Searching for sanity on the Ho Chi Minh Trail

The final posting from my 1999 trip to Southeast Asia

ARRIVING IN HANOI

I could tell that the quiet and reserved atmosphere of Laos was far behind me immediately upon arrival at Hanoi airport. Trying to get a taxi to bring me to my hotel proved to be a difficult endeavor. After disembarking from the plane and going through customs, I proceeded to a counter below a sign advertising $3 taxi rides into the city. The airport dispatcher asked which hotel I wanted and, upon my naming a place recommended by a friend, began to vehemently insist that it was full, dirty, noisy and expensive. He then generously offered to take me to a "much better" hotel. Prepared for this onslaught by the Lonely Planet warnings, I held firm and he finally relented. Once we reached the city, the driver pulled up in front of a hotel and let me out. But I could tell from the sign that it was not the hotel I wanted. After a brief negotiation, the driver shrugged and seemed to admit that this was not my hotel. He had instead taken me to a hotel that offered commissions to taxi drivers for bringing unsuspecting tourists. I knew the scam and refused to budge from the car. He finally drove to my desired spot and let me out. My introduction to Vietnam was now complete.

(the story continues on the next page....)

The intensity of arriving in Vietnam came as a sharp contrast to the sedate and peaceful feel of Laos. I was almost knocked over by it at the airport and quickly began to realize that my travelling skills would be tested far more severely in this country. Everything would be a negotiation. Locals were more aggressive. I had to be more alert than ever.

Hanoi is a beautiful city largely because the French heavily influenced its architecture during their century-long occupation and the US refrained from bombing it throughout the war (except for an attack on outlying areas during Christmas of 1972). The heart of Hanoi survived intact and is quite a sight to behold. Narrow streets filled to capacity with motorbikes, bicycles, cyclos (bicycle rickshaws), cars, minibuses, trucks, pedestrians, vendors, industrial machinery, animals, food, lacquered goods, and more. So much activity in such a small space. Even for someone who spent a good part of my life in New York city, it was fairly overwhelming. The curving, criss-crossing streets make navigation and orientation close to impossible even with a map. The constant onslaught of postcard sellers ("you will buy from me?"), bicycle rickshaws ("where are you going now?"), and maniacal drivers is enough to put any sane person on edge. I felt strangely humbled by the experience. It was certainly different.

The old quarter of Hanoi is composed of 36 narrow interlocking streets. Each is devoted to selling a different item -- spices, shoes, herbs, bike parts, clothing. Each is a self-contained universe. Since merchants are apparently uninterested in differentiating themselves from the rest, one can walk down the street and see identical items offered by a dozen consecutive store fronts. It makes for easy price comparison but seems strange that there is no specialization among sellers of similar goods. Meanwhile, each vendor vehemently insists that their goods are superior in quality to the identical items sold in the next stall.

My hotel in Hanoi was owned by a friendly family with quite impressive English language skills. The father served as an infantryman during the war. When I asked whether he was in the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) or the Vietcong (VC), he seemed confused by the question then shrugged and said "no difference". After a bit of prodding on my part, he described his journey as a soldier down the Ho Chi Minh trail. Six months of walking from Hanoi to Saigon on muddy paths, over mountains, carrying equipment and supplies, and living in mortal fear of B-52 bombers. He said that when soldiers heard US planes overhead survival depended on one's speed and strength. "You run or you die" he told me in a very matter-of-fact tone. Once they dropped their load, a B-52 would destroy one square kilometer of territory instantly subjecting anyone caught in the area to a devastating and lethal firestorm. After Vietnamese reunification in 1975, he said that it still took months for his letters to reach his family in Hanoi who were anxiously waiting for a sign that their son had not died in the fighting. The father spoke of the "puppet government" of South Vietnam and couldn't understand why the Americans propped up these corrupt dictators. I agreed with his assessment and wondered aloud about our actions. Despite his wartime experience he didn't hold my nationality against me. In fact, he took great pains to be friendly and share his views. Talking with him pleasantly and sipping a cool drink, I found it very hard to envision that he had ever been the enemy of my people.

One of the great sites to visit in Hanoi is Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum. Similar in form and atmosphere to Lenin's tomb in Moscow, it serves as a testament to the great legacy of this revolutionary hero. But luck was not with me. Only weeks before my arrival, Uncle Ho's body had been shipped off to Moscow for its annual maintenance. I was disappointed by this twist of fate but did make my way to the site just to stand outside the stone temple and ponder the meaning of Ho's life. I read a bit about his experiences travelling the world and living outside his own country for decades. He lived in the US for a period of time and, like all famous revolutionary intellectuals, spent several years in Paris. I was surprised to find out that early in his efforts to rid Vietnam of the French military occupation Ho had written to President Truman asking for assistance. He quoted the Declaration of Independence and wrote of his desire to turn Vietnam into a sovereign democratic nation modeled on the United States. But Truman never replied to Ho's letter and the US sided with the French. Deprived of any allies in the West, Ho was forced to approach the Chinese and Russians in order to gain support for the nascent nationalist movement. In hindsight, it appears that a critical opportunity to change history was missed when our leaders failed to grasp the consequences of their loyalty to an old imperialist order.

While in Hanoi, I visited the revolutionary museum and perused photographs detailing the Vietnamese struggle against the French and then the Americans. The most memorable picture showed an obese, ugly, middle-aged French woman in a rickshaw being pulled by a noble looking Vietnamese man. The caption read "The aggressor and the slave". It captured the essence of colonialism. The rest of the photographs, showing endless assemblies of stiff-looking men meeting to unanimously ratify changes to the communist party platform, were somewhat less compelling.

HALONG BAY

My first expedition out of Hanoi was to Halong Bay and the beaches of Cat Ba island. After some hard traveling in Laos, and a few days of city intensity, it seemed to be just the right thing to calm my city jitters. I caught an early morning train to the port city of Haiphong and then took a Russian-built hydrofoil to the island. Inside the frigid air-conditioned cabin, which resembled an old aircraft, two televisions showed Chinese Kung-Fu movies dubbed into Vietnamese played at high volume. The Vietnamese apparently believe that no form of entertainment can ever be too loud.

Cat Ba island is a mountainous little paradise worth visiting. Upon arrival, I immediately set out to find the famed beach bungalows that were rumored to exist. Lugging my pack over a large hill, I came upon some concrete huts, a small restaurant and a beautiful deserted beach. Just about right. So I checked into the room owned by "Mr. Mike" but started to get a bad feeling when it became apparent that my room's door had no way of staying closed and therefore could not be locked. I voiced my concerns to the smiling Mike who grinned and cheerfully replied "no problem" from a reclining position in his hammock. Against my better instincts, I decided to stay and placed my pack in the room. That night I sat on the beach in silence, a single candle illuminating my room, a clear starry sky above, and meditated on issues of cosmic importance. It was the most relaxing few hours of my entire trip. But this tranquility was shattered the next morning when I discovered that my newly-purchased Timex Indiglo Explorer watch (water resistant to 50m) was missing. Piecing together the chain of events, I quickly realized that it was likely the only item not locked securely in my pack during a lengthy ocean swim. There was no way for me to stay any longer with the knowledge that docile Mr. Mike had either duped me or that his incompetence set me up for another person to steal from my room. I confronted Mike on the beach that morning and it was ugly. The fact that his English was poor made the whole situation quite unsatisfying. I explained his responsibility in the matter but his response was predictable. "Many people have no problem" he exclaimed as if this fact would somehow persuade me to calm down. I paid the bill, stormed off the beach, and headed into town to find another hotel. I spent the rest of the day in a frustrated funk, beating myself up for being careless and cursing Vietnamese thieves. It proved to be an interesting contrast to the previous night's serenity. Perhaps some law of karmic equilibrium required it.

In any case, the rest of my time in Cat Ba was just fine. I hung out with a French couple, a German guy, and an American man I'd met on the plane from Laos. We rented a boat for the day and cruised through the islands of Halong Bay, many of which consist of nothing more than towering rock formations, white sand beaches and mystical water-filled caves. One night, the German guy and I played pool at a local establishment while the locals looked on and laughed at our poor skills. We later sat drinking cheap draft beer with the laughing locals while they tugged at our leg and arm hair with great humor and amazement. Vietnamese men pride themselves on being hairless and see body hair as evidence of a lower level of evolution. Apparently, western men are referred to as "hairy monkeys" by some Vietnamese. So I played it up in from of them and whooped like a monkey to their delight. But it seemed vaguely racist (towards me) and I stopped participating in self-humiliation soon after. Throughout the rest of my trip, many Vietnamese men would repeatedly tug on my arm and leg hair and chuckle.

MALE RELATIONS

In Vietnam, men often walk down the street clutching onto another male friend. The hold hands, wrap their arms around the waist, hug and perform all the physical rituals common to loving couples in our society. Women also do this to a lesser extent. But I rarely saw a man and woman touching each other in public. The sole exception consisted of a clearly demarcated, and poorly illuminated, make-out spot down by the water in Saigon filled with young couples. The cultural norms surrounding touching are notable because social tolerances are exactly the opposite of what we find in the west. Strange men in Vietnam often approached me, grabbed my arm, squeezed my waist and even placed a hand on my leg while sitting together. I learned to accept this form of interaction after first worrying that these men were setting me up for some sort of scam or trying to pickpocket me. It turns out that guys are just friendly and want to hang out. Touching, groping and fondling is part of the deal as long as two people are of the same sex.

PROSTITUTION

Thailand gets lots of publicity for its thriving sex industry, but prostitution in Vietnam seems far more prevalent from my perspective. I regularly received offers of prostitution in the most unlikely places. At the hairdressers. While trying to buy water at the market. Walking down the streets of Hanoi. Sometimes a street vendor would point to a nearby woman and asked if I wanted her. "No, just a Pepsi" I might typically reply. One German traveler told me that after eating lunch in a small local restaurant the father came out and offered either of his two daughters and the back room of their house as a way to finish off the fine meal. Other single male travelers relate similar stories with regularity. The pervasiveness of prostitution even scared me off of the massage scene since it seems to be tied to sex in Vietnam far more than in Thailand.

The difference between Thailand and Vietnam seems to be that prostitution in Vietnam is not professionalized. Average women offer themselves to travelers (or are offered by family members) whereas in Thailand the industry is composed of professionals who frequent known locations. There are a few streets dominated by the sex industry in Bangkok and everyone knows where they are. But in Vietnam it's more random. You never know when the newspaper seller is going to offer you his sister or the hairdresser declares that she loves you. "You are a very handsome man" is said so often that I learned to completely ignore it.

THE ECONOMY

Vietnam is a poor country. There's no way around it. Although poverty in Laos and Cambodia is more widespread and severe, the vast majority of people in Vietnam earn a pittance. The average wage is $50/month, although I spoke with some primary school teachers in rural areas who live on $35/month. One asked how much I make at home. I dodged the question by talking about being a student. I mentioned my huge student debts and costs of living in America. When he heard that school costs $20,000 per year (and I was lowballing it), he said "I could live on $20,000 for the rest of my life." I felt embarrassed to finally admit that I could earn several thousand dollars every month. For him it was like another world. Moments like that served as a reminder of the huge gap between myself and the local populace.

Vietnam is finally emerging from the heavy hand of Communism after twenty years of disastrous experimentation with collectivization and central planning. Back in 1991, people were undernourished. No one had work. Then the government began to encourage tourism and allow private businesses to grow. Today there is still a notable lack of industry and not enough quality employment to provide work to talented individuals. One University student explained that only 10% of graduates find work. The rest must try to find something to bring in money. Many people hustle tourists or do odd jobs. Those seeking an edge learn foreign languages (English, in particular) and attempt to study abroad. Those with financial means often spend one year at an Australian University before returning to find a permanent job. The family that ran my hotel in Hanoi was limited, by money, to sending only one child to Australia. They reasoned that the son, though younger, would make better use of the degree as a man. So the older daughter will not get to leave Vietnam. So much for equality of the sexes under communism.

Finding quality employment apparently requires one of two things: (1) good family status -- generally this occurs when a family member works for the government. This makes it possible to get a job with a state-owned company or the government. These are good jobs that offer lifetime security. (2) money -- working for a foreign firm or joint venture depends upon paying intermediaries to make the right introductions. It's like hiring an agent or reverse headhunter who has certain contacts and can bribe the right people. Without money or connections, it can be extremely difficult to do anything other than menial labor. The following story illustrates this point.

XUAN'S STORY

Xuan (pronounced "Soo-En") is 23 years old. She works for a tailor in Hoi An. I spoke with her during one of my last visits to the shop. I had ordered several pieces of clothing and was picking them up. We sat together at the front table and she mentioned the fact that she has an uncle in Canada. She asked me to guess how many hours she works every day. I correctly estimated 14 hours, although she said it can sometimes be more.

Xuan graduated with top honors from Danang University several months ago. With her superior academic achievements, she should have good employment opportunities. But her future is currently very bleak. Despite her personal success, there is one thing blocking further advancement. Her father served in the South Vietnamese police force during the American war. For this crime, he spent many years in prison after reunification in 1975. Xuan's uncle left the country in 1979 as one of the "boat people" and fled to Canada where he now works as an engineer. Despite her father's wartime actions, Xuan has never expressed any opposition to the government nor has she sought to leave the country. But unofficial government policy requires her to suffer because of her paternity.

At University, Xuan was one of an elite group of top performers. These students received certain privileges and perks. Twice she was invited to meet with students from other Asian countries at conferences in Hanoi and Saigon. Both times she was later told that the offer did not apply to her because there were already enough students going. Another time, a scholarship donated by an Australian woman for Xuan and 9 other students was taken away only from Xuan because, she was told, these students were merely given the right to compete for the money. She says that there are many other instances of her luck turning sour that relate directly to her father's activities during the war. She has been told that there is no chance of her ever getting a job with a state-owned company or with the government. When she cried in front of University administrators, they told her that she deserved the misfortune and showed no sympathy.

Xuan's uncle offered to organize a marriage with a Vietnamese-Canadian so that it will be possible for her to emigrate. But she knows this man and doesn't like him. She is too proud to accept an undesirable arranged marriage and rejected it. She wants to get married but only to someone who can understand her situation and be sympathetic. She doesn't care if he is ugly or if he drinks. Just so long as he cares about and understands her.

Xuan doesn't understand why she is being punished. As she talks about it, tears well up in her eyes and I can only begin to sense the incredible frustration she feels. She wants to contribute to her country but the government doesn't want her participation. They would prefer that she suffer for the fact that her father worked for the puppet government of South Vietnam 25 years ago. It is quite ironic given the numerous times I have seen the words of Ho Chi Minh etched into monuments stating that Vietnam does not have two peoples, and that the unity of the nation must be recognized. Apparently there are still two Vietnams 25 years after reunification and old grudges die very hard.

Xuan has decided that there is no hope for her in Vietnam and will try to leave the country whenever a good opportunity presents itself. She doesn't want to tell her family until the time comes. In fact, she tells me that she has never shared her frustrations with anyone including family or friends. I am blown away by being the first person in whom she can confide. She doesn't want her parents to bear the added shame of knowing how she suffers and her friends don't talk about these kinds of problems. Sharing such criticisms with the wrong people can also lead to imprisonment. Xuan tells me that she fells better just having talked about it. I am privileged to be able to serve as her therapist for a day.

We talk some more and then I leave. Xuan returns to her job in the shop and I go back to my hotel. The next day I visit the shop again and we have a wordless exchange in front of her boss, who knows nothing of the previous day's conversation, that allows both of us to realize that a connection was made. I wish her luck and then leave to take the train.

NORTH-SOUTH DIVIDE -- ONE VIETNAM OR TWO?

Xuan's story brings up the issue of differences between people from North and South Vietnam. Officially, there is no difference. After all, Uncle Ho said that Vietnam is one country with one people. But a few conversations shed some light on the perceptions of difference held by the people themselves.

The hotel owner in Hanoi said that people from the south are lazy and count on money from overseas relatives to support their lifestyles. If they do not have to work, he claims, they won't. People from the north apparently work harder and are more serious. His resentment at the southerners perceived dependence on external financing was obvious.

Another man I met on the train had a different version of the story. He was born in Hanoi, grew up in Saigon, and worked for the famous KPMG accounting firm. He claimed that Southerners are optimists who live more hedonistically, spending freely when there is money and not worrying about the future. By contrast, northerners are more conservative and pessimistic, causing them to save and scrimp without taking time to enjoy themselves.

It seemed clear to me that the south is wealthier than the north. Not only economically, but also in terms of agricultural production (they have an extra growing season due to warmer weather). People were very friendly in the south but this also comes with a higher level of harassment as a tourist. Southerners were also more positive about Americans since many of their elders had worked for the GIs during the war.

HUE -- VISITING THE DMZ AND RELIVING THE DAYS OF TET

As an American, I felt a special obligation to understand the history of our wartime involvement in the region. A tour of the old Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) therefore seemed in order. This famous but invisible line separated north and south Vietnam from 1954 until 1975 and the surrounding territory hosted a series of battles between US forces and both the Vietcong (VC) and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) until the US withdrawal in 1973.

Despite my intense dislike of the group tour, it is the only viable option for visiting the various battle sights in a reasonable timeframe with any perspective on the history. So I buy a ticket at my hotel and prepare myself for a day with the tour. Our minibus leaves Hue in the morning and reaches the city of Dong Ha in time for a mediocre breakfast before heading off to "The Rockpile". As we stand on the edge of a hill looking out across a densely forested series of small mountains and valleys, the guide points to a nearby hill and explains that it served as a US Marine outpost used to monitor NVA incursions into the DMZ. He says that the Marines were resupplied entirely by helicopter to avoid the risk of ground travel and mentions casually that it was considered a very desirable assignment because, during off-duty hours, the soldiers has easy access to heroin, prostitutes, western food and alcohol. He also warns us not to stray from the area due to the presence of millions of landmines. Over 6000 locals were killed by landmines between 1975-95. The guide points at a river and tells us that three children were recently killed when the buffalo they were riding stepped on a landmine. Others are killed regularly in their search for scrap metal and war relics.

We piled back into the minivan and proceeded to the mother of all battle sites -- Khe Sanh. At one time, it was a major US military base intended by General William Westmoreland to block any NVA advance into South Vietnam. An attack on the area in January 1968 led to several thousand US casualties and over 10,000 north vietnamese killed. The offensive turned out to be a strategic feingt designed to draw US forces from throughout South Vietnam in order to leave other targets less protected against the upcoming Tet offensive. Our guide tells us that the US claims it won the battle of Khe Sanh because the NVA attack was ultimately unsuccessful in taking the base. But the NVA claims that it won by tying down US troops and thereby getting an edge in the Tet Offensive. It illuminates the different definitions of success used by both sides. The site today gives no indication of its history. The US removed all traces of its presence after the battle when it dismantled the base. Only a small museum stands to mark the spot. The hills are dotted with landmines so it is impossible to walk away from the main area. Two men sell war relics -- pins and dogtags from downed US and Vietnamese soldiers found in the surrounding forest. They want about $1 each. I buy a VC uniform insignia and try not to dwell on the incentives I've created for risky exploration in mine-laden areas.

I ask our guide about his own family's history. He tells me that his father worked as a driver for the American Army at the Dong Ha military base. Since this job was not considered serious treachery by the North Vietnamese, his father spent only one month in prison after the reunification of Vietnam. His uncle, a colonel in the NVA, died eight years ago from complications caused by extensive exposure to Agent Orange.

Back in Hue, I ponder the meaning of the war. It is difficult to contemplate so I eat a banana pancake and check my email. I cannot undo the past. I sit at a cafe next to my hotel while a pounding rain begins to cause small-scale urban flooding. The street in front of the cafe turns into a raging river before I can finish my spring rolls (5 for $0.60). Passing cars and minivans either get stuck and stall or cause waves to break over the curb. The water quickly floods the cafe's floor and covers my sandle-clad feet. Venturing out into the city, I am forced to wade through knee-deep water in order to cross the street. It is a bizarre experience.

One week later, I learn via CNN that flooding in Hue has cut the entire country into two. With train service suspended and roads washed out, the military has to be called into action in order to rescue stranded families by helicopter and deliver food. Farmers preparing to plant the next rice crop are prevented from doing so by the floods. The future is suddenly not so bright. I read this news over the internet in Bangkok and marvel at how close I came to being caught in the worst flooding Vietnam experienced this century.

EXPLORING THE NORTHWEST

The northwestern part of Vietnam is a common destination because it contains not only some of the most beautiful scenery in southeast asia but also due to the high concentration of indigineous hill tribes. Called "montagnards" by French, these groups live off the land through subsistence farming, scavenging and hunting. Dressed in colorful clothing and practicing traditional lifestyles, the hill tribes offer a fascinating glimpse into the past and a serve as a cultural counterpoint to high-tech, fast paced life in the west. Desirous of broadening my exposure to this world, I set off from Hanoi in search of adventure and education. It's fair to say that I got a good deal of the latter but only a bit of the former.

Stumbling off the overnight train from Hanoi to Lao Cai, a border town used for crossing into China, I meet up with a couple headed towards my destination -- the town of Bac Ha. Out of convenience, we agree to charter a jeep together. Sabrina and Pepe are an interesting pair. She is an American from Santa Cruz who lives in Australia and works on forestry issues for the government. He is a Spanish scientist who lives with Sabrina in Canberra and works on global climate change policy. Needless to say, we have alot to talk about. After settling into a hotel in Bac Ha (where I negotiate for a $5 room), we arrange for a guide to take us to the Can Cau market by 4-wheel drive jeep. The unpaved road to Can Cau is very rough and our jeep fords two small rivers en route to the final destination. It takes about 90 minutes to cover 20 kilometers (12 miles). But the ride is worth it. We find ourselves to be the only travelers in this small but vibrant market packed with flower Hmong tribespeople doing their weekly shopping. Looking out onto the throng, I am amazed by the sea of colors -- a magical rainbow that shifts and dissolves as Hmong women move to and fro. I walk through the market alone dodging ruts filled with soupy mud and take in both the scene and the stares from locals. It is strange and exhilirating. I sit down at a food stall and order a bowl of noodle soup. It costs $0.07. Next to me are two young Hmong women who spend several minutes watching me eat before scurrying off into the crowd. My every move is being scrutinized. I eat quickly and carefully before moving on.

The market contains clothing, household goods, meat, rice, jewelry, fruits, vegetables and farm animals. I learn from our guide that a good Buffalo sells for around 3,000,000 dong ($220). On a later trip to the south, I am told that one buffalo is generally worth two cows. The buffalo is valued because it can pull plows for tilling the soil and is able to carry heavy loads especially during the rainy season. I gain a newfound admiration for this creature.

After the market, Ngae (our guide) takes us on a tour of two villages. At the first, inhabited by flower Hmongs, we walk through rice paddies and watch signs of the harvest in progress. Women are beating recently cut stalks against wooden boxes and collecting the grains of rice as they fall onto bamboo mats. It makes a thumping noise and stirs up a cloud of debris around the women. We enter several houses and notice corn piled up on a second interior level that serves as a drying rack. Ngae tells me that they use the corn to make wine. In addition to being a potent intoxicant, the wine is also used as a form of currency.

In this tribe, women are sold by their families to prospective husbands who must pay with buffalo, chickens, rice and corn wine. The price for a wife varies based upon her beauty. Ngae explains that an unattractive woman costs around 4 million dong (~$300) while an extremely beautiful one can fetch up to 10 million dong (~$700). On a later visit to a hilltribe village near the DMZ, a different guide tells me that potential wives are valued for their strength (for working in the fields and carrying heavy loads) with beauty being somewhat irrelevant in terms of the overall price. Multiple wives are generally allowed so long as the husband can afford it. If a man has two wives, and a friend comes for an overnight visit, he must share one wife with the friend. This system leads families to desire daughters because they represent a source of income. Ngae tells us that a woman can refuse to marry a particular man even if he can pay her price, but I am left feeling that the woman doesn't have much power in this arrangement.

In the next village, inhabited by the Fu La tribe, we meet the locals and spend several minutes sitting in a house smiling at those who have gathered to stare. We are all smiling and laughing at nothing in particular. Sabrina pulls out a few hard candies and gives them to the children. They are hesitant at first but, after the first taster refuses to spit out the treat, they all clamor for a piece. It is a kind gesture that makes us feel comfortable for the moment, but I know that if enough travelers show this kind of generosity then all visitors to the village will soon be greeted by children holding out their hands and demanding candies. We have initiated the process but won't be around to witness the long-term results.

Ngae takes us to the local school. It consists of 3 rooms in a row separated by walls with one side open to the air. Each is equipped with a blackboard and two rooms have chairs. In the third, children are required to stand due to the complete absence of seats. At the end of the building is one fully-enclosed room with a bed. We meet a young Vietnamese teacher who lives in the room. Her worldly possessions hang from the walls -- a toothbrush, clothing, color tourism posters of Vietnam, moldy books, and cooking utensils. She smiles, invites us in and cuts up an apple for us to share. As we talk to her through Ngae, who inteprets, two other women enter the room. They are also teachers and all three live in this room together. "It's a big bed" remarks Ngae about the wide bamboo frame that sits in the corner. We sit and ponder the lives of three women who sleep in the same bed and share a one room dwelling attached to the school. They each earn about $35 a month. Enough to live but not to save anything or travel. Ngae explains that with only the equivalent of a high school education, these women have limited opportunities. They all hope to get married someday and dream of a somewhat more comfortable lifestyle. It's hard to imagine it being more difficult. We thank the teachers, say goodbye, and walk away followed by children on handmade wooden stilts. They pursue us for quite awhile shouting "hello" in different funny voices. I growl loudly, shout "hello" in a low beastly tone, stomp around like a giant and do other silly things that make them laugh. Finally they fade away as we approach the road. Ngae says that they are headed back to their houses for dinner.

Driving back, we are struck by the scenery in this mountainous area. Verdant green hills terraced for planting as far as the eye can see -- rice, corn, potatoes, peas and bamboo. The hillsides have been largely deforested to make room for farming. Ngae studied forestry and agriculture at University and tells us that the practice of deforestation is bad for the land since trees protect against erosion and thereby play a crucial role in maintaining topsoil. Without preserving some forest cover, it is likely that much of this land will be rendered unplantable in the future. But the tribes can't think about the future, says Ngae, although he hopes over time to convince them to change their practices. It will be very difficult.

A few days later, I head to Sapa. It is a stunningly beautiful place. The town is perched amidst the mountains at around 1400m (4500 feet) of altitude. It gets cold at night which makes me feel justified in having carried a fleece jacket and jeans in my backpack. I stay in a small clean room ($3/night) at a guesthouse with a front terrace that offers a panoramic view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. In the mornings I just sit, drink coffee and stare at the pleasing landscape for hours. But there's more to do in Sapa. So I explore the area in search of some interesting experiences. One day is spent touring some hill tribe villages with a guide and two travelers from the Isle of Man. I have never heard of this place, apparently located near England, and view their citizenship claims with skepticism. Even so, I pass along some facts I've learned about the hill tribes since our guide speaks little English and seems to know virtually nothing about the tribes. In return, they educate me about English football and explain why all fans of Manchester United are "a bunch of wankers." It is a fair trade of information.

My next day is spent shopping. The streets of Sapa are filled with old women from the Black Hmong tribe selling various types of clothing and accessories. They approach en masse and declare that each item in their bags, when placed on my body, is "beautiful" and "jolie". They exclaim that everything is "very cheap" and insist on calling me "Madame". One woman -- hunched over, wrinkled, and speaking in an alien tongue -- looks suspiciously like Yoda (or his mother). I take note of this fact and store it for future use.

The next day involves renting a motorcycle and driving through the mountains. I learn how to shift the gears of this vintage East German machine, secure the tattered helmet straps, and lurch down the road. It is an awesome experience. The views from this road are the best I am to witness in all of Asia. Breathtaking views of unspoilt land, dramatic cliffs, picturesque waterfalls and a flaming sun streaking across the deep blue sky. At one point I stop for a picture, reach for my camera, and realize that my backpack has fallen off the bike. Panic sets in. I try to turn around but the bike won't start. It takes minutes for me to get the engine to roar with life. I race back down the mountain praying for the bag to be in view. It is the most harrowing ride of the day and I take too many chances. But as luck would have it, I find the bag laying undamaged in the middle of the road. In the entire lapse of time from losing the bag to finding it again, about fifteen minutes, not one car has passed in either direction. Divine intervention saves me once again. I say thanks and continue with the ride.

THE OTHER TRAVELERS

I met a number of particularly interesting travelers during my month in Vietnam. They include Laurent and Maiva from France. Laurent repairs airplanes for Air France and has been to India three or four times. He exudes an air of mellowness and speaks lovingly of travelling through the Indian subcontinent. Maiva works for an organization dedicated to protecting the welfare of animals but strangely doesn't seem to like eating vegetables. She opts for meat at every restaurant we visit together.

I met Zane in the airport en route from Laos to Vietnam. He is a 50-year old American originally from Washington state who has spent the past 13 years working around the world. When he first tells me about his job, improving security at US embassy sites, I assume that his worldview is very different from my own. But as we talk he reveals a history that belies the clean cut image he's developed in middle age. At the age of 21, he left the US sporting long hair in search of adventure. Before the backpacker phenomenon went global, he was living on the beaches of Morocco reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead. He traveled across Turkey, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan and through India. While in India, he earned money by playing a stoned-out hippie extra in films that needed western actors. His stories of travelling in the "old days" are enough to make any modern day backpacker salivate. Although age has clearly taken the edge off his desire for crazy adventures, he continues to roam the globe in search of new experiences. He tells me of meeting the Dalai Lama and spending time in Tibet. I am impressed and intrigued. Due to strange karmic harmony, we bump into each other repeatedly throughout my month in Vietnam. We also engage in a mutually beneficial book trade.

Jerry, a 30-year old American, has different stories to tell. He is an ethnobotanist who runs his own company selling "exotic fruit" plants mail order from his home in Ashland, Oregon. I meet him one night in Hanoi at my hotel. He tells me a crazy story about running away from the Chinese police and being put on trial in southern China (he bribed his way out) for illegally obtaining rare plant cuttings. He has been searching for a mythical plant known in some cultures as the "God Peach". His visit to Vietnam is all about procuring cuttings of this plant and scoping out sources of medicinal plant material for export to the US. We spend time hanging out in the northwest and he takes me through the local herb markets, identifying a frighteningly large percentage of the items on sale. I try to learn something about medicinal plants from him but fail to pick up any useful tidbits.

Henrich, a 21-year old from Germany, is riding his bicycle around Vietnam. He grew up in Leipzig in the former East Germany and describes the experience of watching the wall come down and crossing into West Germany for the first time as a 10 year old boy. We drink beer together and discuss the monumental events that have occurred over the past decade.

David, a 50-something British writer, is travelling through Vietnam after releasing his first successful book. The book is essentially a primer on how to commit adultery. He suggests that the art of cheating requires close adherence to various strategies and tactics to avoid detection by a spouse. Apparently, this book has been selling extremely well in Japan.

BEING AN AMERICAN IN VIETNAM

Other travelers often asked me whether it felt strange to be an American in Vietnam. I was never entirely sure. Vietnamese reactions to my nationality ranged from cool disdain to thumbs-up affirmations. Some people in the north, especially older men, seemed indifferent or mildly negative to my presence. In the south, most older men worked for the Americans during the war and seemed fairly positive about the US. Children sometimes smiled and exclaimed "USA" but other times pretended to point a machine gun at me and then fire away complete with sound effects ("rat-at-at-at-at-at"). Yet during my visits to various war museums, which all contain exhibits filled with scathing criticism of the US, the employees responded enthusiastically when I mention my nationality.

The revolutionary and military museums placed me in the most difficult positions. One typical museum displayed a photograph of a US soldier menacing a cowering Vietnamese civilian with the following caption -- "The US soldiers are using daggers to disembowel the patriotic people in their raids". A picture of US soldiers holed up at Khe Sanh is accompanied by the following -- "Encircled and attacked interminably, the American soldiers lead their miserable lives at their bases." As revolutionary propaganda, it is a fascinating read. But since the hostility is mostly directed at the US and its "puppet government" in South Vietnam, I felt a bit more cautious about openly ridiculing the content.

After spending a month in Vietnam, I conclude that the lingering hostility against America is far less than one would expect. Most Vietnamese seem more interested in the future than the past. Most are poor and want economic development. The US is a potential source of much trade and investment. People frequently mentioned their hope that relations between our two countries will continue to improve. They want jobs and security. Our country offers the promise of progress towards these objectives.

TRANSPORTATION

Many tourists take the minibuses provided by tour companies to get from place-to-place, or catch the air-conditioned buses run for backpackers that travel from Hanoi to Saigon. I chose to take local transit as often as possible. It was generally more expensive than the tour buses but allowed me the chance to experience some local culture. A few incidents stand out in my mind.

En route to destinations in the northwest, I caught the train from Hanoi to Lao Cai, the main border crossing to China. I purchased a "hard sleeper" ticket for the 10-hour overnight ride ($15). Arriving at my compartment, I find 6 middle-aged men already there. They ignore me for the first hour and then one turns to ask my nationality (in English). "Hoa-ky" I replied in Vietnamese (which means USA). The man nods coldly and turns back to the group. They are not impressed and continue talking about something else. I suspect that they served as soldiers during the war and now work as government functionaries. I am getting tired and begin to fall asleep sitting up. Although I've paid for a middle bed (the beds are stacked vertically in threes), I offer to take the less expensive top bunk so as not to inconvenience the other men. One says "very hot" and points to the top bunk, but I waive it off and climb up, roll out the thin bamboo mat provided and stuff my boots in a cubby above the door. It's a bit warm but the rotating ceiling fan makes it sufficiently comfortable for sleeping. In the middle of the night, the fan stops. I wake up and realize that it's very hot up near the ceiling. Looking down, I notice that the men have closed the window that normally allows cool outside air to penetrate the cabin. Beads of perspiration are forming on my skin. So I quietly reach over and turn on the fan. It starts up silently but soon begins making a loud clanking sound with each rotation of the blades. I don't care. Anything to keep cool. Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, one of the men rises from his bed and shuts it off. I ponder the situation, decide not to argue and lie in sweaty silence. The Vietnamese have very different tolerances for heat and cold. They seem to enjoy it hot and apparently never sweat. I am always a bit sticky and appreciate any flowing air at all. Eventually I drift off and, after some unsatisfying sleep, wake at our destination.

A few days later I decide to take the local bus from Bac Ha back to Lao Cai. It is scheduled to leave at 5:30am, so I walk from my hotel to the stop 15 minutes early and get on. Before we depart, the conductors spend 20 minutes loading cargo and jamming it into every available space. One man brings two dozen large bundles of cinnamon bark. Another has several 50lb. bags of rice. 5 long wood planks are laid in the aisle. One Hmong woman brings a thatched basket carrying a chicken. A local farmer, with help from the bus crew, hoists three horses onto the roof. The horses have their legs tied together and are lifted upside down with a rope by three guys standing on the top of the bus. Once the vehicle is thoroughly overloaded we begin our journey. Slowly. Stopping every few minutes to pick up passengers. Then the conductor goes around collecting money. He gets to me and says "60 thousand" in english. I know that the locals pay 18,000 dong ($1.25) for the trip. "Qua Nhieu!" I exclaim in Vietnamese (meaning 'too expensive'). I offer 20,000. He gets angry and repeats his demand. I look at him and smile. He clearly doesn't know any English beyond prices. "No, friend" I say in a warm tone. He begins to fidget. All the passengers in the bus turn to watch this interaction. "60,000" he insists. "No, too expensive" I say again in a nice and non-confrontational voice to avoid losing face. This is an important concept in southeast asia. Never be the first to go ballistic. Always maintain the high ground in a difficult interaction.

But he is not trying to save face. He grabs my arm and tries to usher me out the door. I refuse to move and sit motionless. Everyone watches us. The conductor then gives up and retreats to the front of the bus. I wait for the next volley. The other conductor is sent back to deal with me 20 minutes later. We play the same game and eventually I end up paying 40,000. Still too high, but I have achieved partial victory by not allowing myself to be rapaciously ripped-off. I am merely being overcharged. It's a small consolation.

I rented several motorbikes during my time in Vietnam. Not knowing exactly how to drive one didn't prove to be a serious impediment. In Ninh Binh, a city several hours south of Hanoi, I rented a new 150cc Honda for the day to visit the National Park about 40 miles away. Starting off, I felt a sense of exhiliration. It quickly turned into a form of manageable panic. The roads in Vietnam are used as a public forum and support all sorts of activities -- children play, rice is dried, farm animals rest, industrial machinery is fixed. From the perspective of a driver it is a minefield. Luckily, my decades of video game playing, which seemed a total waste of time as a youth, come in very handy. I dodged buffalo, swarms of bicycles, and piles of rice straw. Since the roads are not wide enough to comfortably accommodate passing, approaching cars honk to warn of possible disaster unless one party yields. It's the law of the jungle and the biggest vehicle usually gets priority.

Driving back from the park later that day, I make my way to the river village of Ken Ga. But I take a wrong turn and begin to traverse narrower unpaved roads through rice paddies. The roads are rutted and perhaps dangerous. Who knows. I continue off towards nowhere in particular hoping that it will lead somewhere. But I'm only getting more lost. I stop to ask directions. Each time, a local person points to a different way. There seems to be no hope. I stop to gaze at the beauty of the scenery and begin to attract a crowd of children. They want me to honk the horn. I do. They cheer. I speed away as they run behind trying to catch up. The road now gets really sketchy. At points, it is flooded and I have to drive through water of unknown depths. It is getting darker and I begin to worry about making it back to the main road while I can still see. I turn around and try to retrace my route. Panic lurks in the back of my mind. It's harder to make out objects in my path but I still speed over the bumpy roads until arriving at the paved highway. It is now dark. I am blinded by oncoming cars using their high beams. I curse the insanity of it all. Kids dart across the road. I am travelling at 60 km/hour (36 mph) and singing into the wind to keep centered. It works. I make it back to my hotel in time to catch the next bus down south. But sitting on the bike all day has made my butt sore. It's an 11 hour ride to my destination. I will pay the price. And I do. The next day I refuse to sit down and wear myself out walking around the city of Hue. But that is another story.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE GROUP TOUR

The vast majority of travelers in Vietnam avail themselves of the numerous organized tours that are offered. This is different from the norm in other southeast asian countries perhaps in part because the Lonely Planet guidebook claims that organizing one's own travel can be heinously difficult and stressful. Given the slavish devotion of many backpackers to every punctuation mark in this guidebook, the author's words carry great weight. Many do not even attempt to travel themselves in the belief that it is next to impossible.

The tours can take one to the next city, to remote areas, or to heavily touristed destinations by minibus or jeep. They can be booked a day in advance in any traveler cafe in Hanoi, Saigon or other cities in-between. The tours allow one the comfort of being whisked away on a minibus with reliable connections to other forms of transport and guides waiting to explain relevant details in semi-comprehensible English. Hotels are arranged, activities planned, and arrival/departure times set. The tours offer security, predictability, low prices and a guarantee of interaction with other travelers from europe, north america and australia.

I have a visceral negative reaction to these tours. It goes beyond any set of rational reasons that I could cite to demonstrate why independent travel is superior. My experience with these tours was limited to two day trips and I felt quite self-conscious the entire time. Apart from these brief forays, I chose to organize my own travel and make all my own decisions. It was essential to preserving my sanity and was the main reason I came to Asia on my own. Here are my main gripes with the group tour:

(1) Predictability -- on the tour, everyone knows exactly what's coming. Tonight we'll be on a boat sailing through the bay, tomorrow at 7am the bus leaves, there will be seafood for lunch, and it will definitely cost $25. There is no doubt as to the contents or outcome of the trip. I hate this kind of certainty. As strange as it may sound, I prefer to take off towards a destination without knowing what will happen, how long I will stay or what it will cost. It adds excitement and creates a sense of actual adventure. I travel to gain new experiences and work my way into, and out of, strange situations. It's no fun if someone else does all the work and thereby eliminates my risk.

(2) Control and freedom -- the tour requires you to cede most decisionmaking power to the company. If you find out, halfway through the trip, that the tour sucks and the other travelers are annoying, there's little that can be done. Independent travel allows one to make decisions at the last minute, to change plans, or to stay longer. Each morning I would wake up and decide whether to stay or leave. This creates an enormous sense of freedom. The kind of freedom that doesn't exist in normal life at home except amongst those who are permanent drifters. It is the joy of knowing that I can get off the train anywhere, turn around, stay the night, keep going, or just walk off into the wilderness. Even when one leg of the trip goes exactly as planned the mere feeling of freedom is enough to keep me excited.

(3) Interaction -- My experience with the two tours was notable for its complete absence of interaction with local Vietnamese people. I spent plenty of time those days talking about English football, prices in different countries, the differences between education in Europe and America, and what one should pay for a finely tailored suit. But these conversations occurred exclusively with other travelers. By contrast, my independent travelling allowed for all sorts of interaction with local people. Sometimes we communicated through gestures, occasionally I took out the phrase book, and always there was a mutual exchange of smiles. I don't claim to have gained a deep understanding of the Vietnamese psyche through these interactions but it made me feel that I was actually in Vietnam. It was quite distinct from the prototypical group tour where the experience feels more like watching a screen from a comfortable seat in a darkened movie theater.

The final reason I hate tours has to do with my own ego. I like to think of myself as different. At least a little different. Travelling with an organized group strips away any pretense of individuality by lumping all tourists together and forcing them to do exactly the same thing at the same time. Take the picture now. Walk this way. Follow me. Back in the minibus. Even if I end up doing similar activities independently, I retain the appearance of uniqueness (at least to myself). I take pride in being somewhat unique and therefore have a very strong reaction to travelling in a herd. As I said before, it's not entirely rational. Especially since my trip did not consist of actually exploring places that are not normally visited by travellers. Is it any different if I go to the same places alone? From my perspective it was an important distinction.

EPILOGUE

I am now fully ensconced in the routine of life at home in California. It feels like a different universe from the one I inhabited for 14 weeks in southeast Asia. My thoughts are often on the future and the past but rarely focus on the here and now. It is a common condition in our culture. People talk into cell phones, chat online, and ride alone in sealed automobiles. There is little unplanned interaction or unscheduled time. I am a full participant in these social norms.