. We watched as workers mixed coconut pulp and sugar cane into taffy, which was cooked in large metal bowls over open fires. From there it was cooled and molded into long rectangular strips and then cut into one-inch pieces that were wrapped by hand. A package of twenty-four sold for 20,000 Dong. 20,000 seemed to be the marketers’ figure of choice. Everything that we had been offered for sale had been set at 20,000 Dong or about $1.20 US. The candy was quite good and we were considering a purchase when I noticed the utensil washing facility. A lone man scrubbed out the metal bowls using water from an irrigation ditch fed by the Mekong.

On the way back to the bus we overheard our non-political guide describe the dangers of owning a Vietnamese pet monkey to a Belgian couple. According to the guide, these monkeys are a major problem in hamlets where they are kept for entertainment. Once a monkey learns how to make a fire (monkey see, monkey do) his dark monkey heart cannot help but turn to arson. The guide described in minute detail how monkeys go about lighting bundles of cornhusks and then use them to set fire to the thatched homes of their adoptive families. The Belgian woman shivered. Apparently this Simian crime wave has gotten so out of hand that people have taken to shooting any monkey they see in an irrational wave of vigilantism. Karen and I were shocked at the unfairness of it all. Imagine a monkey, minding his own business, having a few monkey friends over to the tree for a Super Bowl party. He throws a couple of bananas on the grill and the next thing he knows he’s got a drive-by shooting on his paws. What if one of his monkey buddies ends up getting capped? Hell, we’ve got major monkey liability issues here! On the boat a middle-aged Frenchman with a Vietnamese Rent-a-Date kept getting cell phone calls that he refused to answer. I pictured a housewife in France anxiously pushing buttons.

We transferred to a different bus as half of our group was heading back to Saigon while Karen, I and the remainder continued Westward. An older Vietnamese couple joined us. The man was an incessant smoker who lit up at every opportunity. His wife’s communication skills were limited to the ‘pointing finger’ and the ‘dirty look’ neither of which were slowing down her husband’s cigarette consumption. Karen and I called them; ‘Smokey and the Bandit’. The problem with Smokey wasn’t his smoking as much as it was his spitting. After every cigarette Smokey would start up with one of those deep, productive coughs. We’re not talking about a little saliva here. We’re talking about that way down bronchial mucous that takes years to accumulate and possesses a gelatinous viscosity marbled with greens and yellows. Back in Chicago we call these things, ‘Hockers’. If my Mom had ever seen this stuff come out of me there would have been major Vicks Vap-O-Rub penalties to pay. Wherever Smokey smoked, Smokey spat. And Smokey smoked a lot of smokes. Cigarettes in Vietnam cost about $1 a pack.

We continued West into the setting sun. Our bridge crossings became more frequent. Below us small Sampans plied the waterways carrying goods. The surface of the streams was peppered with wads of water hyacinths that had broken free of the silt and were heading out on an involuntary sea cruise. The sides of the road were lined with an endless chain of scooter repair shops, cafes and restaurants, occasionally interrupted by a recycling operation or a grocery store. Near Vinh Long we crossed a large and beautiful suspension bridge. From the apex I saw active construction sites as far as the eye could see. The earth was as disturbed as the grave of a prematurely buried man. Gigantic electrical grid towers treed the landscape. The bridge was crowded with young Vietnamese couples looking Westward. Sunset gold glinted in their eyes.

It became dark as we pushed on towards Can Tho, our stopping place for the night. Now we passed through an area of newly built industrial parks. Outside them little tent markets had sprung up to serve the workers. Large tattered white and blue striped tarps covered the expanding enterprises. The guide told us that we would have to disembark from the bus for a ferry crossing. He added that we should not become alarmed if the local children started touching us or asked to feel our hair. Apparently they required tangible proof of our existence. Strangers in a strange land. We dragged a comb through our mullets in preparation.

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Photos

Christmas Shopping
Lots of stores like these throughout the Mekong Delta. The Sax Santa seems to be a hot seller.

Mr. River
Our guide. Knowledgeable man with a severe monkey-phobia.

Lamp Store
On anyone else these hats would look stupid but somehow these girls look the better for them.

Canal Scene
Only women seem to paddle this stretch. We never see Vietnamese men working much at all in the Delta.

Vietnamese Buster Keaton
Not a happy camper. Most Mekong folk-songs seem to revolve around sad themes.

Coconut Candy
Taste of the Mekong.

Dugout
Even these sturdy craft have expiration dates.

Emergency Shoe Repair
I had a blow-out in one of my $21.95 Wal-Mart Ozarks (go figure). One cup of coffee and 90 cents later I was on my way.