When I e-mailed a Canadian friend of my plan to go to Vietnam, he responded, “I highly recommend Vietnam -- be prepared to re-live the war,” all in the same digital breath. It seemed like a contradiction at the time, but now I think I get it. In the taxi from Da Nang airport, the young driver in his T-shirt and flip-flops points out China Beach – a deserted stretch of gleaming sand, surrounded by golf and surf resorts in the making. And then the ruins of the U.S Air Base. Rows of rusting hangars. A Vietnamese flag fluttering over a tiny outbuilding. Cows grazing on sparse grass.

At the My Son archaeological Cham site near Hoi An, our guide tells us that many of the temples were bombed to dust in 1969. It was a favorite Viet Cong hiding place, deep in the jungle. Each sacred stone tower has a secure little chamber within. Ten years ago the jungle around the ruins was clear cut to facilitate restoration and tourism, so the young jungle I walk through on graded paths along gushing brooks is full of sunlight, birdsong and exotic butterflies.


Although neither an avid museum-goer nor military historian, I was drawn to the Museum of Military History in Hanoi, partly by the description in the Rough Guide, and partly by some vague sense of obligation, atonement. An afternoon well spent. The courtyard is crowded with planes, tanks and helicopters, and is dominated by a majestic sculpture crafted from the wreckage of enemy aircraft. Plaques identify the Vietnamese victories that yielded the charred and mangled metal. The enormous twisted mass inspires fascination and horror. Inside, the exhibits begin with a statue of Ho Chi Minh, and go on, chamber after chamber, unfolding the bloody history of Vietnam’s fight for independence. Display cases of guns. Photos. Dioramas. Finally, I feel weary and tempted to skip the upper floor of the last building, but trudge dutifully up the stairs. There I find the most memorable part of the museum, titled simply “The Heroic Viet Namese Mothers.” The room is filled with photographs of woman, mothers and grandmothers, each labeled with her name and the number of her sons who died in the cause of independence. Five, six, seven sons. A few also note how many enemies she had killed.

My visit the next day to the Vietnam National Fine Arts Museum was an unexpected continuation. The collection is wonderful. I lingered so long over the paintings of the twentieth century that the museum closed before I reached the contemporary exhibit. It amazes me that such gifted painters thrived in an atmosphere of unending war. Some paintings project violence, but most are images of daily life in which war is just one commonplace. Figures in the verdant rural landscape are as likely to carry guns as hoes. A woman, taking a break from combat, bends gracefully to wash her feet as a child looks on. A young man in military uniform reads a newspaper to his family.

In the Fine Arts Museum, Ho Chi Minh is “Uncle Ho,” pictured stooping to chat with children, encouraging collective farmers. His is the figure of the gentle leader and protector. I have been struck by many contrasts between China and Vietnam, especially this one. Where Mao Zedong is deified, Ho Chi Minh is beloved. Mao is always Chairman Mao. The prevailing image is the familiar one, his stern face that appears on the currency and in public and private displays. He is almost always pictured alone; another popular pose is with arm raised in a military salute. Uncle Ho is frequently pictured smiling, looking approachable. (Try a Google image search for each name and you’ll see what I mean.)

I spent a very pleasant two weeks in Vietnam. Most of my vacation wasn’t nearly as cerebral as the above reflections imply. I didn’t exactly “re-live” the war, but I gained a new understanding of its importance in the Vietnamese consciousness. I enjoyed the friendly warmth of the people and celebrated Tet (lunar new year) with them. Enjoy the new photos at Picasaweb. Take a look at videos of the Vietnamese Water Puppets and the traditional market in the town of Hoi An.