Ramblin' Down the Ho Chi Minh Trail : Part 3

Continued from last month.

More than three months in Southeast Asia, each day bringing a new surprise, stripped me to the nub. Sweat from climbing those steamy mountains dissolved years of judgment and expectation, a debilitating sludge clogging my joints. Then the subtropical sun bleached my bones clean and white — ready for eyes rinsed clear by tears to inspect prior to reassembly. I emptied and refilled my body with the bounty of the jungle and the fields, lean, spicy, pure, fresh, and I refilled my soul with the mysteries of the steep, craggy slopes and the stories of people who lived through one of the world's biggest secrets. I'm pretty sure that not one moment sooner than it happened might I have been ready to meet Ung.

A few days after leaving Gome and Jenta, the gentle Bru villagers of Nahom, Nick and I lit out from a guest house in Xepon with a bomb casing sculpture that forms a pretty wrought iron fence. We raced to find the Papa, our Lao-English-French speaking guide whom we met the day before in a rather nondescript restaurant. He will take us to little-known areas of historical interest and of great importance to the Secret War.

Bomb Fence in Xepon

We gulp down some coffee and breakfast before catching the second open bus-van east again to Ban Dong. They run every hour and we miss the first one by minutes, making us wait along the street in the growing heat and humidity. Thick odors rise from the market across the street and mix with the heat and acrid smoke from the cooking fires of the restaurants. It promises to be an oppressive, record-setting heat today here in early May.

So as not to draw a lot of attention to ourselves (as we might have done by taking the big Toyota 4-wheeler when it brought Reed and Jason back from the border later that afternoon), our plan was to hike the six kilometers from Route 9 on the dirt road leading into the village of La Haw to see the battlefield we had learned about the day before. We had to promise to conceal the source of our information and to avoid mentioning that I am American. He said we should anticipate a paranoia that struck us as odd. "The people up there — many of them think the Americans will attack again if provoked."

We had to remind ourselves that not many of the tribespeople on this part of The Trail ever understood why they got bombed in the first place. They don't know what kind of an argument would cause people to make and drop bombs that would continue killing their families some 35 years later. In this part of the country along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the so-called Vietnam War is not actually over.

Lao-Vietnamese Brotherhood Monument in Xepon

We ask the bus driver to drop us short of our destination so we can walk the remaining distance to the dirt road that turns toward La Haw. The people here observe every detail of their small, ancient world from which many have never ventured more than a few kilometers all their lives and for many generations. Hardly a leaf drops unnoticed. Two farang and the little Vietnamese Papa can conceal themselves no better than lighting fireworks in a movie theater.

We stop on Route 9 just before the turnoff to get a few bottles of water for our hike. Nick tries to act as if he doesn't understand the many probing questions about our day's business. A couple of times, we gently guide the Papa away in mid-reply to a sensitive question from one of the locals. We learn that he cannot distinguish an omission from a lie, which he would not intentionally tell to his countrymen in any circumstance, or comprehend the meaning of "need-to-know basis." Finally, we escape from the little shop with our water and continue along the main road toward the dirt road drawn on a napkin for us.

An Original Bike Used on the HCM Trail

Finally, we embark on what we guess is between a 90-minute and three-hour hike to La Haw, depending on the condition of the Trail. After only a few hundred meters, we reach the first low-water crossing. Nick and I have on Western shoes and socks. Papa wears flip-flops — or as Nick and Jason call them, Asian hiking boots. No matter how rough the terrain, the Asians in this region seldom wear anything else, except in a temple where open-toed shoes would be highly disrespectful.

I try to cross the stream using the rock bridge the Papa lays for us, but I slip on the third stepping stone and the water pours into my shoes and fills them to the top. I'm now facing six kilometers of uncertain hilly terrain with wet socks and feet. There are spirits working against this trip. We all three sit down to reconsider as I change to my spare pair of socks and try to shake and dab as much moisture out of my shoes as I can. In this land of magic and a close connection between the people and the Earth, signals abound for those who observe them. We begin to question our plan.

Asian Hiking Boots

About then, a 20-something man on a motorbike rounds the turn onto the dirt road and descends toward the stream. Nick and I get the idea at the same time: We'll see if he can find a friend and hire them both to take us all to La Haw.

Nick flags the man down and explains the proposal. The man agrees to take us up, wait until we finish our visit, and return us for $5 each, then he turns the 90 cc Honda back up the hill and down Route 9 to get a friend with another. They're back in ten minutes. The Papa and I climb on back of the bigger of the two bikes, and Nick takes the other with the rider we met first. With occasional coaxing, the little motorbikes take us up and down the hills on the wide, neatly manicured dirt road. Unkempt koke jungle covers the land mostly undisturbed, save for being gouged with bomb craters. Not one bridge exists over the five or six streams we ride through on submerged causeways, no doubt swollen torrents during the rainy season only weeks away. Finally, we see the signs of a village ahead — rice paddies and a few head of free-roaming cattle.

Water Buffalo Wading in an old Bomb Crater

We only pass through the first village, slowing long enough so Nick can make sure of our way with a couple alongside the road. I can already feel the itching from water soaking through my fresh wool socks to my feet, so I'm glad for the little motorbikes and their willing riders. Within 15 minutes of boarding the bikes, we arrive and dismount under a giant banyan tree in the center of La Haw. Children, with a few women close behind, run from under and around 30 or so roofs to greet us. One young man points to a larger hut with a shiny metal roof and says it's the headman's.

A wiry Lao man just over five feet tall and wearing only a pair of tattered blue gym shorts and flip flops — skin baked dark by years of Lao sun but only beginning to crinkle at the elbows and knees, hair equal parts salt and pepper and cut in a flat top, strong chin and brow, concerned but steady, intelligent eyes — already approaches us. Three or four younger men follow his purposeful steps at a distance gauged to appear only mildly curious and not standing dutifully by. Obviously the headman, he steps into our circle and exchanges a few quick words with the Papa, a little too quick for Nick to catch everything. As he questions the Papa, the headman's eyes blink quickly and dart to me and then Nick and back to the Papa. He stands erect, his broad, lean shoulders squared. His questions come quickly after Papa's stuttering responses. Papa looks uncomfortable. Nick tries to guide the Papa's explanation, but the headman won't let Nick in as he questions our guide in such a way to get the answers he wants, rather than the ones we'd like to give him.

Headman Ung and Several Villagers

The Honda riders stand alert, just out of the range of the little man's immediate attention. Papa is trying to translate, but it's coming slowly and disjointed. Nick focuses intently on the little man, almost mouthing the dialect as his brain wraps around it. Finally, Nick's expression softens, and he tells me quietly with an easy smile to prevent any hint of subversion between us, "He is Bru."

Nick interrupts the stammering Papa in mid-sentence and introduces himself to the diminutive but powerful man with a deep bow and a musical, polite Bru greeting one could learn only from having been accepted in a Bru village. The little man hesitates but seems only slightly mollified. He at least turns his attention away from the faltering Papa toward Nick—after passing his eyes curiously once again over me. In a Vientiane Lao dialect Nick can more readily understand, the headman introduces himself as Ung. He appears resigned that he is going to have to suffer with us for whatever reason we have come, but he seems intent on finding out quickly what that reason might be. Truth be told, we aren't completely sure ourselves.

Nick explains that he heard about a great battle in the Vietnam War having been fought atop the mountain, Phu Bi, that rises behind the village. Mid-Lao villagers (as opposed to mountain tribes and lowlanders) often nestle themselves at the base of mountains, which are said to house protective spirits. It's one of the reasons that the landslides here, a result of recent overforesting, often find villages in their path.

Ung doesn't acknowledge a battle either way, but he tells Nick that we are as close as we're getting to Phu Bi today. Nick shows an honest disappointment, and a lull falls over the conversation. Everyone is standing in a disconnected circle of his own making except me. I'm there, of course, but obviously unable to follow the conversation beyond Nick's or Papa's sporadic translations and what I can observe from the tone and movements of those talking and listening. But along the way, Nick has introduced me as ajahn, or teacher. An ajahn evokes great respect here, even an ajahn farang.

So far, I've provided nothing to the exchange but a calm presence. Ung peers briefly but deeply into my eyes. He sees my gray hair and strong legs. I return his gaze with an honest curiosity and detached interest. Something passes between us, and he appears slightly more ready to listen to Nick's story again. He looks toward the mountain for a few seconds and his shoulders relax just slightly. He glances at me again and turns toward Nick. They try again.

Nick Ascot - Man About Asia

Nick has some curious attributes that help people here see quickly past his Caucasian race and imposing size. He wears his hair cropped short, exposing a dramatic scar running front to back above his right ear, the result of a motorbike wreck on the Mongolian Steppes where he had to be airlifted back unconscious to Thailand. Another wraps under his jaw on the same side. One leg bears an even deeper scar running from beneath his safari shorts to almost the top of his boots, this from a near-fatal skydiving accident when a gust of wind collapsed his parachute nearly 100 feet above the ground. When Nick stands or first starts walking from any stationary position, he moves stiffly as if it hurts but that it doesn't matter to him. He's obviously farang, but when relaxed, his narrow eyes take on an almost Asian quality. He smiles broadly and quickly with straight, white teeth, and he continuously works himself low and deferentially around people. And, I'm told by both Thais and Laos that he fluently speaks a polite, informal form of both languages. I have heard him change it from region to region and from urban to rural. He loves little children and never fails to make them laugh with his witty diminutives about toys, animals, clothes — anything that shows the kids he's glad to see them being kids. In the markets and restaurants of the towns and cities, the eyes of the young, pretty Asian women always linger for a few moments on Nick as we walk away. In a group, they turn to each other for a surreptitious whisper and giggle. Here on The Trail, Nick's shirt tail hangs halfway out, and he wears a confusing mix of Asian and Western costume like a superhero caught in mid-change from his secret identity. He slathers on sunscreen leaving streaks of white across his face, ears, and neck ("It's part of my charm") and generally appears in need of someone's attention.

We begin to walk up the road, and after a while, the villagers following us drop off one by one. Nick begins to yammer on about what we think we know about the LAMSON 719 battle that took place there, and Ung says to the Papa, "At first, I thought this guy spoke only market Lao. But I can see that he actually knows how to talk right." He interrupts Nick and begins to tell us a little about the battle. We stop in the middle of the road where it turns up a hill above the village. Two older women stroll slowly by with baskets and share a smile of recognition and respect with Ung. One carries a metal detector.

Derelict Tank Serves as a Haunting Reminder of Lamson 719

This is the part of the story that we had to go over and over that night and the next day, both to ourselves and with Reed and Jason, to make sure our notes were tight. Nick repeats every word as Ung — Col. Ung — as it turns out, tells us his part in one of the most crucial battles of the Vietnam War. It didn't even take place in Vietnam.

To be continued...