The last morning in the Saigon area was spent touring the Cu Chi Tunnels, a 200 km network of underground rooms and passageways that housed the Viet Cong headquarters from which the 1968 Tet Offensive was launched. The tunnels, part of a subterranean system under much of the country, was a vital component of the guerrilla tactics that so hampered US forces. The Marines in fact specially trained soldiers as tunnel rats to go down into the mole-holes armed with a flashlight and knife. No wonder that some of the most traumatized veterans were the ones sent into the dark to kill with their bare hands anything that moved. The tunnels were never effectively infiltrated.
Our local guide, Mr. Thong (see right), is a proud native of Cu Chi and a wounded veteran of the fighting that took place. He described in detail the punji stake pits and explosive booby traps that the villagers devised from GI rubbish. "The American--big country, strong country--" he explained, "They bring lots of Budweiser and when they throw away the can, we pick up and put bomb inside. We recycle!" The jungle surrounding the village was rife with spear lined holes that were covered with brittle branches and leaves. Our guide explained that they wanted to maim, not kill soldiers, because "they go home to America and show the family, the friends. Look what the Vietnamese can do." So deeply satisfied was Mr. Thong with his peoples' war effort. Using clever ingenuity, they thwarted the most powerful of military forces.
The experience was a provoking juxtaposition to the War Remnants Museum, and was fairly nauseating in its own rite. I was somewhat appalled that Mr. Thong, knowing Americans were part of his audience, would be so blatant with his opinions. Of course he thinks of himself as a patriot against foreign aggression, so much so that he has rationalized beyond the humanity of his own actions. I was sickened by the pride in his voice as he described watching an American soldier die, even as I felt some sorrow for him when he told us about the death of his mother and siblings. He was happy to show off his battle wound, and tell us the details of his life in the tunnels. When we arrived at the half-blown up US tank, he encouraged us to climb aboard for pictures. He explained in gross detail the way spikes tear a leg when set at different angles in a pit. Ego loosens the lips better than any torture.
War is hell.
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Back in Ho Chi Minh City, we had an hour and a half to catch a bus to Dalat. We downed a noodle-soup lunch at Pho 2000 (which claims fame for having served lunch to President Clinton in 2000). I haggled for some tank tops in the marked (gypped again). We began to cross the last major street between us and our hotel, our bags, and our 6-hour bus ride up into the mountains.
Let's do this in slow motion (envisioning the classic Frogger format): I look to the left. I pick the perfect split second to skip between motorcycles. I dodge a dump truck. Hop across twenty more lanes of motorcycle madness. At the-rare!-concrete median I muse that it's not even rush hour. Traffic is coming from the right now. I do a couple more quick glances to the right, and begin weaving through the next twenty lanes. A truck is coming. I slow down. My moment comes... I step... I hear Andrew yell "SARAH!" I am blindsided by an Aussie tourist driving salmon-like against the traffic in the middle of the street.
They say time slows down in traumatic moments like this, but it wasn't until later when Andrew gave me his version of the play by play that I knew I'd been dragged for nearly five feet on my knee. The guy stopped long enough to yell "Are you okay?" And I screamed "No!" Andrew cursed the guy, and we continued our dash through the now-stopped traffic to the sidewalk. No sense hanging out in the middle of the raging river.
On the sidewalk, I took one look at the jagged gash across my kneecap, burst into tears, and was ushered by the street vendors into a nearby pharmacy. The pharmacist was a genuine saint. She took one look at the blood dripping on her tile floor, collected some first aid equipment and set to cleaning me up. We were on our way in no time, back to the hotel, into a taxi, onto a bus. It wasn't until a rest stop in the middle of absolutely nowhere that I looked at the wound and realized proper medical help was probably a good idea.
How's that for a cliff hanger?
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