Sunday 27 February 2011

Part 2/2: Delving Into Saigon’s Past: The War Remnants Museum

Today, Saigon appears to be thriving. Looking up at the modern, glowing skyscrapers, it’s easy to forget that just forty years ago, Saigon was heavily bombed by the U.S forces, destroying the city. In order to understand the evolution of modern-day HCMC, I thought it was important to visit the War Remnants Museum, built in 1975 in order to retain relics and memories from the atrocities of the Vietnam War. The first time we tried to go was unsuccessful; we’d chosen the only hour of the working day to visit, and we were headed to Vung Tao that afternoon. Bloody typical! So when we returned to HCMC from Vung Tao, I made sure we paid a visit at a sensible time. We always took moto-taxi’s there and back: an exhilarating way to see the city (especially at roundabouts!)




   Outside the museum are U.S tanks, and on the bottom floor are the anti-war propaganda posters from protesting countries. I’m afraid to say that though these were interesting in their own right, and the determination of these people to stand up for an unjust war was hugely courageous, what really drew me in was the effects of American warfare on innocent civilians. The room detailing how the U.S.A entered the war, after the French withdrew, helped to put the museum’s pictures and exhibits into context, but there were two other rooms that particularly touched me.











   One part of the museum was dedicated to telling the stories of Vietnamese born with deformities because of the Agent Orange used during the war, some births as recent as 2008. This was one horrific aspect of the war that I hadn’t realized: those exposed to dioxin, one of the most dangerous chemicals known to man and dropped by the U.S forces into civilians’ water sources via metal pellets with an orange strip (hence the nickname ‘Agent Orange’), can pass on the exposure effects to many future generations. One quotation from a deformed Korean soldier: ‘The Vietnam War may officially be over, but for us, the war is still going’. It was heartbreaking to see whole families born with brain damage or physical disabilities, with many bed-ridden for life. An added struggle to an already struggling life. Many American soldiers were also exposed, and today are suffering the consequences: headaches, hot sweats, cancer…Just like the landmines in Cambodia, today’s Vietnamese children are suffering the consequences of yesterday’s careless actions…it just doesn’t seem fair.
    Another room showed many photos taken before, during and just after the Vietnam War. On one wall, there was a list of names besides a few countries: North Vietnam, U.S.A, England, France, Finland, and many more. These are the war photographers who died while taking photos in the heart of the action. One of these photos actually showed a female photographer recently shot in the front line, an American G.I hovering over her body. Four renowned photographers, from the U.S, Japan, England and France, all died in a plane crash on the way to Laos. To many, the job of war photographer only seems suitable for nutters; why would anybody willingly put their lives at risk, just for the sake of a photo? At school, I studied Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘War Photographer’, inspired by that famous picture you all will have seen, of the girl naked through napalm bombing. There was one aspect that Duffy particularly tried to understand: why would you stand back and let these horrific things happen?

War Photographer

In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don't explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.

Something is happening. A stranger's features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man's wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.

A hundred agonies in black-and-white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday's supplement. The reader's eyeballs prick
with tears between bath and pre-lunch beers.
From aeroplane he stares impassively at where
he earns a living and they do not care.

Carol Ann Duffy

  Their job may seem crazy, but these photos needed to be taken. The reality of war, pure and unblemished by a propaganda spin. OK, you could say that war photographers chose to take photos at particularly atrocious times, thus automatically have an anti-war angle. But these photographers live out there with the soldiers; they see how they live from day to day- unlike journalists back at home. These photos need to be taken, so that future generations know what the horror of war looks like, and those civilians and soldiers have not died in vain.
   That’s all I’ve got to say; I don’t want this to sound like a propaganda piece. In short, the museum does a great job of showing every aspect of war: the start, middle, end and beyond. Let’s hope Vietnam- or any of SE Asia- will never see such horror again. In HCMC, I can see the evidence of the determination and strength that allowed the Vietnamese to win the war. This is their land, and they will keep defending- and evolving- right until the end.

Part 1/2: First Impressions of a Vibrant City, and A Glimpse Into Vietnamese Beach Breaks...

Well, we ended up getting the bus and ferry from Sihanoukville  to Ho Chi Minh City...well, it was a 5 minute coach ferry across a river, that counts right? The Finnish guys we'd met at Otres Beach- Paavo, Yussi and Miko- were with us all the way. One thing I’ve learned from border crossings is that the destination country always likes to set an arrival test for the tourist, to screen their worthiness to enter the country. While the Cambodians test your savvy and initiative with their scams, the Vietnamese test your patience and sanity with their immigration process. Painfully slow is an understatement. Our bus attendant- a man who clearly thought himself extremely efficient- made us get off and on the bus about 5 times in 5 minutes, when it was quite obvious we could have walked those 20 metres. All together now- in, out, in, out, shake your passport all about...This all occurred at sunset too- the mosquitoes sure got a feasting that night.
   Enough complaining. We scraped a pass in the patience test and entered Vietnam; that’s all that matters. Before we knew it, dozens of rainbow neon karaoke bars lined the streets; the roads heaved with motorbikes. We had entered Saigon: at first glance, very similar to Hong Kong in its modernity. The bus dropped us off right in the heart of the city, taking a hotel that was 2 seconds walk away. I don't know what's happened to us…back in the days of India, we used to look at least 5 places before deciding where to stay, maybe haggle a bit for fun. These days, its 'Cheap room? We'll take it'. Too lazy!
   The next morning, we bumped into the Finnish guys, who were just off to have a few beers. Perfect way to spend the morning! Patrick and I also had our first Vietnamese 'pho'- noodle soup with beef and mint. You're probably wondering why I'm not sick of noodle soup yet- have practically eaten it for 3 months straight. But seriously, I can't get enough of the stuff. Delicious! Within a few minutes, I soon discovered another perk/annoyance (it depends on your mood) of chilling in Saigon’s cafes. Forget internet shopping: Saigon is the perfect place for the lazy shopper. While sipping my Green Saigon beer, I bought two books from passing street hawkers, and Miko bought some pimp-esque gold rimmed aviators (Paavo's description, not mine!). Anyway, Paavo mentioned that he and the boys were heading to the coastal town of Vung Tao the next day. 'Why not?' we said- the phrase of our Asia trip, I think- and just like that, it was a new plan.
   A few hours later, we found ourselves accidentally doing a bar crawl. Well, it’s hard when bars lure you with offers of free shots and buy 5 beers, get 5 beers free. We’d fall for the promotions then quickly find the catch: it was only valid in the deserted club area upstairs, where the worst D.J in the world (OK, that’s harsh- maybe Asia) is playing. Miko offered $1 to the D.J to play Led Zeppelin, to no avail. Still, we paid for our beers and escaped to downstairs. After we’d been drinking for a while, I noticed a square-faced  wild-haired Vietnamese man furiously scribbling a portrait of our group- or so I thought. He eventually revealed his masterpiece- it was a portrait of Yussi! Brilliant, too- it looked just like him! Yussi was over the moon, and bought it for $8. Paavo and I both decided to have our portraits done as well- a great Vietnam souvenir. It was fascinating to watch how Thaam (the artist) drew Paavo; his pencil was always twitching, as though a live thing bringing life to the page. All in all, not a bad night for a ‘few drinks’.






    We made a quick visit to the post office the following morning. Sounds average, but this wasn’t your average corner-shop post office. A French colonial, grandiose, salmon-pink building, with a huge picture of Ho Chi Minh, the leader of North Vietnam during the Vietnam War, at the front. The packing process was very, erm, thorough; I think he went through 2 rolls of white duct tape, ensuring nobody will ever get into the parcel. Not quite the pillowcase they made for my parcel in India. Good luck, Colleen; maybe invest in some big shears!...




    That afternoon, the journey to Vung Tao confirmed one thing for me: all minibus drivers are lunatics. They all seem to drive a little bit faster and take a few more risks than the average bus driver. Maybe they have a complex about the size of their bus?...Anyway, our minibus ride to Vung Tao was bumpy, sticky, and a little…cozy. After much needed revitalizing dinner and drinks on arrival into Vung Tao, we caught a taxi to Back Beach: a very different beach from Otres. High-rise hotels replace the crude wooden shacks. At night, the market thrives on the streets, consisting of stalls that all sell the same souvenirs, namely giant shells and toy monkeys. Nothing says ‘I’ve been to Vung Tao’ more than a toy monkey, after all. Down on the immensely wide and long beach, only a few food stalls remained. During the day, however, it is a completely different story. While the streets are practically deserted, the beach is literally heaving with food stalls, deck chairs, and fully-clothed Vietnamese jumping the waves. Dodging dozens of parasols, we eventually chose a seafood place for breakfast. As soon as Patrick asked for a crab, they picked him out of the tank, weighed him, and plopped him into a vat of boiling water. Five minutes later, there he was, sitting on a plate in front of us as though still alive, with some lime and salt besides him for seasoning. Some prawn spring rolls, a few Heinekens…not a bad breakfast. It is not a relaxing beach in the slightest, but it was fun to glimpse how the Vietnamese spend their weekends.
   After one night in Vung Tao, we headed back to Saigon. Somewhere on the way we lost our Finnish friends; I’m guessing one night in VT was enough for them too. One day we’ll go and visit them in Finland! So, back at Saigon, we finally made it to the War Remnants Museum (see the next entry for more on that), and headed to Ben Thanh Market in a ‘cyclo’- a bicycle with a seat at the front. My cyclo driver had the biggest smile when he realized we wanted him to take us somewhere: a mixture of incredulity and relief. It’s a difficult job in a city like Saigon, which is monopolized by moto taxis- especially for a 60 year old. Patrick’s cyclo driver was 45 years old, and had his four front teeth missing- but that didn’t stop him smiling and chatting away. It was crazy to see them cross the traffic; like India’s cows, they just sat in the middle of the roads, letting the traffic swerve around them. They overcharged us a bit, but hey- they deserve the money, for keeping the slow cyclo alive in a technologically evolving city. Long live the cyclo!











   So, we tried our hardest to keep up with Saigon’s vibrant velocity, but now it’s time to move on. A very livable city bursting with excitement and energy; it’s impossible to walk through Saigon’s streets at night and not get caught up in its enthusiasm. Think I’d have to learn how to ride a scooter to survive there, though… Right now, we’re on the bus to Mui Ne, where a more relaxing beach and sand dunes await. See you there! Blog entry on the War Remnants Museum on the way…

Thursday 24 February 2011

The Final Moments of Cambodia...


We ate some lobster from a beach-hawker...




We hung out in our beach hut...(getting a million and one mosquito bites in the process...)



We hung out in the beach-side hammock...



We had a few beers on the beach...


We watched some cows cross an ocean stream...(one with a horn through its eye- gross)...




We explored the other end of Otres Beach- untouched and truly peaceful...





...and we watched the sunset from our beach hut.



We also chatted to the lovely 42 year-old manager of our rough-and-ready resort; he had a very interesting life, and seemed to open up after a few Angkor cans. He was 6 when the Khmer Rouge took over; his most vivid memory is the dogs in the next field eating the corpses. During the Vietnamese occupation that followed the Khmer Rouge's fall, he was arrested for trying to learn English, along with his teacher and classmates; he was in prison for one week! When he was 18, he smuggled people under boat decks into Vietnam; it was common for the boats to be hijacked by pirates, who would kill the smuggled passengers then steal their money. He used to work for the Ministry of Defence, now he manages a humble resort on Otres Beach. An incredible life, and a story told with such hushed patience that made me want to hear more and more.
   So, we're in Ho Chi Minh City safe and sound...more details on our final border crossing very soon...

Sunday 20 February 2011

Lobsters, Pedicures and Painful Leg Hair Removal...

...are just some of the services offered by hawkers walking up and down Otres Beach. At first I called this blog entry 'Lobsters, Pedicures and Painful Leg Removals'- now THAT would bloody hurt!
   All through our travels, Patrick has harboured a dream of staying in a wooden shack on the beach, eating lobster from the fishermen every day. We didn't find anywhere remote enough in Thailand, but Otres Beach is pretty damn close. Shack upon shack along crystal clear waters...walk a little way along the beach, and there is NO sign of tourism- yet. Watch this space, folks. Our $5 room at Davy's Beach Club consisted of little more than a mattress and mosquito net, but it was perfect. Today we're heading to a $7 ocean-facing shack further down the beach. Every time the lobster lady passes us, we end up getting 5 for $3...not bad really. With the salt, pepper and lime she adds onto them.....amazing!
   I seem to have made myself unpopular with the other hawkers. One 17 year old girl gave me a lovely manicure and pedicure; her mother even made Pat pretty with a pedicure too, along with an oily massage. The problem is, once you give business to one hawker once a) other hawkers think you will buy something from them and swarm around like flies, and b) there seems to be an unwritten rule that you're not allowed to use the services of any other hawker. I understand the possessiveness; there are a lot of hawkers competing on that beach. It's just a LITTLE bit intense when a lady comes up to you with a face like you've insulted her mother, and asks 'Why do you do this to me? You promise!' I had made the grave error of using another girl to remove my leg hairs with cotton string. Why everybody was so keen to go near my legs, I'll never know. Anyway, the only reason I decided to have it done was because I liked the little girl so much. Her name was Noa, and she was probably one of the smartest, funniest 12-year-olds I've ever met. She'd been joking with us the day before, mock-threatening Patrick that if he didn't buy one of her bracelets, she was going to give him a 'blue eye'. Then, noting that he already has blue eyes, she corrected herself: 'I give you black eye'. Upon hearing my small yelps whilst she removed my hair legs with cotton (I'm not gonna lie- it stung like hell), she confidently told me 'no pain, no gain'. With her superb command of English, I can see her fulfilling her dream of becoming a tour guide. The best thing was, she never guilt-tripped me into giving her business, unlike the manicure-pedicure lady. Like I said before, I understand their desperation, but personality always impresses me over pity!
   So, it's been all about chillaxing with mango shakes infused with rum and Mekong whiskey buckets (yep, still on the buckets). We also managed to be especially demanding first customers for a newly-opened cafe. Asking what size the noodles were in the noodle soup was probably not the best way to boost the confidence of a nervous first-time owner. I don't think they were expecting customers so quickly!
   What's next for us? VIETNAM! Our original plan was to get the bus to Ho Chi Minh City. However, we made some very cool Finnish friends last night, and now we might be catching a ferry all the way with them! That is, if there's one running; we haven't figured it out yet. So, we're not sure how we're getting there, but the next place I'll be writing from will definitely be 'Nam! Internet-blocking permitting, of course- although if China's anything to go by, I'll find a way... Bye-bye, Cambodia- it's been short, but you've still had surprises tucked up your sleeve, like crazy-dancing-tuk-tuk drivers and untouched beaches with turquoise waters. All aboard for the final stop in our Asia adventure...

Saturday 19 February 2011

The Heartbreaking Horror of the Khmer Rouge:S-21 and 'The Killing Fields'...

On the Thai beaches, Patrick and I both read Loung Ung’s memoir ‘First They Killed My Father’.  Loung was only five when the Khmer Rouge took over in Cambodia, sending her and her family from Phnom Penh to the countryside. There, her family faced starvation, brutality, and as the title suggests, some even death. Not exactly beach reading, but I was completely hooked, horrified and heartbroken by her story. She also made me view modern day Phnom Penh in a different light- not as a chaotic city with a sweet garbage smell in the air (reminded me of India, though sadly, sans cows), but a city with something else in the air: restoration, resilience, with a hint of desperation. Every time we left our guesthouse, 6 tuk-tuk drivers would approach us in 20 seconds.  Quite impressive.
   Before I go on, I should summarize these atrocities I speak of. Between 1975 and 1979, Pol Pot and other members of a communist party called the Khmer Rouge lead Democratic Kampuchea, one of the least democratic societies in history. The Khmer Rouge had a vision to turn Cambodia into an ‘agrarian’ nation, self-reliant and independent of the corrupting Western World. In ‘First They Killed My Father’, Loung Ung describes how her family, one of millions, was forced to leave Phnom Penh and seek a new life in an agricultural village. No ‘urbanites’ allowed; Phnom Penh became a ghost-town.  For four years, urbanites were treated as the lowest of the low in the villages, though even the more favoured ‘original’ villagers suffered from the widespread famine and disease. Soon after the upheaval, people began to disappear: intellectuals, former-government officials, foreigners, monks. Anybody who had the potential to see the regime for the vile massacre it was, vanished without trace. None of the villagers knew where these people went. Today, there is evidence that many were taken to prisons, and ultimately ‘killing fields’. Whilst in Phnom Penh, Patrick and I decided to visit the most infamous of these; Loung had made us emotionally involved with her memoir, and we now had to find out more.
   As soon as you walk into S-21, or Tuol Sleng Prison, it is easy to see that this Khmer Rouge torture house used to be Tuol Sleng High School; it looks a lot like my old school. The only differences are the bars on the windows and the barb-wire on top of the fence. The moment you walk through the rooms on the ground floor of Building A, it is disturbingly clear that a different kind of ‘lesson’ was taught here 35 years ago. In each room was a metal bed frame, remnants of a plastic bottle, and a picture on the wall of a decomposed corpse shackled to the bed. There was no official explanation, but I can only assume that these pictures were taken in 1979, when the Khmer Rouge was defeated; when S-21 was taken over, fourteen corpses were found.  These are all buried now in front of the exercise frame, used as a torture implement within the prison. Here are some photos explaining more; the first is a set of intimidating phrases given to prisoners to induce a ‘confession’, the second and third speak for themselves.









    Into the next building- if the other rooms were a reality check on the brutality of the torture, these rooms brought home the sheer scale. Fifteen thousand people were brought into this prison throughout the four years; every single one of their photos was displayed. All but seven of these people were killed; these lucky seven were kept alive because of special skills they had, such as painting complementary pictures of Pol Pot. I took time to study the expression on every single face: some looked sad, some looked angry, some looked scared, some looked defeated. All knew they were innocent. Each prisoner had an individual number; what shocked me was the turnover: 20 people holding number ‘12’ within a year. I can’t even begin to imagine the fear. Some prisoners got their own tiny cubicles, 1m by 0.5m; you got a window, if you were lucky. Most were just shoved into a room with 30 other prisoners.  The funny thing was, a lot of the latter rooms we visited still looked more like classrooms, with a blackboard on the wall. Maybe this is a message from up above: education and justice will prevail.






    Before 1975, Cheung Ek was a peaceful orchard. Though today it retains its peace, it also has a sombre mood that makes you walk a little slower, stops you raising a smile. Upon entering, you come across a magnificent Memorial Stupa, built 20 years ago. Move a little closer and you see this building was not solely built to impress: 9,000 skulls are stored here, categorized by age and gender. ‘Senile Kampuchea Male, Over 60 Years’. ‘Aduit Kampuchea Woman, 20-40 years’.  These are the skulls of innocent Cambodians: tortured at S-21, then executed at Cheung-Ek. The first of seventeen tiers held the clothes found in the graves; some of them were baby-size. As you walk around the grounds, you see dozens of giant pit-holes in the ground: ‘mass graves’ where prisoners were flung after they had been shot, bludgeoned, or slashed to death. Cracks found in skulls have determined that all these methods were used; they display the evidence in the museum. DDT was sprinkled on the bodies to lose the dead body stench, and to ensure there was nobody left alive. Every beautiful natural part of the surroundings was tainted with blood and brutality; I think the pictures below speak for themselves. 












   Even though we have learned about every graphic element to the Khmer Rouge regime, there is still one question that disturbs Patrick and I. How could those Khmer Rouge guards go through with what they were doing? Did some truly believe they were doing the right thing, supporting the insane 'Angkar' (the name of the regime's 'power')?  In one room of S-21, an exhibition displayed interviews with former Khmer Rouge ‘cadres’. Most were remorseful, but the only ones that had come forward were the ‘lower’ soldiers, who probably were  forced to join. But what about the executioners? How could they kill innocent people every day? What was going through their heads?....

The Executioner at Cheung-Ek

How do I cope
with screams inside my head?
They’re not real,
They’re not real,
How do I shoot
thousands of people dead?
Just don’t feel,
Just don’t feel,
How do I wash
blood from my hands, dark-red?
Scrub and peel,
Scrub and peel,
How do I stop
them killing me instead?
Bow and kneel;
Angkar’s real,
Angkar’s real.

    It seems strange to be writing about such horror when sitting on a beach, listening to the lapping waves; forgive the inappropriateness. At the moment, we’re on Otres Beach, Sihanoukville, just relaxing and reflecting on our last week in Cambodia. We’ve truly seen the best and worst of Cambodia’s rich history: let’s just hope the future brings Cambodians the peace and prosperity that these kind people deserve.

R.I.P.