MYSTIC DANCERS OF THE CHAMPA EMPIRE

There are times when 'beautiful' is an insufficient word. This is one of those times.

In front of me are three slender young ladies, dancing as I've never seen before. They are visions from a lost kingdom. Their shimmering costumes are symbolic of a forgotten people, from an era that time forgot.

The golden attired nymphs move with a grace and allure that is timeless. It's dancing unlike any other in the world; this performance is reminiscent of an ancient dance of worship. The only place I've seen anything similar to this, is from the poses of statues of royal dancers or goddesses that grace Hindu temples.

 




































Yet, I'm not in India. I'm in My Son in Vietnam. This land is better known as a home to Buddhists or communists. But not well known to the outside world, is that Vietnam was once home to a kingdom of Hindus and Muslims. Going back hundreds of years, central Vietnam was once known as the Champa Empire.

The Chams controlled what today is central Vietnam, plus parts of Cambodia and Laos. Over time, their lands were gradually lost to wars with the Vietnamese and the Khmers, until their kingdom disappeared altogether. They live now only in dispersed communities, just another one of Vietnam's many minority ethnic groups.

But I'm enthralled by the lovely ladies dancing for visitors like me today, their cultural dancing is truly a wonderful sight. As I watch the display, handsome male dancers join the graceful ladies for more movement. As their performance closes, I exit the theater to enter the adjacent ruins of My Son.

Cham tower on a hill overlooking the coastal town of Nha Trang

I've seen some of the other Cham ruins that still survive today. In the town of Nha Trang by the coast, I once watched Hindus worship at an ancient Cham tower. These ruins I'm seeing today are further north, outside the historical town of Hoi An.

The ruins here were once decaying, slowly weathering as the surrounding jungle approached. Indeed, there are still grasses growing out of gaps in the brick work on the rooftops. But this greenery only adds to their ancient, naturistic appeal.

Ancient Hindu ruins of My Son

But it wasn't just old age and nature that were breaking down these old towers and religious sites.  As in the rest of Vietnam, the war came to My Son. Since these brick structures were in rural areas, they came under the control of the Viet Cong, who used their inner chambers to store weapons. When the US military found out, they bombed My Son.

Sadly, many of the ancient structures here were destroyed or heavily damaged. As I walk about the complex, there are still many old bomb craters to be seen beneath the trees. My Son was recently named a UNESCO World Heritage site, so some of the hard hit structures are being restored, though  work won't be completed for years.

Fortunately some of the structures here were left undamaged. So as I explore the complex, I can still feel a hint, see a glimmer, of the glory of the ancient Chams.

Cham dancers of My Son (with added mirror effect)

BIZARRE RUNWAY, BIZARRE BOOZE

The runway of Dak To 2, once used for secret missions. But what's that brown powder covering it?

I’m looking at the most bizarre sight I’ve seen in Vietnam yet.

I’m only a few miles from the Cambodian border, on another former US air base known as Dak To 2. This is one very long American made runway I'm standing on, lengthy enough for heavy cargo planes to use, though it hasn’t seen a take off or landing in years. Abandoned after the war, all the base's bunkers and buildings have been torn down, much like I had seen at Camp Enari. The looted building materials were recycled or sold long ago.

But that’s not what is so bizarre about this airfield. The strangest thing about the runway here, is not the runway itself, but what lies on top of it. I look down where the blacktop should be, and see it’s covered by a light brown substance. This isn’t the tarmac at all. I look from one end of the nearly mile long runway down to the other. The entire runway is covered with powdered cassava!

The source of tapioca, cassava is a plant grown in Vietnam for its starchy roots. After it’s been harvested around Dak To, it’s ground into a fine powder, and then poured out here all across the runway. The whole airstrip is now used for drying out the powdered plant. This is the strangest use of a former military base that I’ve ever seen. I scrape away at the layer of powdery substance, and find that the blacktop is still there underneath. Running the cassava through my fingers, I find it’s not quite dry yet.

The runway is now used for drying cassava for animal feed!

Way down on the other end of the runway is a farm tractor, driving back and forth with a scoop, turning over the cassava to dry it out. Sitting on the runway beyond, is a pile of powdered cassava two stories high. This is the finished product. From here the cassava is loaded onto trucks and sent for packaging. This doesn’t look like a very sanitary way to process food, and my guide Mat explains. “This not for people,” he says. “They make food for animal.” So this mile long stretch of cassava is for animal feed. I believe him, I think.
 
Leaving the main runway, we walk onto the old taxiway. Mat says, “American airplane here.” What he meant, is that US aircraft used to park here. The taxiway leads to a line of berms that were used to surround aircraft to protect them from attack.
I recall a conversation with Phillip, the war veteran I knew who had spent time here. “There were Special Forces guys based over there,” Rick recalled of Dak To 2. “Their planes were unmarked. We thought they were going into Laos and Cambodia.” This runway sits only six miles from the Cambodian border, with the Laotian border just to the north. Special Forces soldiers flew out of here on secret missions to attack North Vietnamese Army (NVA) supply lines, disrupting the ever changing network of jungle paths and roads, known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. 

With this strategic base so close to Cambodia, it made a tempting target for the NVA, and it was shelled often. There were a lot of landmines and unexploded bombs across this property from all the fighting here before, but most of them were cleared after the peace. Mat walks up a berm, telling me that it’s safe. “Here, see?” Mat says, and he picks up a piece of rocket shrapnel. Scanning the ground further, he finds a section from an M-60 ammunition belt. 

Holes on the old base are from scrap metal hunters. Sometimes they find unexploded bombs.

This base and others around Dak To were attacked often. Occasionally they faced so many enemy troops, that they were cut off and under siege. To keep them from being overrun in 1967, the Army brought in a special unit. 

“The 173rd Airborne went in there, pushed out the NVA. A lot of them got killed,” Phillip told me. The Air Cavalry flew in the Airborne troops, and some of the most ferocious battles of the war took place in those highland hills.

“It was terrible up there, man,” Phillip remembered. His unit had to resupply the Airborne troops on the battlefield, and evacuate the wounded. One day they had to airlift out the most grim cargo of all, the bodies of 30 American soldiers.

“Their hands were bound behind their backs,” he says, recalling how the bodies were found. “They were shot in the back of the head.” This was a unit in a heavy firefight that had been running out of ammunition. They had surrendered to the NVA, only to be executed. The NVA had even taken their boots. 

After taking the hills and forcing out the NVA, the remote, vulnerable hill posts were abandoned. Later after things quieted down, they were re-occupied by the NVA. “Then they had to come back, do it all over again,” Phillip said of the Airborne. “I had a lot of respect for them.”
American Generals boasted of killing thousands of enemy troops, but the fact was that they still were fighting to take the same hills over and over again. “The war was a total waste,” Phillip told me with scorn. Even with a high enemy body count, it was becoming difficult for the American war effort to show real progress in Vietnam.

I walk with Mat across the berms, and find there are holes everywhere. But these weren’t from bomb craters, they're fresh, dug by post-war scavengers. “They look for metal,” Mat says, making a digging motion. Scrap hunters with metal detectors combed through here, digging up whatever they could find to sell for recycling. Between the berms, I notice that most of the old blacktop for the taxiway has also been torn up and removed.

Charlie Hill, which ARVN troops defended to the last man. It's still covered with UXO and landmines today.

From up here, I get a great view of the surrounding landscape. There are farmers fields near the cassava covered runway, and across the Dak Poko River to the south is a beautiful mountain ridge. Mat tells me we can’t walk up there, since there are still many landmines.

“There was a lot of fighting up there,” Mat told me of the former firebases on the ridge line. the These mountains overlooking Dak To 2 were key to defending the highlands. By 1972 American ground troops had left the area, leaving ARVN troops in control. Although the ARVN soldiers were often accused in the past of being unwilling to fight, one unit fought bravely to hold one of the posts I see, called Charlie Hill. They fought for days, and refused to surrender to the communists, who had them surrounded. The ARVN soldiers made their last stand on Charlie Hill, and the 150 soldiers there fought to the last man. With the firebases taken, Dak To fell soon afterward.

By the time Dak To fell, Phillip the door gunner had already departed Vietnam, and returned to California. He left the military behind and became a corrections officer. While working at a California prison, he guarded over prisoners such as Sirhan Sirhan, and Charles Manson. After having already faced the NVA, they were easier for him to deal with.

But Phillip never forgot Vietnam, and he looked for an opportunity to come back. In the 1980’s he was among one of the first groups of American war veterans to return. “I came back because I wanted to see what it was like,” he told me.
 
Phillip returned many times and traveled throughout Vietnam, even to Hanoi. But he still hasn’t come back to Dak To. Like some other US war vets who have returned to Vietnam he hasn’t revisited the places where he had his worst experiences. That’s certainly understandable.

Mat says to me, “I don’t see my father in three months, stop my father’s house. You want to eat lunch?” I eagerly agree. I haven’t been in many Vietnamese homes, and his father’s house is close by. I’m curious to see how someone lives on the land of a former US base.

'Snake wine', a preferred alcoholic drink among Vietnamese men

We pull up, and his father comes out to greet us. He’s darker skinned than most Vietnamese, and a former engineer. He moved here from North Vietnam to work right after the war. Now comfortably retired, his well built house is larger than most in Dak To.

Mat shows me around, and out in the backyard, he points out a a pile of torn up asphalt. This was taken from the old base. Now I know where that blacktop went that was removed from the taxiway. I wonder how they are going to sell, or recycle it.  

We sit down on a floor mat in the kitchen, and his mother serves us a traditional Vietnamese lunch. There’s loads of rice, salad, stir fried vegetables and fish. I eat my fill, it's delicious. It’s one of the better lunches I’ve had in Vietnam. Then his father takes out a large diabolical looking glass jar. Inside is a dark liquid, with herbs and other contents I can’t make out.

“Snake wine,” Mat tells me, and his father pours the strong liquor into tiny cups for the three of us. We clink glasses and drink. It’s strong, and tastes much like vodka. His father immediately pours out more. I’m the first American guest he’s had here, and he’s in a hospitable mood.

I hold up the jar and peer in, looking for the snake inside. It's usually a curled up cobra. I don’t see one.

“Snake eggs,” Mat says, pointing out the two eggs in the bottom. This should be more accurately called, ‘snake egg wine’. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen snake wine before. Besides containing coiled up snakes, they  sometimes have other dead animals fermenting inside the bottle along with them. I’ve seen scorpions in snake wine, and even a bird that still had feathers.

“My father drink snake wine every day,” says Mat. “he says this keep him healthy.” I wonder how true that is. His father lives in a home built on a former military base, a place that was probably contaminated with Agent Orange. Yet here he is in his 60’s, and he’s still healthy.

Although Mat and I are done drinking, his father downs another shot. “You should drink this every day also,” his father recommends to me. I don’t argue with him, but I think I’ll stick to vitamins. I didn't mind sampling his wine, but for me, drinking remains of snakes is not really my cup of tea.

SPECIAL FORCES AND LOST GRAVEYARDS

I’ve gone deeper into the highlands. I’m standing atop a hill, looking across a broad valley leading down to a scenic, remote highland community. Beyond are more multi-colored mountains, colored with varied hues from high altitude farming. It’s another beautiful view in Vietnam.

Years before, my friend Phillip experienced this highland scenery, often while standing as an M-60 gunner in the door of a Huey helicopter. It wasn’t a view he relished back in wartime.

“It was horrible there,” he told me. “A lot of guys died up there in the hills.” This is Dak To, close to the Cambodian border. Some of the bloodiest battles of the Vietnam War took place up in the highlands surrounding this remote town.

Old North Vietnamese Army tank in Dak To

As a young recruit from California, Phillip was here in the 1960’s, when warfare in this region was almost constant. “I was Air Cavalry, I was in a support unit,” he told me. "The 5th Air Cavalry. You know, the one with the horse on the patch.” Originally manning mortars, Phillip later became a Huey door gunner. His unit often flew in to resupply American and South Vietnamese army (ARVN) units at firebases all over these mountains.

Next to me on this hilltop is a small abandoned airstrip. This was known as Dak To 1. “Special Forces had their own base,” Rick told me, and this old runway marks the location of one of the earliest American bases here. This was a CIDB camp, which stood for 'Civilian Irregular Defense Group'. Each camp was led by a team of Green Berets, a small unit made up of 12 men. These hardened soldiers fought alongside 200 local Montagnard militia. When the number of enemy in the mountains grew and the war escalated, Dak To 1 was abandoned for a better location, since this spot so close to town wasn’t as easily defended.

“They were tough,” Phillip told me about the Special Forces soldiers, and they were tough enough to back up their reputation with their fists. In the local bars of Dak To, Green Berets were the top dogs. “They’d walk in, and I’d give them my seat,” Phillip recalled. “I respected them. Some guys thought they were tough, and wouldn’t give up their seat.” Inevitably, the soldiers would fight, and the Special Forces soldiers always won. All those old bars are gone now, and so are the hard partying Americans.

A cemetary for Vietnam's communist soldiers now occupies  a former US Special Forces base

I turn around from the abandoned runway, and right next to it today, is a military cemetery. This isn’t an ARVN graveyard; it’s for the soldiers of the communist side, who fought and died by the thousands from American firepower in these surrounding mountains.

This somber place is nothing like US military cemeteries. The main feature is a small Asian style pavilion, with pillars, a sloping rooftop and dragons at the corners. Sheltered beneath are two dark obelisks, inscribed with the names of hundreds of communist soldiers. Most that died trying to take Dak To weren’t local Viet Cong, they were soldiers of the North Vietnamese Army, also called, ‘The People’s Army of North Vietnam’.
 
Just behind the pavilion, are row after row after row of crimson grave markers. Many are nameless. Unlike headstones at Arlington, these lie flat on the ground, each with a small incense holder in front of it. It seems that the communists of Vietnam aren’t atheists after all.

There’s no grass to mow here either; between the headstones it’s all concrete. They are also packed so tightly together, that it seems that there isn’t enough space between them to bury a whole set of soldier’s remains. Then I learn the reason why; it’s because most headstones don’t have remains buried beneath them.

There are some remains interred here, but since the NVA and VC fought and died in South Vietnam on land that they couldn’t hold onto, most of their dead ended up buried in unmarked graves in the countryside. Their bones are occasionally still found by farmers digging up new fields, but since NVA and VC fighters didn’t wear dog tags, identification is difficult. Since the government has no money to pay for DNA testing, most remains that are found remain anonymous, and are reburied with military honors.

Traditional highlander 'rong' house in Dak To

I’ve seen many of these military graveyards throughout Vietnam. They have so many fallen soldiers to remember, since they fought the armies of the French, Japanese, Americans, Chinese, and Khmer Rouge. Most have a prominent memorial tower in the middle, written from top to bottom with the words, “The Nation Remembers”.

The bizarre thing, is that more than three decades after the American war ended they are still building graveyards in Vietnam for dead communist soldiers. I recall passing a cemetery in the Mekong Delta that was still under construction. It had the familiar memorial tower, but scattered haphazardly across the ground in front were memorial gravestones. They hadn’t yet been put into place.

During the war far more ARVN soldiers died than Americans, and I ask my translator Mat where the graves are for the soldier’s who fought for South Vietnam. His answer: “Their graves in the regular cemeteries, with the other people.” It’s the first time I’ve caught Mat in an outright propaganda lie.

After the war ended, the communist government tore up and destroyed every single ARVN graveyard they could find. As horrible and insensitive as that sounds to westerners, it is even worse to the Vietnamese. Theirs is a culture where paying homage to your dead ancestors is very dear to them.

The southerners of Vietnam, may never forgive the northern communists for that post-war atrocity. 

FRIENDLY LADIES OF THE HIGHLANDS

A traditional 'rong' house towers over a Bahnar neighborhood in Kon Tum

It’s a sunny day here in Kon Tum in Vietnam's highlands, so I decide to take a hike about town. Reaching the edge of town I enter a highland community, and find a neighborhood very different from the Vietnamese. Most homes I see are less affluent than the usual brick houses in Kon Tum. These homes are wooden, and built on stilts. A tall rong house in the center rises high above the humble residences surrounding it. The highlanders have a saying about rong houses. “The higher the roof, the stronger the village.”

Some children in uniforms chatter away as they make their way home from school on the crumbling road I'm taking. A highland woman shuffles along slowly, with a handmade basket backpack hanging over her shoulders. Despite the sunlight, women don’t wearing conical hats for shade like the Vietnamese do. Most of their heads are wrapped in scarves. Curious children peer out at me from stilt house windows. Everyone here is darker skinned, and their facial

Bahnar woman with traditional backpack

features are different then the coastal folk. I can’t help but think that they resemble indigenous people I once saw in Guatemala. These people aren’t ethnic Vietnamese at all.

“Hello!” I hear from a long haired local lady, as I walk by a house doorway. I return the greeting, and I’m surprised to hear that the young woman speaks English fairly well.

I introduce myself, and ask. “What kind of people live here?”

“This Bahnar people”, she answers. Another of the larger ethnic groups, the Bahnar are thought to be the original inhabitants of the highlands.

“My name Luu,” she says, and then she introduces her approaching confidant, “My friend Ba.” I’m not surprised that I’ve met these ladies so easily, Kon Tum has the reputation of being the friendliest town in the highlands. There are many Bahnar in town, and they are not as shy as the Vietnamese.

The pair invite me into the humble home, which belongs to Ba’s family. I learn Ba will be enter university soon. Luu’s house is in a village an hour away, and she’s studying to be a teacher.
With no furniture in the room we sit on the floor, and Ba offers me juice. As I look around, I notice some pictures on the wall. An old black and white photo of a young soldier with a US made helmet stands out.

“He my father,” Ba says. “He with American Army.” I’m not surprised that she said he was with the Americans, rather than with the South Vietnamese Army (ARVN). Most Bahnar militia were trained by American Green Berets, and fought with them side by side. Her father passed away a few years ago.

Beautiful old wooden church of the Bahnar Catholic community

Back during the war, their families didn’t live in town, they lived out in villages. Luu described to me how her mother hid from fighting when the North Vietnamese Army arrived. “My mother, when (the North) Vietnamese come, they go down”, and then she pantomimes that they went down into tunnels. “Then they go away, they come (back) out.”
 
A US Army veteran I know, Phillip, had resupplied Bahnar outposts by helicopter. “They were good fighters,” he had told me. Among the American’s, the Bahnars had a reputation as being more brave than the ARVN. Thousands of Bahnars were killed during that long war of attrition. 

Luu said that many years after the war ended, Bahnar soldiers were offered permanent residency by the US government. Some veterans in her village left, and are now in America. But others lack money for the expensive paperwork, and remain.
 
Ba says some GI’s married Bahnar women, and took them to the US. She said, “Bahnar very much like American. American very much like Bahnar.”

I wonder how much of that has to do with religion. Although the Bahnar were historically animists, many were converted to Catholicism by the French. Few Montagnards (hill tribe people) are Buddhist, further setting them apart from the Vietnamese. Not far from this neighborhood is a magnificent old wooden Catholic church, where Luu and Ba attend services. With it’s dark wood and gold painted trim, it looks like its straight out of medieval Europe.

Another friendly Bahnar walks in the front door, and he shakes my hand. It’s Ba’s brother. I ask Luu how many siblings she has.

“Have eight brothers and sisters,” she replies.

“Wow!” I exclaim, “that’s a big family.”

Curious Bahnar children watch me as I pass by their home

Then Luu asks me, “You like to go see my village?”

I would love to accept her hospitality and go, except for two problems. For one, I have to hit the road in a couple of hours to continue my journey. But the other reason is that foreigners are not allowed in certain hill tribe villages without official permission, or a government guide. I might get away with it, but I don’t want Luu or her village to get into any trouble after I’m gone.

Instead of driving to her village, we opt for a walk in the nearby countryside. Leaving the Bahnar neighborhood, we're soon walking in farmer's fields. It’s a hot afternoon, and the two ladies cover their heads with coats to protect them from the blazing sun. Motioning to a cornfield Luu says, “This my family field.” They also grow rice, and manioc. Like most Bahnar, they don’t work in the city, most highlanders still work traditional agriculture.

Walking further, we reach the banks of the Dakbla River. They’d like to cross and show me the other side, but there’s no bridge. 

“Want to go swimming?” Dang asks. They mean swim across the river with their clothes on. Since the river is deep and I’m carrying a cell phone and camera, I decline. So we head back to town.

Like most Bahnar women, both Luu and Ba are quite short, and they can’t get over how tall I am. With my long legs, I have to slow down my walking pace for them to keep up. Since highlanders are generally shorter than the already short Vietnamese, I must seem like a giant to them.

“Oo, you very handsome!" Luu says to me, and her and Ba giggle.

Luu asks if I’m married, and when I say I’m single, Luu says, “You marry me!” Then she giggles again, and flashes a lovely smile. This is my first marriage proposal in Vietnam. Of course there are many women in Vietnam who would gladly marry an American as a ticket out of poverty. But I’ve only just met Luu today, she’s just kidding… or is she?

Scenic scene of Bahnar farmland outside Kon Tum, with the Dakbla River beyond.

It’s getting late. It’s time for me to leave Kon Tum, and I find myself lingering. Unlike when I was in Saigon or at the beaches, these two sweet young ladies didn’t try to sell me anything, didn’t ask me for money, in fact they didn’t ask for anything at all. They invited me into their home, gave me some juice, and showed me around their community. These are friendly highland folk, who have showed me some much appreciated hospitality.

As I depart, Luu waves to me and says, “See you again. Miss you!”

I was so touched, I really wish I could see them again.

CAFÉ LIFE ON KON TUM'S RIVER FRONT

Scenic view looking south from highland town of Kon Tum, with Dakbla River at right

I’m relaxing in a sidewalk café called Thu Ha Coffee, along the Dakbla River in the Highlands. It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in the town of Kon Tum, and traffic on the nearby bridge south to Pleiku is light. On the road in front of me, two cows slowly pull a cart, while a farmer taps them along with a stick. The floodplain across the river is covered with a patchwork of farming fields.

The city has built a lovely river walk, and I’m surprised to see this kind of development so deep in the highlands. The walkway has designer fencing, steps leading down to the river, and plenty of landscaping. Saigon’s river walk isn’t this picturesque. Even new street lamps are of French design. The Vietnamese may have fought the French for decades, but they still like their decor.

In Vietnam, cafés such as this are another legacy of the French, and are extremely popular from one end of the country to the other. There are even a couple of nationwide chains, and they’re more popular than bars or discos for meeting friends, especially among groups of women. In Vietnam's conservative culture, good girls don’t go to bars, but they do go to cafes. You can see them crowded into cafés in any city, gathering after work or university classes. They chat the afternoon away, while sipping their iced coffees. 

I gaze at the lovely view of the distant mountains that cover most of the horizon. It’s a mostly sunny day, except for the smoky haze in the air. It’s that time of year when farmers outside town are clearing more farmland, leaving the familiar odor of burning brush.

An ox pulls its load along the river road in Kon Tum

There are more remaining forests left here than there are around Pleiku, but even this deep in the highlands the numbers are dropping. This was once a heavily forested area, but year by year the ancient forests have been shrinking.  In the war years air dropped defoliants were killing trees, but that was decades ago. The massive deforestation seen in the highlands these days is also man made. The population growth and migration of ethnic Vietnamese from other provinces has caused a major increase in land cleared for farming. There are also complaints of corruption connected to illegal logging.

As I finish my cold green tea, I notice an older American speaking with a local Vietnamese having coffee at another table. Wondering what the westerner is doing in town, I approach to find out.

“We’re with a charity, we support an orphanage here,” he informs me. “In our group there are some veterans, their families, and we have four doctors. They’re out at the orphanage now."

Charity groups such as this have helped to bring a lot of support for humanitarian work back into Vietnam. He excuses himself, returning to his serious discussion with his local staffer. He has a lot of orphanage business to take care of before they leave tomorrow. I wish them well, and depart the café. 

After walking a few blocks, I find myself in another café, an internet café. Even in this remote highland town, close to the Cambodian border, they still have internet. In this country where free speech is limited and press is still tightly controlled, access to the world wide web is mostly, but not entirely, unrestricted. The Vietnamese government does block a small percentage of websites. These include a select number of sites oriented to news, gambling, pornography, and those run by human rights organizations. But the vast majority of the internet is accessible in Vietnam.

Yes, that's really a child riding a steer, on the Kon Tum river front

I sit down to do email, and as expected, the connection is slow. But I’m not complaining, a half hour only costs the equivalent of 60 cents. I look around the internet café, and every single customer is under 18. There are boys playing computer games, while teenage girls do online chat. I’m pleased to see that there are not only ethnic Vietnamese here, but also teens from the highland minorities. These youngsters may be only playing games today, but they are all computer literate, and who knows where that will lead. Some of these kids are studying English, and at internet cafés here, and across Vietnam, thousands of them are chatting live with foreigners in faraway lands, including other American teenagers.

In a country where the government still goes to great lengths to control information, access to the world wide web may one day change. But the effects of this technology are already being felt. Compared to previous generations, these children are becoming far more aware of the outside world. It makes me wonder, what effect will this have on the future of Vietnam?

Who knows?

GREEN BERETS AND BRAVE MINORITIES

A 'rong' house of the Jarai ethnic group, in Vietnam's highlands today

I’m riding in an SUV, an hour south of Pleiku in Vietnam’s highlands. As we pass through a government owned rubber plantation, the paved road runs out. We continue on, bumping along on a dusty, orange colored dirt road.

Watching the villages as we pass, I notice a distinct change in architecture.  I see some houses built in a more traditional style, raised up on stilts. Then I notice one house unlike all the others. We pass a tall, impressive wooden building with a very high, steeply sloped roof. Spikes with ethnic symbols protrude from the crest of the building, like lightning rods.

“That rong house,” my guide tells me. A rong house is a traditional highland building that is the center of ceremonial and cultural life in the village. This means we’ve entered Jarai territory.

Our driver slows, and we finally pull to a stop at the base of a low hill. I head for a dirt road leading upwards, and I’m surprised to see women’s underwear and a bra hanging from an overhead tree. My 

An old torn sandbag, left behind on the old base

guide tells me that this is from a local hill tribe. She says that when there is an older single woman hoping for a husband, she’ll hang those in a tree to improve her chances for marriage. That has to be one of the more amusing superstitions that I’ve ever heard.

Continuing up the hill, I learn why my driver didn’t drive me up any further. The earth here is almost like sand. What isn’t covered by grass or brush is a very fine, orange colored volcanic dirt.  It’s so fine, that the dusty orange earth is staining the cuffs of my pants as I walk.

Further up the hill, I find torn sections of brown burlap sticking up out of the orangey ground. “Here sandbags,” says my guide. These mark where old trenches and bunkers used to be. 

1960's view of the Green Beret's base of Plei Me (Photo: US Army)

This was a former US Special Forces camp, known as Camp Pleime.

Unlike the thousands of troops that were based on the sprawling Camp Enari in Pleiku, Pleime sheltered only a small detachment of specialized American troops. A Green Beret team operated here with ARVN soldiers, and 350 local Jarai militiamen. About 100 of the Jarai's family members also lived within the base.

This remote former Vietnam War era base, is now little more than a scrub covered hill. There used to be a cement blockhouse left here, but the government tore it down 10 years ago. There were also many shell casings scattered across the surface, but they've all been picked up by locals to sell for scrap. Like Camp Enari, there are few traces left of the former base that occupied this site.

In 1965, a North Vietnamese Army (NVA) attack here at Pleime, marked the beginning of a very bloody campaign that came to be known as the battle of Ia

Map showing Special Forces Camps (click to enlarge)

Drang. The attack at Pleime became a siege, and the battle in this region ragedoff and on for more than a month. Most of the heaviest fighting occurred only some miles west, towards the Cambodian border. Thousands died. The battle became immortalized in the 2002 Mel Gibson film, "We Were Soldiers". 

I step off the dirt road, but stay by the paths, as there are still some landmines around. The Vietnamese military had done a major search to remove mines around Pleime back in the 1980’s, but they didn’t locate all of them. Some locals were injured by old mines only two years ago.

Continuing up the path I pass a couple old bomb craters, and reach the top of the hill. I can see for miles around; this was a good location for an outpost. Looking at the surrounding scrub growth, I see that the top of the hill is fairly flat. This is where the Hueys would have landed.

In Pleime the battle highlighted the latest innovation in warfare: the US Army’s use of helicopters. After the NVA cut off the main road I had used to get here, they tightened their siege. But choppers were able to fly right over them, and bring in supplies and reinforcements by air. Among them was a certain Major Charles Beckwith, a near legend in the Green Berets. They survived, Pleime was held, and the siege was broken.

It’s sad to know that hundreds of young men died here, fighting over what has now become nothing but an insignificant, remote, scrubby patch of land. Pleime is now

Vietnamese memorial at Plei Me today

guarded only by pepper plants, and cashew trees. 

Out front on the road near a small memorial, stand two government propaganda signs. They claim that in their 'glorious victory', that the communists killed 2,974 enemy troops in this battle, and that 1,700 of them were American. As often happened 
throughout the war, both sides exaggerated the numbers of enemy dead, while minimizing the numbers of their own. But in the case of Ia Drang, reversing the numbers would be more accurate. By the end of the fighting for the valley, although hundreds of Americans and ARVN were dead, the number of NVA casualties was far higher. For the first time in South Vietnam, the NVA were on the receiving end of devastating B-52 bomb strikes.

One of the only accurate ‘facts’ on the historical sign, is the date listed for the start of the battle, which was October 19th, 1965. After the siege was broken, it would be years before Pleime actually fell to the NVA. This was long after the hard nosed Green Berets had already left.

I look through an official English language government tourist booklet, that mentions Pleime. Among other things, they claim that the NVA won the battle through, “post encircling & re-enforcement beating”. Their version of the truth was about as good as their translation. You’d think that they would at least translate their propaganda into English that could be understood.

I head back down to the road, and a cart pulled by two oxen goes by, carrying a Vietnamese couple, and bags of produce. I get back to the main road, and head for the only two houses on the former base.  These belong to homesteaders, and their lighter skin gives them away as Vietnamese, not Jarai. Through my guide I ask them where they’re from, and she translates their reply, “they from North Vietnam.”

Homes of Vietnamese settlers, on what used to be Jarai land

Families like this are fairly common in what is now called Gia Lai province. In 1976 the communist government encouraged Vietnamese settlers from the north to move here and work on government rubber plantations. Although hill tribes made up the vast majority of the highland population, Vietnamese from the north began moving here en masse. With their American protectors gone, the Jarai and other ethnic groups who had fought on the US side lost a great deal of land, much of which still hasn’t been paid for.

There are 54 different minority ethnic groups in Vietnam, totaling more than 12 million people. Most of them suffer discrimination from ethnic Vietnamese, and the Vietnamese dominated government. The constitution is supposed to guarantee equal rights for all, but that doesn’t always carry over into daily affairs. Domination of the hill tribes by the Vietnamese has been going on for centuries, and in recent decades it has even worsened. Interestingly, ethnic minorities were actually better off when Ho Chi Minh was still alive. In North Vietnam, the Montagnards had zones of autonomy, but once Ho died, the communist government took their autonomy away. Many people belonging to these ethnic groups still don’t consider themselves Vietnamese.

Having seen enough of Pleime, we get back into our SUV, and head back towards Pleiku. Driving back along the dirt road, we pass a small herd of cows on the road. They are being herded along by a young Jarai boy, who I’m surprised to see is riding one of the cows bareback. I didn’t know it was even possible to ride a cow like a horse.

I’d like to stop here and talk to some Jarai villagers, but my guide is less than enthusiastic. In parts of the highlands, Vietnam requires all foreigners visiting minority villages to visit only with a permit. For the same reason, I’m driving out here with a government tour guide. An official publication calls the province, “the fertile land for the exploitation of tourist services”. That’s a good one. There’s plenty of exploitation going on here, but it has nothing to do with tourism, and the Montagnards aren’t happy about it. The reason that permits are required, is because there’s still conflict between the hill tribes and the government. When the war officially ended in 1975, government security forces moved in to assert their power across the highlands. Thousands of Montagnards had already been displaced during the war, and now they were losing their land. Suffering from discrimination, their communities were forced into socialism, threatening their traditional cultures. Those who objected were imprisoned and beaten. The situation of the hill tribes became desperate.

View from Plei Me. Hill tribe militias continued fighting the Vietnamese, years after US forces left.

So thousands of Montagnards, who had already been trained by the Green Berets, went back to war. They joined FULRO, a French acronym meaning United Front for the Liberation of Oppressed Races. Formed years earlier, this guerilla group fought the French, then the South Vietnamese, finally taking on the communists. FULRO fighters took a page from the NVA’s play book, by taking shelter across the nearby border in Cambodia. Ironically, the Vietnamese communists had fought for victory using guerrilla warfare, now they had a new guerrilla war fighting against them.

Virtually unknown to the outside world, armed resistance by FULRO continued on and off for years, all the way until 1992. The last survivors eventually surrendered their weapons to UN soldiers who were stationed in Cambodia. By that time, their fighters were almost out of ammunition, and their numbers had shrunk from 5,000, down to 400. This last group of holdouts was given asylum by their former patrons, the USA. They then resettled in North Carolina.

That wasn’t the end of the highland hostilities. In 2000, hill tribes outside Pleiku were demonstrating for more rights, some even demanding independence. There was some violence in the streets, but with security forces keeping out the press, the number of Montagnards killed or injured isn’t known.

In 2001, loss of ancestral forests led to protests across not only Gia Lai Province, but also Daklak Province to the south. Tensions had been building over religious restrictions for some hill tribe Christians, and another spark of the demonstrations was the arrest and subsequent beatings of two Christian brothers in the area. All three of the major hill tribes were involved. Roads were blocked, vehicles were overturned, and a post office and telephone building were damaged. The violence spread to Pleiku. All foreign journalists were barred from the region, so the number of deaths from the government crackdown was kept secret. 

An oxcart passes through the former Plei Me Special Forces Camp

In 2004 during Easter Week demonstrations violence erupted again, and an unknown number of Christian highlanders were killed and injured by government forces. Besides using firearms, Vietnamese police captured many protestors using electric shock batons. By now protests had earned attention from Human Rights Watch, which stated, “Vietnam’s policy of repression of Montagnard Christians is only fueling the unrest.”

Hundreds fled across the border to nearby Cambodia, only to find they faced possible deportation to Vietnam, and lengthy prison terms. Under pressure from the Vietnamese government, Cambodia denied asylum to the Montagnards, while preventing UN refugee officials from giving them access, a violation of international law. When more Montagnards fled to Cambodia in 2008, A Montagnard Christian named Y Ben Hdok was beaten to death in police custody.

In recent years, sporadic arrests and persecution have continued. While keeping a lid on information related to human rights, the government is attempting to keep away outside influences. One result is less tourism in the highlands than there is in other provinces. Unfortunately for the Montagnard peoples, the oppression goes on. Since government policy in this region is unlikely to change, it’s only a matter of time before there is unrest in the highlands once again.

REMAINS OF CAMP ENARI

Outline of old Military Police post at Camp Enari entrance

We’re south of Pleiku, driving to an old US military base. Suddenly, my Vietnamese guide asks me, “would you like to see the MP (Military Police) Gate?” I say yes, and our SUV immediately stops. We get out, I look around, and see only brush and small trees about. I wonder, where is the gate? I don’t know it, but we’ve just driven over it.

Outlined in the middle of the pavement, there's a diamond shaped line of cement. This was the foundation that surrounded the guard shack at the base's entrance. The foundation itself was finally chopped down to road level two years ago, since motorcyclists kept having accidents from running into it at night. Given the amount of drunks driving around on motorbikes in Vietnam, that’s not surprising.

Looking around, I see no control tower, no old barracks, no fencing, nothing. There are now farming fields, and cattle grazing nearby. There are no other  visible remnants of the old base in sight. It’s hard to believe that this was once Camp Enari, former base of the US Army's 4th Infantry Division.

Camp Enari in 1969 (Archive photo)

After the 1973 Paris Peace agreement, the 4th Infantry departed, and the base was turned over to the ARVN. After they abandoned the base later, nearly everything left here was looted, dismantled or destroyed. There is another old US base in Pleiku, Camp Holloway. But I can’t visit there; it’s now occupied by the Vietnamese Army! Camp Enari on the other hand, has ceased to exist.

We hop back into the SUV and drive onto the former base, arriving at the former Hensel Army Airfield. Getting out again, I see serrated metal visible in the reddish dirt before me. Laid down by military engineers, this steel matting used to make up a layer of the runway. These old runway remnants are the only thing left. Everything else is gone. In the late 1960’s there were more than 10,000 American troops based on this patch of land. Now there are few traces left to show that they were ever here at all. 

Serrated lines in the dirt are the remains of the Hensel Air Field runway

Looking to one end of the runway, it’s now covered by a building that processes coffee. Other parts of the installation have become a cement factory, but even with these small businesses, there are few other buildings. Most of the old base is now open country. There is farmland, thick with plots of coffee and cassava. The rest is open field, with the occasional herd of cattle passing through to graze.

From here we get a view of Dragon Mountain which used to have a small US Army lookout post on top. It’s been replaced by two towers, a TV tower and mobile phone tower, on each end of the flat topped mountain. Technology is slowly coming to the highlands.

My guide tells me that a couple days ago, she brought a former USAF soldier named Kim here, who had served a tour of duty on Camp Enari. When she brought him back to the former base where he had spent a year of his life, he was stunned.

“He cannot believe how much it change,” she said. “He walk around for 1 1/2 hour, looking for things to remember.” 

Dragon Mountain today, topped with cell phone towers

She gestures and says, “There is Artillery Hill.” I turn to see a sloping hill across the road in the distance. Kim told her about how he had gone up Artillery Hill, and sprayed dioxin there to kill the brush. At the time, they didn’t know how poisonous it was, so they took few safety precautions. As a result, he now has serious respiratory problems, and has difficulty breathing normally. 

It’s not just the local Vietnamese who have suffered the ill effects of Agent Orange. Thousands of American soldiers became ill from their exposure to it as well. It seems that when it comes to Agent Orange exposure, the land may be recovering faster than people do. 

Old map of Camp Enari during the war

HIGHLAND FOOD AND MYSTERY MEAT

'Pho', a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup. But what kind of meat is within?

As the sky darkens in Vietnam’s highlands, dinner time beckons. With few choices for varied cuisine in Pleiku, I head into a local restaurant. As I’m walking in, I immediately notice that everyone is staring at me. The wait staff and patrons have stopped whatever they were doing, and just gaze at me in wide eyed amazement. It’s as if I’m a rock star, a celebrity. The staring continues as I take a table.

Perhaps celebrity is the wrong analogy here. Maybe I’m more of an oddity, an object of curiosity in these parts. They don’t get many outsiders here, especially a white westerner. I’m discovering that for most Vietnamese, there is nothing rude about staring at strangers. Westerners will look away in embarrassment when you stare back at them, but not here. When I match their gaze, many of the Vietnamese just keep right on staring at me, as though I’m some kind of circus sideshow freak. Oh well, on to dinner.

With my stomach about to growl, I look at the menu, and find it's only in Vietnamese text. So I do what foreign travelers often do in this situation. When the waitress arrives, I simply point to a dish that looks good at the next table. I've opted for a bowl of pho, a popular Vietnamese noodle soup. It comes with raw greens that you mix into the soup yourself. Also mixed in are spices, soy,  and chunks of what looks like beef.

Uh oh.

At least, I think it’s beef. I hope it’s beef. But is it really beef?? You can’t be sure out here in the highlands. I recall a conversation I had about food with other Vietnamese. I asked: “What food do you hate?” Rather than expressing dislike for broccoli or beets, their responses were unexpected.

“I hate snake,” one woman said.

“I hate dog,” said another. Eeesh I'd heard that some Vietnamese eat dog, but I couldn't imagine eating it voluntarily. My only hate at the moment, is not knowing what kind of meat this is.

Later, I hop onto a crowded Pleiku mini-bus, and I’m surprised when an older local woman seated near me starts speaking to me in English.

“I worked for ‘MACV’,” she tells me, “I cook. I work for American G.I. for seven years.” MACV was an acronym I wasn’t expecting to hear in the Highlands. It stood for ‘Military Assistance Command Vietnam’, and this woman worked on one of the US bases here in Pleiku.

“I worked for American, then VC come,” she continues. With the arrival of the communists in Pleiku, this lady cook was out of a job. But she still had plenty to keep her busy, since she had nine children.

I asked if she’s from one of the minority groups that live here in the Highlands, and she looks surprised. “I’m Vietnamese!” she says incredulously.

With her years of experience cooking for GI’s, she knows how to cook American food well. My mouth waters as she tells me, “I cook potatoes, dumpling, American eggs.” She’s retired now, but I wish she owned a restaurant in Pleiku. Vietnamese cuisine is tasty, healthy and cheap, but I haven’t had western food in a long time. I would have preferred her cooking, than that mystery meat that I had eaten earlier.

HIGHLAND TOWN OF PLEIKU

Arriving at Pleiku Airport in the Central Highlands

I’m airborne again, only this time I’m not flying on a big comfy jet. Today I’m only in a two engine propeller plane, just a puddle jumper really. This trip will be much different then my earlier destinations. On Vietnam’s coast I had plenty of tourists to keep me company, but there are few westerners where I’m headed. I’m about to enter a more remote region of Vietnam. The seatbelt sign comes on, and we start our descent near the southern end of the Truong Song Mountains. I'm arriving in Pleiku, in the central highlands.
 
Looking out the window, it's not what I expected. I thought I’d be surrounded by rugged mountains, but there are only a few mountains off in the distance. The altitude here may be higher, but topography around Pleiku is mostly low rolling hills. It’s not as green as I was expecting either. The trees around the airport are all young, since this area was so defoliated with Agent Orange during the war.
 
Touching down, I look across the empty tarmac. There are no other planes or jets in sight. This was once the military airport known as Pleiku Air Base, run by US and Vietnamese Air Forces. The largest and busiest airport in the highlands, it was once loaded with planes and helicopters. Now there’s only one vacant government helicopter sitting off to the edge of the airfield. There is so little traffic, that one whole section of tarmac is no longer maintained, and has grass and weeds growing up through the cracks. Pleiku is in a poor province, so there are few flights to the highlands these days. In the new terminal, I spot a tall older westerner with a faded US flag on his cap. Approaching him, I can make out three tattoos on his aging forearm shaped like military medals. I introduce myself, and meet Larry, a friendly American war veteran from North Carolina.

“I came back to have a look with my girlfriend,” Larry tells me. He was an Army soldier here in 1969, and he’s glad he came back. He had been visiting some of his old haunts further south. He was surprised at what he found, so many old buildings had been torn down, removed for new construction and businesses, “Like Bien Hoa,” he said, mentioning another large, former air base. “Today it’s an industrial area. Everything is changed, it’s hard to find some of the places where we were before.”

Pleiku today is more developed than during the war years

I’m relieved to meet two other Americans here, but they soon hop into a taxi and depart. Pleiku doesn’t get many foreign visitors. I grab a late taxi, load up, and head out. Leaving the airport, we drive by barracks now occupied by the Vietnamese Army. It’s a sleepy looking facility, and all the soldiers I see walking about are unarmed. The only activity I see is a platoon of enlisted men doing calisthenics. With their dark green pants and white t-shirts, they look like a recruiting film. 

The taxi drops me at my hotel, after checking in, I head back out the doors to get to know this highland town. Pleiku was once a group of humble villages of the Jarai minority tribe. Then French colonists arrived, and it grew to be the provincial capital. The French referred to the Jarai and the rest of the hill tribe minorities as ‘Montagnards’, meaning ‘mountain people’, and the name stuck.

Walking through Pleiku now, I see few hill tribe folk. People I encounter are ethnic Vietnamese, who have moved to Pleiku in droves. The villages are long gone and the downtown is modern, by Vietnamese standards. Compared to crowded and polluted Ho Chi Minh City, it’s much more orderly, clean and pleasant. There are few old homes, most of buildings around me are relatively new. In this highland town where most homes had only one story, there are now countless apartment buildings. These changes weren’t just due to urban planning, it was also due to the war's destruction.

Can she really drive in traffic?

When the communists began advancing across the highlands in 1975, there was a chaotic, emergency migration eastward towards Vietnam's coast. Soon after the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) began to rocket and shell Pleiku, the South Vietnamese Army (ARVN) retreated from the city. When the civilians realized what was happening, the population of Pleiku fled with them in fear. To deny the communists use of Pleiku, departing ARVN torched many buildings, further adding to the destruction. As packed columns of military and civilian vehicles headed for the coast, they were attacked by the NVA, killing not only at the retreating ARVN, but also fleeing civilians. The panicked evacuation was horrendous, and thousands died in the chaotic exodus. It was the most tragic and costly retreat of the war.

In the 1980’s much of Pleiku was rebuilt, partly with Soviet aid, and today the population is triple what it was during the war years. This is mainly due to the influx of so many Vietnamese who moved here from the northern provinces, since the conquering government of the north encouraged them to move here.

Kpa Klong, who fought the Americans

It was a long road back, but Pleiku has been rebuilt. As part of the government’s changes in the south, Pleiku is now referred to as ‘Gia Lai’ on many official maps.

Looking around the commercial district I see few cars, and as I saw in HCMC, many locals use motorbikes as if they are pickup trucks. Outside the market, I watch one woman pack her small motorbike with a load of nine foot long stalks of sugar cane. I wonder how she’s going to make it through traffic with such a wide, oversized load. The police seem to have less visibility here than in other parts of Vietnam. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t around, since there are plenty of plainclothes police. Perhaps they keep a low profile to please the minorities. 

As I check out Pleiku, I notice that most traces of the former American military  presence are gone. Even most American made buildings have vanished. I do spot one bit of historical evidence, when I stop at a local hardware store. Piles of gear are stacked outside on the sidewalk, and among a pile of chains and springs, are old US Army ammunition cases. They may be discolored and rusty, but they’re still waterproof.

Walking through a town square, I come to a statue dedicated to Kpa Klong, a Montagnard fighter who died in 1975. Wearing a loin cloth and carrying a carbine, he’s about to throw what looks like a pipe bomb. From one of the local hill tribes, he used to fight the Americans. Friezes on the statue’s pedestal show him gunning down American soldiers, and attacking an American tank using only a hand grenade.

 

A dog guarding a tank? Really??!

Kpa Klong and his village may have joined with the communists, but the reality is that most hill tribes sided with the Americans during the war. The highland minorities have suffered discrimination from the majority Vietnamese for centuries, and the US ideas of equal rights and democracy appealed to them. They desired to continue practicing their own religions and languages, so they had no love for communists, and still don't. The Americans also provided arms to the Montagnard militias, giving them their own means for self-defense. It’s sad, but true that many Vietnamese refer to the highland minority peoples as savages, even today. Not surprisingly, occasional unrest and uprisings in the highlands against the Vietnamese government have continued.

I stop at the Gia Lai Museum, to find the doors locked and the lights off. After finding a staffer, she opens the front door to show me why it’s so quiet. Artifacts and boxes are piled up everywhere, the museum is closed for renovations. Before I leave I walk behind

The remains of a US made Huey helicopter, and a spotter plane

the building, and I’m startled by a furry yellow dog barking at me from behind a chain link fence. Strangely, the dog is tied to an M-41 tank, with a .30 caliber machine gun mounted on top. A dog protecting a tank! Piled in among other wreckage around it are an old howitzer, and the remains of various American made aircraft, including an A-6, two Huey helicopters, and two spotter planes.

As I check out all the wreckage, the dog never stops barking at me. He’s the junkyard dog, for a military junkyard. Since the museum is closed, I imagine that his barking at me now, is probably the most excitement that this dog has had all week. 

I head back to my Pleiku hotel. Time for Vietnamese cuisine.  Next stop, a local restaurant.