Stories from the Road – Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
By Mark Heisten
It’s clear from our arrival at the airport in Saigon that Mr. Nguyen is a military man. His stature, handshake, and carriage all suggest a lifelong mastery of mind and body. He looks us directly in our eyes when he speaks; he walks with purpose. And he’s taking us to Ben Duoc in the Cu Chi district for a history lesson.
The drive is long enough to afford time to talk with Mr. Nguyen, and he joins us for lunch along the lazy Saigon River. He leans in close to Ronan as we eat, glancing back over his shoulder.
“You’re American, yes?” he asks. “Good. Then there are things I can share with you about this region that you won’t hear from others.” His gaze returns to our family.
“Who wants to go down in the tunnels?” Mr. Nguyen asks.
Asher and I raise our hands. The tunnels of Cu Chi are a significant memorial of the Viet Cong’s successful campaign against the American soldiers during the war; more than 45,000 Vietnamese people died protecting this underground base. Entire hospitals, armories, dining halls, barracks, and kitchens once existed across four levels beneath the jungle floor, a network stretching more than 150 miles. The crude weapons used by inhabitants—punji sticks; spears; and hand-dug, booby-trapped pits—were things kids could make in their backyards.
Our boys’ slender bodies just fit down the leaf-covered mud hatches originally used to pop through and surprise invaders.
Mr. Nguyen points at a spot about a hundred yards away and says that is where we’ll reemerge. He then disappears down a flight of stairs cut into the red clay earth.
Tunnel rats were specialized US soldiers who performed deadly search-and-destroy missions in the twisting burrows of the Cu Chi fighters’ base, sneaking into holes like these, each armed with a .45, a flashlight, and a bayonet. We had an iPhone.
“Did they clear these tunnels of all the mines?” Asher asks Mr. Nguyen.
“Yes,” he replies. “They don’t find new ones very often anymore.”
In the dark shaft, there are no lights. No handrail. It is hot and claustrophobic—we have to crawl on our bellies for much of the journey.
Mr. Nguyen is far ahead of us in the pitch black, encouraging us through a burrow no more than three feet in diameter. “I’ll get you out. Do not worry,” he says, seemingly reading our thoughts. “I know the way.”
We can hear the smile on his face as he reassures us from the gloom.
“Are you scared?” I ask Asher.
He stops shuffling along on the hard-packed clay ahead of me and replies after a long pause, “Are you?”
There is a glimmer of light off in the distance, and we relax a little bit, but Mr. Nguyen stops and says, “Give me your camera and I’ll take a picture of you. Does it have a flash? Yes? It will work then.”
Asher and I wait for Mr. Nguyen to crawl back to our position, turn around, and snap the photo—all the while looking at that sliver of sunlight at the end of the tunnel.
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