So, I traveled through Vietnam on my bike. This wasn’t a
tourist bike group with van support, it was two girls with panniers and a
map. This was long after the war but
pre-911. The U.S. embargo had just been lifted. Times were simpler, much more
naïve and the country was just opening up.
My travel companion, Deborah had a friend Dynh who lived in
New York though born and raised in Vietnam.
He was to be in Vietnam as the same time we were and graciously invited
us to stay with his family down in the Mekong Delta along with his friend Jeff,
a fellow New Yorker. I wish I could remember the name of the village, but I
don’t. Dynh’s family were lovely and gracious hosts. They fed us well, and I’m
sure it cost them a huge percentage of their wages. I remember thinking if I offered them money
it would be an insult. Those who have little
give everything.
Jeff, Dynh, Deborah and I decided to take a bike ride to the
beach. The ride was about 12 miles, not too bad considering we had were used to
riding 75 plus each day. It was cloudy
which provided coverage from the usual glaring sun and heat. As we neared the beach I saw a sign that said
in English “Do not enter.” It wasn’t small. I assumed they saw it as well (later
they claimed they hadn’t seen it) and I didn’t say anything. In an instant, we
were surrounded and stopped by police cars. They screamed at us in Vietnamese to
follow them to the police station. We
did.
They demanded our passports and placed Dynh in a separate
room. Anyone who has ever traveled knows
to never allow your passport out of your sight.
And by this time in our travels, I realized the commies were nutty about
their borders, so I was very concerned. I did my best to get them to return our
passports and release us. After an hour
or so of trying, and with no help from the others I gave up. Things took a bit of a turn when the police
served us tea and little cookies. They stayed and shared it with us. I started to sing Madonna songs and one of
the officers joined in and soon another and then we had quite a sing along. We
had a jolly little time. Eventually we were released, our passports handed back
to us and told never to commit our transgression again.
Dynh did not have a jolly time. They grilled him severely. Why did he leave the country? Why did he come
back? Over and over again, thinking
they’d be able to catch him in a lie.
Were they just playing with him or did Dynh say just the right thing to
satisfy the police, we don’t know. Nonetheless
we were released. We raced back to the
village.
Days later we were invited to Dynh’s elementary school. There was a reward ceremony for children who
had performed well. All four of us had
honored positions. The ceremony was long but very
sweet. Bao, a 12-year old boy, won the
math prize. He kept smiling at me. me. We exchanged
smiles and when the ceremony was over he came to introduce himself to me. He (of course) spoke English well. We chatted and he told me his mother was a
single parent, his father had passed away several years ago. His mother was kind and so proud of Bao.
When I returned to New York I sent Bao money for a
bicycle. As thanks his sweet mother sent
me a purse and a photo of Bao on the bike.
We kept in touch for a while. I
wonder where he is now? I’m sure doing great things.
I had met a U.S. Vet in Saigon. He married a Vietnamese woman and stayed in
the country, though I’m not sure how that all unfolded. He invited me to come visit him on his farm deep in the
Mekong Delta. I don’t think he had a
phone, but somehow, we made arrangements. Deborah and I made plans to meet up in Saigon, I left Dynh’s family and
traveled alone to the small village. It
must have been about 50 miles away. I
rode my bike on the dirt roads, taking a wooden ferry across a Mekong inlet,
till somehow, I made it. The Vet was
kind and I think he was thirsty for news from the U.S. The entire village greeted me, including one
man who had worked with the U.S. government during the war. This man had been tortured in a re-education
camp. His body was misshapen and his
face was scarred. He seemed so happy to
see me and speak English. I wish I had
spent more time with him. His eyes sought mine for something, I’m not sure
what. Occasionally, I am haunted by him. He was kind and didn’t seem to harbor any bitterness
towards the U.S. I found this over and
over again. People would come up to me
with tears in their eyes and say they hadn’t spoken English in 25 years. Whatever you think about the war, we did a
disservice to those who worked for us when we abandoned them to the Viet Cong. This isn’t a lesson we seemed to have
learned.
However, he and others I met taught me a lesson - one of
forgiveness. Every day I try and learn it.
