I'm not going to write a "bitch" letter about how horrible the past has been, I only wish to reflect upon that experience from the wisdom of 35 yrs, and introspection. I will have pictures to post along the way and will write infrequently about this subject.
First, I tell you this, Viet Nam is one of the most beautiful countries I have ever seen. It is lush and green beyond belief with triple canopy jungles covering the hills of the Central Highlands. I had the opportunity through my mission to travel to most geographical areas of the country and those that border it. The beaches of Chu Lai, Da Nang, Vung Tau and Cameron Bay are unbelievably pristine. While the battlegrounds of Pleiku, The Mang Yang Pass, Hue and Phu Bai show the modern scars of war. The variety of wildlife and plants astounded me. The eyes of a backwoods New Hampshire boy were wide open with wonder.
To this day I have not met a more gentle culture. Looking past the combatants, and outside the cities are a wonderfully generous people who love, live, and die as their ancestors have for thousands of years.
The indigenous people, the Montagnard are a fierce people that do not live among the villages or city dwellers. A Vietnamese friend of mine actually believes that they have tails! They are my favorites, Blowguns and Crossbows are not something to take lightly. They have their own trible laws right to the death penalty. A person who received the death penalty was beheaded, and the head was placed upon a long pole planted around the perimenter of their village. I became very attached to the Mantagnard people living between Pleiku and Khontum, the Mang Yang Pass. The French lost 5000 men in one day in that pass. I carried in my ruck, packs of Doublemint Gum, C-ration cigarettes (5 per pack), and tiny boxes of Tide soap. A greeting along the path to their encampment might be a startle, with two men stepping from the bushes perhaps 20 yrds in front of you. One carries an AK-47, the other a crossbow with a crudely made arrow of rusted steel. They are dressed only from the waist down, their skin is dusky. Stopping you looked behind you and there are two more equally armed. This is not a time to piss anyone off. I always laid down my weapon, reached slowly into my pack and pulled out the little packages of c-ration cigarettes. We would sit and smoke, and I would try my hardest to mumble through thier language. God I was scared. I was seconds from sudden death or welcome. After several visits they named me "Loong", meaning little one, I am 5'5 and at that time weighed only 120 lbs. I spent many nights among them knowing that the Viet Cong or NVA troops would never come near their village. "Silent death" was frightening to them. There have been attempts at ethnic cleansing, but the Montagnard survive. These thoughts bring out in me incredible emotions. A happy sadness. I miss their bubbling laughter at my attempts of their language, or the many cultural errors that I made. Their generosity of food, drink, and basically any thing they had. My heart goes out to them, they are truly cemented in my memory and will never be forgotten.
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