PORT TOWN REVIVIVING

Coco House in the coastal town of Kampot, Cambodia

I’m taking an after dinner stroll down an old Asian riverfront. It’s dark and quiet; few are out walking this evening. Along the way I pass old French shop-houses, they’ve been uninhabited for years. Once stylish archways and pillars are now in gradual states of decay. Where bright yellow paint shone, it's now dingy and peeling. These used to be prestigious river side homes, businesses that brought important foreign trade into Cambodia.

This is Kampot, on Cambodia's southern coast. The Prek Kampong River flows through town, emptying into the nearby Gulf of Thailand. Kampot was once Cambodia's principal port. But when the larger port at Sihanoukville opened in the 1950's, this small town's importance rapidly declined.

Now these former buildings of commerce are empty; decaying and dilapidated. Weeds out front grow high through cracks in the sidewalk. 

There are lovely old French colonial buildings in town, but like these many are idle and deteriorating. Some are unoccupied and boarded up.

Dilapidated shop-houses on the river front

Fortunately, Kampot has been reviving. As I stroll further up Riverfront Road, I pass restored restaurants, and cafes. In recent years these have been renovated and reopened. Here diners are seated on sidewalk tables, with palm trees surrounding them. Redevelopment downtown is ongoing, though progress is slow. There are no crowds of customers out tonight; unlike Sihanoukville, Kampot has not capitalized on the rising tourist trade. But that's why some of these foreign folk have come here. It's quiet and serene, with scenic views and fresh seafood.

As little known as Kampot is today, it was once known as a center for one of the world's favorite spices. If anyone wonders what unique and quality product Cambodia provides to the world, the answer is: pepper. Kampot was known for exporting pepper to foreign markets as far back as the 13th century.

“Kampot pepper is the best in the world,” a lady drink seller told me. She’s right, and the Khmers aren't the only people who believe this. So do the French, and of course they know good food. Kampot's pepper was preferred by France’s gourmet chefs. During colonial times, all the best restaurants in Paris had pepper from Kampot on their tables.

Up until the radical Khmer Rouge halted all pepper plantation production, pepper was one of the country’s largest agricultural exports. At the height of production here, the fields of Kampot Province had more than a million peppercorn plants. With the Khmer Rouge gone, local farmers are growing peppercorn again today. Kampot pepper is once again gaining international prestige.

Tasty fish cakes for dinner in Kampot

Further down the river front,  I come to the town's oldest bridge. Crossing the Prek Kampong River, it leads right into the town's center. 

It's dark now and hard to see, but if you look at this bridge in daytime, it’s a rather bizarre looking structure. Parts of the bridge are old, parts are new. As far as construction styles go, there are not one, not two, but three different styles of bridge construction evident here! The oldest section has large arches, with steel support beams rising overhead. But two adjacent sections are basic flat bridges, with two distinct sets of support pillars descending into the riverbed.

This oddity is another legacy of the Khmer Rouge; the old bridge was destroyed during the war. Afterward, rather than tear it all down and rebuild it from scratch, they had to reconstruct it using what remained. I don't blame the engineers, as poor as Cambodia is, it's a wonder they were able to rebuild it at all back during that turbulent time. Having seen the three different building styles, I wonder, was this bridge destroyed more than once? 

Daytime view of the river. The old bridge beyond, destroyed during the war, has been rebuilt.

Winding up my riverfront walk, I go from the old, to brand new. Pounding music and flashing lights announce a disco. I've arrived at “Alaska Super Club”. It’s the only new building I've yet seen in all of Kampot. Cheesy neon signs show figures of female dancers. This gaudy night spot is out of place on this otherwise rustic riverfront. It's a weeknight, so they don't have much of a crowd. I decide not to pay a cover charge for a near empty club, so I turn back. 

I chuckle at the name: 'Alaska Super Club'?? I don’t think I’ll see Sarah Pailin and her brood walking in here anytime soon.

I head back to my hotel, avoiding some stray dogs on the way. Beyond the bridge and the river, loom the nearby Elephant Mountains. The most notable of these, is Bokor Mountain.

I’ve never climbed a mountain before, but I'll be climbing it tomorrow morning.

FUGITIVES AND FOREIGN MISFITS

Beach in Sihanoukville. Many misfit expats live here, some are hiding from the law.

Chris is a twenty-something from England, with beard stubble, and a dark t-shirt. I met this friendly Brit one night at a no-name bar in Sihanoukville, where he worked as a bartender. 

He doesn't earn much, Chris only gets six dollars a day for eight hours of night time work. “Slave labor,” he tells me. But he does get a free meal every night, and free drinks. “I’m a bit of an alcoholic,” he admits to me.

Like many young folk I've met in Asia, Chris has been traveling around for months, and stopped to work in Cambodia for a while. I asked him if he had ever been to the states during his travels. His response wasn't what I was expecting. 

“They won’t give me a visa,” Chris said, “since I was convicted of production of cannabis.” Apparently Chris has a hippie side to him, which got him in trouble with the UK police a few years back. 

While we're chatting in this beach side hang out, a grungy, older Aussie that Chris knows walks into the bar. I’d seen this shabby guy yesterday on the street. He’d asked me for a cigarette, but I don't smoke. 

The Australian asks Chris, “You want to buy some weed? Two dollars a bag? I have to pay my hotel bill,” he explains. Chris declines, since he doesn’t do drug transactions while he's working. I also decline, since I stick to beer. Obviously the Aussie was in dire straits; he looked like a transient. He probably won’t sell marijuana for long here either, since local pushers won’t like him competing for their business.

Checking out the Aussie, I notice a large infected cut on the back of his hand. It was so infected, that his whole hand was swelled up. I figured he must have injured it in a motorbike accident, the usual way that foreigners get injured in Cambodia. But I was wrong. 

“A whore cut him”, Chris told me, after the Aussie walked away. Apparently since the Aussie didn’t have money for rent, he didn't have money to pay a prostitute that he took home either. 

Chris and the old Aussie are just two of the down-and-out examples, that make up the soap opera scene of foreigners living in Sihanoukville. Long time expatriates call the town ‘Snookville’ or just ‘Snook’, for short. During my days checking out the beach, I learn that there are many expats hanging out here with skeletons in their closets. 

One night out at a restaurant with a group of foreigners, I was introduced to a German lawyer. I don’t recall his name, but it was probably an alias. That's likely, since I was told that this tall Aryan looking guy, was wanted for murder back in Germany! 

I already met a Swede in Phnom Penh who was hiding out from the law, but he was a peaceful guy, wanted only for media piracy. 

Could it be that this tall German with thinning hair, was really a killer? I noticed the German had a scar to one side of his forehead; an intimidating looking fellow. 

I wonder, just how did he got that scar??

* * * * *

The strange 'Airport' disco.

I’m sitting at the controls of a Russian aircraft. It's an older two engine, Antonov 24 airplane. I reach for a gauge on the control panel, and the knob comes off in my hand! 

Obviously, this plane has seen better days and fortunately, I'm not airborne. In fact, I'm not even in a real airport. But I am in a disco in Sihanoukville that is named 'Airport', and this plane is parked right over the middle of the dance floor below me! How weird. 

I peer out the cockpit windows, where the building housing this night spot resembles an old airport hanger. Adding to the odd ambiance, old photos with advertisements from long gone airlines line the walls. I can see the need to stand out in Sihanoukville's night life, but this is just unreal. 

I leave the cockpit to go aft inside the plane, and find the passenger compartment in total disarray. The seats have been removed; it's dusty and grubby. Apparently this old plane is still being renovated for the club. I imagine they'll add more tables and chairs before it’s finished. 

It's fitting that an old Soviet plane is parked in here, because this strange disco is owned by Russians. Of course that helps the disco to attract a Russia clientele, but not tonight. I exit the plane and descend down to the dance floor, into a disco that's nearly empty. It's the off season, so fewer Russians are flying down from Siberia to Cambodia while I'm staying here. 

With the house music blaring, I finish my beer, and head for the door. This plane is yet another foreign misfit in Cambodia. 

NIGHTLIFE IN THE HEART OF DARKNESS

'Heart of Darkness' club in Phnom Penh (arch photo)

Going out tonight, I pass an unusual street scene by the corner of my hotel. The cyclo drivers and motorbike-taxi drivers are settled in for the night. Lined up together for safety, more than 30 are all sound asleep, lying on their bikes! I'm amazed they can sleep like this, especially the motorbike drivers. Their trick is parking their motorbikes level, up on their dual kickstands. Then they lie on their backs on the bike seat, their legs stretched out over the handlebars. Well, that's one way to make sure nobody steals your motorbike: sleep atop it. How do they sleep like that all night, without falling off?

As I'm learning, night life is decidedly different in Cambodia. When I was in Saigon, (Ho Chi Minh City) the hottest nightspot was 'Apocalypse Now'. Now I'm in Phnom Penh, and the hottest place in town has an equally forbidding name, 'Heart of Darkness'. The disco's name is taken from the dark Joseph Conrad novel, and it's fitting.

'Heart', as it's known by locals, is located across the street from what used to be a jail, that has since been torn down. (How's that for atmosphere.) As a disco it's small on size, but big on its bad reputation.

After security frisks me for weapons at the door, I enter this infamous place with reddened walls. The party's in full swing, so I step up to the bar, and order my usual draught beer. Unlike Vietnam and Laos, they actually have draught beer in Cambodia. The two brands of locally made lager are: 'Angkor', (named after the ancient Khmer kingdom), and another brand, so uniquely named, 'Anchor'.

Taking a sip from my mug, I survey the eclectic crowd. Tonight the usual suspects are here. Foreigners, locals, rich and poor. There are Khmer businessmen, trying to impress by reserving tables and buying full bottles of whiskey. There are pesky prostitutes, and a few foreign English teachers. There are working class Khmers; they came to dance, but can't afford to buy drinks on their meager salaries. Finally are the tourists, including shabbily dressed backpackers.

This sign is posted at the entrance of many Phnom Penh night spots. It's needed.

As I watch the night unfold, I'm approached by a white twenty-something with dark beard stubble, and poorly dyed blonde hair. His accent is something European, and he's already drunk. He walks straight up to me and asks, “Yoo arh Amercan?”

“Yes,” I reply, “and where are you from?”

“Eye yam Amercahn. Eye yam frome California.”

I stated the obvious, “You don’t sound like you’re from California.”

This brought forth a nearly spitting tirade of obscenities. He finished on an unintentionally humorous note, by tripping himself up with his own words. Pointing his finger at me, he says, “That’s thuh probelem with yoo Amercahns!”

He shuffles off, presumably to look for someone more gullible. I don’t know what was more pathetic: how stupidly drunk he was, or that he would try and pass himself off as American, when he obviously wasn’t. I once met a Liberian who tried to convince me that he was a black American, but this was the first time I'd seen a European try this ruse. Fortunately the drunken poseur didn't try to start a fight with me. Unlike Saigon, I don't see many bar fights here, but that hasn't always been the case. Heart of Darkness has not always been such a safe place to party.

One of my English teacher buddies named Ken, was partying here one night a few years before. Before his very eyes, he saw a young Khmer man walk in, raise a pistol to the head of another, and pull the trigger. The victim fell to the floor dead. The murderer calmly walked out with the pistol at his side, cooler than Michael Corleone. Sadly, the killer was never even arrested, as he was from a family of the rich elite. Who knows why he pulled the trigger, but in post-war Cambodia, scores were often settled this way.

Fortunately, this kind of violence has declined in Phnom Penh. That's why I was frisked for weapons tonight when I came in the front door; they don't need any more murders in this heart of darkness.

**POST STORY NOTE** - 2020 - In the years since I first visited the Heart of Darkness disco, its clientele has changed. Heart of Darkness became a gay club. Phnom Penh changes quickly. 

NIGHTLIFE AND DRUG TRADE IN VIENTIANE

Night time on the Mekong riverfront

It's late evening in Vientiane, Laos, and I’ve left the lively bar called 'Bor Pennyang'. Stepping onto the Mekong River front, I hail a tuk-tuk, and follow the main road downriver. We pull into Don Chan Palace, though it isn’t much of a palace, it’s really more of an odd river front hotel. With 14 floors it’s among the tallest buildings in Laos, but for rustic Vientiane it looks rather gaudy. It does however, have the town's best disco.

It’s my first time here, and walking in I find the place dark and crowded, with music pumping. Peering across the crowd, I look for the dance floor. Not seeing one, I walk the entire length of the place. There's no dance floor to be found. This is a disco, but only in the conservative Asian style. Here the patrons dance only next to their tables!

I eventually find a friendly group to hang out with, a mixture of westerners and Laotians. Grabbing a beer, I join the dancing by their table. A Dane with them explains why there's no dance floor. “They don’t understand the concept of a discotheque,” he says. 

Unfotunately for those who enjoy night life, there are strange culture laws that restrict evening entertainment here. This gives Vientiane the reputation as one of the more boring capitals in Southeast Asia.

A recent story in the Vientiane Times, mentioned that the government was closing some discos down. The Director of the Vientiane Information and Culture Department was quoted as saying, “Each district (of the city) should have only one disco.”

The Don Chan 'Palace' in Vientiane

The fun squashing bureaucrat complained of the “overuse of imported music at the expense of local songs.” That ‘overuse’ is evident tonight, since I don’t hear any Laotian music at all. The selection here is mostly pop music from Thailand, with a smattering of western dance tunes. The bureaucrat also complained that according to law, discos must close by 11:30pm. Since I just arrived at Don Chan near to midnight and the party’s going strong, I see the law isn’t enforced here. Varied disco closing times are often connected to corruption.

Eyeing up the clientele, there is not a hint of Laotian attire; everyone wears western clothes for clubbing. Looking around, there are plenty of drunks. Some Asian men of smaller stature, seem to be intent on drinking as much as the larger bodied westerners present.

This is about as crazy as it gets in this town. The wild, ‘anything goes’ bars that Vientiane was known for during the war years, like the 'White Rose' and the 'Green Latrine', are long gone. The only remnant of that tradition here, are a few prostitutes trying to catch the attention of western men. Prostitution exists in Vientiane, but in the more subdued Asian manner. This isn't Thailand, there are no strip clubs in Laos.

I’m less worried about violence here since night life in Vientiane is known as the safest in Southeast Asia. Since Laos is landlocked and without ports, they don’t have to worry about drunken sailors going out looking for trouble. That’s not to say that bar fights don’t occasionally happen though. In between swigs of Beer Lao, an English teacher tells me about a bar fight here a couple weeks ago. “I turned around, and see a foreigner down on the floor,” he says. “This Laotian was beating him with a bottle.”

He stepped in to stop the beating, but not for long, as his Laotian girlfriend pulled him away. Fortunately for him, she recognized the bottle wielder as a Laotian involved in the drug trade, and wisely kept him out of the melee. When the rare beatdown does happen in a Vientiane night spot, it’s often drug related. Vientiane was once known as a place where opium was easier to get than a cold beer. That has flip-flopped, and the drug trade has gone underground. But it does occasionally rear it’s ugly head, such as in this case reported in the Vientiane Times.

“Police arrested a Nigerian man on June 21 in Khualvang Village, Chanthabuly District, Vientiane, after finding him in possession of 900 grammes of heroin, according to the Khomsangoh (security) newspaper yesterday.”

The story went on to report on another sensationalized case, that gained international attention. “British national Samantha Orobator was sentenced to life in prison after being found guilty of possessing 600 grammes of heroin. Ms. Orobator was born in Nigeria, but is now a resident of the UK and has British citizenship.”

A Tuk -Tuk, these are 'taxis' in Vientiane

The story neglected to mention that the young lady became pregnant while in prison. Whether she became pregnant intentionally or not, it helped her case. She was originally given the death penalty for drug trafficking, but pregnant women are exempt from this punishment. In the end, she was extradited to the UK to serve her sentence there.

I continue to dance and chat with my newfound friends, until closing time nears. Some wish to party on, but there are few options for Vientiane’s night owls when discos shut down. “If you want to drink after three a.m. you can only go to the bowling alley,” the knowing Dane tells me. “You can drink there until four or five a.m. It’s the only place open.”

I’m not the type to drink until dawn, so Don Chan is my last stop of the night. I leave the late night revelers, and head for the tuk-tuks.

BAR FIGHT AND SAIGON NIGHT LIFE

A daytime view of the Hotel de Ville, originally built by French colonists

It’s a Friday night, and I leave Godmother's Bar, on my way to meet Chris, another American in town. Leaving the the Pham Ngu Lao tourist neighborhood behind, I cross into a city park. Even in the evening, HCMC is fairly safe. Although theft and corruption are common, violent street crime is a rarity. Culturally, the Vietnamese don’t like confrontations. I’ve only heard of one foreigner mugged in Vietnam, and it happened in the park I'm walking through. The German victim was so drunk, that he could hardly even walk when thieves spotted him. Stumbling drunk through a dark park at 3am is just inviting a mugging.

But tonight, there’s little to worry about, it’s only 9pm; at this hour it's safe enough. I've plenty of company; the park is full of Vietnamese couples. There are few places in Vietnam for romancing pairs to be alone, as single men and women usually live with their parents until marriage. Good Vietnamese women usually don’t go to bars, and most young men have little money to spend on restaurants or movies. Going to a public park is a cheap date. On weekend evenings, the city’s parks are full of couples. Tonight is no different, countless couples are cuddled up together on park benches, occasionally sneaking a kiss in the dark. With all benches taken, late arriving couples sit on the seats of parked motorbikes. Some nights, older couples take over the park’s gazebo. I’ve often seen them ballroom dancing, despite the tropical heat. They don’t need an orchestra; music from a boombox will do.

I recall another night when I walked through this same park, and the park’s occupants weren’t Vietnamese. On that particular evening, every single bench in the park was occupied by a sleeping African. There were more than 40 of them. During that weekend there had been an immigration crackdown. There were a number of Africans in HCMC who had overstayed their tourist visas, and didn’t have enough money to get home. When the police raided their hotel rooms and apartments in another district, they fled to this park to sleep until the raids were over.

Passing Ben Thanh Market I scare a couple of rats, and take a slight detour. I turn down Pasteur Street, named for the famous French doctor, and come to one of the most stunning colonial buildings that still survives. Bathed with bright exterior lighting, is the magnificent Hotel de Ville. More than a century old, it’s now an official government building occupied by the People’s Committee. The Classic French architecture, contrasts with the armed Vietnamese police outside. They sit bored in their security posts, hardly looking as I walk by. I’d love to have a look around inside the grand old building, but I’m not allowed in. Since it’s no longer a hotel, it’s closed to outsiders. Ah, if these walls could talk…

Looking up, a Vietnamese flag flies high above the old hotel’s center tower. In a slap in the face to the French, the Vietnamese installed a statue of old Ho Chi Minh sitting in the park right out front, reminding them just who it was that bested the colonials. Floodlights light up the entire front façade every night. As I walk past admiring the scene, I notice that all over the yellow painted exterior, there are… lizards! Small gecko lizards, all over the walls. The lighting attracts insects, which in turn attract the lizards. I give up counting them after I pass 100. Back in its heyday, this hotel hosted governors, presidents, and the rich and famous. Now, the only thing living here are little reptiles looking for an easy meal.

Entrance to Apocalypse Now, from asia-bars.com

Returning to the main boulevard, I continue on to my evening destination, a disco. In a country that seeks to forget the war, one of the most popular nightspots in town is called, “Apocalypse Now”. Taking its name from the intense Francis Ford Coppola war movie, this strangely themed place opened in the 1990’s when the city’s nightlife was more liberal than now. If you’ve seen the movie and thought it was rather bizarre, well, so is this place. The décor is dark and dramatic. Spherical white light fixtures are painted red, giving the appearance that blood is dripping down them.

On the wall, a surfboard is painted with that famous line from the movie, “Charlie Don’t Surf.” Upstairs the bar is made of sandbags, much like a military bunker. Old US made army helmets from the war have been turned into more light fixtures. The wall's top is lined with barbed wire.

Despite the drinking and partying, the club isn’t as wild as you’d expect. There's some hugging and kissing among the patrons, but not near as much as in clubs in America. On the dance floor, there is far less hip grinding and suggestive dancing. One of the contradictions of Asia, is that sexy dancing, or public displays of affection aren’t considered acceptable. Partying is done in a more conservative manner; there are no go-go dancers here. The government doesn’t want HCMC to turn into another Bangkok.

Prostitution unfortunately, is part of Vietnamese culture. As in many bars in poor countries, some ladies present are prostitutes. Others are Vietnamese ladies hoping to find a western husband. I ignore the advances of a pair of working ladies, and make my way through the crowd to my buddy Chris at the bar. He’s a business consultant in town for a few weeks. As I order a Tiger beer, he tells me about his last weekend, at a karaoke place with a big group of colleagues. He enjoyed the evening, but the next day he had one of the worst hangovers of his life. He couldn’t understand why, since he didn’t drink heavily. I ask what he was  drinking.

“We had three bottles of Johnny Walker Black,” he answered. “We bought the expensive stuff. The first bottle tasted ok, but the second and third bottles tasted a lot different.”

What he didn’t know, was that the first bottle was genuine Johnny Walker Whiskey, and the other bottles were counterfeit liquor. The karaoke workers figured they were drunk enough after the first bottle not to notice the difference! Their 2nd and 3rd bottles of premium imported $100 whiskey, were actually only cheap moonshine. It's a common scam. Johnny Walker Black is supposed to be 12 years old; that’s why it has the darker color. For booze counterfeiters, that’s nothing a little water coloring can’t fix.

Some time later, there's a commotion by the bar. I turn just in time to see a bar stool sailing into the crowd near me, flung by an angry Chinese drinker. The Vietnamese woman he was aiming for responded with her own weapon; she took off her shoe and counter-attacked with her high heel! Her girlfriend also jumped into the fray. In the melee that ensued, the group was gradually pulled apart by black shirted security. Fortunately no one was seriously hurt. Since I’m an American, a bar fight is nothing new. America is probably the world capital of bar fights, and although I’ve broken up a few brawls, I’ve managed to never get attacked myself. US bar fights are usually one on one fistfights between belligerent drunkards. The fracas usually lasts only a few seconds, until bouncers charge in and shove the combatants out the door.

Bar fights in Asia however, are altogether different. As noted from the previous instance, Vietnamese rarely use their fists, and will attack with whatever weapon they can find. In bars, you'd think that their first weapon on hand would be a beer bottle, but they always reach for something else. I once saw a Vietnamese drunkard try and club his opponent with a motorcycle helmet. When Asians go to bars, they go out in groups. In the same manner, when they fight, they never fight alone. Like the woman with her high heel, I once saw a group of Vietnamese remove their shoes, men and women, and fling them all at a belligerent foreigner on the street. Apparently Iraqis aren’t the only ones who throw shoes at their enemies.

Fortunately, bar fights in Vietnam are much less frequent than in the states, since Asians are generally less prone to violent outbursts than Americans. (Surprising, given Asia’s violent history.) But when a bar fight does happen in Vietnam, watch out for those flying bar stools. Or shoes.

With the battle royale over, the excitement in the club dies down, and the crowd gradually thins out. As Apocalypse Now closes, patrons weave towards the exits. As the lights go up, the last song played was that memorable 60's tune from the Doors: “The End". Jim Morrison would have felt right at home here.

NIGHT LIFE AND CORRUPTION IN SAIGON

Qing Bar in Saigon's District 1, an upscale wine bar that closes on time

In Southeast Asia, pubs and discos are excellent places to meet fascinating people, from a variety of backgrounds. In the bars of Vietnam people of all kinds are generally more friendly, and more open to meet strangers, than they are back in America. This has nothing to do with the hustlers or scammers either. Most Vietnamese are hospitable people, with a friendliness that is infectious.

One night at a bar/restaurant in Pham Ngu Lao, an English friend introduced me to Truong, a young Vietnamese. He was on his way to a disco called Gossip, where he would dance until the wee hours of the morning. Although I’d just met him, Truong invited me to go along.

Feeling tired I declined, but before he left, I asked him, “how can the discos stay open until the morning in the city? I heard there's a law, that bars and discos cannot stay open late.”

“There is a national law, that no bar can stay open past 12 o’clock,” Truong said.  “Everybody know that if bar is open after 12, they are paying the police.”

This corruption of bribes for bars to stay open doesn’t end there either. According to Truong, bar owners had to entertain the police regularly. “They don’t just pay the police,” Truong continued. “They have to take them out to dinner. They have to pay for everything, food and drink.”

Truong had a rather humorous take on the corruption system for bars. “My father is policeman. The bar give money to my father. My father give money to me. I give money back to the bar,” he said smiling. “Recycle. Recycle.”

Corruption is nothing new to Southeast Asia, existing here in one form or another for centuries. With the re-introduction of capitalism to Vietnam in the 80’s, foreign investment money has flowed in. This has brought enormous potential for graft to government officials with low salaries.

Truong proceeded to tell me about a corrupt government official. “Next door, this restaurant is owned by man in prison now. He worked in government petroleum. He in prison for corruption. In prison, he have good life. He pay the prison guards, he have good TV, telephone, nice room. His son and daughter, they go to university in America. In Vietnam, if the father go to prison for corruption, the son has a good life.”

A reputable organization which does surveys on corruption, Transparency International, annually ranks the world’s perceived level of public sector corruption. Their 2011 Corruption Perception Index, ranked 182 of the world’s countries. Vietnam was tied for 120th place, along with Senegal, Kosovo, Moldova, Egypt and Algeria.

Old Ho Chi Minh would be very displeased at the current level of corruption that exists in the 'communist' government that he left behind.