HIKING THE HO CHI MINH TRAIL

Laotian homes on stilts in the border town of Densavan

As I approach the Laotian border village of Densavan on foot, I'm getting my first views of this mysterious country. Ahead are the rolling mountains of Southeast Laos, and I quickly notice the difference between here and Lao Bao, the border town on the Vietnamese side. Vietnam is far more developed and affluent, since the Vietnamese economy has been booming for years. But crossing a bridge into Densavan, I find the opposite. Local children play and splash about, in muddy water below the bridge. Some village houses here are basically shacks, with rooftops of corrugated metal. Other homes are even less durable, with thatched rooftops.

Laos is one of the world’s poorest countries. Today the total population is only 6 million. Although  double what it was back during the Vietnam War, it still has the lowest population density in all of Southeast Asia. The low numbers mean Laos continues to have mountain ranges and jungles that remain largely uninhabited, giving it some of Asia’s most beautiful scenery. Lack of development means that Laos retains a simple Asian

Laotian children play in a muddy river

charm that its neighbors have long since lost. It remains quiet, conservative, and laid back.

The highway running through town is Densavan’s main street, and the only paved road. A long pile of brown dirt lines one side of the roadway, where a dozen Laotian Army soldiers in camouflage fatigues are digging a ditch. They lack heavy equipment, using only shovels and hand tools. Apparently in Laos they don’t mind using their military for public works.

I reach the business strip of Densavan, which compared to the poor outskirts, is relatively developed. The village’s center has a newer feel to it, since every building I see was built after the Vietnam War ended. A sign posted on a nearby business reads, “Hero Trading Import-Export Ltd”. As befits a border town, the local economy is driven by trading.

I find a small café, have a seat, and down a bottle of green tea. After locking up my baggage, I entrust the café proprietor to keep an eye on it for me. Then I head out of the village on foot. Trekking out of Densavan, the dirt road I’m on becomes a narrow path, and continues out into the jungle. I’m mindful that elephants and tigers still roam southern Laos, but they mainly inhabit remote areas, few live close to villages. Still, I won’t wander too far from town. I don’t want to become tiger bait. 

Reaching the tree line, I come across a group of army tents, and bright blue tarps built into makeshift shelters. This isn’t exactly a campground, I’ve found a migrant camp for seasonal laborers. A few of their wheelbarrows were left behind, along with a few of their wives and children. I get curious looks as I walk through, and I continue past them into the jungle. 

Walking down a narrow path, I find an old bomb crater. Grass and weeds grow in it, along with a tree. When this crater was first created, it was far deeper than it is now, but erosion has filled in the depression to some degree. But a deep, perfectly round hole remains. It’s definitely a bomb crater from the war years.

Continuing down the path I find another bomb crater, followed by many more. There must have been a heavy bombing attack that hit this area back during the war. I take care not to leave the path, in case there are any old unexploded bombs still around. Strangely, one of the bomb craters I come across is being put to use. It appears that the camp migrants have turned it into a garbage dump!

The path eventually dead ends into the brown waters of the Se Pon River, where a couple canoes are pulled up on the riverbank. This river flows westward towards the mountains. Just down river is the land I’ve just left: Vietnam. Now I know why the bomb craters are here. The roads and trails that I’ve walked on today, were once part of The Ho Chi Minh Trail.

A tree grows in the center of a bomb crater from the war years

An ever changing network of roads, paths, and even rivers, the Ho Chi Minh Trail was the lifeline and supply route for the North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong in South Vietnam. Back then southeastern Laos was even less populated now, and the border was mostly unguarded. This allowed the communists to bring troops and supplies from North Vietnam across the border into Laos, and then south through these jungles. They were then able to infiltrate South Vietnam at many different crossing points, bypassing US bases. This was far less dangerous for the NVA, than if they tried to slip directly across the heavily fortified Demilitarized Zone. Still, it wasn’t easy. Besides enduring constant bombings, much of the Ho Chi Minh Trail was on steep dirt jungle paths through mountainous terrain, where trucks couldn’t be used. The Vietnamese soldiers had a simple solution to this logistical problem: bicycles.

Back in Vietnam, I recall seing a xe dap tho, or pack bike, in a museum. This was a standard bicycle, packed up with ammunition, or weapons, or rice. It had a bamboo pole lashed to the handlebars, making it easier for a foot soldier to push and steer with all the extra weight. Then loaded with 300 pounds of supplies, they sent it down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. These bikes were pushed along narrow mountain trails covered by jungle canopy, remaining totally unseen from the air. It was slower than trucks, and took a lot more sweat, but it kept the pipeline open. No matter how much the US military bombed the Ho Chi Minh trail, they couldn’t hit all the convoys and routes, and war material continued heading south.

During the war years it took as long as two months for an NVA soldier to ride and walk from Hanoi, all the way down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, through Laos and Cambodia, before he finally crossed back into Vietnam near the Saigon region. When I hopped on a jet from Hanoi to Saigon, the same trip only took me two hours!

Laotian soldiers dig a ditch in Densavan

The presence of all those NVA soldiers on Laotian soil back then was never supposed to happen. In 1963, an agreement signed in Geneva by Vietnam and the USA attempted to guarantee Laotian neutrality, prohibiting foreign troops on Laos. The North Vietnamese quickly disregarded this agreement, sending the NVA into Laos to build the Ho Chi Minh Trail. They also sent troops to fight alongside the Pathet Lao, a smaller communist force aiming to overthrow the Laotian government.

The US military was not so brazenly disregarding the Geneva Agreement, so the American ground troops fighting in Laos were never large in number. In these parts they were usually special forces soldiers, small groups of tough commando types that did secret raids to attack or disrupt the Ho Chi Minh Trail. There were Green Beret teams, who fought alongside their Montagnards allies. There were also LRRP units, like my buddy Kenny, the former Marine. Although Kenny’s missions were secret at the time, he did most of his fighting in this remote region of southeast Laos. They called in air strikes on NVA convoys and spied on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. When detected, they fought their way out.

Since Kenny had returned to live in Southeast Asia years ago, I once asked him if he had ever returned to Laos. He hadn’t, and wouldn’t give me a straight answer as to why. I suppose he still has too many bad memories from the war in Laos, for him to ever come back.

Despite constant military operations here in Laos by both Vietnamese and Americans, due to the Geneva agreement, neither side admitted their involvement of ground troops publicly. Since the US government was already facing anti-war protests for their involvement in Vietnam, they sought to downplay, and even hide, their role in Laos. So fighting in Laos became known as a ‘secret war’.

The Se Pon River, once used to infiltrate weapons and troops into South Vietnam

Besides using jungle trails, the North Vietnamese also used rivers for smuggling weapons, including the Se Pon River before me. Just downriver from where I’m standing, the Se Pon becomes the border with Vietnam. Back then they took canoes like those on the river bank, filled them full of weapons, and floated them across the river to their waiting comrades under cover of night.

Hoping to keep NVA troops and supplies from entering Vietnam, the main use of US military might in Laos would be for the air war. 'Victory through air power', meant massive aerial bombing on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. That was how all these deep bomb craters ended up here, scattered all around me. Since the USA had the world’s best jets and bombers, it sounded like a great idea. But this strategy only delayed the communists, and did not bring about victory.

After the war, the US military made public their data kept on how much explosive tonnage they had dropped on Laos from aircraft. This little country had been bombed by American aircraft flown from South Vietnam, from Thailand, and from Navy aircraft flown in from the South China Sea. Laos was even hit by B-52 bombers that had flown here all the way from Guam. With the war lasting longer than anyone anticipated, the amount of bombs dropped onto Laos was devastating. The tonnage of bombs the US dropped on Laos, was greater than the total tonnage dropped on all of Europe during World War II!

The total amount of bombs dropped from 1965 – 1973 was astounding: 1.36 million metric tons of explosives dropped on Laos. That made for a half metric ton of explosives, for every single person living in Laos at the time. Laos holds the unfortunate record, of being the most heavily bombed country in world history.

Since I have much more to see of Laos, I turn from the craters and the river and head back towards town. Crossing back through the encampment, a group of village children stare at me as I walk by. “Sabadee!” (Hello!) they call out to me.

“Sabadee!” I say back to them, and they smile. Once I’m back on the dirt road, they follow behind me, but from a distance. When I turn towards them, they all run away laughing. I continue walking, and soon they are following behind me again. They must be wondering why this giant white foreigner came walking through their remote little village. I give them a final wave, and head back to Densavan.

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.

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.

MEETING THE FORMER ENEMY VIET CONG

Entrance to the old citadel outside Nha Trang

He’s way over 70 years old, but there’s still something youthful about him. Through his small set of glasses, you can still see a genuine sparkle in his eyes. Although he’s gaining in years, he hasn’t lost any of his charisma. He can’t hear out of one ear anymore, but he can hear well enough. Like most Vietnamese, he’s small in stature, though stocky. Although retired, he remains active, and does tai chi in the park every morning for execise.

This friendly man’s name is Ho, as in Ho Chi Minh, and he was a Viet Cong soldier for 21 years. Ho fought the French, and Ho fought the Americans. I happen to be the first American that Ho has encountered, since the war ended.

Ho, the former Viet Cong captain

Ho wasn’t just a low level Viet Cong soldier or cadre. By the time his long military service ended, he had risen through the ranks to become an officer. Ho eventually became a captain, commanding 300 men and women around the coastal town of Nha Trang.

For a senior who has been through so much, Ho seems remarkably healthy. He was wounded from an American bomb in early 1973; that’s why he's deaf in one ear. Ho still has shards of shrapnel that remain in his body from that bomb. That explosion ended his long military career. Ho married, but due to the wars his wife rarely saw him over the years. She lived in the city, while Ho slept in a cave. Those were tough years for this tough little man. Ho’s a real survivor.

I happened to meet Ho in a memorial park in the old Dien Khanh Citadel outside of Nha Trang. This centuries old citadel was first built by the royal Nguyen Dynasty. The French later occupied it, and during colonial days it was a base for the French Foreign Legion. Years later, it became a US Special Forces base, a post for the famed Green Berets. During the American war, Ho commanded troops that attacked this citadel several times. Ho admitted that their attacks were mostly small scale, just firefights shooting over the ramparts. They never managed to take the fort from the Americans. These days he works inside this same citadel, and the military base is gone. His present workplace is a community veterans center that he manages.

From the moment I meet him, Ho seems genuinely glad to meet me. He’s seen other American tourists in Nha Trang, but he never had an opportunity to speak to them. None of them come way out here outside town, and it was here on the grounds of the old fortress that he approached me and my translator.

Ho has two daughters, and he asks if I’m married. When I tell him not, he says with a smile, “You should get a Vietnamese wife!”

War memorial in the old citadel

 Ho’s not referring to his own daughters, of course. They’re already married, and have blessed him with grandchildren.

Ho asks me if I know about agent orange, and I tell him I do. Then he says, “I don’t fight anymore, but I still fight for justice for agent orange.” Ho has suffered health problems due to agent orange exposure. That’s not surprising, since he spent most of the American war out in the forests, which were targeted for defoliation. “Your government paid money to its soldiers who had disease from agent orange,” Ho says, “but still they give no money to Vietnam.” That's not entirely true, though I'm not going to argue with him. The US government has given some money to Vietnam to help clean up agent orange sites, but the amount has been woefully inadequate.

With all Ho’s been through, I’d think that he would still despise Americans, yet he doesn’t. I ask him what he thinks of Americans today, and he’s quick to reply, “No hate. No hate.” To him, the war is far in the past.

As I’m leaving, he uses both his hands to shake mine. Then he says to me again with that twinkle in his eye, “You should marry a Vietnamese woman!”

Ho’s said that to me twice during our brief time together. After all he endured from fighting the US, he still would like an American to marry a daughter of Vietnam. 

For such a small man, he seems to have a great capacity for forgiveness.