Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 67 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Abandoned French Colonial house Almost as soon as Sherrill and I reached Hanoi, we had the feeling that this trip would be different from any other we'd taken. Already, we'd spent more than 30 hours traveling to Bangkok, including a rough spell flying through the edge of a typhoon. We reached our hotel there at 1:00 AM. Our continuing flight with Vietnam Air later that morning got us to Hanoi in only one and a half hours, but the ride into the city was just as long—passing countless motorbikes, including one weighted down with six fat pigs in cages.
Sherrill and I were surprised to see so many buildings that obviously dated back to the French and Chinese colonial periods. The ornate old architecture, with its frills and gestures to a long-vanished past, gave Hanoi a distinct charm, even when it was decaying. The government in the unified Vietnam was Communist, but the economy was capitalist, our guide told us. People often worked at several jobs, even working at the sides of streets, selling food, cutting hair, giving massages, whatever they could do.
Sherrill and I were surprised to see so many buildings that obviously dated back to the French and Chinese colonial periods. The ornate old architecture, with its frills and gestures to a long-vanished past, gave Hanoi a distinct charm, even when it was decaying. The government in the unified Vietnam was Communist, but the economy was capitalist, our guide told us. People often worked at several jobs, even working at the sides of streets, selling food, cutting hair, giving massages, whatever they could do.
Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, Hanoi We learned more about life for ordinary citizens one evening, when we joined a local family for dinner in their apartment: a middle-aged woman, her two adult daughters, and the oldest girl's husband, who was Dutch. When we arrived, they served us rice wine and we settled into their main room, a combination living and dining room. They all were educated and, except for the mother, spoke English. The main problem in their lives, it seemed, was economic. It wasn't easy to find a job that paid enough to live comfortably.
"But it's a beautiful country," the young husband told us. "And the people are the most gentle and kind-hearted you would find anywhere."
"But it's a beautiful country," the young husband told us. "And the people are the most gentle and kind-hearted you would find anywhere."
Parents on motorbikes waiting for school to let out, Hanoi When we set out the next morning, we had no doubt that most of the 4 1/2 million citizens of Hanoi had leaped onto their motorbikes moments before. Later in the day, we passed more than a hundred parents sitting on motorbikes, waiting for their kids to emerge from a grammar school. A ride on cyclo-bikes took us careening through traffic to see some of Hanoi's old town and French quarter. Interesting and colorful as the ride was beneath its veil of pollution, it was a relief to put our feet on the ground again when we stopped.
Young farmer & water buffalo As we drove to Ha Long Bay a day later the world gradually seemed cleaner, especially after we crossed the Red River. Farmers were irrigating their fields the ancient way, using baskets on poles, even plowing with wood plows pulled by water buffalo. A water buffalo trussed on the back of a motorbike sped past us—not very comfortable for either the animal or the man. Rugged green mountains rose up dramatically as we neared Halong Bay.
Sherrill & figurehead on junk, Ha Long Bay When we reached the dock area we discovered a bubbling bouillabaisse of wooden junks and smaller vessels, many of them fishing boats of different sizes and types. The traditional style junks, it seemed, now were strictly for tourists. Sherrill and I shared a small cabin and tiny bathroom in one. Meals were up on the deck. Years later, we read about some of those Halong Bay junks sinking, drowning both crew and passengers. Once again, we were lucky, but there was always the possibility that one day our luck would run out. That didn't stop us from traveling, though.
 Ha Long Bay, Vietnam |  Sherrill in junk cabin |
At lunch, we met several interesting people, including a woman in her seventies who during the war spent five years entertaining troops in Vietnam. This was her first trip back. As we ate, the junk moved out, sailing between tall, jagged islands draped with cloaks of greenery except where the streaked limestone cliffs plunged naked into the sea. Nearly 3,000 jagged little islands had been counted in the bay, some little more than green-covered pillars, others much larger, eroded into strange shapes, sometimes with natural arches, caves, and grottoes.
93 year-old betel nut chewing woman at fish farm. Back in Hanoi the next day, we visited the one remaining building of the Hoa Lo Prison, famous once for its nickname, "the Hanoi Hilton" because many U.S. prisoners of war were held there during the Vietnam war. Built by the French in the nineteenth century, the prison was crammed in the days of French Indochina with as many as 2,000 Vietnamese political prisoners. Most of the displays, however, focused on the time when the North Vietnamese kept U.S. soldiers there.
On our way south to Hoi An, we stopped at a fish farm, where large cages were immersed in the water between plank catwalks and houseboats. Climbing down onto a wood walkway, we watched sea creatures hauled up in nets: monster shrimp, huge striped sea snails, crabs, a shark-looking fish, and some sea beasts that we didn't recognize. With the help of a translator, Sherrill talked with a woman in her nineties sitting on her haunches on the planks chewing betel nut.
"How long have you been chewing betel?" Sherrill asked.
"Since she was seven," the translator replied for the old woman.
"No wonder her teeth are black." I stepped closer, asking in pantomime if I could take her photograph. She nodded, then spat red betel nut juice on the planks.
On our way south to Hoi An, we stopped at a fish farm, where large cages were immersed in the water between plank catwalks and houseboats. Climbing down onto a wood walkway, we watched sea creatures hauled up in nets: monster shrimp, huge striped sea snails, crabs, a shark-looking fish, and some sea beasts that we didn't recognize. With the help of a translator, Sherrill talked with a woman in her nineties sitting on her haunches on the planks chewing betel nut.
"How long have you been chewing betel?" Sherrill asked.
"Since she was seven," the translator replied for the old woman.
"No wonder her teeth are black." I stepped closer, asking in pantomime if I could take her photograph. She nodded, then spat red betel nut juice on the planks.
Travel in Vietnam was a constant ricocheting between distant and recent history—from the 16th and 17th centuries when Hoi An was a port used by both Chinese and Japanese traders to when Vietnam was a French colony to the war of the 1970s. At My Son, nearby, the Cham peoples built temples and towers in the seventh century similar to those that Sherrill and I saw when we visited Cambodia. However, in the nineteen-seventies, the U.S. dropped bombs on some of My Son's magnificent temples because they were near the Ho Chi Min trail.
The subject of the war was never far away during this trip. We stopped at China Beach, the once famous R & R location for thousands of American soldiers. It was quite an emotional experience for the woman who had entertained troops there. She walked barefoot into the surf, a tiny figure on the long beach, lost in private thoughts. Afterwards, she talked with Sherrill and me about her memories.
"The soldiers loved it when our troop was here. They took us out into the water in little boats and things. One of our girls drowned, though. I can remember it so clearly."
Turning away, she stopped talking for a while.
We passed Da Nang, which she also remembered. The entire city was a vast military base during the war, she told us. Now, it seemed to be turning into a city of high rises.
The subject of the war was never far away during this trip. We stopped at China Beach, the once famous R & R location for thousands of American soldiers. It was quite an emotional experience for the woman who had entertained troops there. She walked barefoot into the surf, a tiny figure on the long beach, lost in private thoughts. Afterwards, she talked with Sherrill and me about her memories.
"The soldiers loved it when our troop was here. They took us out into the water in little boats and things. One of our girls drowned, though. I can remember it so clearly."
Turning away, she stopped talking for a while.
We passed Da Nang, which she also remembered. The entire city was a vast military base during the war, she told us. Now, it seemed to be turning into a city of high rises.
Floating village by Gulf of Tonkin Unexploded mines and bombs still killed people, as late as 2007. At least six percent of the population was disabled. This was a serious problem in many parts of the world, we'd learned in our travels. We'd encountered it in Cambodia and Laos and in Croatia. Even if many years had passed since the conflict, the land mines often remained buried, ready to maim the unaware. Dioxin, a chemical related to the notorious Agent Orange still affected the soil and water in Vietnam, even the fish. When we were there, early in the new century, most of the population had been born after the war, but we saw school groups visiting museums about the war. After all, it still was part of their lives.
Returning to Hoi An, Sherrill and I explored the Old City, walking along the river, through crowded, fragrant, indoor and outdoor markets, then wandering among different neighborhoods until we reached the white sand beach on the South China Sea. We passed dozens of tiny shops: in one a man was repairing old TVs, in another someone was fixing motorbikes, and I saw a youth working an aged sewing machine. That evening, we had dinner alone on a roof terrace overlooking Hoi An, electric lights blinking below and fireflies darting through the air near us.
On the way to the city of Nha Trang, we stopped at a fishing village where families lived on their boats, venturing between floods into the bay to catch whatever they could. Shanty houses on stilts were connected to land by precarious catwalks. As many as seven or eight typhoons hit that area every year, we learned. A hike across town brought us to a giant statue of Buddha. Along the way, we passed several dark little shops in which we could see through open doors kids playing primitive computer games. The Buddha, handsome and stoic on his great lotus blossom, looked as if he had been carved out of a monster bar of white soap. After paying our respects to the Buddha, we indulged in a cab back to our hotel—we had underestimated the impact of the heat and humidity.
 Fishing boats & woven basket boats |  Sherrill near Gulf of Tonkin |
We were glad to get to the cooler air of the mountain city of Dalat, once a vacation retreat for French colonial officials, among gently sloping hills, rice paddies, and vegetable patches. A visit to the Dalat university gave us an opportunity to meet and talk with students—much like young people everywhere, they were smart, ambitious, and eager to leap into the modern world.
 Bruce & students, Dalat University |  7th century Cham temple, My Son |
Lantern-making shop Driving through the highland area, we followed the narrow roads among rice terraces and paddy fields, occasionally passing bamboo thickets and fast-flowing streams. We were surprised to discover that the area still was a center for ethnic hill tribes, each with its own language and traditions. The women were very handsome in their hand-woven, elaborately embroidered clothing, sometimes with headbands and tassels. Physically, they reminded us the most of the Hmong people we saw in Laos, although sometimes also of the regally handsome native Peruvians we'd met three years before.
Several thousand people lived in small clusters on the slopes below the mountain of Lang Bin, many of them of the Lat tribe. Although the area generally was poor, they filled their lives with color. In one of the long houses, we saw some beautiful fabrics being woven on fairly primitive looms. The hands of the young weavers moved like hummingbird wings as they pulled the threads into place, their naked feet working below at the same time. At another place, we watched with fascination the complicated process of constructing beautiful lanterns from wood and silk. In the evening, we sipped rice wine while listening to folk songs and watching traditional dances around open fires—a very different experience than anything in the cities.
Several thousand people lived in small clusters on the slopes below the mountain of Lang Bin, many of them of the Lat tribe. Although the area generally was poor, they filled their lives with color. In one of the long houses, we saw some beautiful fabrics being woven on fairly primitive looms. The hands of the young weavers moved like hummingbird wings as they pulled the threads into place, their naked feet working below at the same time. At another place, we watched with fascination the complicated process of constructing beautiful lanterns from wood and silk. In the evening, we sipped rice wine while listening to folk songs and watching traditional dances around open fires—a very different experience than anything in the cities.
 Sherrill, the "villager" |  Weaver in Lat village |
Arriving in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) after our time in the highlands was like jumping into a wind-whipped sea. Its eight million people and many thousands of motorbikes and bicycles, all in constant motion, stirred up whirlpools of chaos that left us staring with amazement. There was a lot to see in the city, but getting to it was the challenge. (Now, eleven years later, the city expects to reach a population of more than 20 million by 2020.) Past and future were colliding, sometimes violently, in front of our eyes.
Political posters, Saigon Maneuvering between the clouds of exhaust on the streets and the clouds of incense and food smells in the markets, when we could we dove into the somewhat cleaner, definitely cooler, air in the nineteenth century Notre Dame Cathedral, Opera House, and other Beaux Art buildings dating from when the French were trying to recreate Paris in Indochina. Gigantic wall maps in the 1891 Post Office gave us a glimpse of a long-ago Vietnam. Crossing a street was terrifying because of the rivers of mopeds in constant motion, but also because the drivers were unpredictable, often suddenly making U-turns into oncoming traffic or swerving wildly as if aiming right at us. Somehow, Sherrill and I reached the 1880 Hotel Continental, where we lunched amid the Belle Epoch splendor of a long-gone colonial world. We enjoyed it, but at the same time felt out-of-place and somewhat foolish. At one point, Sherrill gave me one of her looks, wry may the word to describe it, making it clear that we were in on the joke together, one of the many jokes that we shared during our travels.
War Remnants Museum, Saigon Walking through the War Remnants Museum in Saigon was as upsetting as it was fascinating, starting with the military helicopter, fighter plane, tank, and bombers in the walled yard. Some of what we saw inside the museum was even more upsetting: the "tiger cages" in which the South Vietnamese kept political prisoners, photographs of effects of napalm and Agent Orange and of the My Lai massacre, and even a French guillotine used to execute prisoners in the days of French Indochina. Sherrill and I agreed that it was undoubtedly good to bring all of this out in the open and probably also good that it was so upsetting, but we questioned the notion that if people saw it all it would stop them from repeating history.
Sherrill, Mekong Delta Our last full day in Vietnam we descended so far into the past that we became part of a prehistoric world of huge palm fronds thrusting up from muddy water mottled with chartreuse algae. A sampan took Sherrill and me into the maze of rivers, swamps, islands, villages and rice paddies and floating markets known as the Mekong Delta—where the Mekong River empties through countless channels into the sea. Along the way, we sampled several different tropical fruits, some of which we'd never tasted or seen before. From time to time, we heard and glimpsed brightly hued tropical birds as they darted among the palms and trees. These watery villages were different than the ones we'd seen before: some floated on the water, others were surrounded by rice paddies or bordered by swampland and coconut palms. It would fun, I told Sherrill, to come back and spend more time in the Delta area, but we both knew that it wasn't likely to happen.
Returning to Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City, we became aware of a couple of campaigns being publicized on billboards and posters around the city. One was telling people that they must start wearing helmets on motorbikes on December 15, just a week away. Sherrill and I wondered how successful the campaign would be. We had noticed on several trips in this part of the world that people to seemed to have an aversion to both seat belts in cars and helmets when riding bicycles and motorbikes. Maybe they didn't like being told what to do and maybe it was just a kind of fatalism: whatever will happen will happen. The other campaign was to encourage the use of condoms. Posters showing condoms with happy, smiley faces were plastered on walls around the city. Did that effort have a chance of success in the Vietnamese culture? We had no idea. Sherrill did have a chance, though, to dart into a book store and buy a copy of a Vietnamese edition of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.
The next day, we rose before dawn to begin our long journey--once again staying overnight in Bangkok en route--back to San Francisco and Berkeley.
To be continued....
The next day, we rose before dawn to begin our long journey--once again staying overnight in Bangkok en route--back to San Francisco and Berkeley.
To be continued....
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
RSS Feed