Insanity – doing the same thing again and expecting a different result.
WHETHER those words were uttered by Albert Einstein or whether they are just another apocryphal aphorism attributed to the great man is a point of debate. The point is, I should have known better.
It was in December 1999 I first (and last) visited Vietnam with the then not-quite Mrs Shine. Back then, we stayed in Saigon for a few days before heading up the coast and while in Saigon we took a tour of the Mekong delta, including in one of our stops the famous Cu Chi tunnels —- 250 kilometres of labyrinthine hiding space for the Viet Cong, entire connected villages built underground.
While my claustrophobic girlfriend only got as far as poking her nose in before backing out in panic 14 years ago, I did manage to venture underground, and down two levels, before emerging some 60 metres later.
While triumphant, I was, however, drenched in sweat (I still have the pictures to prove it), breathing rapidly, and absolutely determined to never again step into a hole in the ground.
Over the years, just the thought of that time on my hands and knees with the walls of the tunnel brushing my shoulders and the roof scraping my spine was enough to give me the wobbles. Quite why I thought things might be different this time round I have no idea.
Smiling for the camera… don’t I look relaxed?
Perhaps it was bravado in front of the boys, or a determination that the intervening decade had left no mark on me, I don’t know. But sinking into that first hole was a big mistake.
You have probably all seen pictures of grinning tourists emerging from a VC hole in the ground in Cu Chi, the leafy disguised cover of the hole balanced above their heads as they pose for the cameras. If you haven’t, google it now.
That was the hole I ill-advisedly lowered myself into. I knew the moment I was forced to twist my hip sideways just to sink into the hole that something was wrong, but pushed the dark thought out of my mind as I fixed a smile for the camera and regulated my breathing,
Sure enough, as I tried to haul myself up, my belt buckle got caught fast on the lip of the hole. Never mind, I thought, I’ll just perform the hip wiggle in reverse and twist myself out.
But as any wasp who has ever been suckered into entering a stabbed jar lid on a promise of some jam would know, it is often easier to wiggle your way in than to wiggle your way out again.
“Are you okay, Oss,” Mrs S asked, a note of concern creeping into her voice.
“Yes, fine,” I said, sweat starting to drip into my eyes. “I’m… just… trying… to… free… my… belt,” I laughed, in a slightly forced fashion.
“Can you help me?”
So Zoe reached down the back, but while I sucked in every Full English Breakfast I have ever had for all my worth, there was no way I could pull my belt buckle in at the front while at the same time free that CURSED THICK BELT at the back.
In a brainwave, I reached down and undid my belt, leaving the buckle to dangle down. Genius, I thought, until my next effort at hauling myself out left my body half out but my shorts firmly stuck inside. I think staying in the hole until sundown — only 7 or 8 hours — casually waving at passing tour groups, would have been preferable to slipping out sans pants.
Just as a shortness of breath and racing of heart, reminiscent of my last trip to Cu Chi, started to take a grip, Jasper saved the day. Reaching down and pulling my belt free first before helping my waistband through as I lifted my body out of its temporary sarcophagus.
I don’t need telling twice. Once finally free I stayed above ground for the rest of the display, feeding Ben and Jasper into tiny rabbit holes and watching them emerge smiling some time later.
How it should be done…
The displays and demonstrations of the traps used, and guerrilla tactics employed against the U.S. Army, are both grisly and interesting. Presented in a dispassionate, matter-of-fact fashion it is sometimes hard to remember many of the guides lived through the war as children, including our guide Jennifer who cuddled and played with our children while recounting a Saigon childhood during a time bombs rained down.
The experience is a sobering one, but one sadly shattered by the repeated clack of automatic gunfire as well-fed Caucasians flock to the shooting range.
Kitty buried her head in my chest, gripped her arms around my neck and tried to shimmy higher up my body for comfort as the corpulent westerners’ bellies and boobs and back fat wobbled with each recoil of the heavy weaponry. It is a shame this proves to be so lucrative for the locals; that a corner of Cu Chi should be transformed into a grotesque theme park.
I would have thought enough bullets have been fired on Vietnamese soil.
* * * *
The drive between Cu Chi and Saigon is a fascinating one, along a route flanked by paddy fields and dotted with small villages, comprised of corrugated iron lean-tos, rudimentary brick buildings, lively markets and stall and shops selling every moped component imaginable. Some sell only wing mirrors, others saddles, more still decals and transfers.
Bare-chested men sit cross-legged, hacking at coconuts with machetes. Women wearing conical hats, their slender sleeves joining their gloves so no inch of skin is exposed to the sun ride pillion sidesaddle.
One man dressed only in shorts rides a scooter with a large, empty rooster cage strapped to his back with twine. Another weaves along the road carrying an enormous bundle of sticks. Families of four and five balance on 50cc mopeds, children tucked in between parents, on the front, and on the back.
All aboard, plenty of room…
These images I will treasure, With a roaring economy and ever more open governance, it cannot be long before Vietnam is transformed forever. Already the bicycles have been replaced by mopeds. The cars will be next.
We had just time for a quick bite and a trip to the imposing Post Office to surface-ship some things home before we needed to head to Saigon Station for the SE2 sleeper train to Danang.
On our way out of the Alcove Library hotel we once again encountered the newly-wed couples (yes, more than one pair) who had been having their pictures taken in the lobby all day — including one intriguing pose I shall call “post bomb-blast” where bride and groom lay on the floor, their bodies twisted as if by dynamite while a photographer perched on a step ladder capturing the action.
OMG! WTF? ROFL…
The station, or ‘Ga Sai Gon’ was a now familiar mix of the chaotic and the colourful, with locals and green-clad soldiers lounging on aluminium benches.
I’d viewed this leg with a little more trepidation than usual ever since I’d read the note accompanying the tickets waiting for us in Saigon.
“Dear Customer, recently there have been some reports about trouble in the train,” it began, promisingly, before going on to warn of some of the dangers we might encounter. The best being number three, which stated:
3: “It is possible that other passengers will come to your compartment to use your berth, as the train might be overloaded, so please lock the door carefully and do not let anyone step in.”
What a ride…
SE2. What can I tell you? This thing makes an Inter-City 125 look like the Orient Express. A great, wheezing, dilapidated hunk of junk just about sums it up.
Jasper nailed it when he clambered onto his lolly-stick thin bunk in our SECURELY LOCKED cabin. “This is like being in prison,” he said.
Oh, the horror of it…
But this is all about the journey, right? And as we set off through inner city Saigon, we are just metres from shops and from homes. The view from our rain-streaked window looks straight into sitting rooms lit up by televisions, and into kitchens and yards with clothes hanging on lines.
Children and adults bellow in the corridors, their volume switch broken, while Vietnamese cigarette smoke seeps into our cabin as surely and persistently as the tinny music from radios.
Still we roll on as Mrs S and the littles rock gently in their thin bunks, wide enough to lie still, but insufficient to even roll over.
Tomorrow Danang, so until then, I’ll allow this heaving steel carcass to rock me to sleep. Goodnight…
Images from Day Seven:
WOODLANDS TO WATERLOO 
