American Plane Down

by Manuela Azancot (Chile)

Making a local connection Vietnam

The bell rang. At last, my class was over. As I made my way down the infinite stare cases that are intrinsic to Vietnamese constructions, I envisaged a bánh mì; a small baguette sandwich that is eaten as a staple food. In Hải Phòng, they are often sold by female elderly street hawkers that wear two-piece flower printed pajamas. Food always seemed to have a soothing effect on me, yet to my disillusion, the famous (or infamous, depending on your stomach's virtue) huckster wasn't there that day. "Manu!" I heard a familiar voice call. "Come join us for some Thuốc lào," he added. In a split second, I thought of all the excuses I could use to ignore his calling, however before I was actually enlightened with a plausible justification, there it was again. "Manu! Over here!" he insisted. I quickly accepted that I'd have to face him sooner than later, therefore right outside the school seemed as innocuous as it could get. As I approached the roadside parlor, I realized this unrelenting and obnoxious being had company. The unknown man smiled at me, deepening the grooves of his crinkled face. His rheumy bloodshot eyes invited me to engage in their peculiar ritual. Just as I sat on my tiny plastic stool, he passed me a bamboo pipe to smoke the aforementioned Thuốc lào. He encouraged me to "feel phe" so I accepted, dithering. I later learned that I had smoked nicotiana leaves and that "phe" referred to the feeling caused by the nicotine rush to the bloodstream. Whilst I took a moment to settle in, they resumed their previous talk. I'm not quite sure how they got to that point in the conversation, but I heard "boom boom, I shot American plane". I looked up and the elder man was mimicking shooting into the air with what I suppose would be a rifle. When I told people I was moving to Vietnam, all they could think of was war, yet up to that moment I hadn't had a single experience related to it. On account of the ubiquitous tributes to Ho Chi Minh, I assumed war formed part of the national identity; therefore, I asked all students about it, but to my disappointment, they shared little interest. I had the bad habit of resorting to academic knowledge, hence I never expected to find answers on the streets. This war veteran repeatedly apologized for his poor English and gloated about speaking Russian; he was a living reminiscence of the cold war. He thereafter explained that back in his days, the latter was the preferred second language "for being non-impire language" and that Russians were "friends that help save Vietnam from invasion". I stopped to deliberate whether I should point out that it was likewise a foreign language, but interrupting his enthusiasm didn't seem right. He stood up to reach for something in his trouser's pocket; a medal for his services. "I shoot and American plane came down" he rejoiced while pointing at his hard-earned token of recognition. His eyes glowed, his voice raised and before he could sit down, he'd stand right back up, like a child bouncing of excitement. This was clearly his favourite part of the story and likely the biggest achievement of his life. I was fully captivated by his elation, thus I had forgotten that work was not over. This relief was soon seized as the bell rang announcing that the return to classes. Break after break, day after day, I looked forward to my encounters with this former Vietcong. He never gave me a lecture (or any facts for that matter) however he told me stories and his personal insights on this historic event. The way he romanticized war was intriguing. All I could think of was its cost and the lack of recognition for those who fought for the reconciliation. Nevertheless, at no time did I hear him complain. He took great pride in both his country's victory "over the empire" and his contribution to it.