Profile
Blog
Photos
Videos
Hi all
So, after an easy night’s rest although not strictly sleep on our gorgeous bus (complete with some sort of cake and a bottle of water for our supper – oohh first class all the way baby) we found ourselves standing by the roadside in Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) or as some still call it Saigon. In fact, the locals are just as bad as everyone else regarding what to call it. Some look at you like you’ve just shat on their granny if you call it Saigon, others do the same if you call it HCMC. So I’ll probably flit between the two throughout. Why only upset one lot of people when you can upset two. Not that anyone from Saigon will read this anyway. But I digress….
HCMC at 6.30 am. As usual everyone disembarked looking like startled sheep, and trying to appear relaxed or at least ignore the 15 touts all hollering to take you somewhere very nice, very cheap. We eventually picked on some old woman who looked like she could probably use the commission more than the others and off we set.
After a couple of minutes and a couple of false starts, we finally found one that we liked and that she could claim commission on. Sweet. Well kind of. Our room wasn’t ready yet so they temporarily put us in a different one where we slept until they woke us up to change rooms. I’d slept like a baby but woke up like Satan. Nowt new there then. Nothing another couple of hours sleep wouldn’t sort though and soon enough I was awake and feeling like a Gummy Bear after some Gummy Berry Juice. Or something.
Anyway, we went out for a bite to eat and to get our first look at Saigon.
I have to say, I loved it straight away and I think Mand did too. It’s a funny thing. Some places you go to and you just feel right at home straight away. Almost like you’ve been there before. It happened in Vientiane in Laos and it happened again here. Sometimes it takes a while to warm to a place (like Hanoi) and others you can’t wait to get out of (like Tetouan in Morocco) and some places just leave you feeling indifferent (like Hue). But the oddest one by far is the first. As we sat back in a bar called Allezboo and ate a truly Vietnamese breakfast of beans on toast (ahem) it was like we’d been here all our lives, but at the same time excited by the fact it was all new. It really is an odd feeling.
Wanting to get up and at it with a whole day to play with, we contented ourselves whiling away the afternoon and the evening with a few beers at some of the local bars, a few games of pool and another Vietnamese feast of burger and chips. Loving that local food…
The only downer on the whole evening turned out to be on the pool table. After I’d played and won, our food arrived and so I left the table to eat. By the time I went and put my name back on the board there were a couple of local lairy lads playing. For money.
I put my name up and it turns out that I was next. Except I wasn’t because I refused to play for cash. Alright, it’s only $2 but what the f***. I was pretty pissed by now and really got into one about how every f***er in this country just wants your money, how you can’t even relax and have a game of pool without getting hassled. In short, I was Stella-ed. Without the benefit of having drunk Stella.
Anyhow, the upshot was that there were some names left up from earlier (they were there when I arrived about an hour previous) who now magically appeared to be real people waiting to play. Except they weren’t, so the guy who had played before me then got to play another half a dozen times because he didn’t mind playing for money. Another couple of beers and I was well and truly wound up and when the local guy condescendingly offered me the cue I told him to f*** off. Alright, not the done thing but f*** ‘em. He looked genuinely puzzled by this and spent the next hour off and on trying to convince me I could play now. I just kept sneering in my best Ronnie O Sullivan scowl and shaking my head. Childish? Me? No way.
Eventually, I went for a piss and when I come back there’s some dude sat in my seat chatting Mand up which nearly caused me to blow a gasket (especially when he did his level best to ignore me despite the fact that I was sat virtually in his lap) and after some long drawn out silences with me staring at him, Mand decided she’d seen enough and that play school was over for the day. She took me home, put my jammies on me and tucked me up in bed nice and tight. Sweet.
Ok, so the next day we were up and off Christmas shopping. That’s right peeps, you can all expect a (very) little something in your stockings (does that sound perverted or is it just me) from a slightly oriental looking Santa this year. For this though, we had to brave the Ben Thanh Market.
This is an absolutely huge indoor market set inside an absolutely huge French colonial building. And it was rammed.
Now most of you know about my attitude to shopping. It rates along there with having my nuts placed in a grinder and having my bell-end sandpapered. Usually I do as much as possible on the Internet, but this year a shopping trip was unavoidable.
So it was with a fixed smile and a sense of doom that we entered and got battered from all sides by people selling such diverse objects as neon clocks with Jesus on them, mechanical waving Buddhas, and ‘original’ US dog tags from the war.
At one point, we were forced to run for our lives me in front dragging Mand with me as a tribe of t-shirt sellers hung on to her other hand in a perverse form of tug-o-war. At one point Mand started to look like Stretch Armstrong or like Gulliver being held by the miniature people of Liliput, but with a final tug which I swear lifted the sellers off the floor horizontally, with Mand brushing the last of them from her shoulders and me randomly shouting fish at anyone who asked what we were looking for, we were through.
At this point I really really upset some poor old sod who was selling some beautifully crafted hand made wooden ornamental slippers. They really were gorgeous. But when I exclaimed ‘What on Earth would we want those for, are you mad?’ to Mand, the guy’s face hit the floor and he just stood looking forlornly at his beautiful workmanship. It broke Mand’s heart and we are definitely going to go and buy a load when we go back to Saigon, whilst making a big fuss about how amazing they are. We’re not even going to haggle, just give him whatever he wants. Ahhh, the price of an appeased conscience.
But after a while I actually started to quite enjoy myself and in a turnaround worthy of a Frenchman on a battle field it was Mand who tired first, and looking as stressed as I’ve ever seen her whilst shopping she surrendered and demanded I take her to a bar immediately. Works for me baby doll. And there we sat in absolute peace and watched the chaotic madmen on their Mopeds do their best to kill each other.
Saigon in rush hour, like watching f***in salmon, in mating season. And that’s a haiku. Well it is now I went back and put the commas in. And it was right off the bat. How talented can one man be? Anyway…
Sometime during the week we also headed out to Dong Khoi for some late afternoon food. But I can’t remember which day that was so I’m going to pretend it was today.
Dong Khoi is the upmarket area of HCMC. This means they serve the same food as everywhere else in pretty much the same surroundings, but charge you twice as much.
It was really nice to be away from the peasants for a while though, and we sat back and drank some fantastic smoothies in an art gallery while trying to decide if any of the pictures were actually any good (they were) and whether or not they were worth the money being asked (not on your nelly). Maybe I could sell them some haikus…
s***ty artistry, Dong Khoi in autumnal chill, its overpriced w***. See, this is easy.
On one of the days we set about doing the Walking Tour as laid out in the ever reliable Lonely Planet. We’d already seen most of it in the previous few days of aimless wandering, but decided we’d do it anyway just for something to do. We were heading for the only two places we wanted to go anyway (the War Remnants Museum and the Reunification Palace) and they were both on the tour, so why not? Because it pissed down half way round, that’s why not. But not to worry, because by this time we were immersed in the part of the tour that takes you past a huge department store (just before you get to the Municipal Theatre in case you honestly give a toss) so in we went and Mand suddenly remembered that she did love shopping after all. b******s. But after a surprisingly short time we were upstairs in the rooftop café, slurping smoothies and eating ice cream and really really hoping that the rain would ease up enough for us to continue. It didn’t, so we availed ourselves of an ever eager taxi driver and got him to take us to the War Remnants Museum.
It used to be known as the Museum Of Chinese And American War Crimes but changed it’s name in order to appear slightly less offensive. To be fair though, the former name suits it better. It was easily the most difficult time I’ve ever had walking round a museum. Some of the displays they have there should carry x-rated certificates. And everybody in the world should be forced to go and see it. I am deadly serious.
There are photos of torture victims, photos of massacres, victims of gang rape, injured and dead children mangled by bombs and napalm, children born deformed thanks to Agent Orange, actual deformed foetuses in jars. It’s absolutely relentless in it’s brutality and it’s impact.
It’s not just the pictures, which are bad enough, but the stories that accompany them. Eye witness testimonials from independent observers as well as US troops involved and the victims themselves.
They have models of the cells prisoners were kept in and the torture implements used on them. And of course, photos of the victims.
It was truly harrowing, not just because of the brutality and senselessness of it all, but because the victims in all of this were civilians. Men, women, children and babies. Civilians. Some of the victim’s hadn’t even been born when the war ended.
My jaw dropped open at least a dozen times on the way round, and by the end I was trying really hard to dislodge the lump in my throat. Mand was in floods of tears.
Incidentally, the word that the Easy Riders were trying to tell me when they talked about gas attacks wasn’t DOC, it was Dioxcin. Agent Orange.
There only other thing which was really driven home to me was that the perpetrators weren’t the devil incarnate. They were ordinary people, put in extraordinary circumstances and some reacted worse than others. They then went back to their normal lives after the war ended.
Three stories in particular stand out.
The first is about a squad of US Navy SEALS who carried out a mission to assassinate the Mayor of a village in the Mekong Delta called Thanh Phong. They attacked at night and in the first hut they came to they found an elderly man, his wife and three grandchildren sleeping. They slit their throats while they slept. They then went on to kill another 16 people, among them several babies. According to one US soldier who took part, they herded them all together and shot them at point blank range. They used over 1200 rounds of ammunition, grenades, light anti-tank weapons. I won’t go into it any further, other than to say this.
The officer in charge of the massacre recorded that the 21 people killed were VC. He received a Broze Star for this excellent result.
Who was he? Ex US Senator John Kerry. You know, the one who was up for election as the Presidential candidate for the Democrats eventually losing to Clinton. He was a certified war hero and went on to win The Purple Heart.
Just and ordinary bloke in an extraordinary situation.
Incidentally, the US media squashed the story twice before it was eventually brought to light. Mainly because in theory, this means that they have a suspected war criminal in charge of one of their most exalted seats of learning (he’s now the president of New School University in New York City). That simply wouldn’t do, now would it.
The second is the My Lai massacre. This was a mission carried out by three companies of US Infantry. At no point in the entirety of what followed did they come under fire from the enemy. Villagers were shot and bayoneted, houses destroyed, livestock slaughtered. Once again there are reports (by the US soldiers involved) of up to 150 villagers including women and children being herded in front of a ditch and machine gunned to death. This happened up to half dozen times in the next few hours.
Villagers fleeing along the road were shot down by helicopters and those who were wounded (again women and children among them) were summarily executed by the ground forces. At least four girls were raped or gang raped.
All the soldiers involved (three companies remember) were told to never mention what had happened.
On their return to the US several went public with what they had seen (one soldier apparently shot himself in the foot deliberately to get out of the massacre – the only US casualty in the whole event) and led to increased demonstrations against the war. The military were branded ‘baby-killers’ – remember the scene in First Blood where Rambo starts crying and moaning about how people called him a baby killer and how they never got any parades).
Once again, ordinary people put in extraordinary circumstances reacting differently.
The only person to get court-martialed was a guy called Lt Calley who was convicted of killing 22 civilians. He was sentenced to life imprisonment but was paroled after three years because the US Supreme Court refused to hear his appeal. That’s ok then. Everyone’s happy.
The third story is about a decorated pilot who refused to drop bombs on Vietnam any more. After flying a shedload of missions, he realized the monstrosity of what he was doing and refused point blank to continue. It’s rumoured that other pilots and bombers who refused were simply transferred to other duties. But he refused to be involved in the war any further. He was threatened with court-martial and still refused to fly. He was eventually tried and found guilty, but managed to file a plea as a Conscientious Objector on appeal which was accepted, saving him from jail time. I think his name was Captain Donald Dawson, but I’m not 100% sure. Funny how I can remember the names of the ones who did bad though.
I thought I’d end on a happy story cos I’ve managed to depress the f*** out of myself again just thinking about the museum and more to the point the reality of what happened over here. It was only 30 – 35 years ago. That’s what I keep thinking about. It’s so recent. Even more recent is this.
Mand read in Time magazine, totally by coincidence, a day or so later that a US soldier in Afghanistan has just been tried for raping a 15 year old Afghanistani girl, before killing her and her mother. By the time his crime had come to light he had been discharged from the forces for mental illness. No s*** Sherlock. Don’t you think you should have tested for this beforehand?
Finally, a few days later when we were on our homestay in the Mekong Delta we got to discussing the Museum with a Spanish couple over dinner.
Now the woman looked like she was going to burst into tears when we started talking about it, but the guy says ‘Bah, it’s all just propaganda you know. The North Vietnamese were just as bad and tortured US troops too.’ As if that somehow makes it alright. I simply didn’t know what to say. I was dumbfounded. I know now what it was that struck me as so ridiculously incomprehensible about this statement.
Yes the VC tortured US troops. And that is every bit as bad as US troops and South Vietnamese troops (and the French before them) torturing the VC. That goes without saying (at least I thought it did).
But, and alright this is a flimsy excuse, the two sides were at war. Kill or be killed. Torture each other all you want. Like I say, it’s flimsy but it’s there.
But the victims on display in the museum weren’t soldiers. They were civilians. They were farmers. They were children. They were babies. They were unborn children.
How many US babies were killed in the Vietnam War? How many US civilians were massacred? How many US women were raped? How many innocent bystanders from the US were tortured and killed? That’s what makes them war crimes.
Actually, talking about torturing the opposition has just reminded me of another more personal story.
We used to drink in a pub in Pompey called the Owtback (it used to be Ashby’s if anyone’s having trouble placing it). We became real regulars in there for a while getting lock ins (thanks in part to some US Navy boys who didn’t know what the word ‘c*** rsquo; meant – thankfully Johnny explained it to them) and got to know the landlord pretty well. He was a genuinely nice bloke who never had a bad word to say about anyone and who put up with all sorts of drunken s*** from us (robbing his pool table for free games and letting us try out our cocktail making skills for instance). He was an Ozzie (hence Owtback) and had served as a commanding officer in Vietnam. We got chatting about it one night and after a bit, he came over all teary eyed. Thinking he was a bit of a f***** I let him crack on with what it was that was bothering him. He started talking about torture – nothing specific, just in general terms. I sobered up pretty f***in quick let me tell you, and asked him if he’d ever been tortured. He shook his head (much to my relief) and said something along the lines of what a good commanding officer he was, and how he always looked after his POWs and the villagers they came across. He was especially adamant that he didn’t condone torture, but one time they’d come across a village and they needed information fast. I can’t remember exactly why, and I’m not sure he actually said.
Anyway, he gave the order to torture a villager they’d caught who they believed to be VC. He didn’t say what they did. In fact he didn’t say much at all after that, other than that they got the information they needed and the mission was a success. By this time he had tears running down his face.
I genuinely don’t think even to this day that he meant to tell me. Or that he was bulls***ting. In fact he did his level best to not have too much to do with me after that. Shame? Embarrassment? Who knows. I genuinely hope it wasn’t.
But again, he was just an ordinary bloke put in an extraordinary circumstance. He came back to civilization, took up a normal life and did his best to forget about some of the things he’d seen and done. Unsuccessfully it seems. And the truth is I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, should this bloke who is as normal as you or me be tried as a war criminal? Does having been forced to live with it for 30 odd years have any bearing on it? Could we do anything to punish him more than he’s already punishing himself? Has he served his time inside his own head? Would I punish John Kerrey but not the landlord of the local pub? Alright, Kerrey’s case involves women and kids, but a life is a life. Isn’t it? And what would I have done in their positions? Now I’m all confused. I’m off to have a beer and try not to think about it.
Laters all
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
- comments