AMBUSH ALLEY OF VIETNAM

An old bridge on 'Ambush Alley' runs parallel to the new Highway 9

It’s a new day, and judging by the skies, I won’t have to worry about rain today. Since I’m traveling much further out of Dong Ha, my fixer Ngoc has arranged a small van for me. I’m going onto Highway 9, and this time I’m heading even further west, almost to the border of Laos.

During the war Highway 9 once bore the nickname, ‘Ambush Alley’. Weaving through the mountains just south of the old De-Militarized Zone (DMZ) it was one of the most dangerous roads in Vietnam. Unlike the fast, four lane highways in the US, this was a treacherous two lane road, and in many places it narrowed to only one lane. With ambushes a

View looking north of Highway 9, towards the old De-Militarized Zone

thing of the past, Highway 9 is much safer than it was during the war, but it’s still only two lanes.

As we cruise along in the tiny van, I look north towards the old DMZ, where the horizon is filled with rugged, smoky mountains. Most of these hills are covered with greenery, and with the hills so close to the highway, you would expect more of them to be growing crops. Here too, the land is suffering the lingering effects of Agent Orange, and much of the hillside farmland remains fallow. The presence of wartime unexploded munitions and mines, has also kept many of these hills from being cleared for agriculture.

The current highway has been

Remains of bridge destroyed during the war

solidly rebuilt, and in many places entirely new bridges have been constructed. As the scenery flies by, the highway splits away from the old route. To one side, I can see the old narrow bridges not in use anymore. Most of these bridges are only one lane wide, which made vehicles that crossed them easy targets for an ambush. Some of these bridges were blown up, leaving remnants of concrete supports still lying in the river below today. I notice that on the old bridge next to us, many of the safety posts along both sides have been broken away. I wonder how many vehicles may have fallen off that bridge into the river below. Looking out on the Cua Viet River, I see fast moving whitewater. Maybe someday this will be a popular place for river rafting, although landmines and unexploded munitions on riverbanks are still a hazard.

The 'Rockpile'; a US Marine Corps outpost was once atop this karst formation

There is little military presence here these days. I saw only two small Vietnamese Army bases along the road, and they were rather small. The only thing strategic about this highway today, is that it’s a trading route leading from the coast into Laos.

My driver slows, and we pull to a stop on the rural roadside. Looking north across farming fields, climbing steeply above the landscape, is an imposing, jagged topped mountain. Bare rock shows through the overgrowth along steep cliff sides, Along the top is a mountain ridge reaching 750 feet high. The US Marines had a nickname for this place: ‘The Rockpile’.

As a former Marine Corps lookout post, the slopes of the Rockpile were so dizzying, that the soldiers based up there never had to worry much about attackers climbing up from the ground.

“It was so steep, the VC couldn’t climb it,” said my buddy Rick, the former helicopter pilot. During his second tour of duty in Vietnam, he had been based in this province, and he had flown Huey choppers up to the Rockpile. “It was small up there. They could only be reached by helicopter,” he recalls. “We’d fly in to resupply them.”

Longboats from local villages on the Cua Viet River

With such a small space to defend, it was one of the most cramped military posts in Vietnam. When they weren’t directing artillery fire at the NVA, there was little to occupy the Marines during their down time. “They didn’t have anything to do,” Rick said. “They’d lay around getting a suntan.”

As I watch, a group of white egrets take flight near the base of the mountain. Before there had been a wooden platform built on top as a helipad, but there’s nothing man made visible up there anymore. Nature has overtaken the Rockpile.

We climb back into the van, and continue west. Crossing another bridge, I see many longboats out on the river, like those so common down in the Mekong Delta. Away from the highway, there are few paved roads in this area, so moving materials and crops by boat is still used in some places.

Stilt homes and local children of an ethnic Bru village

Soon after, we stop at a village along the highway. The inhabitants here are the Bru people, an ethnic minority community. Bru fighters had joined the American side, and like other Montagnards, they had been oppressed by the majority Vietnamese for years. They are still marginalized today.

Walking through the village, the residents I encounter appear much like the other highland people I’ve met further south. It’s not too difficult to tell the Bru apart from the Vietnamese. They have darker skin and more distinct facial features. Some adults are wearing traditional woven skirts.

Pigs roam loose in the village

As I head down a village path, the children walk along with me, curious about the white western visitor. “Hello! Hello!” some of them call out. Like other highlanders, many of their houses are built on stilts. Some of the homes are well made, but others are little more than shacks.

One child climbs up a tree, and cuts down the ripe fruit, dropping it to his friends below. I pass a toddler with a colorful woven vest, who gazes at me from his seat in a wheelbarrow. Around here, that takes the place of a stroller.

A sow grunts as I pass by her and her two piglets. Nearby in the village, is a Bru health promotion sign that translates: “Wash your hands clean to prevent infection by worms.” You know that this is a poor place to live, if they are having problems with intestinal

Curious Bru boy watches me from a wheelbarrow

worms. Most of the Bru here live below the poverty level.

When intense fighting hit this region in the 1960’s, the Bru were forced to flee their homeland in the mountains.  Like the Jarai and other Montagnard groups, they were simple highland people, overwhelmed by a conflict beyond their control. 

Some of the Bru fled for Laos, where they still remain today. Since then some Bru have lost their land, but other Bru refugee families have returned, such as these families here. They built these homes, cleared hillside land, and planted corn on the river banks. Life remains hard for the Bru, but at least it’s peaceful these days.

We leave the quiet village, and I climb back into the van to continue my journey west.

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.

HIGHLAND TOWN OF PLEIKU

Arriving at Pleiku Airport in the Central Highlands

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

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

Pleiku today is more developed than during the war years

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

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

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

Can she really drive in traffic?

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

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

Kpa Klong, who fought the Americans

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

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

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

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

 

A dog guarding a tank? Really??!

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

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

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

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

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

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