We wandered, not always certain if what was on the map and what we were looking at were the same thing, and not really caring.  We stuck to the paths, having read about the continuing deaths and maimings from unexploded ordnance, though surely this much frequented place was clean:  still...  I am unaccustomed to having to consider such things, and I hope to remain so, but how must the constant threat of land mines warp the thinking of the people in the countryside?  Why do they smile so readily?  Some striking ruins atop an ancient wall gave us a fine view of moat and city, and we started back. That afternoon we found a place that could remove our hundreds of digital photos from the camera's memory sticks and put them onto a compact disk for us.  What a difference 30 years makes!  And the Indian restaurant in the evening brought warfare of a different kind:  coriander and cumin exploded on the palate and rich peppers built a fine fire in the mouth.  How could anyone bomb this place?  What were they thinking? But bomb they did - drilling bombs, that is bombs within bombs, the first making a crater and the second deepening it in an effort to collapse the tunnels in which entire communities lived during the war.  My day trip to the Demilitarized Zone taught me about this and much more.  I swallowed my claustrophobia and went with the group into one of these tunnels at Vinh Moc.  Shoulders rubbed both walls in places, the light from the single bulbs at infrequent intervals was effectively blocked by the people in front and behind, and the stairs were steep and irregular as they descended some 15 metres underground.  My panic was close to the surface, however, and it didn't help that the power failed for a few seconds.  I reminded myself that people spent months at a time down here.  If they could do that, surely I could spend a few minutes.  We passed living quarters - caves hollowed from the walls of the tunnel, deep enough for a short person to lie down and wide enough to stretch out both arms.  Families lived here.  In one of them, mannequins depicted a nurse helping a woman to give birth.  I forget how many were born down here, and most of them still live in the area.  At one point the tunnel widened so that people could sit on each side with a clear path up the middle.  This was the school and meeting area for news reports and political indoctrination.  I imagined the people huddled together, listening to, and feeling, the double crump of the drilling bombs - never mind that they almost never hit their mark.  Could I have done it?  Would I have remained sane?  Why do these people smile?

Previous articles on Vietnam: A Ramble in South East Asia: Part 4 - The floating village stretched along the watercourse for some distance, and I would not have given it that name.  True, there were many small boats with families living in them, but there were also many permanent buildings on the shore.  The colourful name was probably given to promote tourist visitation. A Ramble in South East Asia: Part 3 - More than once on my I travels was painfully aware, and more than a little embarrassed, by my wealth and soft life compared to these people.  I had been reduced to bankruptcy in Canada, yet I was still far better off and had many more opportunities than these labourers.  They were cutting irregular chunks of red clay from the ground with their shovels and stacking them piece by piece, bucket by bucket, onto the circle.  What they put inside to fire the clay was not clear.  They noticed us and waved, making jokes that may or may not have been polite. A Ramble in South East Asia - Continuing Ron Hannah's observational and perceptive ramble...."We were interested in the villages around Sapa and I wanted to see Dien Bien Phu where the French were defeated in 1954.  We heard from returning travellers that it was below freezing up there, and that travel was difficult.  The spectre of a very large Australian tourist at a streetside shop trying to buy a sweater that would fit him in this land of small people, was what finally scrubbed those plans, I think." A Ramble in South East Asia - Ron Hannah, a Canadian who 'came of age' in the 1960s, the 'Vietnam War' era, takes a ramble around 21st century Vietnam.  This is the first of six 'musings'.....more to follow in the coming months..... The motorcycles of Hanoi - ah, who would have thought, in the let's-bomb-them-back to-the-stone-age sixties, that Hanoi would ever again have streets, let alone vehicles?  But vehicles it has "by the glory" (Ruth's favourite phrase), and the two-wheeled motorized variety predominates by far. Expats Guide to Asian Sales and Marketing

Later on the tour, the green hillsides displayed more evidence of the tragedy of those years, though my untrained eye would not have noticed it.  Our guide, a young lady with good English, pointed out to us the low, stunted vegetation that surrounded The Rockpile.  This was the continuing result, all these years later, of Agent Orange.  If your enemy hides under dense foliage then it makes some sort of perverse sense to apply a defoliant.  This is a polite term for poison that kills plants, and many tons of the stuff were dumped on this country and on its neighbours.  I suppose one day it will leach out of the soil, but for now it is still very much present and very much a part of the food chain as well.  We were told how many Agent Orange babies had been (and are still being) born, without limbs or without minds, but the figure has mercifully escaped me.  "We didn't know", claim the American generals, as if that somehow justifies this horror or as if the knowledge would have prevented them dumping it.  Still  later, in Cambodia and Laos, I would see large areas of low growth and wonder...

The Rockpile is a 230 metre high hill with nearly vertical sides, sitting starkly in the midst of a steep valley.  It is accessible by helicopter or on foot, though I wouldn't want to attempt it.  One can easily see that it is an excellent lookout, and artillery was stationed there.  I had visions of some general sitting up there, rockets and bombs sticking out of every pocket, and thinking himself...  what?... safe?  It is a grotesque cartoon and not at all funny.

There was joking on the bus but the laughter was restrained, and then we came to the most embarrassing portion of the tour:  a visit to a village.  Do you wish to go to Vietnam and visit the hill tribes?  I recommend against it unless you are a true adventurer who likes to hike into the wilderness where no tourists go.  Dirty-faced children immediately ran to pick up an animal or a baby and then followed us about with their hands out.  Their routine was well practiced.  Some of the adults began to smoke long pipes and did their best to look colourful for the foreigners.  Each photo cost 1000 Dong.  We knew we were there for 20 minutes, an excruciating third of an hour during which we stared and were stared at, wandered and were followed by children muttering for alms, and learned exactly nothing about these people or their lives.  Leave such things to the anthropologists, and for God's sake stay away from villages on tour routes!  I went back to the bus well before the time was up.  It was at least interesting to see close up homes built upon stilts and the pot-bellied pigs lounging about.  A young girl had indicated she would like to have the ball point pen that was in my pocket.  Though I should have twigged, I didn't, that she and the kids back at Tam Coc were requesting writing materials for school.  When the message finally got through to us, Ruth and I bought a box of pens to give away.  We often forgot to bring it with us on our walks, but the thought was good.

The tour included a stop at a ruined church with roof missing, central tower still intact and many bullet marks in the walls, some penetrating right through 15 centimetres of rock.  This had been the scene of a fierce battle and much of the soldiers' terror still lingered.  Something about the place reminded me of a film about the invasion of Normandy called The Longest Day, which has some gritty battle scenes.  The dissonance was continuing, with the peaceful greenery seen through gothic windows reverberating to explosions and screams.  We all felt it.  The mood was sombre and we paced about in silence feeling helpless and ghost-ridden.

Our last stop was Khe Sanh, of infamous memory, and the inspiration for some truly wrenching comments written by returning veterans in the Visitor Centre guestbook.  Here, now surrounded by coffee plantations, are re-created bunkers, rusting tanks and helicopters, and many shell casings of varying sizes, often very large and frightening.  Some 100,000 tons of explosives were dropped in the vicinity by American planes during the siege of 1968, and soldiers remains are still being found by MIA teams.  It is inadvisable to step off the well-marked paths.  I preferred being outside the centre to the battle photos within despite the hot sun, and I touched the shell casings and stood in the bunkers trying to fathom the bottomless insanity of this place.  I dared at one point to ask our Vietnamese guide why the people are so smiling and friendly.  "I wouldn't be," I said.  She replied, "Yes, on the surface they smile, but you do not know what they are thinking underneath."  I pursued the matter no further.  On the way out I diverted a few paces and was relieved to touch the cool leaves of coffee bushes for the first time in my life.  They grew a little taller than me, about the same height as the shocked and stunted rain forest.  That evening I enjoyed a cup of that same coffee, but it was tainted with a bitterness that will not go away.

Deciding where to stop next was always a challenge.  Da Nang was the next major centre to the south and it featured beautiful beaches, but that is not a great recommendation in a country that has 3000 kilometres of gorgeous coastline.  To our eyes it suffered from being big, tourist-oriented and expensive.  Indeed the guidebook spoke of nearby China Beach having one of Vietnam's plushest hotels - anathema to the backpacker!  We passed through it.

Hoi An is a charming place, with attractive homes often sporting huge bougainvillea over their gates and walls.  I think there can be nothing more eye-arresting than a spectacularly joyous purple or scarlet bougainvillea!  We had been seeing them all along, but somehow Hoi An concentrates them, and I passed many long moments revelling in their colours with them.  A short walk to the waterfront took us to a long street of fine restaurants.  Superb food and drink (and cheap), lightly buoyant fishing boats, bright flowers - this place has it all, its freshness seemed never-ending, and we stayed an extra day.  The owner of the Cafe des Amis brought us dish after dish of his wonderful creations, different every day, and every day a little better, he bragged with justification.   Even though we did not return to his place, there being so much to choose from, I shall always remember his lovely white rose, shrimp steamed in rice paper and dipped in a delicate sauce.  Hoi An calls to me.

This place featured many tailors shops, often with letters pinned to boards by the entrance from satisfied customers extolling their craftsmanship and honesty.  When travelling, one becomes wary of merchants after the inevitable rip-off happens.  Most are fine people, honest and proud of their work, but not all.  Ruth wanted a set of comfortable travelling clothes and was approached by a woman who, after the price had been negotiated, then demanded a ten dollar tip.  Ruth refused and a day or two later, just before we left, picked up the bundle.  The outfit proved to be ill-fitting and awkward, punishment for not tipping, but by then Hoi An was behind us.  So it goes.

Lest I paint too rosy a picture of Hoi An, there was one other thing that marred it:  super aggressive vendors.  The beach is a pleasant walk along a tree-lined road, over a little bridge, and past a restaurant whose verdant ambiance was truly inviting.  We stopped there one time for papaya smoothies, a drink you must try before you die.  You walk through a shaded grove of coconut palms to reach the smooth sand of the beach and the ladies who carry flat baskets of merchandise on their heads.  "You buy my (mangos: sunglasses: jewelry - pick one)?  I give you good price.  You buy from me, ok?  You no buy from her.  OK, I come back later then you buy."  It makes no difference that you have a mango in each hand, a pair of sunglasses shading your eyes and another resting on top of your head, and are weighted down with jewelry, they still pester you with the same lines.  Twenty minutes later they are back and when one leaves another comes almost immediately.  They seem to think that if you buy fruit or a trinket that you are in the market and they flock to you eagerly.  They give no peace and they spoil the place.  However much you would like to help them, knowing they are among the worlds poor, you can only eat so many mangos!

To escape them we walked up the beach away from the main area, and were able to examine small boats resting on the sand, some bowl-shaped and looking quite impractical.  The two people inspecting a net just offshore in these strange craft however, proved that observation incorrect.  The next day we returned so I could do some composing beneath the palms.  I am grateful to Ruth for running interference for me by telling the ladies not to disturb me.  I leaned against a tree, sipped from a coconut and wrote music on the beach.  What could be more idyllic?  Later I learned that fifty people per year are killed in Vietnam by falling coconuts.

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A group of more or less complete buildings appeared further along our walk, and these striking edifices as the sun came up and illuminated one by one their remarkably detailed wall carvings are far beyond my powers of description.  Conversation gradually faded and we wandered each our own way, contemplating this holy place.  In a few of the halls I improvised phrases on my recorder - a sad, minor mode seemed right - and was rewarded in some of them with a haunting echo.  Not until much later, and Angkor Wat, was I to feel such sadness and peace.  My Son had been attacked by the bombers, of course, until an influential French curator begged President Nixon to halt the assaults, we later read.  It worked.  Are there vestiges of humanity left in world leaders?  It's hard to spot them sometimes.  We came back to the exit and paid our entrance fee, having arrived before the booth had opened, met our patient driver and had a breakfast of savoury noodles and coffee at one of the 3 or 4 little restaurants outside the gate.  The tour buses were just starting to arrive with their noisy and disrespectful crews as we left, and we drove smugly past them on our way back to Hoi An.

After much discussion, and Ruth's reading in the guidebook, we (or she) had settled on Mui Ne as our next destination.  I find it hard to look at all the enticing places ahead and make a decision.  We knew we wanted to avoid large centres like Nha Trang and that going inland to some more national parks would end up being too expensive.  I had expressed the wish to do some writing on a beautiful beach and so Mui Ne was her final choice.  It was a great one.

Southward we went in an overnight bus.  While daylight lasted the visual feast continued; lush hills, unbelievably green, dipped down to tropical waters while our road curved gracefully around points that always gave onto another paradise bay.  These bays had many fishing boats going out for their nocturnal catch, and as the day failed their lights came on.  The people here, on sea and land, use fluorescent tubes mounted vertically.  I had often seen these outside shops lighting the streets in the evenings.  On those boats however, in the blackness and lacking the perspective of a horizon, they floated in silent and surreal mystery.  Had I not known what they were, I would have spent the time in feverish speculation and been unable to sleep.  They were otherworldly, and one could be forgiven for imagining alien craft of some sort.  Sleep on a moving bus is difficult at any time of course, but I managed a little and once even looked up to my first ever view of the Southern Cross.  This was it:  I was truly in the tropics, further south than I had ever been, and it was disconcerting to see Orion almost straight overhead.

Two rows of rustic, gecko-covered cabins lined a flowered courtyard that had a lovely open air restaurant at the upper end and the beach below at the other.  Just before the beach were two gazebos with hammocks, chairs and tables of stone.  Sheltered from the sun and rain I could write and listen to the waves while Ruth luxuriated with a book in a nearby hammock.  When the mood took hold, a walk along the beach or down the road was always pleasant.  There was not much traffic and we were told there were sand dunes not far away but we never bothered to find them.  It was heaven to rise whenever and not be concerned about catching the next bus somewhere; to eat when we were hungry, usually only twice a day in that heat; to order a beer or a smoothie as desired.  We settled into a kind of quiet sloth for four days, punctuated by walks and bursts of creative production.

Geckos were something new to me.  Ruth seemed to love them and for such tiny creatures they made quite a loud noise from time to time.  I never could tell which one was doing the vocalizing or how far away it was - they do not appear to move as they produce their call.  The sound is a surprisingly human one, two gutteral syllables repeated from 2 to 10 times, gradually getting softer and slower as if a balloon were deflating inside them.  Their legs move oddly when they dart about, forward and back in only two dimensions parallel to the wall or ceiling that they are on.  Their spines seem able to bend any which way so that moulding to an outside corner or an inside corner is a matter of indifference to them.  In a cafe some weeks later, I swear one of them was saying, "Fuck it! ... fuck it"! Photo: www.hungryeyeimages.com

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