NIGHT TRAIN TO HANOI

Overnight train to Hanoi pulls into Danang Train Station

Russia has the Trans-Siberian Railway. Europe has the Orient Express. And Vietnam? They have the Reunification Express, and it’s my ticket to the north.

There is just something about train travel. It’s romantic really. There’s the anticipation everyone feels as they wait in the station. The train pulls in, horns blaring. Departing passengers pull luggage across the platform. Relatives have emotional goodbyes. Everyone loads up, climbing stairs into passenger cars. Everyone searches for their berth, and settles into a comfortable room. The locomotive whistles, the train lurches, and you’re on your way. I see all these steps as I begin my journey on the overnight train.

“Hey you,” says a brusque Vietnamese passenger. “Where you go? Hue?”

Vietnamese passengers say their goodbyes, and board the train

“No,” I answer, "Hanoi."

I’ve begun my trip by boarding the train in the coastal city of Danang. We stop in Hue before continuing north, across the old DeMilitarised Zone. There are later stops in Dong Hoi and Vinh, but I’m hoping I’ll be asleep by then. After a 14 hour journey, I should arrive in Hanoi in the early morning.

As the train slowly rolls out of Danang, I peer out the window, and see the Vietnamese version of a railroad crossing. They don’t have automatic crossing gates, here they use sliding red and white fences, which are pulled across manually by railway staff. At first, I just think this is an easy way to keep some government workers employed, as crossing guards. But then I recall the recklessness of Vietnamese motorbike drivers. This is probably a much safer way to keep them off of the tracks.

Our train has 13 passenger cars, plus the locomotive. As I’m settling into my room, I kick away a small roach as it’s about to take shelter in my luggage. Well, I wasn’t expecting first class accomodation. My room is a soft sleeper, meaning it has four beds. This is the best they have on the train, and it cost me all of 25 dollars. Most Vietnamese passengers are packed into the cheaper, hard sleeper rooms, meaning they have six beds packed in together.

The room’s interior has light blue walls, with bright red bunk beds. Thankfully, there’s air conditioning. The best part of all: there's a large window with a great view of the passing countryside. As we rumble along north of Danang, the scenery becomes stunning.

Our train chugs up the coast, giving us fantastic views of the South China Sea

It’s a good day for a train trip, the weather is clear and the train is on time. Soon we're up in the mountains; beyond I can see all the way down to the South China Sea coast. The slopes below us are blanketed with green foliage. For this stretch of the journey, I see no signs of civilization. There are only mountains, deserted beach, and the vast ocean. Far below, ocean waves wash over a platform of solid rock. As each wave crashes across the bedrock, it leaves a long blanket of white water behind. As I watch the surf, I’m instantly enveloped in darkness; we’ve entered a tunnel. There are a few tunnels along this section, as we make our way towards the Hai Van pass, which means ‘Pass of the Clouds’.

This railway was first built by the French way back in the 19^th century during the colonial era. As we head through the mountains, we pass an old abandoned French Army outpost, built to protect the short railroad trestle we're on. Back during the war years, the railroad was attacked and vandalized often by the various nationalist and communist groups. Trains were derailed numerous times.

But those days are gone now, and the trains have run peacefully for years. Continuing along the coast, railway staff bring around a snack cart, with coffee, soft drinks and beer. They also hand out a dinner menu. I order chicken and white rice, which arrives later in a styrofoam container. Even with the soy sauce provided, it’s pretty bland. I don’t know it yet, but I’ll be surprised with a far better dinner later on.

Abandoned military post once protected the railway

As my room has four beds, there are two other Vietnamese men sharing it with me. One is fashionably dressed, and is assigned to the bunk above me. He climbs on up, and soon is snoring quietly. The other portly passenger sits on the bunk across from me. He speaks a fair amount of English, and I discover that he works for the Vietnamese Railway I'm now riding. I’m fortunate to have a roommate who can tell me more about the Reunification Express, at least as far as what a government employee is allowed to tell a foreigner.

After a couple hours, we pull into the old capital of Hue. This was the end of the line back during the war years, since communist sabotage kept the trains from going any further north. Back in those days, the locomotives didn’t run in front. The engineers would push a flat car out in front of the locomotive, in order to trip mines or booby traps that may have been laid on the tracks.

As the train departs Hue, we are joined in our little cabin by an Australian. He’s a former finance man who just finished working in London. The Aussie decided to tour Vietnam on his way home.

As often happens on trains, I am quickly chatting away with my new cabin mates. It’s one of those times when the talk flows freely, and after a while I realize that nobody has gotten around to introducing themselves. Nobody knows anyone else’s name, but that doesn’t really matter. We're enjoying each other’s company, knowing that after arrival, we probably won’t see each other again. We joke and chat, pausing to admire the scenery out the window. All the while the train rumbles along, and time happily passes by.

The train's rather spartan bathroom facilities

Later I step out in the passageway for a look around, and I find that our toilets are rather spartan. They are the basic squatty-potty style which is so common in Asia. When the toilet is flushed, it seems to empty right out onto the train tracks below.

On my way back, I spot the neighbors. To one side are two rooms inhabited by a group of 50 somethings from New Zealand. They have water on the floor of one room, so they've all crowded into their second room next to ours. They are already having drinks. Our other neighbors are a couple of Russians, and a woman from Switzerland. They are a good deal quieter, since the Kiwis are making enough noise for everybody.

Stepping back in my room, the Aussie and I start questioning our Vietnamese rail expert, the Train Man. He’s worked repairing the rails for many years. He says the train’s top speed is 90 km per hour, but operationally it only goes about 70.

Old bomb craters are next to the train tracks near the old DeMilitarized Zone

He boasts to us that Japan is going to help Vietnam build a new high speed railway, and laughingly says that it will take about 20 years. With the slow pace of government projects in Vietnam, it may take even longer than that.

As the miles go by, and conversation drifts off, I start listening to the sound of the train itself. The rhythm and movements change as we chug along. The sounds below shift from a clackety-clack, to a whooshing noise, and then rises and lowers in pitch. If I listen to it for a while, it’s rather hypnotic. The train goes from a bumpy ride, to swaying from side to side, but its comfortable enough.

Leaving the mountains, we gradually descend down to the coast. Our picture window is filled with palm trees, and fishing villages with wooden boats. The skies darken, and rain starts. It occurs to me that

A 'hard sleeper' berth

since I’m not in a car or bus, I don’t have to worry about slick roads on this trip. As we approach the old DMZ, I see perfectly round little ponds, that are close to the train tracks. These are old bomb craters from the American war years, that later filled with water.

As we continue, Train Man tells us more about his past. He’s from a small village in Vietnam. He was a young teenager when the US war ended, so he didn’t have to fight in that conflict. However, he did have to fight in the next war, in Cambodia. He served with the Vietnamese Army there from 1981 – 1985, fighting the Khmer Rouge. He didn’t like it there at all.

“I went over there with five friends,” he told me. “Two came back.”

Train man tells us more about the railway. After the American war finished in 1975, the  north – south line was quickly repaired, and reopened in 1976. Given the enormous amount of destruction to the rail lines, that was a major accomplishment. Back then, the trains were far slower than they are now. When the full line started running again, it took 56 hours to travel from Saigon to Hanoi. Today, it’s down to 30 hours for the same trip.

Our other Vietnamese cabin mate doesn’t speak English, so Train Man translates for him. “He in Vietnam People’s Army. He along the Lao border. He General.”

Dinner fit for a king: a whole chicken, and vodka (served from a plastic bottle!)

He doesn’t quite look like a general to me though. He’s wearing civilian clothes, and appears to be in his low 40’s, which seems rather young for a general. Perhaps Train Man didn’t translate correctly. Still, he’s very well dressed. He must be an officer.

We arrive in Dong Hoi station, and Train Man disappears for a few minutes. He returns with a whole cooked chicken, and a bottle of Vietnamese vodka. He announces he’s going to share it with all of his cabin mates. What a perfect time for Vietnamese hospitality.

A small pop-up table is lifted between the bunkbeds, and a newspaper becomes our tablecloth. We don’t need a dining car tonight. As the kilometers pass by, the chicken is devoured by all, and the bottle of vodka is gradually emptied. It soon becomes apparent that the General has a low tolerance for

A stroll through the carriages, before bed

alcohol. He’s gone from being quiet, to a laughing machine.

The conversation shifts from the basic, to the bizarre. The Aussie asks Train Man, “Have you ever eaten dog?”

“Yes,” Train Man answers.

“You like eating dog?” he continues.

“Yes,” Train Man answers again.

“I would like to try eating dog,” the Aussie announces. I don’t mind trying new foods, but the thought of eating dog meat will never appeal to me.

I take a final walk between cars to stretch my legs, and return to the room as the night winds down. Before long, I kick off my shoes, and get ready for bed. Train Man is already stretched out, and the tipsy General is in his bunk above me. Unfolding my blanket, I lay down to sleep. Outside our window in the night, dark silhouettes of trees are flowing by.

I can hear the Kiwis still laughing next door. They’ll be partying for a while yet tonight. The Russians and the Swiss on the other side are silent. The sound of the train has changed now to a low, rolling rumble.

It’s been a great trip. I haven’t had many folks to chat with the past few days, so I’ve enjoyed the diverse company. The conditions aren’t world class, but I wasn’t expecting them to be. I would rather be here than in a five star hotel. I’ve shared the night with a group of new and interesting people, having a great time as the miles went by.

I’m feeling content. Sleep reaches me.

In the morning, I’m in Hanoi. 

LADY BAR OWNER IN VIETNAM

Bartenders spin flaming bottles in a Danang bar

Chau is an attractive, friendly Vietnamese woman, with a wide smile and a kind voice. She speaks English well, and at 30 years of age, she’s already the owner of her own business in downtown Danang.

“I have this bar two year,” she says proudly from behind her dimly lit bar. Tonight's a rare occasion when she’s wearing tight clothing, and it complements her womanly figure. This gets more than a few looks from her male customers. Some are Vietnamese, but most are western men. But unlike less reputable places, this isn’t a bar for working girls. In Chau’s bar, (name is withheld), she doesn’t allow prostitutes. “When they come in, I ask them to leave,” she says.

Chau isn’t from Danang, she’s from a village outside the city. She may be a businesswoman now, but capitalism wasn’t always popular with her family.

“My father was Viet Cong,” she confesses to me. “He no like Americans. He still hate Americans. Many VC, still hate Americans. But most of them are dead now.”

Back in the war years, Chau’s hometown was a Viet Cong stronghold. Her father’s side may have won the war, but his family paid a high price. “His two brothers died. His mother and father died,” Chau tells me. Her father was also wounded by a US bomb, and his old injuries bother him in his old age. For the first time, I’m hearing about a Vietnamese that still hates Americans. Given all that the war did to her father’s family, I’m not surprised. Fortunately his hatred didn’t spread to his chipper daughter, who seems to enjoy chatting with me. 

Chau says her father doesn’t understand her. “He ask me, ‘how can you talk to Americans’? I tell him, that (the war) was long time ago. That finished,” Chau says. “I don’t have a problem with Americans.”
Chau first came to know Americans as a tour guide, when she traveled extensively doing tours for returning US veterans. “Most of them nice. Some of them not so nice,” she says, giving her view of the vets. 

She traveled with them all over the region, from Danang, to the former De-Militarized Zone, and even to the infamous site of My Lai.

“What was it like with them there?” I asked.

“They cry,” she says. “They feel bad. They talk with lady there who tell them what happen. She tell (them) their story. Another lady was a child (then). They cry.” 

Chau's village endured fighting during the war

Chau also brought the veterans to an orphanage, where children continue to arrive today with deformities attributed to Agent Orange. The vets cried there too. Now that Chau owns her own bar, she doesn’t travel with vets anymore. But she’s still happy to translate for American medical teams that come to Danang, who treat the sick in poor communities for free.

Chau likes the American doctors, but there is another group she despises. “The old American men, they come back Vietnam. They marry young Vietnam lady. I don’t like,” she says with disdain. She allows these old men with young brides to come into her bar and drink, but that doesn’t mean that she approves. Nightlife is more relaxed in Danang than in Ho Chi Minh City, so she's had few problems with customers.

“Have you had many bar fights?” I ask, remembering the brawl I had witnessed in the former Saigon. 

“Only one time,” she answered. Predictably, the bar fight involved an American, although he didn’t start it. “It was old American man in the war.”

During an evening at Chau’s place, an American Vietnam veteran was talking with a twenty-something English teacher from England. They both had their share of drinks, when the subject of the war came up. Among other things, the burly young teacher told the veteran that he thought the Americans were baby killers. It went downhill from there.

“The English man, he know boxing,” Chau said. Being bigger, younger, and a trained fighter, the Englishman wasn’t afraid to back up his words with his fists. Chau kicked the brawling pair out, but not before a lot of blood was spilled in the bar. The American got the worst of it.  But that wasn’t the end of it. The American lives in Danang, and he got the last laugh. The Englishman had a well paid job at an international school, and the American found out which one.

“The American, he have Vietnam wife,” Chau told me. “They call the school where he work. Teacher fired.” Out of a job, the English 'boxer' was soon out of the country.

I ponder over this conflict. During my whole time in Vietnam this is the only fist fight I’ve heard of that involved a disagreement about the war, and no Vietnamese were even involved. The two pugilists were from two countries that are supposed to be allies.

Chau tells me later of a fight in a different bar, that ended tragically for her family. Some years back, one of Chau’s brothers was killed. He was just a university student then, out for a night with his friends when the fight broke out. He tried to break it up, and was stabbed fatally in the melee.

The new river front walkway in downtown Danang

The perpetrator was tried and sentenced to a long prison term, but he wasn’t behind bars for long. Less two years after her brother’s death, Chau’s family found out that the killer had already been released. He was long gone, and nowhere to be found. It turns out that the prisoner’s father was a powerful figure in the government. Chau’s father also worked in local government and was a war veteran, but that wasn’t enough power to guarantee justice for his murdered son. In the end, he didn’t have anywhere near the clout that the father of the killer did.

These days, Chau is doing very well. Her parents have retired, and with her pub thriving, she earns enough money to support them. She’s even saved enough to do some traveling. Unlike most Vietnamese, Chau has seen a lot of the outside world, and has traveled throughout Southeast Asia. She’s even flown to New Zealand and her favorite, Australia.

“I would like to go see America some day, but it very far,” she tells me.

I ask her if she would like to go work in America, but she doesn’t see the need. “Here I do what I want,” she says. “I’m free.”

I suppose it’s all very relative. Freedom of speech and freedom of the press don’t concern her. Chau enjoys the freedoms that she wants the most. She has the freedom to travel, and the freedom to run her own business. In her case, that’s all the freedom that she needs.

ATTACK OF RUBBER SNAKE ON MARBLE MOUNTAIN

Buddhist temple on 'Marble Mountain'

It's a new morning, and I'm just south of the central Vietnam city of Danang. I’m climbing stairs up a long hill of bedrock. Step after step, I go up and up, until my legs begin to ache. My quads are going to get a good workout today.

Buddhist statues guard a cave inside the mountain

My guide Khanh has brought me to this place that in Vietnamese, translates as ‘Water Mountain’. Climbing higher, I discover that the rock that makes up this place is mostly marble, hence the nickname American soldiers gave this place: ‘Marble Mountain’. It really should have been named ‘Shrinking Mountain’, since the village next to it had been quarrying marble off of this mountain for generations. They were supplying local artisans, who made their living carving marble sculptures. As the artists continued to turn out their creations, the mountain shrank and shrank. Finally, they started importing their marble from China, and the mountain was saved from shrinking further.

I finish the long set of steps, which were somehow carved out of this mountain more than 200 years ago by Buddhist monks. Arriving at a leveled part of the mountain, I see the monk’s temple and surrounding buildings. There are still 15 monks living up here today.

Rising above the nearby coastline, Marble Mountain has a few natural caves, and Khanh and I head into them to explore. Most aren’t much to look at, until I walk into Huyen Khong Cave. Passing through an arch, an old stone sign translates as, “Cave heaven good hell.” Khanh leads on, and we enter the eerie place. Walking deeper into the mountain’s interior, it grows darker. We reach four Buddhist statues guarding an inner entrance, as though they are sentinels. “Two of them are good, two of them evil,” Khanh informs me. In the dim light, all four figures look rather menacing.


Descending further, the cave opens up into a large natural room. There is a bit more light in here. I look upward, and see holes in the cave ceiling, opening into the morning sky. Through the dim light, a large statue of Buddha is barely visible on the far side. Carved right into the cave wall, the statue didn’t always look down on Buddhist monks. In wartime this cave was controlled for years by the Viet Cong.

“In here was VC hospital,” Khanh tells me. Deep inside marble mountain, surrounded by solid rock, this was one of the few places where the guerrillas were reasonably safe from aerial bombing. As a hospital it couldn’t have been very sanitary though, since the cavern is damp, and not well ventilated. For years the Viet Cong occupied these caves, and ran the hospital deep within the mountain. Leaving the cavern, we walk towards the other side of the mountain. Reaching a narrow point of the walkway, we pass through an old stone arch. Looking closer, I see that both sides of the arch are pockmarked with countless bullet holes. This was a scene of a fierce firefight.

A bullet scarred arch marks where a fierce gun battle occurred in 1968

“American soldiers come, fighting here,” Khanh tells me. During the US military build up in Danang in the 1960's, the Americans decided to force the Viet Cong from Marble Mountain. There were heavy casualties in the fight to take this mount, and US troops prevailed. They held the mountain until they departed in the 1970’s.

Walking around the Buddhist temple complex, we enter a hillside garden. I find a sign within, with these notable below words of Buddhist wisdom. Wise words indeed. 

Through all of the conflict over the decades, the Buddhist monks have remained on the mountain, and their rebuilt complex has expanded. The monks were here before the war, during the war, and after the war. Finally, the mountain belongs to them alone. There are old legends that the monks guarded royal gold hoarded in the caves, but it hasn't been found. 

Further ahead, Khanh points to the mountain’s peak, and tells me that US soldiers had a lookout point up there. The marines called this observation post, ‘the Crow’s Nest’.

View looking south along the coast. On this peak US troops had the 'Crow's Nest' lookout post.

“They come on helicopter”, Khanh says. Back then, rather than climb the mountain as we did, the forward observers were picked up and dropped off by air. With my legs weary from the climbing, I’m wishing I had a helicopter right now. But I still have some energy left, so I decide to climb to the top for a look myself. I don’t know it yet, but I’m going to regret it.

I start my way up another staircase, recently installed for visitors like me. Eyeing up the steps, they look very steep, and not particularly safe. Khanh goes ahead, and I start my climb up slowly.

Workmen stare down at me, after the hose burst right in front of me

Up ahead, I hear a jackhammer pounding away, breaking up heavy rock at the top. As I continue my ascent, I pass a noisy air compressor, with a rubber hose running up the steps. Must be for the jackhammer, I think. A few steps on, I pause on the staircase and pull out my camera. That’s when it happens.

POW! There’s an explosion, right in front of me. Then I hear a loud hissing noise. I duck, and cover my head with my arms, managing to not fall backwards down the steep steps. The hissing continues, and I peer briefly between my arms, to see a fantastic sight. The black rubber hose from the air compressor is flailing around wildly, right in front of me, inches from my face. Blowing out steam from the end, it looks like some giant, mad snake, breathing smoke as it fights for its life. Gradually, the hissing quiets down, and the hose finally collapses to the ground.

I catch my breath. That was a very close call. I have just been attacked by a rubber snake.

The workmen above heard the explosion, stopped their work, and are now standing at the edge of the peak, staring down at me. I pause a few moments to gather my thoughts and thank my maker. Then I have a look at what caused the mishap. A poorly fashioned hose connection had ruptured, apparently from a weak clamp. If that clamp or the hose had hit me in the head, I could’ve tumbled right back down the mountain.

I continue the rest of the way to the top, and the workmen continue to just stare at me. There are no apologies. For many Vietnamese, to apologize after a mess like that would have been a loss of face to them. One workman makes a weak attempt at a joke. I don’t laugh.

Looking around the peak, there are chunks of marble lying everywhere, the results of the jackhammer’s work. Apparently the workmen are installing some kind of visitors platform, but at this point there’s nothing but rocks and brush. The workmen return to their mission of attacking the mountain’s marble, this time  with safer hand tools. At least now I don’t have to put up with the noise of their unsafe jackhammer. After regaining my composure, I take in the scenic view of the surrounding coastline. It’s a very commanding view. I take a deep breath, taking it all in. I can see why the Viet Cong had fought so hard to try and keep this mountain, you can easily see for miles in every direction.

Nearby are a few smaller mountains, and at the base of the mountain is a village. Decades ago there were more shacks down there, now it’s a thriving community of rowhouse homes crowded right up to the mountain’s base. Highway 601 cuts between through the village, heading further south of Danang. I had heard about the southern area from my buddy Kenny, the former US marine who was based there in the 60’s. During the war, villages further south were aligned with the VC. When they fought with the marines, many artillery shells fired by both sides never exploded, since they landed in soft sand.

A view of the neighborhood surrounding 'Marble Mountain'

An Australian engineer I met was working on that sandy land now, supervising construction of a new tourist golf course there. When I passed by it on the highway, I saw his bulldozers pushing sand about. I asked him if they had found any unexpoloded munitions while they were digging.

“Loads and loads”, he said. “artillery, rocket propelled grenades, used bullets.”

Talk about a golf hazard.
 
He told me how some of the Vietnamese construction workers would find this unexploded ordinance, and then play with it. “They would toss it back and forth, and they’d be laughing,” he said. The workers were playing a dangerous game of hot potato. Through some kind of miracle, none of them had been killed. Yet.

To the opposite side of the peak, in the far off haze to the north, is Danang itself.

“There airport,” Khanh says, pointing north up the coast. In the distance, I can make out the runway of the old Marble Mountain Air Facility, built by the US military. Half-cylinder cement hangers are now empty, and the remains of the former American base are now quiet. Part of the base is still polluted with deposits of Agent Orange. It will become prime real estate if it ever gets cleaned up.

Other parts of the old air base however, are already being developed. Next to the ocean, where the base used to have barbed wire fences and guard towers on the beach, I now see huge new hotels under construction. With the need for hotels rising, the base’s beaches weren’t going to remain in the hands of Vietnam's military for very long. The profits of peace are bringing more and more construction into Danang these days.

TYPHOON, AND US NAVY RETURNS TO VIETNAM

Houses ruined by Typhoon Xangsane

I’m looking at an uninhabited, heavily damaged house. The windows have been blown out, and the rooftop torn away. Only the cement and brick walls are left. Walking down a path, I find another wrecked house, and then another. They all look the same; they’re now only empty shells of what they once were. Weeds are growing inside, as nature is taking over.

There are no bullet holes on these ruined buildings, and no scorch marks from fire either. They weren’t wrecked in the war. These coastal houses were laid waste by a powerful force that still destroys property, and kills people every year in Vietnam.

Weeds grow inside the ruins

“It was typhoon,” says my guide Khanh. Typhoon Xangsane hit Danang a few years ago, wrecking this seaside resort. Between Vietnam and the Philippines, the deadly storm killed 169 people. I recall other damaged houses I passed on the beach on the way here, and I wonder how many of those were wrecked by the same typhoon. 
 
As if tropical storms weren’t enough, environmentalists have said that flooding from the typhoons and the rainy season has worsened in central Vietnam in recent decades. The biggest culprit is from inland logging, much of it illegal. Fewer trees are soaking up less water from the rains, bringing higher flood waters to low lying areas.

I’ve seen some of this phenomenon myself. I recall riding on another road further south, when my xe om driver stopped unexpectedly. A river ahead had overflowed its banks, and the road was flooded, along with several houses. Some homes had three feet of water flowing through their door. 

We leave the ruined resort, and Khanh hands me a helmet. He starts up his motorbike, and we head back towards Danang along the coastal road. On the way, Khanh tells me about another American he brought through here.

“He was soldier in the war. His friend died here on the beach, from landmine,” Khanh told me. The soldier had been very distraught over the loss of his buddy, and he never forgot it.

Flooding in central Vietnam is now common

“He come back,” Khanh said of  the old veteran, who returned to Danang decades later. He managed to bring himself to finally walk back out onto that same beach where his buddy had been lost. It was a healing moment.

Leaving the beach, we pass the King’s Hotel, and I snicker at the name. The small, narrow hotel, looks like it doesn’t have any more than 10 rooms. It would only host a very small king. I’ve seen other lodgings in town, with English names such as the Sun River Hotel, and the oddly named Plenty Hotel. With foreigners returning to Vietnam, some businessmen give their hotels English names, hoping to attract foreign visitors with more money.

Khanh turns through some neighborhoods, and pulls onto a main road. Khanh points and says, “That built by Americans.” It’s a tall concrete water tower, constructed for the port. Built by military engineers with sturdy materials, it still works today, supplying water to the surrounding community and nearby port. 

US built water tower still works today

Motoring on, we begin to pass buildings inhabited by the Vietnamese Navy. There are roomy, modern barracks with curved rooftops decorated with an Asian flair. These are almost new, built by the current government. A lone sailor guards the gate. He may be carrying an AK, but his navy uniform looks like something out of the 19th century.

As we drive further along the base, I see other buildings from all different eras. Beyond the new barracks, old shutters hanging from windows mark the aging French colonial buildings. Over the thick walls, are the faded but sturdy concrete structures built with that 60’s American look. An old spotlight on a rooftop points skywards. A rusted ‘No Trespassing’ sign hangs on a wall.

I am entering what is now called Tiensa Port, but American sailors remember it as the Port of Da Nang. At its peak, this was the largest overseas shore command in the US Navy.

As a deep water port, these waters were once filled with hundreds of vessels from the American and South Vietnamese Navies. The docks here worked overtime, since most of the war material to fight the Vietnam War arrived in the country not by air, but by sea.

These days, the current Vietnamese Navy is far smaller. Looking through a gate as we drive by, I count seven small navy ships docked closely together. They look vacant and unused, and the two largest vessels look no bigger than a destroyer. The Vietnamese have never been known as a major naval power, and that weakness at sea still haunts them today. 

Old spotlight on former US Navy base

East of Danang out at sea, lie a group of small, nearly uninhabitable islands known as the Paracels. 

USS Lassen visited Danang. Are US military & Vietnam getting friendly? (photo USN)

Although far from China, this body of water isn’t called the South China Sea for nothing. Even though they have little strategic value, the Chinese claim these islands, and fought a brief battle there in the Paracels in 1974, forcing out the small group of South Vietnamese troops still stationed there. With their claim to the Paracels established, the presence of Chinese troops not far offshore has been a thorn in the side of Viet-Sino relations ever since.

Further south, is another group of remote and barren of islands called the Spratlys. There is nothing of use on those 100 or so tiny islands, but there are fertile fishing grounds, and the possibility of something even more valuable beneath the sea floor: oil. With this in mind, the Spratlys are claimed by not only the Vietnamese, but also the Chinese, the Philippines, Taiwan and Malaysia. Strangely, all of these countries have small military contingents based on different islets here.

In 1988, the Spratlys were the scene of an unlikely conflict, a sea battle between two communist navies. With the Chinese looking to assert their control over the Spratlys, their larger navy sailed south to meet the Vietnamese. Vietnam’s navy was put to the test, and the results weren’t good. When the brief battle had ended, two Vietnamese Navy ships had been sunk, with 60 sailors killed.

In recent years, opposing navies continued to harass each others' fishing boats in the Spratlys, so the conflict is far from solved. If oil is ever found out there, there may one day be another naval battle fought over those islets.

For now, commerce and capitalism are much more important to both countries than a few barren islands, and the Tiensa Port unloads a great deal of Chinese imports from freighters and container ships. Even big cruise ships make occasional stops at Danang, dumping hundreds of invading tourists, who head for the beaches.
 
Continuing on Khanh’s motorbike along the port road, we pass numerous parked trucks waiting for their cargos to clear customs. Nearing the dock access gate, Khanh pulls to a stop in front of a café. Stretching my legs, I invite him inside for a cool drink. We take a seat outside, and I survey the scene.

Like any seaport throughout the world, there are many businesses around the gate hoping to take money from the world’s sailors that make this a port of call. There are other cafés, restaurants, barber shops, and of course, a few seedy massage and karaoke places. The authorities may have cleaned up My Khe beach, but they haven’t cleaned up everything in Danang.

My sweet green tea arrives, and I kick back for a chat with Khanh. He speaks English better than most of the translators I’ve had, since he learned it in university. Like many southerners, he grew up in difficult circumstances. His father died during the war, but he wasn’t in the military. He was killed in 1970 in a construction accident in Saigon, while working for an American construction firm.

Ex-Vietnamese refugee Le returns to Danang commanding US Navy destroyer(photo USN)

As we sit outside the port’s gate, a few foreign sailors are milling about, mainly Chinese and Malaysian. This is a far cry from the days when thousands of American sailors were based here. But there is one notable case of an American who found his way back to Danang.

In 1975, an unknown five year old refugee named Hung Ba Le fled Danang by sea with his parents. They later settled in the states, and he eventually became a US citizen. In 2009, Le returned to Vietnam, also by sea. This time, Le was an officer in the United States Navy. He happened to enter Danang’s port, returning to the country of his birth, as the commander of a US Navy destroyer! As a sign of improving relations between Vietnam and the USA, Le’s ship, the USS Lassen, had come into port on a goodwill visit.

Le’s case was certainly a unique homecoming. I wouldn’t call Le’s visit a triumphant return, but it was certainly a cause for celebration.