“In order to avoid vengeance from Hoturapa’s family, Kupe and his own family left Hawaiiki in Kura’s canoe Matahorua. After some time of navigating, Kupe’s wife Hine Te Aparangi sighted the islands of New Zealand, which appeared as land lying beneath a cloud. Because of this, they named the islands Aotearoa, Land of the Long White Cloud.” (history-nz.org)
Aotearoa is a land of earthquakes, glaciers, bubbling mud pools and active volcanoes. The Maori, arriving from the Pacific Islands in the 14th century, must have been awestruck by the landscapes they saw. In order to make sense of its spectacular geographical features, they made up myths and legends. In their animistic beliefs of the universe there was no distinction between animate and inanimate objects or humans and other living creatures. All were involved in the organic processes of the cosmos. During my recent travels in New Zealand, I experienced the power of these natural forces – their destruction and their beauty – and learnt first hand the wisdom of the Maori’s beliefs in the interconnectedness of all phenomena.
I arrived in Christchurch slightly worried about being culture shocked after travelling in SE Asia for so long. I had come in late at night and awoke the next morning to discover that the back-packers hostel expected me to provide my own breakfast. No street stalls here. Like an alien from a distant galaxy I set off in search of food. I hadn’t gone far when I noticed several vacant building lots, piles of rubble and houses with large red crosses taped on their windows. It was only when my path along the Avon River was barred by fences that it dawned on me. I was witnessing the destruction of the earthquake which had struck Christchurch almost exactly two years previously. I remembered the TV news reports of February 22nd 2011 but had quickly forgotten about them. New Zealand had seemed so far away then. Now I was shocked at the extent of the devastation and its effects on people’s lives. Measuring 6.3 magnitude the earthquake left 70,000 people homeless and claimed the lives of 185 people.
The Maori believe that the animus Ruaumoko is responsible for earthquakes as he stomps around angrily in the underworld beneath his mother. He is angry at being buried in the darkness and from time to time he attacks his brothers on the surface.
Still on South Island, I managed to get up close and personal to a couple of New Zealand’s 3,000 or so glaciers. I am not a skier and so venturing onto the ice of the Franz Josef glacier was a real thrill. Crawling through dazzling blue ice tunnels, wandering amidst the seracs and peering down never ending crevasses gave a false sense of stability. In fact the ice descends at a rate of 7 metres a day which is extremely fast by glacial standards. The power of moving ice is evident all around in the shape of the valley and the “roche moutonnee” or “rock-sheep” – the rocks on either side which have been rounded by the glacier passing over them. This 12 km long glacier is unique in that its tongue extends down through temperate rainforest to less than 300 metres above sea level. Ka Roimata o Hine Hukatere meaning “The Tears of Hine Hukatere” is the Maori name for Franz Josef. Her tears flowed down the mountain and froze to form the glacier when her lover, Wawe, was swept away by an avalanche.
A week before arriving at Mount Cook/Aoraki there had been a major calving event on the Tasman Glacier. The latter is New Zealand’s largest and longest glacier which stretched 115 kms 22,000 to 16,000 years ago. Today it is 600 metres thick and 29 kms long. Eager to see the after effects of the calving we went to the terminal moraine area. When the 650 metre front face broke off the glacier it was the largest iceberg ever seen on the lake. It had broken into several icebergs 40-50 metres high above the water, which is what we could see. Below the water line was a further 200-250 metres of ice.
The Te Arawa people are the guardians or “kaitiaki” of the geothermal fields on North Island. Legend tells of Te Pupu and Te Hoata, goddesses of fire, who travelled whale-like under the sea from Hawaiiki to help their brother Ngatoro-i-Rangi. Where they surfaced to spout they left part of their fire in geysers, hot springs and mud pools which remain in these areas today. Every geothermal area has traditional cultural and historic importance for the Maori and is used for bathing, cooking, medicines, dyes and ritual. I walked around Wai-O-Tapu (Sacred Waters) an 18 sq.km area covered with collapsed craters, boiling pools of mud, geysers, hot springs and steaming fumaroles. The dazzling array of colours was due to a variety of mineral elements absorbed out of the rocks by magma-heated water – green, orange and purple caused by ferrous salts, antimony and manganese oxide respectively. All this thermal activity was associated with volcanic eruptions dating back 160,000 years. I read about the science in the “Thermal Wonderland” brochure but understood why for the Maori it had such spiritual significance.
New Zealand’s volcanoes are mostly clustered in the North Island – with the active ones in a line from the Bay of Plenty to just south of Lake Taupo. The Maori voyagers saw the volcanoes as being connected. They are in fact along the boundary where the Pacific plate meets and is sliding under the Indo-Australian plate. The legend explaining the volcanoes is again part of the legend of the fire goddesses. Their brother Ngatoro-i-Rangi, a medicine man, decided to climb Mount Tongariro with his slave Auruhoe to survey his newly won lands. He commanded his followers not to eat while he was away in order to give him strength on the cold mountain. They did not follow his orders however and broke their fast. Ngatoro and Auruhoe felt the freezing cold and he prayed to his sisters in Hawaiiki. As we know, they sent fire to help him which eventually burst through the summits of the mountains creating the volcanoes of Tongariro, Ngaruhoe and Ruapehu. The heat came too late to save Auruhoe and Ngatoro gave her body to the fire in the crater. Thus Ngauruhoe got its name – also known as Mount Doom to all Lord of the Rings fans.
These volcanoes are far from dormant and we were unable to complete the full Tongariro Crossing or climb up to the summit ridge overlooking the crater lake of Mount Ruapehu. In August and November of 2012 there were eruptions in the Te Maari crater on Tongariro. It had been dormant for 100 years. When I was there, gas plumes were visible from a new hole in the mountain. Ruapehu’s 1953 eruption caused 340,000 cubic metres of water to pour down the valley. This lahar smashed the main railway bridge at Tangiwai on Xmas Eve causing the death of 151 people. The National Park has come up with several ideas as to how to prevent the same thing happening but these have all been vetoed by the Maori people who own the land and do not wish to interfere with the animus/life force of the volcanoes. For now the crater lake is carefully monitored and due to recent activity, we were kept away from it. Signs warning people of the dangers of an eruption are placed in strategic places in the Whakapapa ski field which is directly underneath Ruapehu. In 1995 when there was a full scale eruption, there were hundreds of skiers on the mountain.
Given the powerful forces which are part of everyday life on both North and South Island it is perhaps not surprising that New Zealanders enjoy living life to the full and why Maori legends reflect their deep belief in the life-force of all things.
If you want to see my NZ photos, go to this site: https://picasaweb.google.com/112780009095358904804/2013NewZealand
I reached the top of a small rise in the midday heat and looked down. There before me was the first cluster of stone jars at site 1, Thong Hai Hin. An enormous 10 foot giant stood king-like over the lesser jars. Some were lolling in drunken poses or had sunk into the earth becoming small flower gardens. Lichen patterns covered the stone, green water festered inside their bellies and holes punctured some of the thick granite walls. Then I noticed it – mimicking the circular shape of the jars’ openings – a huge grassy crater with a small notice on its rim in Lao then English: “Bomb craters during war in 1964-1973.”
When I read about the hundreds of prehistoric jars scattered over the Xieng Khouang Plateau in Laos, strategically placed on high ground overlooking the valleys, I was determined to visit the sites. The stone jars were estimated to have been hewn between 500 BC and 800 AD and to have been used in funerary rites but very little was known about the people who made them or how the stone was transported. The mystery surrounding the jars appealed to my imagination but little did I realise what was in store for me when I set out on the death-defying mini-bus journey to the main town closest to the sites.
After a sickening 7 hour cork screw ride from Luang Prabang, I found accommodation in the “wild west” town of Phonsavanh. With a couple of hours to spare before eating, I walked down the wind-swept main street and wandered casually into the visitor information centre of MAG (Mines Advisory Group). It was there that I experienced yet again the shame of my ignorance of Asian history in the 20th century. I had been in Laos for a fortnight but knew nothing of the “banality of evil” meted out by the USA during their Secret War in Laos. Between 1964 and 1973 the US dropped more than 2 million tons of ordnance on Laos – the weight of 500,000 Asian elephants. They carried out 580,000 bombing missions which equates to a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day for 9 years. This makes Laos the most heavily bombed country per capita in history but the outside world knew nothing of it and the US government denied all knowledge of its operations. Even Congress was kept in the dark.
A farmer described his life before the bombings began;
” In my family there were 13 people – each one happy and content because the area was so bountiful and beautiful. In the evening, one could see the animals returning to their pens in a great unbroken herd after a day of searching for grass. When I would see that, I would feel content because these animals were my heart.”
As Nixon’s policy of “kill all, destroy all and burn all” was turning the Plain of Jars into a wasteland, the 200,000 people who lived there had no idea who was bombing them or why. A Laos woman reported,
“I saw my cousin died in the field of death…I saw life and death for the people on account of the war of many air planes in the region of Xieng Khouang until there were no houses at all. And the cows and the buffaloes were dead. Until everything was levelled and you could see only the red, red ground. I think of this time and still I am afraid.”
The list of weapons used by US airmen from their bases in Thailand and South Vietnam defies belief – napalm, white phosphorous, fragmentation bombs, cluster bombs, steel-arrowed flechette bombs (these cause more damage to the flesh when pulled out than when they enter the body), fibreglass pellets ( designed not to show up on x rays) and tele guided missiles. Pilots returning to Thailand from Vietnam would dump their bombs on Laos villages rather than follow more time-consuming landing protocol needed if they had weapons on board. After 1968 when Lyndon Johnson stopped the bombing of North Vietnam, the planes were diverted to Laos and the bombing intensified. When questioned later about this he replied,
“Well, we had all those planes sitting around and just couldn’t let them stay there with nothing to do.”
It was Nixon’s policy of “removing the water from the fish” which meant separating the people from the revolutionary forces (Pathet Lao), that gradually revealed the truth. 20,000 refugees were placed in camps in the capital Vientiane and American journalists started to interview them. All spoke about the bombings and their stories were horrific. They had lived like animals in caves and holes in the ground for years. Thousands of civilians had been killed or injured and their way of life had been totally destroyed. The American historian Alfred MCoy concluded,
” We destroyed a small medieval civilisation. The Lao Theung civilisation of the Plain of Jars. We wiped it off the face of the planet.”
The history from 1964 to 1973 is only part of the story as I found out in the MAG office. Of the 2 million tons of ordnance that was dropped during the Secret War, 30% of it did not detonate leaving one third of Laos still contaminated. Today and every day since the end of the war, one person has been killed by UXO (unexploded ordnance) in the province of Xieng Khouang. Cluster bombs, know as “bombies” by the locals, are small tennis ball sized bombs. When one explodes, it sends out 30 steel pellet-like bullets, killing everything in a 20 metre radius. One cluster bomb contains 670 of these bombies. Millions of them are still in the earth, in trees or logs. 40% of accidents happen to children who mistake them for balls and play with them. Others are tempted to sell ordnance for scrap metal and are killed or injured in the process. On a board in the MAG office were recorded the number of casualties each month from UXO. There was a list of about 12 people for the month of November 2012 giving their occupation, age and information about the accidents. The majority of adults were farmers who had suffered injuries hoeing or planting rice in their fields. Some had lost a limb or were blinded. The children had mainly suffered upper body injuries. Getting treatment for these injuries is not easy in the rural areas because hospitals are far away and treatment can cost up to $200 – the annual per capita income for a rural family. 50,000 people were killed or injured as a result of UXO accidents between 1964 and 2008.
I learnt of a farmer who had lost his sight when a wood fire exploded as a “bombie” had been buried in a log 40 years previously. He was not able to look after his family and his wife had to work in the fields. He was constantly worried that she may unwittingly hit UXO. This is a constant fear for all people living in the areas bombed by the USA. It also limits the country’s long-term development preventing people from developing the land and accessing basic services. I tried to imagine living my life constantly worried about cluster bombs – every time I went out to work, to do the shopping or went for a walk I might be blown up or badly injured. My children would be at risk as well every time they went out. The reality of the situation was brought home when I visited the main sites of the Plain of Jars. There were notices everywhere stating that visitors could only walk between the MAG white and red markers showing the safe areas.
Between 2004 and 2005 MAG in collaboration with UNESCO and NZAID cleared the Plain of Jars sites 1, 2 and 3 to encourage tourism in the area. MAG works closely with local communities and local government so that they can implement “primary development action” on the land they clear. They also train local staff including women to undertake clearance work. This organisation is doing wonderful work but it will take another 100 years to clear Loas of UXO at the current rate of clearance. Between 1996 and 2012 the US contributed $2.6 million per year for clearance which sounds generous until we remember that they spent $17 million per day for 9 years on bombing Laos.
Staying only on worn footpaths was wearying but brought home the constant daily danger facing the inhabitants of Xieng Khuang Province. I enjoyed visiting the three sites and saw hundreds of the stone jars. Cremated remains found in the jars suggest that they were funerary urns used over 2,000 years ago. It is incredible that so many of them remain intact despite the bombing. Their initial purpose is ironically fitting given the later tragic history of the Plain of Jars.
When I met up with Adisack, a Laotian friend in Vientiane, I was still upset and indignant at what I had learnt about the Secret War.
“It is terrible,” I said heatedly,” that it is going to take another 100 years to clear the UXO from the Plain of Jars. Think of all the people who are going to be killed or maimed in that time. Surely more needs to be done now.”
“Ah,” he replied quietly, ” you can tell you are a newcomer to Laos.”
The following links give more information about these issues:
- youtube – The Most Secret Place on Earth (the CIA’s covert war)
- Voices from the Plain of Jars by Fred Branfman
To see my photos of Laos follow this link: https://picasaweb.google.com/112780009095358904804/2013Laos
Like taxi drivers in the West, the SE Asian tuk tuk drivers are eager to chat and are a mine of information.
Bhoun in Battambang enlightened me about the Cambodian education system which he had experienced first hand.
“Why” I asked him “do so many schools seem to be closed or have lots of children playing outside the classrooms every time we go past one?”
“Because of corruption.” His answer was simple. Then he got very animated telling me about the various scams teachers get up to. Here are some he told me about.
- They let the pupils go home early so that they can then charge high rates for extra lessons.
- If you can afford to pay, you get a copy of the exam paper answers. This ensures you get a better job. The poor don’t get their papers marked fairly even if they have the right answers.
- At school, the teacher used to sell her cakes which were more expensive than those outside the school. Those who did not buy the cakes got lower marks.
- Poor children who were late for school were made to stand on a board for an hour. They had long journeys to get to school and had been up early doing their jobs before leaving. Wealthier children who were late were not punished.
- Teachers used children to harvest their rice crops during school time.
This was enough to make me realise why he was so angry about his schooling. But it’s not the whole picture. Cambodian teachers earn about $20 a month and they are not paid regularly. To top up their salaries they charge “informal fees” which stops poorer children being sent to school. Most teachers have not even completed secondary school so the quality of education is poor.
Of course, there are private schools where one can pay for a better education but this is way beyond the pockets of most people. With only 1.6% of GDP spent on education, one wonders what the future holds for the ever growing population. It also makes me hesitate before criticising the education system back home.
In the photo Bhoun was explaining to me how to make sticky bamboo rice. He would make an excellent teacher.
In Phnom Penh I learnt more about the madness of the Khmer Rouge and I wanted to know how people who had survived had been affected. I asked my tuk tuk driver about his parent’s experience.
“They used to have a big house in Phnom Penh but then of course they had to leave with everyone else on April 17th 1975, the beginning of Year Zero.”
His whole family were forced to walk over 148 kilometres to the countryside around Kampot. City people were seen as the “new people” and Phnom Penh as” the great prostitute of the Mekong” and therefore it had to be evacuated. His mother survived the horrors but refused to go back to Phnom Penh to reclaim her house. She was afraid that the same thing could happen again. Her son, my tuk tuk driver, was saving up to try to move to Australia as he saw no future for his family in Cambodia.
In Siem Reap, near Angkor Wat, Naga my tuk tuk driver was very well educated and had taught English for a few years. However he could make better money being a tuk tuk driver but he still didn’t have enough to afford a bride.
“You have to pay a dowry to the bride’s family,” he explained. “This can be very expensive, let’s say about $5000 to $10,000.”
It’s hardly surprising that you often see the slogan, “no money no honey” blazoned on the tuk tuk.
Another driver I had in Siem Reap had very little English so we communicated by sign language. One Saturday I wanted to get visit Phnom Krom, a 9th century temple out near the Tonle Sap lake. I knew he had children and so I suggested that they came along for the ride. The three of them made my day. They all bounced up the hill to see the temple with me and made sure that I was alright. The little three year old girl had no problems keeping up with her brothers but when strangers approached she quickly took hold of my hand. When they were questioned about their motives by the attendants, they just pointed at me.
PART 1 Lunar New Year 1200
We sang as we paddled our wooden boats along the waterways from our village near the Western Baray, competing with the excited shrieks and laughter of our children. It felt good to be doing something pleasurable with the women but it was a pity that our husbands were not there to enjoy the outing. They were all away working by royal command. Naga, my husband, was building hospitals in various parts of the kingdom and we hadn’t seen him for months. Although there were mutterings of discontent as to the extent of the Deva Raja’s building programme, most of us understood the need for a strong Khmer empire in order to keep out the foreign invaders.
As we approached the mighty temple of the late King Suryavarman II, we all fell silent. The golden conical shaped towers of Angkor Wat shimmering in the late afternoon sun dazzled us. We jostled for position to enter the South gate along with hundreds of other Kmers from far and near who were also going to the New Year celebrations. Soldiers in their long boats were checking everyone which made things worse. One even joked that he would throw the children to the crocodiles if we didn’t stop their moaning.
At last, we entered the city of Angkor Thom. What a sight to behold. Decorated wooden buildings stretched as far as the eye could see and above them rose the golden spires of the temples and palace. Crowds of people were making their way on foot or by water to the terraced area outside the palace. I bought some sweet sticky rice for the children from one of the myriad of food stalls along the way and threw some coins to a group of musicians. At last I got my first glimpse of Bayon, the king’s new state temple. It was so different from Angkor Wat but equally awe inspiring. Golden faces smiled down upon us from several stone towers, their red lips and precious gems sparkling in the dying rays of the sun.
“They look just like the Deva Raja himself” shouted my neighbour.
” If this new Buddhist religion inspires such kind faces, I’m all for it,” I replied.
I moored the boat once we got to the Terrace of the Elephants and walked with the children along the canals until we had a better view point. The huge platform on the backs of carved lotus eating elephants was decorated with lanterns and flowers. Beautiful young dancers in fine silk sampots and glittering jewels entertained the crowds. I used to practice the Apsara hand gestures when I was young and had a secret wish to become a dancer. “Dream on,” my mother used to say.
Once darkness had fallen an air of expectancy gripped the crowd. Drums, gongs and cymbals announced the king’s arrival and the sight of him on his war elephant was spectacular. He wore a red sarong with a wicker breastplate and Garuda headdress. Sitting high in his golden howdah on silk cushions, I noticed that he had one leg tucked under him. Perhaps the rumours were true about his leprosy but he is an old man now and has fought in many battles. This New Year celebration could be his last. Loud cheers rose from the crowd as he moved slowly centre stage. The royal family,dignitaries and foreign emissaries all offered him a sompiah as he passed. About the length of four long boats away from him was a scaffold in the shape of a stupa. It was covered in rockets and fireworks from China. I had never seen them before and had no idea what to expect. The king held up his hand and slaves lit the fuses with flaming torches. There was a pause and then the explosions began. They shook the ground so fiercely I thought I might lose my balance. My two children buried their heads in my sarong blocking their ears and crying. I remember looking up to see the reflection of the fire rockets in the golden towers of the Phimeanakas temple. It seemed as if the city was under attack and ablaze.
PART 2 January 1860
I was lucky enough this time to get the backing of an English organisation, the Royal Geographic Society, for my explorations in Indochina. The French government I am afraid to say showed no interest in my work. This second expedition is proving to be more about buildings than botany however so I hope they won’t object.
I have been following up various reports and documents about the ruins of an ancient civilization in Cambodia. Horse back seems to be the best way of getting around such a vast area and I have already recorded and sketched some of the incredible ruined temples and cities I have come across. Today I am riding out into the jungle again with a few natives who speak of a huge temple inhabited by Buddhist monks. It is January and the weather is scorching. I only hope we don’t have to hack our own paths.
As we emerged from the jungle on a small dusty path, there before me lay a sight of awe inspiring beauty.
“At the sight of this temple one feels one’s spirit crushed, one’s imagination surpassed. You look, admire and respect. One is silent. For where are the words to praise a work of art that has no equal anywhere in the world?”
Full of excitement and wonder I began to explore and make some sketches. I can’t believe the perfect balance and proportions of this vast temple. The architect was a genius. I suppose that it was built about the same time as the Roman empire and it certainly rivals anything built by them or the Greeks . What has become of the race who built it? Where are these civilized and enlightened people now? Surely these simple monks are not their descendants. The present nation is barbaric and unenlightened and certainly knows nothing of the gods who built this temple.
Sketches of Angkor Wat by Henri Mouhot
Part3 December 2012
I sat at the top of one of the 12th century temples of the Preah Pithu group about a kilometre from the busy tourist magnet of the Bayon. I was completely alone. Cicadas had set up a monotonous high-pitched chorus and palm leaves rustled in the breeze. The jungle pressed in close eager to devour the temples. Pieces of carved stone lay everywhere, neglected and broken – silent witnesses to nine hundred years of Khmer history. Anywhere else these temples alone would be worthy of conservation and heritage status but here in Angkor Thom they are not even on the tourist route.
With over three million tourists a year passing through Angkor Wat, the pressure on the monuments is huge. Most are processed sausage-like through the temples – Angkor Wat, the Bayon and Ta Prohm by lunchtime. I was lucky enough to have the time to do it slowly and over several days. There were times when the temples were crowded out but I just found a quiet place to sit and waited for them to move on. Tourist watching also made for good entertainment if one was in a forgiving mood. Risking broad generalisations, I found the Chinese as loud as ever (remember I had been living there for a year) totally destroying the atmosphere of mystery and wonder at Ta Prohm. They never tired of finding a new pose for every piece of stone or carving. Huge groups of Japanese in identical hats stopped for no one as they followed their tour guides like automatons. The Indians had expensive pieces of equipment and walked through the temples with the video lens glued to their face.
Many of the larger temples are not so much in a state of ruin as a state of repair. Since the end of the Khmer Rouge, the race is on to try to preserve them.Huge cranes and cohorts of workers are on site carrying out restoration work. Foreign experts, particularly the French who now claim Henri Mouhot as their own, are overseeing restoration work and training the Cambodians in specialist preservation techniques. Given that there are over 1,000 temples on a site covering 390 square miles, there is plenty of work to keep them busy for a long time to come.
Pitch black. I inch my way forward. Clay walls tighten around me and trigger my fear – claustrophobia. I’m forced to crouch down and shuffle along. Sweat stings my eyes. I want to retreat but I can’t turn round. I must go on. I try to control my breathing. My muscles ache. Then I see light and relief sweeps through me. I’m at the end of the tunnel.
I had only been in the Cu Chi tunnel for about 3 to 4 minutes and probably only covered about 50 metres, yet it seemed like hours. How was it possible that thousands of Viet Cong had managed to live underground in these tunnels for more than 10 years? The answer was simply that they had to. It was a poor, peasant army faced with high-tech weaponry, helicopters, bombs and chemicals. The history of the tunnels is symbolic of the Vietnamese struggle against oppressors throughout its history – determined, inventive, daring, resilient and patient. The US only needed to read the history of past struggles against the Chinese, Kublai Khan, the French and the Japanese to understand this.
In the 1960’s the tunnels – 250 kms of them, stretched from HCMC (Saigon) to the Cambodian border. They enabled the Viet Cong to communicate with other VC controlled areas and to plan attacks such as those on Saigon and the Tet offensive in 1968. Wandering around the Cu Chi area, we learnt that the tunnels were several storeys deep with trap doors, living areas, storage areas, kitchens, weapons factories and command centres. Fake ant hills concealed air holes, trap doors were camouflaged with leaves and logs and underwater entrances were built in rivers. There were even tunnel networks underneath the US military base at Dong Du and in US fortified encampments. This allowed the VC to mount surprise attacks and then to melt away without trace.
Once the US realised that the tunnels were so extensive, they carpet bombed the area. 420 km2 was turned into “the most bombed, shelled, gasses, defoliated and generally devastated area in the history of warfare.” The US “tunnel rats” were brave men but the toll on the VC was enormous. Of the 16,000 cadres employed in the tunnels only 6,000 survived the war and thousands of civilians were killed.
” How do you find living in Vietnam, as an American?” I asked a photographer who had lived there for 13 years. He said that he was nervous to begin with with but that he had never had anyone use it against him. “Once, I was taking some photographs near a village and an old couple showed me a cage next to their home. It was where they had both been tortured by US soldiers. They smiled as they showed me around and never once indicated any hostility towards me.”
Most modern Vietnamese just want to get on with their lives and support their families. Their wars are past history and they seem to be very forgiving.
With a 3451 km coastline and two major river deltas – the Red River and the Mekong – it was not difficult to get to water. Cycling the small dusty tracks of the Mekong Delta was a delight with children rushing out to greet us with cries of “hello hello!” All of life was lived on or near the water but flooding is becoming a real threat as deforestation in Cambodia is affecting the delicate balance of the Mekong River.
Tall poles adorned with pineapples, melons, potatoes and turnips advertised what was on sale on each boat in the Cai Rang floating market. It was early morning and I needed a coffee. I spotted a coffee seller in her boat and she swiftly drew up along side us and served me – coffee with condensed milk.
The amphibious nature of some communities was even more obvious in Bai Tu Long Bay – the area of the famous karst formations in the Gulf of Tonkin. Whole villages live on the sea in floating houses complete with schools and shops. Each house had at least one guard dog which looked after the children when the parents were out fishing.
Swimming in the warm, clear seas off Phu Quoc island in the Gulf of Thailand was idyllic but not for much longer. The international airport and tax free zone, complete with casinos and 5 star hotels, will soon spoil that.
A barrage of motorbikes surges towards me as I tentatively try crossing the road. I retreat and cover my face, gasping for some clean air. I watch in awe as the drivers weave and wend their way through the mass of motorbikes. One driver is sporting a genuine looking American war helmet complete with an embroidered US eagle on the back. Drivers have to wear a helmet but not the other passengers. Babies, children and adults ride pillion without protection. Having run the gauntlet of a million bikes I think I’m safe on the pavement again. Not so. Several motorbikes use the pavement as a short cut without slowing down, missing me by a hair’s breadth. This is Ho Chi Minh City – vibrant, energetic and polluted.
The burnt out shell of an imperial building stands stark in the midday sun. It is difficult to imagine Hue’s Forbidden Purple City in its heyday. Built in 1802, it was the palace of the Nguyen emperors. Only 20 of its 148 buildings remain – all badly damaged by bombings and fire. First the French in 1885 stormed the palace, burnt the library and looted everything of value. Then the Americans, in 1968, used napalm on the imperial city and destroyed the town of Hue.
“We had to destroy the town in order to save it,” remarked one US officer. This was part of the Tet offensive in which over 10,000 people died in Hue.
I wander around the overgrown ruins of palaces and temples in the Imperial enclosure until I come across the queen mother’s residence. I take refuge from the heat in her pleasure pavilion built over a lily pond. Eunuchs serve tea to the queen mother and her birthday guests. Music floats through the air and fish splash in the pond. The image fades, like a Vietnamese silk painting with illusive figures and washed out colours, consumed by fire.
You can see more of my Vietnamese photos on https://picasaweb.google.com/112780009095358904804/VietnamNov2012