Secret War

The CIA, Laos, H'Mong, 1961-1975, The Secret War- on the front page of the New York Times.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/17/world/asia/17laos.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

H'Mong New Year in Northern Laos

In Muang Ngoi I fell in love with bright green river weed. In its most beautiful form, it flowed behind rocks and branches in the green Nam Ou river. I loved seeing the men and women collecting it, drying it on the streets, and then mixing it with sesame seeds and smearing it as a paste on woven bamboo mats. Once dried into paper and fried, it tastes like a river and a cracker. The town may be one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. And I say this despite how sick I got. It took us 4 hours on a small wooden boat to reach this village of about 120 homes. There are no cars, no motorbikes and no electricity except by generator for a few hours in the evening. The river is green, the jungle green, the mountains are stacked layer upon layer. Bungalows over the river cost $1 a night. For meals we ordered lap lap vegetables (cooked with cilantro, scallions, red chillis, green chillis, and peanuts) and vegetable suzy, a medley cooked in coconut milk. It was the best food of the trip and cost $1 each. There are few tourists here, but enough to warrant some guesthouses and good restaurants on the river. Wandering the town, I saw river weed linng the streets, a family welding aluminum propellers, and women weaving on looms. At sunset we sat on the beach with Carlos, Barb and Kim while 5 little boys and a girl swam in their underwear and built a fire. They dragged bamboo into the fire, waited for each section to pop and then cheered.

The next day, December 9th, Carlos, Barb, Kim, Sarah and I took a canoe with a local guide to trek 2 hours up the mountain. It was the H'Mong New Year and we wanted to see the celebrations and stay in the village. On the way up the village I asked Tuy, our guide, how long people had lived at Muong Ngoi. They have been there for 45 years, since the Americans bombed the people from the mountains to the river. The kids in many of these villages run, screaming to their parents when they see foreigners, because they assume that all white people are Americans.

We reached the village, consisting of 40 houses made from woven bamboo after passing through rice fields and a Khmu village. A black pig was slaughtered and we ate bits of it for lunch, along with sticky rice and vegetables. In the evening, a rooster was circled around a bamboo pole and then sacrificed. With bamboo straws we drank a rice wine from a jar brought over from the Khmu village.

The chief invited us to his hut for dinner and festivities. I offered him a pack of cookies, as did Sarah and Carlos. Barb and Kim gave lao lao. He welcomed us there, saying he was glad to share with us, to interact with us and happy we wanted to be there learning from each other. Very old men sat around the chief and smiled and nodded. The chief offered out white rope for everyone to tie on each other's wrists and wear until they fall off--for good luck in the new year. Then everyone started passing the food--sticky rice, vegetables, cookies, candies, pork. The oldest man spoke French and handed me a fork full of pure pig fat, a warm gesture. I couldn't help but think that my country had been bombing this man and there was no way in hell that could refuse the piece of lard he was offering me.

Late in the night everyone toasted lao lao, danced, and played instruments around the fire. I woke up in the early morning sick. I managed to participate in the courting ritual. Teenage girls dress intheir best traditional costumes and toss indigo-dyed hemp balls to young male prospects. Men sit around and watch, smoking their bamboo bongs or playing a sport with a bamboo ball and net. Women nurse their babies.

vomit and shit my way down the mountain, on the steps leading up to the village. worst ive been. ive given up meat. more details later im off to dinner and to celebrate the last day of hanukah with sarah.

Mountain passes and border crossings

We've been by boat and by bus and by foot through North Vietnam and Laos. The drive from Sapa to Dien Bien Phu was the most magnificent drive I've been on. The fog lifted after we passed the highest pass in Vietnam. It lifted to reveal foot trails through lush jungle, kudzo and vines streaming down the mountain like drip castles, scattered thatch huts, houses made from bamboo on stilts, mopuntains that looked like conical hats, water buffalo plowing the rice terraces. We followed along the Nam Ou River, curves that swung the doors open, flung us against the bus window and forced us to see that one foot of road existed between our tires and sheer cliff, no guard rails. The driver laid on the horn around every mountain but never slowed, it was a constant drone of motor and horn and sheer delight as Sarah and I looked out the back and saw land and land and no people, no cars.

We arrived in Dien Bien Phu, the closest Vietnamese town to the Laos border. This border just opened for internationals in May and it is not advertised in any guide books, making it difficult to figure out bus schedules and times. Awaking at 3:50 the next morning we walked to the bus station, hoping to catch the 5:30 bus. It didn't leave until the next day. So we hired a car, arrived at the border in 30 minutes. It was 5:30am and the border didn't open until 7am. With our headlights we found a ditch to protect us from the dogs, the cow shit and the cold wind. At 7 we woke up and easily passed through Vietnam and walked 1km to Laos. Tunnels used by the Laos during the "Secret War" distinctly marked the mountain side. The US launched the largest bombing attack in history on Laos during the 1960s. 2 million tons of bombs dropped, 1/3 did not detonate. Hundreds die each year from these unexploded ordinances. I see relics of them in peoples yards. They are sometimes used as flower pots.

The Laos greeted us warmly, told us to wait a minute, the border guard who could officially give us our visa was at breakfast. 20 minutes later he came back and told us, "rest a while, no problem, it'll be a while." He brought us a bitter green tea, roots,and oranges. We shared our dried fruit and soy beans. 2 French men arrived later and we played rummy, ate more oranges. Few cars or people passed by. The guards lifted weights, shot at tin cans for target practice, bathed in the river, played guitar and sang. One took a photo of the flowers to show us. Whenever a big truck came through, a guard would donne a medical lab suit and spray the tires down to prevent the spread of avian flu. It got dark. The guards invited us to dinner and they served us fried noodle soup, fried prok rhinds, pickled onions and bannanas. We toasted two rounds of lao lao-only the start of our experiences with this god-forsaken whiskey made from rice. After dinner, Sarah and I laid in the dust road and counted shooting stars. We slept on wood benches in the office. Red candles flickered out and the temperature dropped near freezing. Roosters woke us up. In the morning, the visas were mysteriously stamped by our border guard friends. A bus arrived around 8am and we piled in, sat on rice bags and bounced to Muang Khua to spend the night. The ride was dusty, people vomitted, we forded 4 rivers. I was so eager for a drink, I bought lao lao in a bag for 30 cents. A low point for me. That night we played Texas Hold'Em with 3 Aussies, a Spanish, Mexican, 2 Israelies and a cyclist from Holland. Everyone exchanged travel stories, tips and I went to bed early.

Indigo Fingers, Step Terraces, Sapa

I'm high in the mountains of Northern Vietnam where tribal women wrap flax string around their indigo fingers and create beauty in brightly colored and ornate bags, quilts, pillowcases, clothes. They walk the mountains, these beautiful women with clean faces, dirty hands, cracked feet. Some speak, eager for a sale, desperate, some smile and practice their English, young and bright, asking me where I'm from, if I have a boyfriend, how many brothers and sisters, how old am I? Silver hoops weigh down their ears, red polka dots on their foreheads-evidence of a form of acupuncture. Medicinal herbs, opium, rice and handicrafts are their trade, animism their religion. They walk to the market in Sapa every day. I see a dog's head in the market- the fear of death can be read in its clenched teeth.

Sarah and I walked 12 miles south of our basetown of Sapa between two villages of H'Mong people. A 7-year-old girl named Yen of the Black H'Mong tribe showed us a book about her people. She explained how they make rice wine, irrigate the step terraces that stretch up and down their mountains. These ethnic minorities dotted throughout the northern highlands are caught somewhere between the medieval and modern world, speaking their own langauges, semi-nomadic, befuddled by the concept of nationhood and patriotism.

Its cold here. I like the smell of fire, chestnuts on the streets, roasting corn. Last night Sarah and I were drawn to a fireplace at Nature Bar and Grill. We met other travelers also lured by the heat. The owner sat with us, a native of Sapa, who ranted about the three restraunts that popped up just this week, all imitating his menu and restraunt lay-out. One traveler was from Amsterdam. Another couple was American. We've only met two or three people from America in the past several weeks. Travel magic-they lived in Carrboro. Exhausted from trekking all day and delighted to be in the company of people from my favorite town, I celebrated with a splurge of 3 dollars on dinner--a plate of venison sauteed with lemon grass and onions.

Tomorrow Sarah and I are taking a local bus to Dien Bien Phu, a border town with Laos. The border here was recently opened-we've heard mixed things about the length of the ride, the negotiations to cross. We're hoping the entire trip will only take a few days, perhaps 15 hours on a cramped bus and winding mountain roads. I'm eager to get to Laos, its calm here, less tourists, less people, no cities, small villages, more time.

The Dragon's Tail

Sarah and I spent two days in Halong Bay on a boat with eight other travellers. The tattered Vietnamese flag, the broken ladder, the sunsets. Halong Bay is a dreamy place. The locals say it was formed by a family of Dragon's sent by the gods to protect the land from Chinese Invaders. Jewels and jade turned into limestone karsts and isles of all different shapes and sizes. In the late afternoon Sarah and I took a kayak to explore. We went under an arch and found ourselves worlds away from everyone. Massive rock walls grew up from the blue water and green trees and vines tumbled down and around through the crevaces. After the kayak we went for a swim around the boat, which was anchored in the middle of all the islands. As the sunset, the colors changed, casting melancholic tones of deep orange and red across the land. We feasted on fresh fish, tofu, vegetables and rice and drank 2 bottles of a good red with a soft-spoken Danish man. In the morning we woke up to a green sea peering into our cabin, casting a cool green glow on our starch white sheets. On the top deck we watched the soft colors of morning turn bright from the rising sun and a hot afternoon as we drifted in and out of islands and other worlds.

Hanoi

Our time in Hanoi was spent meandering about the Old Quarter and surviving crossing the street. Motorbikes don't stop at traffic lights, do not stay in their lanes, and do not restrcit their travel to the streets, often driving up onto the narrow sidewalks. Such daytime activities forced me to buy a bottle of French wine at the market and soak the evening away in my bathtub, reading Catfish and Mandala.

But I'm also charmed by Hanoi. Its ancient, its historical and the culture seeps out of every home in the form of curry spices, incense and sheer energy. People slurp noodle soup and munch greasy coconut-filled donuts at plastic red tables and stools on every street corner. Men walk arm-in-arm and gather for rich coffee with condensed milk or green tea. Everyone works on the street--making funeral wreaths, repairing motorbikes, frying rice cakes, sewing purses. I dodge the people, the motorbikes, every sensation constantly stimulated.

Sarah and I visited Ho Chi Minh's humble stilt house where he lived from 1957 until his death in 1969. We walked through his garden and up to his mausolem. Everything is orderly. The guards don't even let you stand in one place too long, or sit on the ground or the curb. They keep people on the go, a curious suspicion in their eyes.