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 ARCH IN ASIA

The 'Patuxai', modeled after the Arc de Triomphe

I'm on Lane Xang Avenue, and a towering arch before me rises high above the surrounding city landscape. As I approach, I’m impressed by the architecture. The Arc de Triomphe immediately comes to mind. But I’m not in Paris, I’m still in Vientiane.

This arch, known as the Patuxai, was obviously inspired by the Parisian version. Built after the independence of Laos, the French colonial influence is obvious. Even the street lamps in the surrounding park are French in style.

Constructed in the early 60’s, the arch at one time was originally to be a monument to Laotian war dead. The cement used to construct it was stolen from an American aid project, that was meant to build a runway. The theft was no surprise, given at how corrupt the Royal Laotian Government was back then.

An informational sign on the arch has the following amusing sentence: “From a closer distance, it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete.” That’s a rather harsh observation. It does have a drab grey concrete color, since the arch was never completely finished, and left unpainted. From a closer viewpoint, what is more noticeable is the detailed artwork. Pointed Asian spires reach for the skies from three towers at the top. Buddhist figures appear as though they were carved right out of the walls. The arch may need a coat of paint, but it’s still very impressive.

There are three viewing levels, so I head up the arch's stairwell. Looking down from the highest tower, I can see all the way to the Mekong River. Surveying the surrounding scenery, I notice that no building in all of Vientiane is taller than the arch, and apparently that’s by design. There’s an old local law requiring that all buildings constructed in the capital must be shorter than the Patuxai, which helps Vientiane keep its small town atmosphere. The only exception is the rather odd looking Don Chan Hotel, down by the river. The rest of the view is serene.

View from atop the arch, looking down Lane Xang Avenue

From high above, I look down on Lane Xang Avenue, which runs straight towards the arch. As usual, traffic is light. The boulevard was named after one of the old powerful kingdoms of the north, and as such it became the widest street in all of Vientiane. It’s the only six lane boulevard in all of Laos.

I take a deep breath, enjoying the best view of the city. I can see far off mountains, the Buddhist temples, the Mekong, everything. It’s from this viewpoint that I notice that Vientiane is the greenest capital in Southeast Asia. There are plenty of trees reaching higher than the surrounding buildings. Only the mobile phone towers reach higher. Like in Vietnam, Laos has leapfrogged past land line phones, and opened up their markets to the mobile phone craze. 

Before I descend down the arch, I stop in a souvenir shop. Looking through a stack of framed photos, a striking image stands out. One shows a group of US soldiers holding up an incredibly long snake skin! The caption says: “Queen of Nagas (a mythical snake) seized by American

US soldiers hold up the skin of a 7.8 meter long snake! (Photo: Patuxai Shop)

military on Mekong River, Laos military base on June 27, 1973 with the length of 7.8 meters.” That has to be some kind of a record for snake length.

Besides the other usual gifts of figurines, jewelry, and coins, I notice something else on offer that isn’t sold back home. Disturbingly, they are selling what appear to be tiger claws! Laotian laws prohibit the sale of products from endangered species, but it’s not often enforced.

I ask to see one, and the salesman pulls one from the glass case. It looks and feels real; judging by the size it must have come from an adult. I decline to purchase it, since buying it would only encourage more poaching. Being caught with one at the border might even get me arrested.

I head for the stairs, and soon I’m back on the ground, walking the streets of Vientiane. There’s still a great deal to be seen in this city.

FADED COLONIAL LIFE OF VIENTIANE

Presidential Palace of Laos in downtown Vientiane

I stand at the gate of the Presidential Palace. A grand, classic French dominion painted grey and white, this is one of the few colonial buildings in Vientiane that is well preserved. Appearing as though it was transported directly from the French countryside, the colonial governor used to reside in this mansion of stone.

What may be the largest Laotian flag in the whole country, flies from a flagpole out front. Curiously, the Laotian flag is not your usual communist flag. Blue and red with a large white circle, it more closely resembles the flag of Thailand.

From what I can see there is little activity inside. In fact, looking around I don’t see a single soul. There’s not even a security guard around. I’d love a tour, but the palace isn’t open to the public. Sadly, the grand edifice is only used for occasional government functions and ceremonies, so I depart down the street to further acquaint myself with Vientiane.

One of the quietest capitals in all of Asia, Vientiane has a sleepy feel to it, as though it is still waking up after a

Buddhist monks pass a deteriorating old French colonial house

decades long nap. With a population of less than a quarter million, it’s far less crowded than Hanoi, or Bangkok to the west.

“I like Laos more than Thailand,” I heard from Tony, a retired English soldier who works on mobile phone towers in Laos. “It’s quieter here. Life is better.” For most of the small expat community that lives here, the slower pace of life here is their preference.

As I walk around Vientiane, a capital void of skyscrapers, it resembles a town, not a big city. There isn’t much garbage lying in the streets either. Like the rest of Southeast Asia, the crime rate here is fairly low, and violence is rare. When there is a murder once in a blue moon, it’s usually connected to drug trafficking.

A pair of monks pass me by in their bright orange robes, a common sight in the downtown. Buddhism in Laos is even stronger here than it is in Vietnam, and there are many Buddhist monasteries in this part of town. A few blocks on, I reach a legacy of the French; old

Dilapidated French colonial house; few are well preserved

mansions with French architecture. Vientiane is actually a French word, their own pronunciation of the Lao name for the city, “Vieng Chan”, which means “city of sandalwood”.

Passing once luxurious homes, the glory years of these deteriorating buildings are long gone. French colonists who inhabited them left in 1953 when Laos regained its independence. These high ceiling mansions were once the envy of Laos, homes to French officials living the quiet life. Vientiane was a  backwater in those days, as Laos was one of the most isolated, least desired outposts in the French empire. For today’s foreign diplomatic corps, not much has changed.

Some of the original French colonial structures I’m passing are now government buildings, and they obviously need of a coat of paint. Although some chateaus have been fairly well preserved, most are not, and look dilapidated. I pass one with an exterior wall so deteriorated, that large sections of plaster have fallen away, exposing bare brick underneath.

Unoccupied riverfront home is overgrown with weeds

When the French left these homes, they were replaced by the Laotian elite, but by the late 1970’s the upper class had gone as well. Members of the ruling elite were either sent to prison, or had fled the country due to the rise of the Pathet Lao. Most houses were taken over by the communists and their families. As the economy took a dive in the late 70’s and 80’s nobody had the money to repair these once opulent homes, so these beautiful old buildings simply fell apart. The destruction of Vientiane’s beautiful old colonial buildings didn’t happen from the war, it was caused by age and a lack of maintenance. Passing more old mansions and chateaus with closed French shutters, I find a group fenced off. These are completely unoccupied, with grass and weeds growing out of control. I wonder if these are in line for renovation, but its more likely that they will be torn down to make way for new construction. It’s sad but true, that much of Vientiane’s rich heritage is falling to the wrecking ball.

Unlike Hanoi or Saigon, Vientiane’s old colonial buildings didn’t face much destruction due to the war years, except for one battle after a 1960 coup. As different factions took sides in the cold war, forces led by an army centrist,Colonel Kong Le, seized power to keep Laos neutral. When soldiers loyal

Old USSR built building is nearly vacant

to the previous government moved to retake Vientiane, fighting left 600 people dead, and some areas of the city were in ruins. That would be the last major battle in Vientiane, until the present day.

As I walk through Vientiane’s neighborhoods, there are few reminders of those decades past. I do see a couple of US military style jeeps driving around town, but they aren’t original. These olive green copies weren’t built in the US, they’re counterfeits!

There are some folks here learning English, but it’s not as widely spoken as in Vietnam. I saw one Laotian woman walking down the street wearing a tee shirt that said, “Just two women away from a threesome.” Obviously she didn’t know what that meant.

Traffic in Vientiane is a welcome change from other capitals of Southeast Asia. It’s light, rarely crowded, even for rush hour. Most Laotians in town travel on motorbikes, or crowd into a bus or truck. Annoying tourist buses are few. Very common are tuk-tuks; open air vehicles that look half motorbike, half golf cart. 

Along with the slow pace of traffic in the city, commerce here is relatively quiet. There are many cafés, restaurants and hotels downtown, but advertising is muted. Vientiane is the economic center of Laos, but big business is not very visible. There is no rising skyline, and few large billboards. The advertising I see most often, is for the most popular drink: Beer Lao.

For a one party communist government, I’m surprised at the small number of government billboards in town. I suppose that when the government returned to capitalism, they decided hard line communist propaganda wasn’t the way to go anymore. Their public presence is low

Old communist flag, hanging near a Buddhist shrine??!!

key, even the police are less visible. Still, everyone knows the communist party are the real people in charge in Laos. 

Passing through Nam Phu, a downtown fountain plaza, I look up at a gloomy, brown and white building that looks like something out of hard times Russia. One of the larger buildings in the downtown, this boxy structure looks totally out of place, mostly abandoned. An Aussie expat told me that this seven story monstrosity was built with aid from the former Soviet Union. 

“It used to have a communist logo sticking out from the roof,” said Robin, a restaurant owner, “but that’s gone now.” Office buildings built during the Soviet era were never really known for their quality, or their aesthetic value.

Away from the government ministries, there are few visible reminders of the lean days of communism, but I spot one as I head towards the river. Walking by a row house, I see a red flag marked with the hammer and sickle hanging over a balcony railing above. Also on the same balcony, is a small Buddhist shrine. I suppose the resident here felt the need to pay homage to both. Such contradictory symbols, but that’s how Vientiane’s residents survive.

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.

HO CHI MINH'S BODY

Vietnamese children play in front of Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum

There’s a light rain as I arrive at the entrance to this revered site. What I’m about to see is the pride of Vietnam. There’s no admission fee to get in either; it’s open for all to see. Hundreds of people have arrived here before me, and I find my way to the back of a long line, as everyone queues for entry.

Entering a security tent, a security guard asks me, “Camera or mobile phone?” I shake my head, and pass through a metal detector. A nearby sign lists the rules for entry. As usual, the English translation is less than perfect. One rule states, “Don’t bring in gold, weapon, germstone, poison”.

Leaving the tent, the queue moves surprisingly fast. I look around at the rest of the crowd, and except for a western couple everyone else is Vietnamese. None are wearing traditional Vietnamese clothing however, all are wearing western style clothes.

Near to our queue, three lines of preschoolers shuffle along on their way to the entrance. Their teachers herd them forward, with each child holding the back of the shirt of the child in front of them. As they stop and start, they resemble a cute, long accordian of children. As the cute kids pass a guard, his somber face cracks into a rare smile. Like the other guards, he wears an all white military uniform, an elite soldier of the People’s Army of Vietnam. 

Ho in 1946 (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

As we round a corner, I see our destination, a dark imposing edifice. The architecture resembles the style of the ancient Greeks or Romans, except that the columns are square. Constructed in the 1970’s, this hallowed building was built with the aid of the Soviet Union. Passing flowered wreaths and more armed sentries, we enter the stone building. The interior is all marble, and the line continues up a stairwell, covered with red rubber mats to protect the visitors from floors made slick by the rain. I follow the crowd to an upper level, walk through thick wooden doors, and suddenly everyone is silent.

There he is, lying in a glass case.

Ho Chi Minh.

My first thought on seeing the dead body of this man, is that his skin looks so white. He has a yellowish light shining down on him, but still, he looks so unnaturally white. He’s dressed in a dark blue outfit, like the kind he used to wear to official communist party functions. His trademark goatee beard, is combed neatly down under his chin.

When this man was alive, he was so many things, to so many people. He was famous, and infamous. Loved, and despised.

To most Vietnamese, he was a patriot. Nationalist. Communist. Leader. He was the founder of the Vietnamese Communist Party, and President of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. He led the fight against the French, then the Japanese, then the Americans. He was Vietnam’s 20th century godfather.

To the French and Americans, he was more than an ardent communist. He was a rebel, a revolutionary. This one man was able to cause so much trouble to the USA, the world’s greatest superpower, and to the French colonials who dominated Vietnam long before them. He was America’s greatest enemy of the 1960’s, and even with all of their military might from land, sea and air, he was the man that they just couldn’t defeat.

And yet, he looks so short. Like most Asians he’s small in stature, but he made up for it with boundless determination, and total dedication to his cause. Ho never married; he dedicated his life to kicking the foreigners out of Vietnam and reuniting his country. Ho and his glass case are protected by four motionless honor guards. The glass surrounding him is so clean and spotless, that it appears as though there's no glass surrounding him at all. Behind him on the wall, are two long red banners, bearing the gold star from Vietnam’s flag, and the communist hammer and sickle. That’s fitting, since Vietnam and communism were Ho’s two greatest loves.

This tank in a Hanoi museum, crashed the Saigon palace gate to end the war. Ho didn't live to see it.

Frozen in time since his 1969 death, he looks older, than does in all of those old photos and propaganda films. But then again, when Ho finally died he was 79 years old. I look on this old motionless face, that still adorns this country’s paper currency. To most Vietnamese, he is their version of George Washington. 

Ho Chi Minh means ‘bringer of light’, and this was only one of countless pseudonyms he adopted over the years, to keep him from being arrested by the French. As an educated man he spoke French fluently, along with some Chinese, Russian, and even English that he picked up during his brief stint working in the USA. Back when he was an unknown, nobody could have imagined that this short Asian man that worked as a baker in New York, would later lead his country against America in what would become one of America's longest wars. While Ho lived in the USA, he learned more than just baking. In America, he found a country that had forced out an occupying colonial power, a feat that he later hoped to duplicate.

Years later when Vietnam declared its independence in 1945, Ho included these memorable words in his speech to Hanoi’s masses, “All men are created equal. They are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” As part of his announcement of an independent Vietnam, Ho plagiarized part of the text of the American Declaration of Independence. Ho was also happy to receive weapons from America used to fight the Japanese during WW II, but that was before the cold war. Ho didn’t turn against Americans until later, when the US began supporting the French colonials. 

Ho with sailors from East Germany (Source: German archives)

With the hero of Vietnam’s body on display, I wonder what the preschool children think of seeing Ho like this. When I was their age I'd never even been to a funeral yet. I wonder if it's proper to have children view a dead body at such a young age.

Ho didn’t intend for his body to end up like this. It’s said that he wanted to be cremated, but the communists who replaced him had different ideas. Just like the Russians did with Lenin’s body, and the Chinese did with Mao’s body, the Vietnamese built a grand mausoleum, and put his preserved corpse here on display. It’s like a state funeral that never ends.

Rumors abound that Ho’s actual body isn't even displayed anymore. The word is what I’m seeing now is only a wax dummy. Looking at his lifeless face, it’s hard to tell. Photos aren't allowed inside, and visitors are left to guess for themselves. Is it really him? Only Vietnam’s top brass and the morticians know for sure.

With the crowd gently pushing me from behind, the queue continues forward quietly. Before I know it, I’m out of the room, and soon I’m out of the building. Looking around, I see Vietnam’s adoration of Ho isn’t limited to his mausoleum. As part of their enduring cult of personality for Ho, next door they built a Ho Chi Minh Museum. It’s a big imposing structure, much larger than the Ho Chi Minh Museum I already saw in Saigon, (or should I say, Ho Chi Minh City.) Making for a bit of overkill, there’s another Ho Chi Minh Museum in Danang, still another in Pleiku, and so on. Perhaps due to hero worship or misplaced patriotism, the government decided to have multiple museums across the country dedicated to old Uncle Ho. Attendance at those museums is sparse, unlike the long lines of people who came to see Ho’s body today. 

 Later after leaving the complex, I catch a taxi and return to Hanoi's Old Town. Upon telling a Vietnamese friend that I went to see the mausoleum, she asks me, “Did you say hello to my Uncle Ho?"

“Yeah,” I answer, “but he didn’t say anything back to me.”

OLD TOWN HANOI STROLL

Lady fruit sellers wait for customers in Old Town Hanoi

As morning comes in Hanoi, I am rudely awakened at 5 a.m. by a government loudspeaker. It's blaring out their daily propaganda wakeup message. Unfortunately for me, the speaker happens to be located right outside my hotel window. I groan, cover my ears, and try to go back to sleep. I later go down to reception, and switch my room to the back of the hotel so I can be further away from the morning noise. But now I have the opposite problem, the hotel’s back rooms have no windows at all! It’s more of a cave really, it's certainly a fire hazard. Well, at least it’s quiet.

After finding some croissants in a nearby café, I head out for a walk around the city’s old quarter. Hanoi is a city that's 1,000 years old. Although this ancient commercial neighborhood is limited by narrow streets, the business scene here is really bustling. Asian style shophouses are packed tightly together, selling all manner of local and imported goods. Everyone I see in the old town is busy browsing, buying, or trying to make a sale. Street vendors in conical hats sell fresh fruit, while the ever present motorbikes buzz on by.

French colonial architecture in Old Town

Old archway entrance in Hanoi

Crossing many streets in the packed borough, I learn that each road in this area has a product specialty. One street has numerous silk shops, another street is packed with shoe stores, and still another is packed with hair accessories. It seems a counterproductive arrangement for shopkeepers to have their competition all on the same street, but it works in Hanoi, as it has here for centuries.

The Presidential Palace, former home of the French colonial governor.

Following the free market reforms of their Chinese neighbors to the north, capitalism has taken hold in this capital city. But even though this city is Vietnam’s second largest, I notice the pace is different. Looking around the shops, it’s not as noisy and hectic here, as it is in Saigon/HCMC. As compared to the hardworking, dollar chasing southerners, business in the north is conducted in a more restrained fashion. Hanoi has always been more reserved than Saigon, and they endured communist controlled markets far longer than in the south did. As things are now, Saigon may be the center of finance, but Hanoi is still the center of political power.

As I leave the old quarter and explore other areas of the downtown, I find that many of the old French colonial buildings still survive. Close to Hoan Kiem Lake, there are the majestic Opera House, many old restaurants and lovely French villas. Some government offices in Hanoi still work out of old yellow colonial buildings from the French era. The Presidential Palace is immaculate, and

Italian restaurant in Old Town. International eateries are becoming more popular.

looks as though the French governor has just walked out the door. There are far more examples of colonial architecture remaining here, than there are in Saigon, and even pre-colonial Chinese style homes can still be found. This isn’t what I was expecting at all, I'm pleasantly surprised.

Since Hanoi had been bombed so many times during the war with the US, I was imagining that the old city must have been reduced to rubble back then, like Berlin during World War II. I was expecting to find blase communist blocks; I’m surprised to see that so many of Hanoi's old historic buildings have survived. These lovely old neighborhoods give Hanoi a romantic air, a sense of history that is hard to find elsewhere in Vietnam.