The Heart of Darkness

Warning:  Sensitive content and graphic pictures.  If you let your kids read this, be prepared for a difficult conversation about the cruel injustices of the world.


The hot air, heavy with exhaust fumes and the occasional aroma of inept sewers violates my senses as Jenny and I walk down the narrow, crowded streets of Phenom Penh.  This neighborhood appears like many others in the Capital City of Cambodia; motorbikes jockey for position with the steady blare of horns, women sit lazily under makeshift tarp shelters, swatting flies and selling noodles, small portions of BBQ meat, and every sundry of textiles imaginable.  Mangy dogs, nipples dragging on the ground,  roam the dusty streets, searching for a handout or a scrap of chicken bone tossed aside.  The mood is cheerful and relaxed,  underemployed tuk tuk drivers smoke, smile easy and laughingly joke each other under the shade of tall mango trees.  The hint of violence seems thousands of miles away and I struggle to wrap my head around the atrocities that have occurred in this country during my lifetime.  Forboding coils of rusting razor wire atop walls of crumbling concrete announce our arrival at Chao Ponhea Yat High School, more notoriously known as Security Prison 21 of the Khmer Rouge.

In April 1975, Communist Khmer Rouge soldiers marched through the streets of Phenom Penh, marking their victory against the American backed Republican Government of Lon Nol.  Although this pronounced an end to a savage five years of bloody civil war,  it also marked the beginning of one of the most barbarous periods of inhuman and merciless ethnic cleansing the world has ever known.

Pol Pot, the ruthless leader of the Khmer Rouge envisioned a new Kampuchea, a pure agrarian society free of the poisonous influence of capitalism and westerner corruption.  To accomplish his goal, the Khmer completely evacuated the capital, forcing men and women, young and infirm to walk for days to forced labor camps spread throughout the countryside.  At first, former government employees and soldiers were systematically executed for simply ending up on the wrong side of the victory line.  As the deranged paranoia of the Khmer Rouge grew, academics, doctors, teachers, students, monks, and factory workers; anyone seen as a threat to the Khmer were arrested and taken to prison camps such as the notorious S-21.  Prisoners at Tuol Sleng were methodically tortured until they confessed to being agents of the CIA, KGB or spies for Vietnam and wrote forced confessions detailing their crimes against the Khmer.  Despite their innocence, the accused admitted to all charges, often indicting family members, neighbors, co-workers and friends who were in-turn arrested and routinely executed.  The Khmer lived by the moto, To kill the grass, you must remove even the roots.  Entire families were erased to eliminate the prospect that one member might someday seek revenge.

As I walk the halls of this former school with classrooms converted into tiny cells, barred windows and blood stained floors, the muted echoes of the screaming horrors that occurred in this place pierce the stoic silence of visitors.  I look out on the well kept courtyard at the pull-up bars and climbing apparatus  that the Khmer converted into gallows and think of the young people who once honed their young bodies here under the hot Cambodian sun.  The tragic irony that a school, an institution of hope and  ambition was turned into a place of repressive suffering sickens my soul to its core and makes me wonder how this atrocity occurred here not so long ago.

For the first years of S-21's existence, the cadres buried their victim's bodies near the prison, but by the end of 1976 the genocide had reached hysteric levels and they were simply running out of room to dispose of the dead.  Just one of over one hundred and fifty mass extermination centers that litter the countryside of Cambodia, Choeng Ek tells the story of a revolution turned to paranoia.  After securing the forced confessions of the innocent at S-21, prisoners were loaded on trucks and driven 15 km out of the city to a quite countryside site of an old Chinese graveyard.  Blindfolded, they were forced to kneel at the edge of huge pits where the were hacked, bludgeoned, or stabbed to death by guards; bullets being expensive and in short supply.  The bodies were dumped into mass unmarked graves and buried without ceremony.  An estimated 20,000 people walked through the doors of Tuol Sleng Prison; twelve left  with their lives when the Vietnamese liberated Cambodia from the Khmer in 1979.  During the reign of the Khmer Rouge, over 2,000,000 Cambodians were executed, a full quarter of this country's population.  An entire generation of people were lost to this senseless destruction.

As I stand before the memorial to the slain, a towering Buddhist Pagoda, filled with the remains of those exhumed from the graves of Choeng Ek, I can't help but wonder what sinister evil lurks at the edge of humanity that allows men to dehumanize each other to the point that they could systematically beat, rape and exterminate their countrymen in the name of political ideology.  Visiting places like these shakes my faith in humanity to the core and leaves me wondering where our world is headed.  I like to think that mankind is learning, moving forward in peace, but recent genocidal violence in Armenia, Rwanda, Sudan, Afghanistan and presently in Syria and Burma points to the contrary.

It troubles me when I don't know answers, when I can't rationalize things that I see in a way that makes sense, when I feel like there is little justice in the world. The truth is that some actions of men are beyond explanation, and seeking understanding of the indiscernible will leave one more confabulated than when he began.  Edmund Burke once said, All it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing, and his words help me untangle the mess of emotions inside my head.  Lines of right and wrong however, are sometimes gray and I can't say what I might have said or done had the Khmer pulled my fingernails out with pliers, poured boiling water on my face, or skinned me alive.  I like to think that I would stand tall, suffer well and protect the ones that I love, but I don't know that for sure.  I  hope to never find out.

I find solace that in this year of travel, I have found that there are more people in this world who stand for peace, justice and kindness than there are that would see the world a dark place of fear, pain and suffering.  I will stand with those people in my days here, work to make those ideals a reality and pray that I will always find myself on the right side of the line, and more importantly, able to look myself in the mirror at the end of each day.

Kloshe konaway
Kloshe nanitch

Matt

A peaceful and clean courtyard betrays the horrors that once occurred at Cho Ponhea High School, more infamously know as Security Prison-21.

    

The Vietnamese discovered the horror of S-21 by following the stench of decomposing bodies.  Photographs of what they discovered haunt the walls of the prison today.

Students used this apparatus to ascend ropes, honing their young bodies.  The Khmer turned it into and instument of torture. 

The Khmer Rouge was meticulous as it was ruthless.  Every man, woman and child who entered the gates of S-21 were measured, weighed and photographed.  Thousands of ghostly nameless faces canvas the halls of the former prison.

Forbidden City

Jenny and I stand outside the imposing brick walls of the Imperial city Kinh thanh Hue, the former capital of  Vietnam and the home of the Nguyen Dynasty, the last ruling Emperor Family of the country.  We have just been scolded in Vietnamese for attempting to enter through the exit gate and are having a little difficulty understanding the guard spitting directions of where we're to go.  As hard as I try to blend in, redheaded, soaked in sweat, holding a map in one hand and the Lonely Planet in the other, I scream Western Tourist!!! like a beacon on a dark night.  Standing still for more than ten seconds invites the zealous haggle of cyclo drivers.  A stout Vietnamese man, with a broad smile and a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth approaches.   

Hello, where you from?  Cyclo one hour, I show you all of the city.  You buy from me.  Where you go?  I take you!

I respond that we are American and politely decline the offer, telling the driver that we are exploring by foot and prefer to walk, but with this interaction his bid only becomes more zealous.

Very cheap, five dollars one hour.  You hire one hour I show all city, take you back to hotel.  

No thank you mate, I again respond with calm; I feel Jenny's irritation meter maxing out as she tries to orient us by unfamiliar landmarks and strange street signs to the entrance of the ancient high walled city.  

Why you no help me?  I very poor.  I have many children very hungry. You hire me, very good tour.  You rich American, I poor Vietnamese, you help me.  Five dollars, one hour, I show you whole city, we go now!  He smiles, as if expecting his doggedness will wear on my endurance and I will eventually give in; I suspect that his strategy has been effective in the past.

I begin to calmly, yet sternly decline his offer again, but after weeks in Vietnam and the nearly constant stream of people trying to hawk you things that you neither need or want, the hot sun beating down on our heads, and just trying to concentrate for minute,  Jenny has had it and interrupts.

Look, it isn't about you!  We just want to walk and we have said no more than once. Please leave us alone!

The intensity is one I recognize from the few times Jenny has been really pissed at me, and our would-be tour guide has obviously heard the tone in the past.  He snarls something unpleasant quietly in Vietnamese, turns and leaves.  Jenny and I quickly depart and find the entrance gate to the palace, pay our 50,000 dong ($2.50) and enter the ancient city among hoards of Western, Chinese, and wealthy Vietnamese Tourists, free from the haggle of street vendors.

The Imperial City was largely destroyed in the Tet Offensive of 1968 and as we walk through what remains of the the intricately designed structures built with elaborate lacquered beams, sweeping roof lines, golden thrones, and ornate ceramic mosaic walls,  I can't stop thinking about our interaction with the cyclo driver and the how the function of these massive brick walls hasn't changed much in last two hundred years.  Just  as they once separated the elite ruling class of Vietnam from the lowly commoners outside, they now allow Jenny and me, elite American tourists, to be away from the hassle and harsh realities of life in Vietnam, even if just for a moment.

Vietnam is a quickly changing place, but make no mistake, it is still a country emerging from the third world.  Despite the fact the even the poorest people have cell phones, flash cars like BMW's and Mercedes are not an uncommon sight, and Wifi is better than the U.S.,  the economic portrait for most Vietnamese people isn't very rosy.  With a per capita GDP of less than $2,000 USD, I likely carry more money in my pocket than most people earn in a month.  When a cyclo driver pleads I am poor, my children our hungry, why don't you help me, it may be a well-delivered emotional plea to help separate from me from some of my money, but it is also the truth.  If I were in his shoes I would likely be saying and doing the same thing.

I  also carry a burden of knowing that my county dropped over 7 million tons of bombs on this land during the Vietnam conflict, and that the people who suffered the most never picked up a gun and were far to poor to tell the difference between a capitalist and communist government.  When bombs quit falling, thirty years of economic isolation stepped in to finish the job.  Things are improving in Vietnam, but with a population of 90 million, and an economy largely dependent upon tourist dollars, there just isn't enough to go around.

Traveling the world is meant to challenge you, make you feel uncomfortable, and question your beliefs and ideals.  Long have I preached the virtues of simplistic living, shrinking your footprint and rejecting the materialism that is harmful to both our souls and the planet we live on.  Being in Vietnam has made me realize though that sometime things are not all that black and white.  Values get compromised, hopefully for right reasons.  

In a few I'm weeks coming home with a backpack of shit that I really don't need;  trinkets, t-shirts and some good handmade clothes.  Before I leave this country that I have grown very fond of, I am also going to hire a cyclo driver and let him pedal me around a city that I would rather walk, hell I might just pay him to let me drive, but he'll make some money on the deal.  At the end of the day, I guess I decided that best way my visit to Vietnam could have a net positive impact on the people who need it the most is to spend a few more of my greenbacks than I might have originally intended.  I haven't abandoned my belief that consuming less is the only path for a peaceful and sustainable future, I just realize that sometimes it's more important to make someones life better today than stand on my soapbox of minimalist austerity and hold tight to my money, especially when a guy who desperately tries to sell bicycle rides all day for a living puts his kids to bed at night with an empty stomach.  

Kloshe konaway
Kloshe nanitch

Matt

The Imperial City of Hue, built by the last Emperor Family of Vietnam was almost completely destroyed during the Test Offensive of 1968.  Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993, the Vietnamese Government is slowly restoring the city to it's former glory.

The former combat base of  Khe Sanh is now little more than a barren strip of land with a few bunkers and and captured US military hardware.  There is however, and interesting museum that explains the significance of the battle of Khe Sanh in the Vietnam War.  Just a few kilometers south of the the Demilitarized Zone and near the the Laos boarder,  Khe Sanh was literally smack in the middle of the Ho Chi Mihn Trail, a network of roads and paths that carried arms and supplies into Southern Vietnam, much by bicycle.  Between January and July of 1968 Khe Sanh was under nearly constant ground, artillery, mortar and rocket attacks.  The US responded by dropping over 100,000 tons of bombs on the  area surrounding Khe Sanh, which still scars the landscape today.  Thousands of American and Vietnamese lives were  lost on this chunk of ground that America abandoned shortly after successfully defending the five month siege.  

 The Vihn Moc Tunnels, located just north of the Ben Hai River in the DMZ were built to shelter villagers and solders from some of the heaviest bombing sorties of the Vietnam War.  The 2000 meters of tunnels were dug by hand up to 30 meters under the ground and contained wells, living quarters, kitchens and hospitals.  They are testament to the strength and resilience of the Vietnamese People.

 The City of Hoi An is one of the oldest ports in SE Asia and has a long and rich history of trade and textile manufacturing.  Jenny and I spent a bit of time and money with the nice girls at Shop 41 in the market and got some pretty flash cloths to bring home for the effort.

Orange Matt.

 The City of Nha Trang was a bit of a disappointment with it's high rise hotels and Western & Russian Restaurants.  The Temples and Pagodas were some the best we have seen though.

 Not Portlandia.

 Po Nagar Temple dates back to the year 781 and was originally constructed as a Hindu worship.  Today Vietnamese and Chinese Buddhists come here to pray and make offerings.

Ninh Bihn!

Saturday, May 2nd.  Saigon Hotel.  Ninh Bihn, Vietnam.

Jen and I emerge from the elevator and stand before an overwhelming colossal spread of Vietnamese food on the fifth floor of the Saigon Hotel in the city of Ninh Bihn, Northern Vietnam.  A well dressed Vietnamese woman, the owner of the hotel, proudly shows us to the balcony, where beneath us unfolds a spectacular view.  The Red River snakes through the bustling city alive with the horns of thousands of small motor bikes zipping like bees through its friendly streets.  Beyond the hotels and apartment buildings to the east, huge limestone towers pierce through a sea of green rice paddies skyward into the hazy pink azure of a setting sun.  I can't help but imagine them as the fangs of an ancient dragon sleeping shallowly for thousands of years casting his sweltering, humid breath toward to heavens as a reminder that he may someday wake from his slumber and wreak havoc among the people of this land.    I feel a slight tug on my shoulder and our matriarch host motions us to the table. We are soon joined by a cadre of her close friends and family and the feasting begins.  I look over at Jen, who is blissfully lost in culinary delight.  I smile and think to myself,
How the hell did we end up here?


Wednesday April 30th.  Somewhere between Sapa and Hanoi.

How I went from contentedly reading my book and preparing for a good night sleep to sitting shirtless, pounding beers with a Vietnamese banker in the lower birth of our sleeper car en route to Hanoi from the mountains of  Sapa is still not entirely clear even to me.  More important at this moment however, is that I had made a new best friend, and after getting over the disappointment of learning that we were from Washington State, and not sharing BBQ's with the Obama family, Thuy and I  embraced like newlyweds, linked arms and tipped back another can of cold Han'oi Bia'.

Empties were tossed to the floor and my new crony pointed first at me, then at Jen, next his trusty sober side-kick Thine and lastly himself,  made the gesture of driving a car and authoritatively exclaimed Ninh Bihn!  Although Thuy and Thine's English was nearly as poor as our Vietnamese, I clearly understood that upon arrival at our destination in Hanoi, Thuy wished the four of us to travel in his car one hundred kilometers south to his city of Ninh Bihn.  What would happen when we arrived was far beyond the scope or our limited ability to draw pictures and hand gesture, but I assumed it would involve more beer.

Early in our year-long adventure Jenny and I made the decision to never turn down and invitation for hospitality from any reasonably sane-looking local, as these engagements have borne some of the richest experiences of our journey.  Sadly, in this case we had booked a trip north to Halong Bay the following day and would be unable to accept my new drinking buddy's enthusiastic invitation.  Thuy's disappointment was spread across his visage with a scowl, but soon another beer was cracked open and   our east-meets-west party kicked back into full swing.  Over the next hour an elaborate game of international charades unfolded as more empty beer cans littered the stuffy and increasing loud sleeping cabin of the train.  Several times, Thuy repeated his earlier gestures of driving us all to Ninh Bihn, going as so far to produce a drivers license as if to legitimize his offer.  In the end, we agreed that upon our return to Hanoi from our tour in the north, we would travel by train to Ninh Bihn, where Thuy and I would be happily reunited and recommence our one-for-one beer drinking escapade.  Email and phone numbers were exchanged before Jen sensibly crawled up to the top bunk and announced she was  going to sleep.  Out of beer, Thuy simply laid back on the bed and drifted off to a deep contented sleep. Although morning dawned with sobriety, a small headache, and a little less enthusiasm, Thuy again pointed at at his phone number, Jen and me, and repeated Nihn Binh!  By all accounts, we took it as an invitation.

Back in Hanoi, Jenny and I exchanged our train tickets to Hue for a shorter ride to Nihn Binh, and with the help of Google Translate, shot off an email to my Vietnamese compadre informing him we would arrive at the train station in Nihn Binh shortly after nine pm in a few days time.  Strangely, no response came that day, nor the next.  Armed with a phone number, I asked our hotel concierge to ring our dear friend Thuy to confirm our visit.  Jen and I stood by as our polite host phoned and a short cordial conversation ensued.  Our concierge hung up the phone and through broken English and a big smile,  informed us that Thuy's invitation was extended only as a means to persuade us to visit his beloved city, not to stay with his family.  Awkward moment... hmmm?

While things may have gotten a bit lost in translation, I think it more likely Thuy got home and relayed the story of his drunken escapade with a shirtless and bearded American to his wife; he may have even shown her the selfies he so enthusiastically snapped as we pounded beer arm-in-arm.  I can only imagine what her reaction might have been when he informed her he had invited us to come stay in Nihn Binh, but my guess is that the whole plan got the kibosh in a rather short order.  Like Mark Twain said, Doing sober what we said we would drunk just might make us quit drinking.  In any case Jen and I were proud owners of a pair of train tickets and were on our way to Nihn Binh.

Saturday May 2nd.  Nihn Binh, Vietnam

Good bike, good bike, the hotel owner repeated through smiling teeth stained yellow from a lifetime of chain smoking cheap cigarettes.  I mount the Chinese made single-speed and check both front and rear brakes;  neither are functional.  I point this small shortcoming out to our rental agent and he quickly mounts the bike, assures me no problem, no problem and disappears down the street.  He returns ten minutes later riding one bike and causally steering another that rolls beside him.  He dismounts, happily presents our new and improved transportation and asks for a passport as collateral on the bikes.  I check the other bike over and its brakes are not operable either, but I am anxious to get going so I don't point out the small mechanical deficiency of my two dollar rental.

Off through the back roads of town Jenny and depart, weaving though narrow city streets crowded with vendors selling everything from live ducks to buckets of snails to counterfeit Rolex watches.  Soon we clear the teeming roads, cross the muddy brown waters of the Red River and are cruising through lush fields of rice.  Goats, cows and water buffalo roam free apparently unattended and school children pass us on bikes, smile and yell out Hello, hello!.  Jen and I return an exuberant Xin chao, which always seems to elicit smiles or giggles.

We pass the day exploring the county side and dive into the cover of a restaurant to enjoy cold Han'oi bia' and Vietnamese spring rolls when the skies darken and then open up with a violent downpour.  We sit watching the rain bounce off the pavement and Jen remarks, People just seem friendlier here, don't they?   I don't know if it's because I'm seeing this place through the rose colored glasses that seem to paint my world when I view it from the saddle of a bike, but I must agree that the people of Ninh Bihn seem a bit more affable than their urban neighbors of Hanoi just a couple hours north.

The rain subsides;  Jen and I mount our suspect steeds with sore bums and retrace our path through the country, navigate the maze of narrow urban paths and drop our bikes off late in the late afternoon.  We walk through neighborhoods filled with young families enjoying the coolness the rains have brought to the evening.  A father plays soccer with his child who can barely walk, young children race by on bicycles, say a few phrases in english, giggle and and ride off again.  Elderly men and women sit on short stools contentedly watching the world go by from the curb and stare at Jenny and me with stoic curiosity.  A shallow bow of my head and an a quite Xin Chao seems to surprise them and elicits a warm smile in return.

Soon we find ourselves being followed by a gaggle of curious school children eager to practice their english skills on a couple of nguoi phuong tay (westerners).  One girl boldly runs to my side and touches my arm and then quickly retreats to the security of her snickering friends near the front door of a house.  Remembering that I am ambassador for my country, Jen and I stop and make small talk with the kids, entertaining their questions until language skills limit the extent of their inquiry.  As we continue to our hotel I smile thinking about how these kids' first encounter with an American is likely much different than that of their grandparents.

Jen and I arrive back at the Siagon Hotel and are greeted warmly by the receptionist and the handsome woman who we come to understand owns the hotel.  Although we have just come to retrieve our bags and pay our bill, the owner of the hotel insists we sit and and enjoy a complimentary coffee.  As we relax enjoying dark Vietnamese coffee sweetened with condensed milk, the invitation is extended further to dinner at the hotel's 5th floor restaurant.  I give Jenny a quick wink and we soon find ourselves riding the elevator up to an unexpected feast.

Saturday May 2nd.  Ninh Bihn Rail Station.  

After doing our best to express gratitude to our host, Jen and I shoulder our packs and walk thirty minutes in the dark to the railway station at the heart of town.  The ever-present smell of cigarette smoke permeates the night air as a couple dozen Vietnamese, a few western tourists and a handful of cab drivers wait in the sultry dark for the Reunification Express night train to arrive from Hanoi.  I think about the funny set of circumstances that brought Jenny and I to this out of the way town a bit off the beaten tourist track of Vietnam, and how everything fell into place over the past couple of days.  Although I never reunited with my beer-swiggin' buddy Thuy, and our trip to Ninh Bihn went nothing like we had "planned", I can honestly say that it turned out better and I am still thankful that we took ole' Thuy up on his drunken invitation.

Kloshe konaway

Kloshe nanitch

Matt

Jen and I bought a canned tourist package to Ha Long Bay which has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage sight.  The limestone formations and natural beauty of this area are nothing short of amazing, the pollution however is shocking.  The tourism industry seems to be enjoying unchecked growth and it appears to be a race to the bottom in this game from my point of view.  All I could think of touring around the Bay and Cat Ba Island for a couple days is the plight of the fishermen who were here before tourism and depend on the health of the ecosystem to survive.  They benefit little from the hoards of tourists that spew diesel and human waste into the water, but will be left with the legacy long after the tourist disappear because nobody wants to visit a bay full of rubbish.

 Typical home of the inhabitants of Ha Long Bay.  Entire family live the lives out these tiny floating homes and draw sustenance and a live from the water.

Double windsor tutorial.  This guy was a quick learner and was soon tying knots around the neck of anyone who would stand still long enough to get lassoed! 

Vietnamese Cargo Bike.   These machines are anything but some hip urban trend.  Real transport of goods and services occur via pedal power in Vietnam on a daily basis and provide a vital niche in the economy;  albeit only by people who cannot afford a motorbike and petrol.

 Homeboy is rowing with his feet.

Everything is good when it is battered and deep fried!

 Return of Captain Red Beard.

Nothing like a Vietnamese Lager after a day on a bike in 90/90.  (90 degree F & 90% humidity). 

Nothing like an undersized single speed bike with short cranks to help a sore knee heal up.

You won't see this ride at the Seattle Bike Expo next year, but I guarantee that it has seen more action in the last year that most fancy cargo bikes seen in a lifetime.

The longer I am here the more convinced I am that Vietnam is nearly a perfect place for a bike tour.  Bikes are a integral part of the transpiration culture and widely used on all roads, there is relatively low private car traffic, accommodations are cheap and available and food is out of this world.  I wish I had my bike.