STRANGE TRAIN

Riding the bizarre 'norry' train in Cambodia

I’m riding the rails in Cambodia, and this is unlike any train I’ve ever ridden in my entire life.

I’m sitting out in the open, and the wind is in my hair. I’m riding on a miniature flatcar and locomotive, all built into one. Much of this bizarre flatcar is made of bamboo; it's only about the size of a king size bed! Behind me, the ‘engineer’ mans the engine, which is about the size of a motor from a lawnmower. This is one strange train.

This train is known locally as a norry, a makeshift mini-train. It’s also known as the 'bamboo train', and it just may be the smallest functioning commercial train in existence.

“It’s 240 kilometers to Phnom Penh,” says my trusty guide Sok, as we chug along on old tracks just south of Battambang. We pass an old village train station. Like the original train system, it was originally built by the French colonials. There are no passengers waiting today, there haven’t been for years. The real trains stopped running 10 years ago. Service was slow, and it took a lengthy 12 hours to travel all the way to Phnom Penh. Trains occasionally derailed.

I look down as we cross a wooden train trestle, a rarity these days. Few train trestles anywhere in the world are still made of wood. I wonder how much support the beams still have left in them, as the wood is deteriorating in the tropical heat.

Rail service in Cambodia deteriorated gradually, going all the way back to the war years of the 1970’s. Despite their rejection of technology, the Khmer Rouge managed to keep trains running during their repressive years of rule. After they were forced out of power, they returned to attack the trains in the 80’s and 90’s. The new government took measures to protect them. On each train, they transformed a boxcar into a rolling bunker, installing gun ports and a heavy machine gun to discourage attacks.

2 trains meet, 1 is disassembled, then reassembled, so both can pass!

Further south back in 1994, the communists hit a packed train headed to the coast. First they blew it up with mines, shot dead 9 civilians. They then took numerous hostages into the jungle, including three foreigners from France, Australia and the UK. These unfortunate three were later killed when government troops tried to rescue them.

After attacks like this, the engineers employed an old train trick to counter the use of landmines on the tracks by the Khmer Rouge. To keep the locomotives safe, they pushed two flatcars out in front of it as they traveled. If a flatcar hit a mine and blew off the tracks, the more valuable locomotive survived. That didn’t stop Khmer passengers from riding the front flatcars though. With little money, they were glad to ride these rolling mine detectors, since the tickets were cheaper!

But the war is over now, and my translator Sok and I are enjoying the breezy ride on our simple, rolling bamboo bed, I’m serenaded by the loud clackety-clack of the wheels on the rails. I’m out in the open air, and the rails are warped, so the racket is even louder than when I recently road an overnight train to Vietnam. There are wider gaps between the rails here too, making the ride sometimes jarring, but no less fun.

Sok informs me how locals use these mini-trains. “The people use (it) to move the rice to Battambang,” he says, “because we have no roads.”

As we pass rural houses, I see Sok’s point. Without road access, some houses are built right next to the rails, surrounded by flooded rice paddies. The train tracks are their only dry access into town during this time of year.

The norry train's 'engineer'

We scare birds and squirrels off the tracks along the way, and the foliage grows high, leaning over the tracks in places. If it weren’t for these norrys, the tracks would be completely overgrown. As I lie flat, I looking down below my feet. The brown, parallel train tracks stretch straight ahead to the horizon, seemingly into oblivion.

There’s a light sprinkle of rain, but I hardly notice. We’re only going about 15 mph, but the wind in my hair feels great. Some rice farmers out working the fields wave to me as we pass. I’m grinning from ear to ear. This sure beats riding the bus.

Straight ahead of us on the tracks, another norry is chugging along towards us, head on! This ought to be interesting, I think. There are no switches to pull off to the side, so something has to give.

Both engineers/drivers slow as we approach, and we coast to a stop. Apparently there are no brakes. Since the other norry has eight passengers crowding it, it’s up to us to get out of their way. So we do. We climb off, and our driver removes the drive belt, then lifts off the small Kawasaki engine. Then the other norry driver walks over, and helps my driver lift off the frame. Finally the wheels are removed, and their way is clear. Amazingly, it took less than 30 seconds. All the norry drivers know each other, and they have this dis-assembly process down to a science.

The other mini-train moves through, and the two drivers immediately reassemble our mini-train. Wheels down, frame on top, put on the motor, attach the drive belt. He winds up the pull string, yanks it to a start, and we’re off again. Still amazing me, the reassembly took less than a minute. We continue our journey towards the horizon.

I’m amazed at the ingenuity of this simple system. Cambodians may be poor, but these farmers are certainly inventive, in coming up with this strange train.

*NOTE* - Sometime after this trip to Battambang, long delayed plans to resume real train service came through, and the 'Royal Railway' company is finally running trains again in Cambodia.

FRENCH GHOST TOWN

Deserted French colonial resort community atop Bokor Mountain

I'm standing in the middle of a ghost town. A very empty, very eerie, ghost town. It's a French ghost town at that. I may be in Cambodia, but all these dark old buildings were built by the French colonials. 

It’s very eerie up here. I look around at the old buildings, and decide this 'hill station' was poorly named. This was once much more; a glorious colonial hill top resort. But no any longer, it's been abandoned for decades. 

Old concrete colonial buildings in various states of decay lie by a small mountain lake. By the placid waters, a two story hotel waits to receive guests that will never come. A larger building beside it housed a restaurant and night club. Beyond the lake are even more derelict buildings, including an old police station. Between them all, uncut green grasses are swaying in the cold mountain wind. 

After a strenuous seven hour hike up the mountain, I'm here to explore this place. The Bokor Mountain Hill Station was first constructed back in the 1920's. Given the tropical heat and lack of air conditioning in Cambodia then, this cool highland spot was built as a weekend getaway for French colonists. It later expanded, to include a casino. The decaying French architecture that I see everywhere, has an air reminiscent of the long gone roaring 20's. 

One of the few colonial era churches left in all of Cambodia

Closest to me is a Catholic church, with a cross reaching from the tower steeple. Heading up the hill, I enter. More chapel than church, this is one of the few old Christian places of worship left in Cambodia that was not destroyed by the Khmer Rouge communists. (Even the historical Notre Dame cathedral in the capital was leveled by the radicals.) Catholic priests that were found by the Khmer Rouge were executed, as were many Buddhist monks. After the communists' fall, the Buddhist faith recovered, but Christianity has not. The % of Christians left in Cambodia is now lower than before the Pol Pot years. 

Surprisingly, the church is relatively intact, save for graffiiti on the yellowish interior, and a hole in the wall used for a gun slit during the war. The old altar still remains. I wonder how many happy couples were married here. Since the main attraction at Bokor was the casino, I wonder if this chapel was used to marry young couples, much like the chapels in Las Vegas. 

Exiting and descending the hill, I look back up at the old church. My view is clear until moments later, a smoky mist comes across the sky behind the church. The mist parts around it and passes over it, giving an impression of spirits flying out from the church. An eerie feeling, an eerie sight. 

Ruins of the French colonial post office (click to enlarge)

There's much more to explore, so I follow the ridgeline road towards the cliff, rising up the hill to the resort’s peak. I find a shell casing on the road; it’s small in size, probably from a pistol. There is more evidence of violence on the building right in front of me. 

The Bokor Post Office is a reddish two story building, curiously large for such a small mountaintop community. It won't be handling any mail anymore. One whole corner of the building has been blown away, due to fighting that took place here between the Khmer Rouge and the Vietnamese Army. Bullet holes dot the exterior. The fighting here was fierce. 

Not all of the destruction here was from the Vietnamese fighting to dislodge the Khmer Rouge. The first conflict up here took place way back in the late 1940s. Back then anti-colonial Khmers known as the Khmer Issarak, (Free Khmer) charged up the mountain to oust the French colonists. 

Bokor Casino during colonial days

Passing the post office, I continue up. There were many landmines buried here during the war, and they've been cleared, (so they say.) Not taking chances, I stay on the road, and head for the largest building on the mountain. The once majestic, Bokor Palace Casino. This is nothing like a Vegas casino, but the abandoned palace is an intimidating structure. 

Approaching, it has a very forboding look. Four floors high, the wind is blowing mountain mist over it. Patches of dark orange paint have fallen away, revealing dark cement beneath. Dark green moss creeps across the exterior, looking for sunlight in this gloomy place. Grass and weeds grow from ledges. Even darker are the empty open windows, all broken or looted long ago. Their great black vacant spaces stare out at me like ghostly eyes. 

The spooky old abandoned casino today

I climb the staircase, and walk through the front doorway. I can almost hear the doorman from the casino's glory years: “Bon soir monsieur, bienvenue.”

Passing the vacant reception desk, I enter the largest room in the building. This was the casino. I can almost feel it: A luxurious weekend during the roaring 1920’s. French colonists in tuxedos, smoke cigarettes, and talk politics with the rich elite of Cambodian society. The roulette wheel whirrs, as gamblers try their luck at the tables. Their wives and girlfriends in the latest Paris fashions look on and gossip. Smartly dressed Khmer waiters bring around trays of champagne.The opulence, the luxury; this was the glory of French colonialism, an apt example of the decadence0 and opression of the time. 

Now the gaming tables are gone, along with every other bit of furniture. The casino is bare. The paint is faded or stained. I can hear the sound of running water, and looking up I see water lightly pouring in through the ceiling, leaving puddles dotted on the floor. The air is cold and damp, but there will be no heat coming from the empty fire place. The lavish lifestyle, gourmet French cooking, and high rollers are gone. The party’s over; the celebration of colonial life here is but a dim memory. 

Now looted, fortunes were made in the casino

I climb the casino's marble staircase to the top floor verandah. Looking out, just steps beyond this old ruin is a sheer cliff. The view up here is incredible. The drop is practically vertical, revealing a commanding view of the surrounding landscape. The plain far below the mountain is covered in a blanket of jungle, reaching the Gulf of Thailand beyond. Now I see why the Khmer Rouge fought so hard for this place. From this vantage point you can see any movement along the coast, whether by road or by sea. Well, at least they could see everything when the view was still clear. As I watch, a cloud of fog moves across my view, totally obscuring the scenery down below the cliff. 

With the wind and weather up here, visibility changes in seconds. These passing clouds are even more impressive outside the casino.You can be a hundred feet outside the front door, and watch the fog roll in. The mist grows thick and in seconds, the casino disappears completely from view. A minute later, the mist fades away, revealing the old palace again. It’s better than any TV magic trick. 

Walking the roof to the building’s west side, I find walls peppered with bullet pockmarks. Glass block windows are full of bullet holes from rifle fire. These are reminders of when the Vietnamese Army were here, blasting away at the Khmer Rouge. Fighting was heavy, until the radicals finally gave up and fled into the jungle. The Bokor hill station has been quiet and mostly abandoned ever since. Nature has gradually reinvaded the mountain top. Manicured lawns and landscaping have given way to lush green foliage and wildflowers. 

Rear view of casino, with young explorers sitting on railing

Nearby is a  rare sign of modernity up here in this ghost town; two new mobile phone towers. The mountain's altitude is appealing to cell phone companies. Phone towers aren't the only recent construction here. Just west of here, laborers are busy working today on a foundation. They plan to build a new '5 star' hotel and casino here, although there isn't a 5 star hotel in all of Cambodia. It’s an ambitious project that will take years.

It's beginning to darken, so I head to the only semi-modern building here that is actually inhabitable. The sign out front says: “National Protected Area Training Center”, the defacto hotel and ranger station, built with foreign aid money. It's where I'm sleeping tonight. 

My guide Tri leads our group in, and unfortunately for us, all guest rooms are taken by a Chinese construction crew. So our entire group is forced to bunk together in the ranger’s bedroom. I let out a groan; seven people will be packed into bunkbeds, in a small room with little ventilation. 

Casino looks over cliff to jungle below and Gulf of Thailand

After dinner, I lie down on my bunk bed. There’s no sheet, and the stench from the mattress is unbearable. I recall the words of the travel company clerk that sold me this trip. “Oh yes, first class accommodation. You have your own bedroom,” she promised me. I shouldn't be surprised, many third world travel agents, will say anything to make a sale. I politely explain my displeasure to my guide Tri, who apologizes. He can’t find me a sheet, but he does bring me a large clean towel. I lay it down on the offending mattress, and the stench is contained. 

Before going to sleep, our luck improves. Tri speaks to one of the monks from the monastery, and they have a truck leaving to drive down the mountain at 6am. We are welcome to ride along on the back if we want. Thankfully, my fellow trekkers vote to avoid the long sweaty hike back down the mountain. 

I lay down in the darkness, and slowly drift off to sleep. Tomorrow I'll leave Bokor, and I'll learn more of the compelling story of my guide Tri, a former soldier and survivor. 

The old chapel rises over the surrounding scenery.

Sunset on Bokor. Tomorrow I head down the mountain.

PALACE OF THE DOOMED KING

This was the palace for the King of Laos, in the years before communism

I'm outside an unusual looking building, and what I’m seeing is not what I expected at all. With its long white layout, topped by a red tiled roof, this appears to be some sort of important auditorium. Two architectural features hint at the importance of this landmark. High on the rooftop, a narrow golden stupa points to the sky. Just above the main entrance, there is a golden, three headed elephant. This emblem is a mark of royalty, and once adorned the Royal Lao flag. 

This happens to be the palace of the last King of Laos. 

Nearing the palace, I see where the visual peculiarities come from. Its exterior is a mixture of two vastly different styles of architecture, French and Laotian. Doors and the shutters are French, but the roof is Asian. Snake-like naga figures protect the palace corners, while the stupa shaped spire peaks up to the center of the rooftop.

This architectural blend is not surprising, since the royal residence was constructed for the king by the occupying French colonials in 1904. Laos was such a poor country when the French took over, that the royal family couldn’t even afford to build a decent palace. 

Ornate decor in a Buddhist shrine on the royal palace grounds

The Laotian line of royalty reached back six centuries, and the country wasn’t always so poor. There were several ancient kingdoms. The most powerful was called 'Lane Xang', based here in the town of Luang Prabang. At its zenith, Lane Xang’s territory included not just northern Laos, but also parts of Thailand, China and Vietnam. These same three neighboring countries would later dominate Lane Xang in succeeding centuries.

This may not be the most picturesque palace from the outside, but what lies within is more impressive, so I climb the front steps to enter. Waiting my turn to buy a ticket, two European backpackers ahead of me complain that the three dollar admission price is too high! I wonder why they bothered traveling thousands of miles to see this exotic land, if they are bickering about spending a few dollars to see one of the most cherished places in all of Laos. 

Once inside, I make my way into the throne room, where King Sisavang Vong held court. Here I get a sense of royal luxury; the décor is impressive. Gold trim lines the royal pillars. Red ceilings and red walls, make way for colorful mosaics depicting everyday life in old Luang Prabang. France is again represented, with their crystal chandeliers. When the French built this place Laos was already a French colony, so the display of opulence was not a true reflection of the king’s power. Still, the king remained an important part of the Laotian identity, culture and religion.  

Without any need to hold court in this royal room anymore, golden cases with Buddha statues and ceremonial swords are displayed around the room. But the main focus is the throne itself. From a distance, the royal chair appears to be made of gold all around, save for the royal purple seat cushions. Behind where the king’s head would have been, is the royal symbol of three gold elephants. Three levels of mythical nagas heads seem coiled and ready to strike, as if to protect the king. I'd love to take photos in here but if I do, they'll confiscate my camera. 

Statue of King Sisavang Vong of Laos

The monarch that held court here, King Sisavang Vong, died in 1959 as Laos entered another period of conflict. He was replaced by his son, King Savang Vatthana. This succession occurred in an era when the world's monarchies were quickly disappearing. At the funeral, the king’s heir was heard to say, “Alas, I am doomed to be the last king of Laos.”

Although he replaced his father as the monarch, King Savang Vatthana chose to delay the coronation ceremony until the war ended, so in the end he was never crowned on this throne. By the time Savang became king Laos was independent, and the reins of power were again connected to the royal family. Prince Souvanna Phouma, the king’s cousin, would become the on again, off again Prime Minister of Laos, as he struggled to keep the country together during the war years fighting the communists. 

Taking the other path was Souvanna Phouma’s half brother, Prince Souphanouvong. Here was a unique figure. As a prince, he became one of the few royals in world history who became a committed communist. He left the good life of Luang Prabang, and went to the highlands to join the Pathet Lao. He became known as, ‘The Red Prince’. Souphanouvong took a Vietnamese woman as his wife, endearing him to his communist patrons in Hanoi. If he was to remain true to the monarchy, he would have married a Laotian. 

Over in a nearby reception room, a red embroidered wall hanging bears dragons and a phoenix. This was a gift from Hanoi, presented to King Savang in 1963. What an insincere gift. More than any other country, it was North Vietnam that would bring about the downfall of the Royal Laotian Government, and this king with it. 

I meander to the back of the palace, where the royal residence is located. Some of the palace rooms appear much as they did as the day when the king was arrested. In the dining room, Wooden chairs with wicker seats surround an antique table, beneath another French chandelier. Here over dinner, the king discussed affairs of state with his princes. 

The King's tennis court, which hasn't been used in decades

The old wooden floors creak, as I reach the separate bedrooms of the king and queen. It’s 1970’s era furniture, mixed with Asian accessories. Black and white portraits of the royal couple still hang on the walls. The king’s bed has mosquito netting over it, a reminder that even royalty worried about malaria here. The royal rooms give the feel of undisturbed time capsules. 

Outside the king’s bedroom in the hall, I take a seat by an open window, listening to the light rain falling through the tropical trees outside. I wonder if the king ever sat here to collect his thoughts by this window, as the drama of Laos unfolded. As the end neared, the US government offered him asylum, but he declined. The king had declared long ago that he would never abandon Luang Prabang. As the heart of Laos, he vowed to stay here until the end.

Since the rain isn’t very heavy, I exit the royal residence to peruse the palace grounds. Walking on the grass near the back, I find an old weather beaten tennis court. The king himself enjoyed playing tennis here, a sport he learned while attending school in France as a youth. With the net gone, this court hasn’t been used in years. 

Red Prince (in black) with Ho Chi Minh and other communists

Behind the palace is the Mekong River, and to the other side is the king’s garage. I head in to see what kind of wheels the king favored. Inside, I’m amused at his choices of automobiles. Besides an old Landcruiser and a Citroen without headlights, there are three American cars. Two are full size Lincoln Continentals from the 50’s and 60’s. Except for the red logos of the three headed elephant painted on the doors, they are all white. His poor chauffeur must have spent a lot of time wiping mud off of the pristine white finish, since Luang Prabang had few paved roads back then. 

The last of the royal rides is, egads! It’s a four door 1950’s Ford Edsel. I’m surprised that the king held onto such a low quality vehicle. Then again if you think about it, the Edsel makes a fitting metaphor for America’s commitment to Laos. In the beginning, it was big, and it was powerful. But it wasn’t popular, it wasn’t dependable in the long term, and in the end it was a failure. 

Laotians sell food and drinks outside the royal palace, now an official national museum

I open my umbrella, and head back out into the rain. Leaving the palace, I head down the long driveway, passing between tall palm trees and smartly trimmed hedges. This is the same route that the king took when he departed the palace for the last time. After the Pathet Lao forced him to abdicate in 1975, he was arrested and forced to leave his home for good. As the communist era in Laos began, the monarchy that had survived for 600 years, was gone in a flash. 

The only royal that retained any power with the communists was the Red Prince, who became their ‘front man’. As a member of the royal family, he gave the Pathet Lao legitimacy in the eyes of the populace. He was named the 'President of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos', a position which held more symbolism than power. He had brought the neutralists hope that royalists and communists could rule in peace together. But they were fooled, since the real power behind the Pathet Lao wasn’t the Red Prince, it was the communist chief Kaysone Phomvihane.

As for the other former prince, Souvanna Phouma resigned as Prime Minister in 1975. He retired to Vientiane, where he died in 1984. His fate was far better than the rest of the royal family. After his forced abdication the king, queen and two other princes were imprisoned and sent into internal exile. They would never return to Luang Prabang. The last king of Laos, Savang Vatthana, died in a remote jungle prison camp, and the Laotian monarchy died with him. 

The communist government of Laos has never given an account as to what happened to all of these members of the royal family. How they met their tragic deaths in prison, remains a mystery to this day. 

FRENCH SURRENDER AT DIEN BIEN PHU

Rugged mountains surround Dien Bien Phu

When the French Army decided to establish this far away military base called Dien Bien Phu, France’s top general in Vietnam believed the rugged landscape would make it impossible for Viet Minh rebels to bring heavy artillery to this remote place. In a feat of incredible military logistics, the Vietnamese proved them wrong. Viet Minh soldiers managed to haul heavy cannons, and other heavy weapons many miles over harsh dirt trails, over mountains and through thick jungle to get here. They were even able to cross remote rivers that lacked bridges to reach this remote northwestern Vietnam valley.

I’m now looking at the cannons that they hauled over those mountains more than half a century ago. Walking into town, I’ve come across a display of Viet Minh heavy weapons outside a museum. Most are Chinese or Soviet made guns given by the communists, but I spot a 105 mm howitzer that’s American made. Used by the Vietnamese in Dien Bien Phu, weapons such as this were key to the Viet Minh’s victory over the colonial army and the French Foreign Legion. 

Viet Minh weapons used against French in Dien Bien Phu. US made howitzer is at right.

Following a battle plan developed by Vietnam’s General Giap, thousands of Viet Minh soldiers swarmed into the surrounding mountains. They eventually outnumbered the French, and put Dien Bien Phu under siege. Once the Viet Minh had enough artillery and ammunition stocked up, they opened fire down into this valley. As they returned fire from the valley below, French gunners found themselves at a disadvantage. After days of bombardment,  they were unable to knock out the Viet Minh’s heavy guns.

The French artillery commander knew they were doomed, and he committed suicide.

It occurs to me that this US made 105mm weapon had a long road to get here, even beyond the long jungle trail trek. This howitzer may have been used by many different armies. The Viet Minh used it here in Dien Bien Phu to kill French soldiers. Before that it was captured from the French, who brought it to Vietnam to kill Viet Minh soldiers. Since this was American made, it may have even been used by the US Army even earlier during World War II, to kill Japanese soldiers in the Pacific.

Some of the weapons in Vietnam have had a very long career of death.

I end my day in Dien Bien Phu, in the place where the long siege and battle ended. As the fighting raged on for almost two months, surrounding hills were lost, retaken, and then lost again. French forces fell back to the command center near the lone bridge over the Nam Yum River. The final post to fall was here: the command bunker of General Christian De Castries.

Propaganda photo of battle for bridge(Source:Museum)

Same bridge today, still used by local residents

A light rain is subsiding, as I approach the old bunker. An unlikely headquarters for a commander, it doesn't look prestigious. Half cylinders of corrugated metal form the fortified roof, which slopes downward into the ground to form the bunkers. Sandbags fill in gaps for protection.

Interior of command bunker, where French General surrendered to Vietnamese

Walking down the steps, I enter the commander’s last refuge. The bunker beneath has four rooms; headquarters for the besieged French forces. As opposed to other glorified monuments I’ve seen dotted around Dien Bien Phu, this one is low key. There are no large communist statues, and no propaganda photos posted inside. There is just a gloomy, nearly bare bunker. There are maps on the wall, along with a few tables and chairs. When the General still lived down here, his furniture was far more comfortable. He even had his own bathtub down here; it now sits in a local museum.

It has a quiet, a morose atmosphere. I’m the only one down in this old bunker. But this is perhaps the most important location in the whole valley. When this bunker was finally captured by the Viet Minh, the French surrendered, and the bloody battle ended.

I watch water drip down from the ceiling from today’s lingering rain. Seasonal rains gave the French Army a lot of trouble back during the siege, and the foul weather was a major factor in the battle. Although French planes dominated the skies overhead, air power did them little good when bad weather kept their planes grounded. Without planes in the air they couldn’t be resupplied, and fog kept the Viet Minh safe from air attack.

Couple the foul weather with Viet Minh anti-aircraft fire, and even air supremacy couldn’t save the French soldiers surrounded at Dien Bien Phu. The runway I had landed on where I arrived yesterday, was continually targeted by artillery back in those days. Soon the runway was littered with craters and wrecked cargo planes.

Viet Minh soldier waves flag over French command bunker (Source:Museum)

Same command bunker, preserved today

In the closing days, France even requested help from American bombers to save their troops. Always opposing communists, the US had already been clandestinely aiding French forces here with resupply flights and air drops by parachute. President Eisenhower seriously considered the French request. But in the end he didn’t approve aerial bombing, and the French colonials were doomed.

When the French finally ran out of ammunition and supplies, their surrender soon followed, and the carnage ended. By that time more than 1,700 French soldiers were dead. Exhausted and weakened from their ordeal, more than 11,000 French soldiers surrendered. It was a dark day for the French empire, and a humiliating defeat. The surviving prisoners of war were marched off to distant camps. Less than half survived their captivity.

A rainbow is seen over the mountains of the now peaceful Dien Bien Phu

For the Vietnamese, their casualties were far higher. After Giap used trench warfare and human wave attacks to overwhelm French positions, more than 10,000 Viet Minh were left dead on the battlefield. It was a costly and bloody victory, but victory nonetheless. In negotiations that followed with France, North Vietnam won their independence.

There is an eerie feeling about this quiet, empty underground bunker. Despite the spartan conditions, real history took place here. While I sit and ponder the past at a table in the bunker, the bare overhead lights dim. Then they brighten, and dim again.

Then the lights go out completely.

The symbolism isn’t lost on me. With the surrender of the French forces in this very bunker, the lights went out on the French empire in Indochina. 
 
**NOTE** My other related story is here: DIEN BIEN PHU: BORN FROM THE ASHES OF WAR

DIEN BIEN PHU - BORN FROM THE ASHES OF WAR

Mountains overlook an old French tank, next to the Dien Bien Phu runway

The twin propellers of the ATR-72 hum loudly, as our plane flies high over green, forest covered mountains.  Looking out the window, white clouds below seem to be skipping across the mountain tops of northwestern Vietnam. A long brown river curves between the peaks, meandering through the remote landscape below. Scanning the horizon, I see very few signs of civilization. I’m flying over rugged terrain; mountains very close to the Laotian border. Passing over a final ridge, the mountains part to make way for a long valley. My ears pop as the pilot dips our wings, descending to a lone runway down on the valley floor.

Upon landing, I follow two old Vietnamese men out the plane's door, and onto the tarmac. These two seniors have been here before; they're war veterans, but they didn’t fight Americans. One sports a long Ho Chi Minh beard. Although wearing civilian clothes, they both wear Vietnamese Army pith helmets over their greying hair.

Down at the end of the airstrip, I make

Vietnamese victory monument overlooks the town

out the outline of an old wrecked tank sitting in the grass. This is a civilian airport now, but originally this was a runway on a French military base. In 1954, world news focused on this remote Vietnamese valley. A massive battle took place for control of this runway, and the French base surrounding it. This remote place became a hell for the French soldiers who fought here, and a victory for the Viet Minh. This is where Vietnamese pride was restored, and where Vietnam’s independence was re-established. This is Dien Bien Phu.

When the Viet Minh defeated the French Army here after a 57 day siege, the western world was stunned. Their alarm was not just about the loss of another distant colony. The cold war was already in full swing, so western countries were shocked that for the first time, a European army had been decisively defeated by a communist army.

I debated whether I should come here or not, since the battle for Dien Bien Phu took place long before the American War. But, I decided the journey here was necessary. If I was to really understand Vietnam today, I had to travel to the battlefield where Vietnam’s independence was reborn in the past.

Since I’ve arrived in Dien Bien Phu close to the battle’s anniversary, my trip coincides with half price flights offered by Vietnam Airlines for veterans to return to the battlefield. That explains the two old vets on my flight. Not that the regular fare is too expensive for me; my regular fare ticket was only $112 roundtrip from Hanoi. Passing through the small terminal, the veterans leave with some local soldiers, and I taxi off to my hotel. After dropping my luggage, I head out to see the town.

Lizards on sale in the Dien Bien Phu market!

After the shooting stopped here in 1954, the Vietnamese rebuilt this former battlefield into a major regional town. Proud of their victory in Dien Bien Phu, it was named capital of Lai Chau Province. It took a great deal of labor to transform this ruined valley full of bomb craters into a provincial capital. After the French surrender, there wasn’t much left above ground that was habitable. Rebuilding took years. To improve access to Dien Bien Phu, the rugged road through the mountains was improved and paved into a highway. I could have taken that cheaper road route to get here, but that would have meant enduring a nauseating 14 hour bus ride through the mountains to travel here all the way from Hanoi. With that in mind, I opted for a flight. 

As modern homes were built Dien Bien Phu was reborn, and business grew. A nearby border crossing has improved commerce to Laos, though trade is limited. As I walk around town, I find more construction is in progress in this growing town. Building here can still be hazardous today, with tons of old shells buried underground. Unexploded munitions left over from the long battle still remain scattered all over the valley.

Hill tribe women in the town market

Heading through downtown, I walk into a street market. A chicken wire container catches my eye, and within is a commodity that I’ve never seen sold in a market anywhere. Lizards! Grey with white stripes, there are more than 30 of the foot long lizards packed inside. I doubt that the lady vendor is selling these as pets. Could they be for some kind of local delicacy?

Also in the market, I see shoppers from local hill tribes, wearing colorful woven clothing and head dresses. There are Hmong and Thais still living in town, while others drove down on motorbikes from surrounding mountain villages. A century ago hill tribe folk made up the majority of the provincial population, but they are gradually being outnumbered. As more ethnic Vietnamese move in, Dien Bien Phu has surpassed 20,000 residents. 

Leaving the market, I make my way on foot to the battle site known as Eliane 2. This was one of many heavily fortified,  hilltop French firebases around the valley, and was key to their overall defense. The town’s main street goes right by the base of the hill, and I head for the top. Ascending the hill I pass barbed wire, an old captured tank, and reach the command bunker at the peak.

Trenches from the 'Eliane 2' battle

Fighting here was much like WWI trench warfare

Like I had seen at the Khe Sanh battle site, some bunkers and trenches of this old stronghold have been rebuilt. With visitors and veterans returning to Dien Bien Phu, they had to make this former battleground secure for tourists. To do so, the army removed all the unexploded munitions and landmines across Eliane 2. Then they repaired the old dugouts, redug the trenches, and installed these strange, fake sandbags made of concrete. Like most of the other former foreign bases in Vietnam, the original bunkers were probably all torn apart by locals after the war for scrap. What’s here now may not be authentic material, but at least it’s fairly safe.

Many trenches zig-zag around the hillside. French Foreign Legion troops dug in deeply, building a trench network to hold the line against advancing Viet Minh. Stepping down into a trench, I peer into some of the bunkers along the old trench line. Life for all the French forces trapped here was dirty, muddy, and miserable. Fighting here was fierce trench warfare, much like the fighting on the Western Front of France  during World War I.

Looking out of an old 'Eliane 2' bunker, new houses can be seen

 

A huge bomb crater from the battle has been preserved on the hill

I look up out of the trench, and I’m surprised to see one of the old Vietnamese veterans who was on my flight walking nearby. It’s the shorter vet with the goatee, and he has changed out of his civilian clothes into a full army uniform. I’m astonished at the number of medals he’s wearing; there must be 15 of them across his chest. I wonder if he fought here, as Eliane 2 saw some of the most intense fighting of the battle, including hand to hand combat. Paratroopers and French Legionnaires fought off wave after wave of Viet Minh attackers day and night, until they finally ran out of ammunition and were overwhelmed.

A Vietnamese war veteran walks alone on the old 'Eliane 2' battlefield of Dien Bien Phu

As I watch the old Viet Minh soldier, he looks over the trenches, slowly walking alone across the quiet hillside. Then he stops, and gazes down the hill. What he’s looking at, is a large military cemetery across the street, below Eliane 2. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of his dead Vietnamese compatriots are buried there. So many men died in the long fight for this strategic hill.

Still wearing his pith helmet, the old veteran’s face looks stoic, but I can tell that he’s in deep thought. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he remembering the bloody battle for this hill, more than a half century ago? Is he recalling the loss of old friends, buried beneath those headstones?

Then he turns and walks away, rejoining a group of veterans further down the hill. It doesn’t matter what side a soldier was on, or what war he was in. So much of the pain that a war veteran endures, is endured alone.