Vietnam~ Day 9- Going Underground in Vinh Moc

This man was born here. Click at the jump to read more about him.

       Awake to the whirring peal of scooters and to find the hotel bill already paid by some new Thai friends, met in a chance encounter at the harbor in this nowhere town. We all drowned ourselves in whiskey and conversation. Much needed conversation, even in my broken Thai, after about four days of living inside my own head. Never-ending glasses and pure hospitality.

And so today I wade into the DMZ, feeling as though I'm in search of Kurtz. My partner, the Minsk, and I are relieved to finally escape the feverish distended clutch of a desolate North Central region that could only possibly be renowned for maniacal truck drivers and fields upon fields of blinding green rice crops. 

Between the makeshift guide book maps and my wholly inaccurate, made purely for reference purposes, clearly not a real road map map, I'm aimless and fighting headwinds, trying to find relics and monuments of our now 40- year- old quagmire. Finally stopping at a town that is actually on the map, I realize I'm about 20 K off course. An old man in a tattered U.S. army jacket gives me directions over cigarettes at the the foot of his small house that rests a stone's throw from the highway. 

I'm looking for the Vinh Moc tunnels. A complex underground network of man-made caverns that go as deep as 25 meters, where an entire village of people lay in hiding off and on for over 6 years to escape the bombing by the American warships lingering offshore. The tunnels also served as a Viet Cong base of operations.

The bamboo-laden path to the tunnels.

Unexploded U.S. ordinance.

Desperately lost after receiving my good-natured but incredibly vague directions (" over a bridge about 10 K from here and then turn right"), I luckily stumble upon some tourists and their guide who happen to making their way to the same tunnel complex. Following them down an unmarked road off the highway, weaving through bends and intersections on shrinking country paths, I realize it would have been impossible to locate these tunnels on my own.

"Most locals don't even know how to reach them," the guide tells me.

Wandering alone through the tiny dilapidated museum, a small man suddenly enters. He limps but moves quickly and with purpose, pointed bamboo shoot in hand, repeatedly pointing to a picture, its placard, and then back to himself. The placard tells the story of the infant pictured, held by its mother, in a dark crawl space. The man, who is unable to speak for reasons unknown to me, is the museum caretaker and is the infant pictured. His life in the tunnels unfolds across the museum walls: his birth and his education with others of varying ages under the pithy light of lanterns with whatever materials could be procured.

Goods were delivered to the tunnels residents by the Viet Cong via a system of wells like this one.

He ushers me along to a tunnel entrance for a tour.

Together, armed with flashlights, we navigate the dark maze of tunnels. Up makeshift stairwells, through narrow crevice-like halls, past bathrooms, birthing chambers, study halls and then larger chambers reserved for meetings of the V.C. brass. The walls are moist and the light I carry seems to disappear into a vacuum, illuminating nothing. I stumble often. One can only imagine spending days, weeks, years in this dark and dank hideaway.

 We emerge on one end of the labyrinth into cool ocean breezes, fisherman now standing sentry in place of warships, distant chatter replacing bellowing blasts. The caretaker smiles and gestures for me to take pictures of the now serene beach.

Out of the tunnels and into the light.

We venture deeper before finally exiting. I'm glad to leave.

The weather has warmed and I give the guide a spare sweater I'll no longer need, as a tip. He tries it on, a perfect fit, and shakes my hand heartily in thanks. The gift seems unexpected to him, probably like much of his life, and he likewise takes it in stride and with a smile.

This man has seen things you don't want to see.