Ebb and Flow

by Laura Rankin (United States of America)

Making a local connection Vietnam

“Please, call me River,” our guide instructs us with a knowing smile. He’d correctly assumed his given name, Trường Giang, would trip our Western tongues. He explains that he was born in a rural village beside the Mekong Delta in southern Vietnam, situated among a vast maze of rivers and canals. His father gave him the nickname to serve as a constant reminder of where he came from. I think it suits him quite nicely. We march behind River as he leads us into the verdant jungle. When we reach a clearing, he turns to face us and I notice his eyes, kind and soft and black as deep water. They gleam when he recalls a fond memory yet they contain a conflicting weariness older than his thirty five years. “Please remember what you see here today,” River urges us. He elaborates, as best he can in his second language, on the importance of understanding our history and the danger of what can occur if we don’t learn from the past. We traipse at his heels as River depicts life in the Delta, where soggy swampland surrounds small island villages and wooden fishing boats are the main means of transportation. Floating markets and Khmer pagodas crop up along winding waterways and sodden rice paddies. Just 60 kilometers outside the city center, this tranquil region juxtaposes the bustling chaos of Ho Chi Minh City. It also contradicts the violent history of our destination. We arrive at the site of the Cu Chi tunnels. Today, it’s difficult to imagine the widespread demolition caused by the destructive bombing that took place during the war, when Cu Chi was declared a "Free Target Zone”. During the war, in order to combat well-equipped American and southern Vietnamese forces, Communist guerrilla troops called Viet Cong dug an extensive network of tunnels from hard clay to house soldiers and transport supplies. They also used the tunnels to set traps and execute surprise attacks before slipping back to safety underground. Remnants of the tunnels serve as evidence of the fierce battles that took place here. At its peak, the intricate underground network extended on for 250 kilometers, linking Viet Cong support bases from the outskirts of Saigon all the way to the Cambodian border. Aside from playing a key role during combat operations, it also served as a bomb shelter, housing entire villages during the 1960’s. Civilians lived mainly below ground for years. “Smile, I take photo,” River prompts as I emerge from my own interminable 30-second journey through the confined underpass. I turn my face toward the sky, welcoming the sunlight that warms my nose and cheeks. Smile? I rely on muscle memory and attempt to pull the corners of my mouth upward, but my body feels heavy, as if I’m sinking back into the tunnel from which I’d surfaced. I imagine sixty years ago, when crawling through the somber passage was not a photo opportunity, but a means of survival. I’m jolted back to the present by the sound of an AK-47 firing. My body tenses as I instinctively raise my hands to my ears. Panic sets in for a moment until I realize the source of the sound: tourists are shooting rounds at nearby targets for less than two dollars per bullet. River asks if we’d like to join the line and wait our turn to fire the weapons. I shake my head slowly, unnerved by the evocative tourist attraction. We huddle around River while he carves slices of fresh coconut with a large blade. I stare as he taps the shell with the blunt end to loosen the flesh, then carefully prys the meat away with the sharp edge. I accept my ration. I know it should taste sweet but my mouth is full of cotton as unsettled thoughts consume me once again. Why can’t I remember learning about the war in grade school? Did we even talk about it? Who am I to pose for photos and crawl through black, airless tunnels haunted by memories of the millions who lost their lives in one of the bloodiest and most controversial wars of all time? I am history. Standing, defiant, refusing to repeat itself.