Written by Amy Lyon
Ho Chi Min City is a city crammed into itself, busting with energy. We stay in the old section and Michael, Jonathan and I have an afternoon to explore the city.
Our initiation in crossing streets is immediate. Look one way and then the other and what you see are streams of motorbikes carrying multiple people, even entire families and cars and trucks leaning on their horns plowing through the sea of motorbikes that part as if water. The lights are few and far between. Drivers think nothing of riding up on the sidewalk if space permits, weaving in and out of pedestrians, or passing by a group sitting on small plastic chairs or squatting around a makeshift soup stand. The motorbikes spread out and fill the roads, so if there is room for four across, great; ten across even better.
This makes crossing the road a learned art, kind of like being part of a symphony playing cacophonous music that miraculously in the end all comes together. Novitiates are best off shadowing a seasoned pedestrians, who proceed with caution and determination, looking for gaps and a moving path onto which to travel across. The slightest hesitation can throw off an entire city not to mention the potential of self harm.
We visit the War Museum and Palace and are confronted with the horror of war and stupidity of politics and the fallout of both.
Rebecca, Sherri and Andrew arrive very late Tuesday night and we all meet Wednesday morning on the roof top restaurant of our hotel for breakfast and dine on rice porridge, dragon fruit and chocolate croissants (thanks to the 100 years of French colonization) before our first bike ride to Cu Chi Tunnels. Mercifully we transfer by bus out of the city. Smart move by Spice Roads - they probably figured throwing a bunch of jetlagged Westerners into rush hour Ho Chi Min traffic the very first morning is not such a good idea.
We reached a quieter rode and our white super sized air conditioned bus pulls up across the rode from a modest house. The family sitting on their front porch watches the spectacle that we are. Tang, our guide, asks the family if we can use their facilities. The woman leads us around back, past the main house and the kitchen house, next to the cows in the pen and points to a low brick enclosure. Sherri goes in first and figures out for the rest of us that one should aim towards the corner of the cement floor where there is a small hole in the wall and when finished one should use the hose to clean up.
We are almost ready for the first ride. But first our bikes are fitted and tires filled, water bottles, helmets and sweat bands put in their place. All this draws a crowd as young and old come close to investigate what we could possibly be doing. This will become a common occurrence on our trip, in cities and villages, the site of a great big white bus unloading a bunch of oddly dressed foreigners with lots of stuff. For no other apparent reason than to ride.
We join the flow of traffic for the first time. Single file our yellow and green shirts spread out. It seems to work best when adopting a Zen like posture of going with the flow. It helps that the motorbikes are not so elevated from cyclists, and need to be somewhat alert and cautious for their own safety, unlike riding in America with nothing but huge cars and trucks whizzing past.
I have to admit that even 5 days into the riding, when I get on my bike, on flat terrain or at the top of a hill to give us the advantage of a downhill start (along with all the other vehciles) I reach around looking for my seatbelt. Not finding one, it comforts me to think of the helmet on my head.
Now that we are out of the city, everyone wants to say hello. The children wave and run after us, motorbikes slow down alongside to practice their English. Sherri's blonde hair and Rebeccas red hair draw attention. We drive by a rubber plantation (brought by the French) and past an open air schoolroom. All the children stand up and yell hello and wave.
We spend several hours touring the Cu Chi Tunnels. The museum is striving to keep about 25 miles of the 250 miles of tunnels built over a 20 year period in tact. It is hard to parse out the feelings but I’d say the dominant ones are anger against war and aggression and stupidity; sadness for the loss of so much life and suffering on both sides and admiration for the industriousness of the people who built, lived and fought from these tunnels.
Tang, our guide, is thirty and grew up north of Hanoi. His father is a Communist government official and mother a teacher. He lost an uncle in the war. He talks of the Dark Years, from 1975 to 1990 when there was not enough food. They survived on rice and cassava. He tells us this while seated in a simulated underground kitchen drinking green tea in tiny teacups and sharing a plate of boiled cassava (tastes like a cross between a white and sweet potato, very starchy) dipped in salt and pepper.
We spend several hours touring the Cu Chi Tunnels. The museum is striving to keep about 25 miles of the 250 miles of tunnels built over a 20 year period in tact. It is hard to parse out the feelings but I’d say the dominant ones are anger against war and aggression and stupidity; sadness for the loss of so much life and suffering on both sides and admiration for the industriousness of the people who built, lived and fought from these tunnels.
Tang, our guide, is thirty and grew up north of Hanoi. His father is a Communist government official and mother a teacher. He lost an uncle in the war. He talks of the Dark Years, from 1975 to 1990 when there was not enough food. They survived on rice and cassava. He tells us this while seated in a simulated underground kitchen drinking green tea in tiny teacups and sharing a plate of boiled cassava (tastes like a cross between a white and sweet potato, very starchy) dipped in salt and pepper.
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