Category Archives: South East Asia

I’m going to die.

The monkey’s eyes reach through mine, seeping into the depths of my soul. I stay frozen. His curious gaze sinks further into my core, searching for the tiny strands of DNA that differ from his own. The ones that code for his looming murder so that he can understand that no, it is not one of his own who has shoved him into the hell of a wire-mesh cage. It’s not one of his own who’s abandoned him to the vicious heat he cannot escape.
I stare at him in silence, helpless.
He lifts a scraggly finger and strokes the silver wire with extreme care, as if to massage the tiniest gossamer of hope lining the cruel prison, to coax it into action.
He tilts his head at me, like a dog, waiting for me to react.

Please, brother.

I let my eyes slide to the dirt. I look at my shoes. I fake-yawn for a while. Then I take a slow, deep breath. I begin angling my head back towards the monkey.

Please, brother.

Still there. My gaze swerves sharply to study the walled compound, not wanting to meet his eyes again. Kids are roaming around, giggling at the different species they see, sticking their fingers in the cages and making rude faces at the animals. In one corner there is a dining table, and in another, a machete leans against the gray-cinderblock wall. The animals, some near extinction, all await the same fate.

I swivel around to stare the monkey directly in the eye. An invisible laser beam connects us for an instant before he turns his head away, perhaps to avoid conflict.
He is a lost cause. There is no hope for him here. There is nothing I can do.

Hours later men will walk over and remove the monkey from his cage. Then they’ll mutilate him and serve him–still alive–to the children and their parents. The families will eat his brain while it is still sending weak signals to his body, and then the children will fight for pieces of his arms, further maiming his already bloody form.

And all this torture will be by order of the human brain that evolved, so recently, from his own.

I turn and walk away.

-L

Here’s a strange phenomena. The Vietnam War started in 1955 and the U.S. joined the South Vietnamese against the Vietcong in the early ‘60’s. I was born in 1966.  Regardless of this chronology and the fact that the country was trying to extricate itself from the battlefield beginning when I was in elementary school, I felt guilty at any war reference or site throughout our 15 day tour of the country. Further, every time someone asked our nationality, I hesitated, imagining their version of an American asking that and getting the response, ‘Al Qaeda’…As a traveler you are an ambassador of sorts and nationality is always the first question you are asked. So in a strange way, I owned our (American) past. Certainly my kids did not feel this, but perhaps if they visit Iraq with their kids in another 30 years…Further, the young of Vietnam, rejuvenated from their form of capitalism and the tourism dollars you bring, care very little, if at all.

A few specific instances where I felt uncomfortable –

• In a six foot round bamboo basket boat in Hoi An, I was rowing Anh, our 20-something guide with one oar. (challenging!) Occasionally our delicate boat smashed into the partially submerged coconut groves so I was relieved to find a perfectly round area of open water. She said there was no greenery, nor would there ever be, because that’s where the Americans dropped a bomb. Honestly, I had to stifle my immediate, “Sorry.”

• Harry and I were walking down a secluded beach at dusk and happened upon a half dozen or so young men sitting in a circle on the sand next to their flipped canoes. They yelled out to us asking where we were from. Harry yelled out, “U.S.A.” before I could get “Canada” out. Their response was silence. I had a creeping sense of unease until we got within shouting distance of our hotel.

• Our chipper 25-year old guide couldn’t have been friendlier and reflected the spirit and energy of the young Ho Chi Minh City that he was tasked to show us. On our last day I asked him what his parents thought of him guiding Americans. Diplomatically he said, “They are very proud of me. They are farmers.” I asked him the same question emphasizing ‘Americans.’ He confessed, “They have no idea.” What he didn’t say was the interesting part; He’d never told them.

At two sites exploring our war with Vietnam, instead of feeling horrible at the atrocities we inflicted on a distant continent over a failed foreign policy theory, I ended up overwhelmed with national pride, not at our government’s choices, but because of our soldiers, who did not have any choices but their directives. I feel guilty again!

• At the Cu Chi Tunnels where the Vietcong lived ingeniously underground and killed the unsuspecting U.S. soldiers like fish in a barrel, we had a claustrophobic tour with creepy, cheap mannequins peppered throughout. Our guide was keen to show us the cluster bomb remnants and repeatedly pointed out that they were against the Geneva Convention. However, he had no problem with the devilish torture traps laid to slow the Americans. I can’t elaborate on them without feeling physically sick. Think evil incarnate. Next to the lineup of a variety of traps was a picture of an American soldier in a trap while his fellow soldier tried to free him. Did I feel terrible for the Vietcong holed up underground living in the dark for extended periods? No, I did not. I related to the American soldier.

• At the War Remnant Museum, the exhibit started with the preamble of the Constitution about all men being created equal with the ability to pursue life, liberty and happiness. Sort of a brilliant idea on the curator’s part. Was I horrified to see the effects of America’s offensive with help from Dow Chemical and Monsanto’s Napalm and Agent Orange- a massive human experiment? Of course. What a disaster. The pictures were grotesque. Both the chemical companies and our government’s irresponsibility made transparent. So terrible as to be difficult to absorb, really.  What I could handle/process were individual pictures and stories of American soldiers because they felt so personal, close, real. Under each photograph was the name of the hometown of each soldier portrayed and when and how he died. The picture that crushed me was that of a young soldier who looked so much like my nephew Zeke- handsome, easy going, decent. I just stood there and cried. He looked incredibly out of place and scared. You imagined he was saying, “What in God’s name am I doing wading through this flooded rice patty with a grenade launcher over my head?”

Would you expect more from a person who has just traveled around the world?  Not very enlightened. I’m not proud. I’m being honest. And I do think it had to do with the pictures. I know those people. They are my people. Mine was a visceral response. Certainly a renewed sense of American patriotism was not the intention of either the Tunnels or the Museum.  Since I felt both visits reaffirmed my conviction that we had no business being in Vietnam in the first place, that our government killed, maimed, disfigured and needlessly sacrificed our young people, that’s an okay takeaway too.

-carter