| By Mary L. Peachin May 5, 2000 |
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HANOI, Vietnam – I entered the tiny, airless, yet musty, cube with trepidation. During the Vietnam War, my friend Col. Bob Barnett, an American fighter pilot, had spent five years in this small prison cell after he was shot down near Hanoi.
I looked at the set of rusty shackles, still bolted to a cement bunk in an unlighted cell, and wondered if they had held Bobs legs. Was that the bucket he used as a latrine? A separate cell was empty except for another bucket. Was this the shower? A small table holding a single cup appeared to be the dining cell. As I walked through the infamous place American captives called the “Hanoi Hilton, I pondered how such a horrific place had been converted into a museum. And I tried to weave the stories of Bobs imprisonment into what lay before me. I was the sole visitor that day; the “Hilton is not on the tourist circuit for most Western visitors in Vietnam. It was not listed as an attraction in the guidebooks I read. Instead, I had made a specific request to visit the prison because of Bobs stories – his suffering and his memories. Twenty-five years after Bobs ordeal, much of the camp has been replaced by development – including the bright facade of a new hotel. Its easy to drive down the busy road and miss whats left of the prison wall, a stone cliff still strung with barbed wire and electrified cable.
Americans are accustomed to being winners. Visiting Vietnam – a country that defeated the United States in war and is now unified under a Communist government – forced me to look at things from another perspective. The present sights were fascinating, but my mind focused on the past. In the quarter-century since the United States pulled out, Vietnam has changed. Few visible reminders of the war exist, and the country has modernized significantly, welcoming tourists to experience its mix of old Asia, crumbling French colonialism and millennial rejuvenation. One of the top attractions in Hanoi is the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. Each day, tens of thousands of people visit the dead leaders glass sarcophagus, which lies inside a large marble edifice. The building is surrounded by groves of bamboo, and the entrance is decorated with symbolic funerary wreaths. All foreign visitors are allowed to enter ahead of thousands of schoolchildren and other Vietnamese, reducing the wait in line to about 30 minutes. Communist Army officers brusquely divided the tourists into groups of three, checking that we were properly dressed (long sleeves and pants; no hats), and carried no cameras or handbags. Without explanation, we were told not to put our hands into our pockets. As the line approached the interior of the mausoleum, a soldier pushed me into what had become a double line. Despite the masses of people, there was silence inside the mausoleum. We marched slowly and stiffly around the sarcophagus, our eyes on the remains of the Vietnamese peoples hero, and marched out again. Hanoi was built in 1010 along the Red River delta, in the center of what was formerly North Vietnam. Numerous lakes frame the city, which boasts the classic architecture of the Old Quarter and more than 600 pagodas. Despite such “progress, the city has a limited tourist infrastructure. There were no modern conveniences, and finding a restroom – even a non-Western toilet (a nonflushing hole flanked by two footstep impressions) – was a real challenge. But Hanoi provided two fascinating days of my life.
Before arriving in Vietnam, I had arranged to tour with an English-speaking guide. Pham Hong Chuong took me to several “obligatory tourist sights: the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, the 18th-century Ngoc Son Temple on an island in Hoan Keim Lake and the Temple of Literature, which dated to 1070. At that point, however, Id had enough of the postcard circuit. I asked Chuong to show me daily life in Hanoi. I wanted to become immersed in the culture, to learn how the Vietnamese worked, played and lived. Chuong asked the driver of our air-conditioned Toyota Camry to pull over, and we set off through the Old Quarter of Hanoi. Narrow streets have one small shop after another, each selling only one item such as silk, enamel, embroidery, housewares or shoes. Other markets, including the large Dong Xuan and smaller Hang Da, specialized in one type of food, vegetable or spice. Hang Das fish section offered tanks and tubs of live seafood, including rarities such as stingray, snail and several varieties of eel. There were many types of rice, noodles and delicacies such as black eggs. Fruit and flowers were displayed like works of art. I was disappointed to discover that the beautiful “red dragon fruit (thanh long) contained flavorless white pulp loaded with small black seeds. The fruits I recognized – including mangoes, papayas, watermelon and pineapple – proved juicy and fresh. We walked for miles. Every intersection panicked me. Hanoi has very few traffic signals, and traffic operates under a complex pecking order that gives the right-of-way first to oxen, then to pedestrians, bicyclists, pedicabs or cyclos, automobiles and, finally, trucks. Miraculously, if you walk straight and slowly, speeding traffic will avoid you, regardless of the width of the street or direction of traffic. Chuong instructed me to stay close as we crossed the traffic-packed streets. I obediently stuck to his side.
On the second day, Chuong took me to some of the villages that ring Hanoi. One was near where Bobs plane was shot down. In contrast to the city, the villages appeared to have changed little in 30 years. Each appears to be self-contained, boasting its own pagoda, communal house and cemetery (usually in a rice paddy). Each village has it own craft industry. We first stopped in Van Phuc, where villagers make silk, boiling and dying the stark white silk behind their homes, then drying the finished cloth in their gardens. In Duyen Thai, we saw young people working laboriously on delicate lacquer ware, their faces masked by scarves to protect them from sawdust and the fumes of the resin used in the lacquer. Bicycles loaded with boxes of painted ceramics clogged the small, dusty main street of Bat Trang. Some residents worked in the kiln, while others painted or packed bowls for shipping. The “snake village of Le Mat is home to generations of snake collectors, many of whom operate restaurants specializing in grilled, poached or deep-fried snake. Traditionally, the heart of the snake, which looks like a small chicken liver, is served to the eldest at the table. Thought to be an aphrodisiac, its said to bring vitality to the eater. On the way back to Hanoi, we stopped at Pho Ga Noodle Soup restaurant. Pho, or noodle soup, is eaten daily by the Vietnamese and is a favorite for breakfast. As I wrestled with my chopsticks, I watched women in conical bamboo hats called non, carrying their burdens on a bentwood beam (don danh) slung over both shoulders to support two enormous baskets. The women scurried toward the markets, knees bent, loaded down by fruits and vegetables. Men carrying a family of four, or perhaps a bundle of water pipes, peddled confidently past on bicycles or motorbikes.
As we made our way back to a charming turn-of-the-century hotel, I slipped into reverie, far from the swarming traffic, dust, noise and pollution of Hanoi. And I thought about the conversation I would have with Bob when I returned. In 1967, Bobs plane was shot down 11 miles from Hanoi as he was bombing a pontoon bridge. The jets engine aflame, he bailed out and hid in the jungle. After three days, North Vietnamese with search dogs found him. They blindfolded him and took him to the Hanoi Hilton, where he was tortured for days. Whats left of the prison took me about an hour to tour. Bob Barnett was imprisoned there for 989 days – 5 – years spent alone, shackled in a small, dank, unlighted cell with a cement bunk and a bucket for a toilet. I wept during my brief visit. Bob did the same – but he also counted the days, memorized the names of other prisoners and communicated with the other POWs by tapping on a shared wall using a Boy Scout alphabetical code. At first, he was unaware of the compressed fracture of his back that he suffered on landing, because the pain was masked by the injuries caused by beatings. His captors considered him a “criminal, not a prisoner of war, and would not release his name for 2– years. Anita, his wife of 15 years, knew that Bob was listed as missing in action, but not whether he was alive or dead. During those years, she lived with the hope that her husband had survived. “After I was captured, they tortured me for days. They tied ropes around me until I was tight like a ball. I could barely breathe, much less give them the confession they wanted, Bob recalled. When the beatings ended, he was left to live or die. He remembers, “I stunk so bad, the Vietnamese guards wouldn enter the cell.
His sole job during those years of imprisonment was to place the latrine bucket outside his cell and retrieve it, empty, later in the day. He looked forward to his release, predicting that day several months at a time. As the war continued, he extended the date of freedom. Eventually, life in the prison improved. Twice a day the prisoners were fed rice and the “soup of the quarter, a concoction of seasonal cabbage, pumpkin or “green weeds. They were also given a small pitcher of water each day. Bob was supplied two worn blankets, a cup, a stub of a toothbrush and – occasionally – some toilet paper. Rubber-tire thongs and pajamas were later provided. He was not allowed to receive mail for three years, and he never saw the Red Cross representatives whom the Geneva Convention specifies must monitor the condition of prisoners of war. When I returned from Hanoi, I asked Bob how he felt about my visiting Vietnam and the prison. Had I intruded on his memories, brought back his years of torture? He thought, then said the nightmares have waned in the 25 years since his release. However, unlike other veterans, some of whom have returned to Vietnam to satisfy their curiosity – or face down old ghosts – he has no interest in returning to the Hanoi Hilton. “I still have those pajamas in the garage, but I don remember where they are. Mary Peachin is a free-lance writer based in Arizona. KNOW BEFORE YOU GO WHEN TO GO • March, April and May are among the best months to visit Hanoi. Vietnam is a tropical country with wet and dry seasons. Winter monsoons arrive from October to March, while unpredictable typhoons can cause devastation between July and November. DOCUMENTS • Allow a minimum of 10 working days to obtain a visa. The cost is $65 ($85 for four-day service). Mail a money order payable to the Embassy of Vietnam, 1233 20th St., N.W., Suite 400, Washington, DC 20036. Enclose two photographs and your passport. L ANGUAGE • Communication is difficult, but many people speak English, especially those in the tourist industry. Both the vocabulary and intonation of pronunciation in Vietnamese is challenging, but a few words will go a long way, and any effort is appreciated. ACCOMMODATIONS • Hanoi has many deluxe hotels, including the Sofitel Metropole, Saigon, Royal, Daewoo and a new Hilton. Room rates range from $100 to $200 per night. While hotel rooms may be pricey, food and shopping are very inexpensive. The Lonely Planet Publications Vietnam guidebook offers the names of less expensive lodgings, but many of them are difficult to locate and reserve. WHAT TO TAKE • Pack standard tropical gear, plus a handkerchief to protect you from motorbike fumes and moist towelettes for use in non-Western toilets. TRANSPORTATION • Thai Airlines flies via Japan to Bangkok, requiring an overnight stay in Thailand, before continuing to Hanoi. Vietnam Air, the government-owned airline, provides service within the country. SAFETY, HEALTH • Unlike Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) in southern Vietnam, Hanoi has a low crime rate. Check with a travel clinic before you go. Most offer precautions and prophylaxis for malaria and other health problems in the region. FURTHER FACTS • For more information, visit http://www.vietnamtourism.com/or http://www.vietnamdiscovery.com/ |
