2015 - Back to Vietnam and Cambodia

In 2015, Carmel and I purchased a 10 day package tour of Vietnam and Cambodia.

Well before we departed, I purchased an app attempt Conversational Vietnamese. The tones and word order now felt broadly familiar, comparable with other Asian languages – particularly Thai. What struck me immediately was Vietnam’s unique writing system. Unlike Thai or Cambodian, which use their own ancient scripts, Vietnamese is deceptively “Anglo” at first glance, because it uses the Roman alphabet. But then you notice the diacritical marks – small accents, hooks, and squiggles that dance above and below the letters – I appreciated this served as the tonal guide. Each one changes the pitch, inflection, or even the meaning of a word entirely. In effect, it’s Latin script wearing Asian musical notation.

Because my Asian Studies degree had included Linguistics and Mandarin as an elective, I now had some tools to unpack how the syntax "worked". Prior proficiency in French, Indonesian, and Thai had already stretched and “lubricated” the linguistic part of my brain. French helped with pronunciation rules and diacritics, Indonesian trained me in simplicity of structure and clear vowel sounds, while Thai prepared me for the mental gymnastics of tonal shifts. Together, they meant I could at least hear the Vietnamese logic, even if my own attempts at speaking often brought more amusement than comprehension to local listeners.

I arrived in Hanoi with a degree of prejudice towards the "North Vietnamese".

I deemed the officials as surly and non-responsive to my attempts at conversation – albeit there is a significant difference between North and South dialects (see Saigon 1967-68).  

Perhaps they were fed up with the typical el Cheapo western tourist - particularly the yobbo Australian.

Hanoi seemed orderly and more "French Colonial" than what I imagined.
On the whole, the population seemed oblivious to Australia's involvement 1962-72.  From North to South, the locals consistently referred to the war as The American War.

A two day trip to Hua Long Bay overnighting on a Sampan and tour of the local caves was interesting.

Huạ Long Bay offered vistas of lovely emerald waters and thousands of towering limestone islands topped by rainforests (not too sure as to the ecological impact of such tourism).

The evening before departure to Da Nang and transfer to Hoi An, I toured the Hotel Hanoi Hilton (Gatehouse Museum) where the North Vietnamese “hosted” American POWs war (mainly pilots shot down over the north). Most of the prison was demolished, but a part has been kept and transformed into a museum, as one of top Hanoi attractions.

A few kilometres to the south was the village of My Lai (wherein there was the hamlet of My Song).
In March 1968, American troops committed a massacre there. Between 347 and 504 unarmed people were killed by U.S. Army soldiers. Victims included men, women, children, and infants. Some of the women were gang-raped and their bodies mutilated.
I was in Vietnam in this horrible period - being fed the US's "body count" propaganda.
Decades later the singer Melanie Safka came out with a dark hit:
"Look What They Done to my Song".

By converting my song in the lyrics below to My Song, one begins to understand how, in war, combatants are so indocrinated they make morally bad decisions that haunt forever.

Look what they've done to my song, ma

Look at what they've done to my song, ma

It was the only thing I could do half right

And it's turning out all wrong, ma, look

What they've done to my song

Look what they've done to my song, ma

Look what they've done to my song, ma

It was the only thing I could do half right

And it's turning out all wrong, ma

Look what they've done to my song

Look what they've done to my brain, ma

Look at what they've done to my brain

Well, they picked it like a chicken bone

And I think that I'm half insane, ma

Look what they've done to my song

Oh, I wish that I could find a good book to live in

Oh, I wish that I could find a good book

Well, if I could find a real good book

I'd never have to come out and look at

What they've done to my song

Ils ont changé ma chanson, ma

Ils ont changé ma chanson, ma

C'est la seule chose que je peux faire

Et ce n'est pas bon, ma

Ils ont changé ma chanson

But maybe, it'll all be all right, ma

Maybe, it'll all be okay

Well, if the people are buying tears

Then I'm gonna be rich girl some day, ma

Look what they've done to my song

Look what they've done to my song, ma-ma-ma

Look, look what they've done to my song

You know, they tied it up in a plastic bag

And then turned it upside down, oh ma-ma

Look at what they've done

Want to look at what they've done, oh ma-ma

Look what they've done to my song

The decade long "cover up" by the US military cover up was equally shocking.

We were also taken inland to an area that was the source of a religious sect – the name for which I have since forgotten.

Along the way were shown the mounds of earth twisted and contorted due to the effects of B52 bombing.

In 1967-68. I heard the bombs and felt the earth tremble.  But I never did see the devastation to the landscape - unnatural depressions in the terrrain.

 Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon)

Still a shithouse - traffic, noise, gridlock - stinking hot.

Carmel and I excused ourselves from the tour whereupon I showed Carmel, where I worked and lived and pointed out landmarks.

We were located in District One the nerve centre of the South Vietnamese goverment - National Assemby (next door); Presidential Palace; Ministries of Defence -Police-Communications stc;.  Hence we were so exposed to collateral damage caused by Viet Cong attacks aimed at disrupting and even hostile take over.

I became quite animated. I took her to the rooftop of the Hotel Caravelle thinking that I could point out everything geographically – where the 107mm mortars landed; the path of the 122mm rocket barrages; the Hit ‘n Run attacks of the Viet Cong; the skirmishes in and around key strategic locations during the 1968 Tet Offensive including which buildings were damaged by helicopter gunships.

But alas –the site was now built-out.

Photo (above): The top floor was converted to an al fresco restaurant with a designated section commemorating the foreign journalists’ involvement in reporting the War.
At that time, the hotel was the HQ for many syndicated news agencies - even the Australian Broadcasting Commission ABC.

The hotel manager somehow picked up on my excitement.

He made the usual hospitality enquiry.

Unlike Carmel who seemed to be bored shitless, the manager (an Australian) was keenly interested as I repeated myself – I was also able to name many of the media who appeared in photos on the display wall - and some who were killed.

He said he had never met anyone who was here during the height of the war and who had such firsthand experiences of those times.  He kept on asking me question after question.

I suppose we could have dined out then and there for free.

Distorting History at the Cu Chi Tunnels

Our tour package included a bus trip to the Cu Chi Tunnels, the sprawling underground labyrinth in the Củ Chi District, about 30 km from Ho Chi Minh City. This network had been the Viet Cong’s base during the later stages of the Tết Offensive in 1968, and it still radiates the echoes of wartime strategy and struggle.

The tour group was all Australian. On the outward bus ride, our guide happened to sit next to me. We slipped between Vietnamese and English in conversation, and I mentioned I’d been in Saigon in 1967–68. He smiled thoughtfully: his father had been just five years old then.

Tourists are encouraged to crawl through the “safe” sections of the tunnels—enlarged and lightly illuminated to make it easier. There were displays of crude booby traps meant to maim and kill “Americans.” And all around, the stories spun by the guides were wildly exaggerated, painting heroic victories where there had been chaos and loss.

Above ground, the attractions were just as surreal: caged monkeys, souvenir vendors, and a shooting range where anyone could try an M16, an AK-47, or even a light machine gun. The whole place felt like a theme park built on a grim history.

By the time we entered the conference hall, dominated by a massive wall map, I was bristling. The guide queued up 16mm black-and-white films—more propaganda. During a break, I tried to rise from my seat, only for Carmel to snatch my belt and pull me back down. I dodged her next grab, made a beeline for my guide at the lectern, and asked, “Can I address the group?”

“No problem,” he said, handing me the pointer stick.

I tapped the map. “Here, in May 1968, an Australian force of about 3,000 soldiers—roughly 60% of our total commitment—was operating in this exact area. Would you like to hear about Operation Coral-Balmoral?”

“Yes, please!” came the chorus of voices.

For ten minutes, I laid out the strategic and geopolitical significance of the intervention, the months of fighting, and the human cost in dead and wounded. I wasn’t glorifying it. I wasn’t telling a heroic story. I was simply offering balance, a chance to glimpse the truth behind the theatrical displays. For a moment, history reclaimed its voice amidst the distortions.

Cambodia

To set the scene:

When I was in Saigon 1967-68 I visited Phnom Penh twice (see Saigon);

From 1978 to 1981, I was posted to the Australian Embassy in Bangkok, during the darkest years of the Cambodian genocide - Killing Fields. Australia, together with other countries and NGOs, supported refugees along the Thai–Cambodian border. That border stretched across both land and littoral coastlines, and the challenges facing escapees varied sharply. Cambodian refugees from western Cambodia faced perilous journeys over land, dodging Khmer Rouge landmines, while those fleeing by sea risked pirates prowling the Gulf of Thailand. Refugee camps sprang up almost overnight on Thai soil, with minimal infrastructure, providing shelter and basic necessities to tens of thousands of traumatised survivors.

At the same time, southern Vietnam was generating another wave of refugees—the Vietnamese “Boat People.” Fleeing the aftermath of the war, they set out in overcrowded, fragile vessels across the South China Sea, hoping to reach Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, or the Philippines. Their journeys were no less perilous, with storms, pirates, and disease claiming countless lives.

My designation at the Embassy was Second Secretary (Aid). Australia’s contribution focused on practical support, particularly the provision of potable water in camps along the Thai border. My role involved frequent monitoring visits, liaising with implementing agencies, and reporting back to Canberra. It was exhausting work, but also profoundly moving to witness the resilience of people who had endured unimaginable hardship.  So the trip to Cambodia was going to be ...how should I say ...???

... back to my story:
Our package tour participants all travelled by bus from Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon, in my days) to Phnom Penh.
The distance—just 226 kilometres—took all day, the longest delay being the pandemonium at the border, where officials seemed determined to make life difficult for obvious tourists.

Cambodia in 2015 was almost unrecognisable compared to my first visit in 1967. The people appeared meeker, yet friendlier, though the shadow of the Killing Fields still hung over the country. At one site we visited, there was a palpable pall in the air. More than a million Cambodians had been executed and buried in mass graves during the Khmer Rouge regime between 1975 and 1979.

The experience was so sobering that Carmel and I decided to forgo the final leg of the organised tour, which concluded at Angkor Wat. (I had been there in 1967, and Carmel wasn’t feeling well.) Instead, we quietly rearranged our flights and returned home without notifying the tour company.

Only upon arrival in Australia did we discover the consequences of our silence. We were greeted by a frantic phone call from the company’s head office—apparently, Cambodia was still regarded as “kidnap territory,” and we had been reported missing.

Oops. Sorry, folks!.