thedrifter
06-13-05, 06:07 AM
A different Da Nang
BY KATHERINE NGUYEN
THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER
June 12, 2005
DA NANG, Vietnam -- A few things strike me right after the 20-hour flight to Vietnam: the sticky heat, my tingling derriere and a strong whiff of what smells like canned bamboo shoots.
Next thing I know I'm getting prickly bumps on my arms and legs. Heat rash. Fantastic. It helps, though, arriving at a five-star resort and being immediately greeted by a sweeping view of palm trees and the pounding surf of the South China Sea just beyond the massive and opulent lobby of Furama Resort in Da Nang.
I am here to explore what was once a battleground during the Vietnam War -- and the famous strip of R&R oceanfront nearby nicknamed China Beach. Da Nang was the biggest military base outside of Saigon. The place where the Marines landed in 1965 to get into the ground war. Home to hundreds of acres of ports, bomber bases and fuel depots. When Da Nang fell to the communists on March 29, 1975, it signaled the beginning of the end of the war -- which officially came a month and a day later with the fall of Saigon.
I wasn't born until 1978 -- in Fullerton, Calif. The Vietnam my parents told me about while I was growing up included lighthearted anecdotes about holes in the ground they used as toilets.
My father served as a fighter pilot for the South Vietnamese army. As a child, I remember the large puffy scar on his shoulder, a result of being shot down by the North Vietnamese. He was 26, my age now.
I would later learn that my father was caught and imprisoned by the North Vietnamese for two years.
My mother fled to America by boat in 1975. She was 16. She remembers bullets flying through her hometown of Can Tho, several hundred miles south of Da Nang. I'm certain my parents could hardly imagine something as glamorous and luxurious as Furama.
Today, the stretch of white sand is a true rest and relaxation destination for Vietnam's increasing number of tourists, and there are plans to turn the area into a sprawling resort district.
There's no resisting Furama's lush tropical landscape. I fight the urge to skip checking in and run straight toward the palm trees, the sleek infinity pool and the rows of thatched beach umbrellas.
My room is an oceanfront studio with a magnificent view. I can hear the waves surging below. I throw open the balcony doors, taking in the sea breeze, and leave them open all day.
The next morning, I discover my nemesis for the remainder of my stay: mosquitoes. Much of my body is covered with huge, unsightly red welts. The staff has never heard of Calamine lotion.
Kari, the photographer staying in the room next to me, kindly offers me some spray repellent. It should be noted that she received nary a nibble.
A one-hour massage (at an affordable $27) sounds like just the right fix. The skilled masseuse hops on my back and provides a blissful escape.
Now and then I remind myself that I am here to work.
First things first. Where is China Beach?
Getting there turned out to be an adventure. Most of the staff at Furama was befuddled, even though the resort's Web site touts it as being situated on China Beach. I am given the Vietnamese names of the long stretches of beach along the central coast: Bien Bac My An, Bien Non Nuoc, Bien My Khe. No China Beach.
Locals insist it's a reference used only by foreign tourists -- and by a few old cyclo (pedicab) drivers, most of whom had been South Vietnamese soldiers.
I try to explain that most Americans think of China Beach when they think of Da Nang, that there was even a TV series named after it. Still, the general response is polite nodding and confusion.
After polling several local tour guides, I finally get a consensus that the entire 18.5-mile stretch from My Khe Beach all the way to Non Nuoc Beach is collectively, if unofficially, known as China Beach.
When we finally get there, I am disappointed. The skies have turned misty and the beaches look forlorn, hardly the sunny image of where Americans once frolicked. I was hoping there would be some old eatery that once catered to the soldiers, with photographs on the walls to prove it. Or maybe there was a bored GI who left behind a makeshift plaque -- something, anything.
We even spend an afternoon checking out a tip from one of the tour guides who mentions a bar called the Sea Men Club that American soldiers once frequented. We find a renovated family-style restaurant instead. The new owners don't know anything about the location's wartime history.
The rest of the locals can't seem to recall much else, either. The war ended 30 years ago in a country where the median age is 25. But a few have recollections.
"I was 14 or 15 when the American soldiers were here," said Hoang Thanh, owner of a jewelry shop. "I remember seeing the American soldiers walking around the city, but that's about it."
Our friendly taxi driver, Quang, remembers greeting soldiers on the streets. He was 8 years old.
"Oh, yeah, we liked them; they handed out candy bars to the kids," said Pham, 43.
Thanh, 55, said he's seen many changes over the past few decades..
"Right after Saigon fell, the communist government had prohibited the sale of gold, and life was difficult for a while," he said. "In 1985, we were allowed to sell gold again, and things have gotten much better. You can see with all the building going on that the city is really trying to improve itself and its economy."
Furama, which sits on a prime slice of the beachfront, serves as the most prominent example of this change. Built eight years ago as the country's only five-star resort, it draws Australian, British, French, Japanese and a growing number of American tourists.
Less congested than the packed streets of Ho Chi Minh City, Da Nang offers a quieter glimpse into the changing face of Vietnam, but there's an increasing emphasis on expanding its tourist appeal.
Everywhere you look, there are signs of development in Da Nang, a city of 800,000. There are new bridges, new roads, new hotels and new homes being built all over.
We make our way to Hai Van Pass, a popular destination that overlooks the city from about 18 miles away. The landscape is scenic but the mountainous highway up is treacherous, with narrow and winding curves. Drivers frequently get over to the wrong side of the road to pass other cars, even at blind turns. Altars with incense are placed at nearly every curve to remind people to pray for safe travel.
From the Hai Van summit, old military bunkers can be seen. American and South Vietnamese soldiers used the bunkers during the war, but today, they are filled with goat dung. Across the way, locals hawking water and snacks to tourists are eager to point out a patch of low hills. A leper colony.
They smile and quickly add that the leper colony will have to move. The area is the possible site of a new resort.
Another popular excursion is to drive just south of Da Nang to Ngu Hanh Son, better known as Marble Mountains. There are five mountains, all made of marble. It was from here that Viet Cong troops kept an eye on the goings-on in Da Nang.
I huff and puff up the 200 rocky steps to the top. The most spectacular of the chambers inside the Marble Mountains is cathedral-like, lighted by openings that local children who act as tour guides insist were caused by American bombs.
The kids are playful brats, tugging on my sleeve to get me to buy 50-cent incense. I mischievously tell the boys in Vietnamese that the white lady in the corner with the big professional cameras (Kari) loves incense and would surely want to buy some. The children are eager for me to teach them how to do a sales pitch in English.
Farther south of Da Nang lie the magnificent ruins of Vietnam's early Cham Dynasty, the ancient Champa Kingdom in My Son. The Cham Dynasty was one of the longest-lasting empires, existing from the 2nd to the 17th Century.
My Son is considered the equivalent of Cambodia's Angkor Wat in terms of archaeological importance, I overhear a tour guide telling a group of French visitors. Intricate carvings etched into brick monuments dating to the 7th Century are set against a jungle-like backdrop. The steady morning drizzle and patches of fog lend a mystic effect to the ancient ruins. During the war, the area was ravaged by American bombers seeking to destroy Communist encampments. Efforts are under way now to preserve the remains of the ruins.
Back at Furama, the cuisine likely suits the tastes of the uninitiated, but I've had much better in Little Saigon in Orange County, Calif., for a third of the price.
My favorite meal in Da Nang came courtesy of Apsara Restaurant, an upscale Cham and Vietnamese eatery. We order the house specialty, the garlic-roasted lobster, some crispy calamari and a few bottles of Biere LaRue, Da Nang's local beer, which is around 50 cents a pop. A few minutes later, a smiling chef approaches our table, dangling a live lobster in one hand and a long needle in the other.
Apparently, when lobster is ordered, a needle is injected into its tail to drain its blood. The blood is then mixed into special shots of rice wine. It's supposed to promote virility.
We shake our heads vehemently and send the chef back with the liquid.
The lobster is delicious.
On our last day in Da Nang, we head to the most obvious place in town for reminders of the war: Bao Tang Khu 5, the war museum. Outside, an array of old American helicopters and airplanes are on display. Inside, artifacts and relics such as old photographs and artillery tell the story of the war from the North Vietnamese perspective. Phrases refer to the "American War" and to the U.S. and South Vietnamese armies as "the enemy" and "the invaders."
I flinch at a large photo showing what appears to be a South Vietnamese soldier eviscerating a North Vietnamese soldier. What grips me most are old newspaper clippings in English of the My Lai Massacre, in which U.S. troops mowed down hundreds of villagers, including women and children. Haunting photographs taken by American Army photographer Ron Haeberle hang on the walls: a frightened and frail elderly man just moments before he was shot and a child lying atop his sibling before being shot.
My throat tightens and my eyes fill with hot tears.
It is the only time I really think of the extremities of war during my visit. It is hard to focus on war when you have endless stretches of white beach to enjoy. I wonder if the soldiers who came here 40 years ago felt the same.
Ellie
BY KATHERINE NGUYEN
THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER
June 12, 2005
DA NANG, Vietnam -- A few things strike me right after the 20-hour flight to Vietnam: the sticky heat, my tingling derriere and a strong whiff of what smells like canned bamboo shoots.
Next thing I know I'm getting prickly bumps on my arms and legs. Heat rash. Fantastic. It helps, though, arriving at a five-star resort and being immediately greeted by a sweeping view of palm trees and the pounding surf of the South China Sea just beyond the massive and opulent lobby of Furama Resort in Da Nang.
I am here to explore what was once a battleground during the Vietnam War -- and the famous strip of R&R oceanfront nearby nicknamed China Beach. Da Nang was the biggest military base outside of Saigon. The place where the Marines landed in 1965 to get into the ground war. Home to hundreds of acres of ports, bomber bases and fuel depots. When Da Nang fell to the communists on March 29, 1975, it signaled the beginning of the end of the war -- which officially came a month and a day later with the fall of Saigon.
I wasn't born until 1978 -- in Fullerton, Calif. The Vietnam my parents told me about while I was growing up included lighthearted anecdotes about holes in the ground they used as toilets.
My father served as a fighter pilot for the South Vietnamese army. As a child, I remember the large puffy scar on his shoulder, a result of being shot down by the North Vietnamese. He was 26, my age now.
I would later learn that my father was caught and imprisoned by the North Vietnamese for two years.
My mother fled to America by boat in 1975. She was 16. She remembers bullets flying through her hometown of Can Tho, several hundred miles south of Da Nang. I'm certain my parents could hardly imagine something as glamorous and luxurious as Furama.
Today, the stretch of white sand is a true rest and relaxation destination for Vietnam's increasing number of tourists, and there are plans to turn the area into a sprawling resort district.
There's no resisting Furama's lush tropical landscape. I fight the urge to skip checking in and run straight toward the palm trees, the sleek infinity pool and the rows of thatched beach umbrellas.
My room is an oceanfront studio with a magnificent view. I can hear the waves surging below. I throw open the balcony doors, taking in the sea breeze, and leave them open all day.
The next morning, I discover my nemesis for the remainder of my stay: mosquitoes. Much of my body is covered with huge, unsightly red welts. The staff has never heard of Calamine lotion.
Kari, the photographer staying in the room next to me, kindly offers me some spray repellent. It should be noted that she received nary a nibble.
A one-hour massage (at an affordable $27) sounds like just the right fix. The skilled masseuse hops on my back and provides a blissful escape.
Now and then I remind myself that I am here to work.
First things first. Where is China Beach?
Getting there turned out to be an adventure. Most of the staff at Furama was befuddled, even though the resort's Web site touts it as being situated on China Beach. I am given the Vietnamese names of the long stretches of beach along the central coast: Bien Bac My An, Bien Non Nuoc, Bien My Khe. No China Beach.
Locals insist it's a reference used only by foreign tourists -- and by a few old cyclo (pedicab) drivers, most of whom had been South Vietnamese soldiers.
I try to explain that most Americans think of China Beach when they think of Da Nang, that there was even a TV series named after it. Still, the general response is polite nodding and confusion.
After polling several local tour guides, I finally get a consensus that the entire 18.5-mile stretch from My Khe Beach all the way to Non Nuoc Beach is collectively, if unofficially, known as China Beach.
When we finally get there, I am disappointed. The skies have turned misty and the beaches look forlorn, hardly the sunny image of where Americans once frolicked. I was hoping there would be some old eatery that once catered to the soldiers, with photographs on the walls to prove it. Or maybe there was a bored GI who left behind a makeshift plaque -- something, anything.
We even spend an afternoon checking out a tip from one of the tour guides who mentions a bar called the Sea Men Club that American soldiers once frequented. We find a renovated family-style restaurant instead. The new owners don't know anything about the location's wartime history.
The rest of the locals can't seem to recall much else, either. The war ended 30 years ago in a country where the median age is 25. But a few have recollections.
"I was 14 or 15 when the American soldiers were here," said Hoang Thanh, owner of a jewelry shop. "I remember seeing the American soldiers walking around the city, but that's about it."
Our friendly taxi driver, Quang, remembers greeting soldiers on the streets. He was 8 years old.
"Oh, yeah, we liked them; they handed out candy bars to the kids," said Pham, 43.
Thanh, 55, said he's seen many changes over the past few decades..
"Right after Saigon fell, the communist government had prohibited the sale of gold, and life was difficult for a while," he said. "In 1985, we were allowed to sell gold again, and things have gotten much better. You can see with all the building going on that the city is really trying to improve itself and its economy."
Furama, which sits on a prime slice of the beachfront, serves as the most prominent example of this change. Built eight years ago as the country's only five-star resort, it draws Australian, British, French, Japanese and a growing number of American tourists.
Less congested than the packed streets of Ho Chi Minh City, Da Nang offers a quieter glimpse into the changing face of Vietnam, but there's an increasing emphasis on expanding its tourist appeal.
Everywhere you look, there are signs of development in Da Nang, a city of 800,000. There are new bridges, new roads, new hotels and new homes being built all over.
We make our way to Hai Van Pass, a popular destination that overlooks the city from about 18 miles away. The landscape is scenic but the mountainous highway up is treacherous, with narrow and winding curves. Drivers frequently get over to the wrong side of the road to pass other cars, even at blind turns. Altars with incense are placed at nearly every curve to remind people to pray for safe travel.
From the Hai Van summit, old military bunkers can be seen. American and South Vietnamese soldiers used the bunkers during the war, but today, they are filled with goat dung. Across the way, locals hawking water and snacks to tourists are eager to point out a patch of low hills. A leper colony.
They smile and quickly add that the leper colony will have to move. The area is the possible site of a new resort.
Another popular excursion is to drive just south of Da Nang to Ngu Hanh Son, better known as Marble Mountains. There are five mountains, all made of marble. It was from here that Viet Cong troops kept an eye on the goings-on in Da Nang.
I huff and puff up the 200 rocky steps to the top. The most spectacular of the chambers inside the Marble Mountains is cathedral-like, lighted by openings that local children who act as tour guides insist were caused by American bombs.
The kids are playful brats, tugging on my sleeve to get me to buy 50-cent incense. I mischievously tell the boys in Vietnamese that the white lady in the corner with the big professional cameras (Kari) loves incense and would surely want to buy some. The children are eager for me to teach them how to do a sales pitch in English.
Farther south of Da Nang lie the magnificent ruins of Vietnam's early Cham Dynasty, the ancient Champa Kingdom in My Son. The Cham Dynasty was one of the longest-lasting empires, existing from the 2nd to the 17th Century.
My Son is considered the equivalent of Cambodia's Angkor Wat in terms of archaeological importance, I overhear a tour guide telling a group of French visitors. Intricate carvings etched into brick monuments dating to the 7th Century are set against a jungle-like backdrop. The steady morning drizzle and patches of fog lend a mystic effect to the ancient ruins. During the war, the area was ravaged by American bombers seeking to destroy Communist encampments. Efforts are under way now to preserve the remains of the ruins.
Back at Furama, the cuisine likely suits the tastes of the uninitiated, but I've had much better in Little Saigon in Orange County, Calif., for a third of the price.
My favorite meal in Da Nang came courtesy of Apsara Restaurant, an upscale Cham and Vietnamese eatery. We order the house specialty, the garlic-roasted lobster, some crispy calamari and a few bottles of Biere LaRue, Da Nang's local beer, which is around 50 cents a pop. A few minutes later, a smiling chef approaches our table, dangling a live lobster in one hand and a long needle in the other.
Apparently, when lobster is ordered, a needle is injected into its tail to drain its blood. The blood is then mixed into special shots of rice wine. It's supposed to promote virility.
We shake our heads vehemently and send the chef back with the liquid.
The lobster is delicious.
On our last day in Da Nang, we head to the most obvious place in town for reminders of the war: Bao Tang Khu 5, the war museum. Outside, an array of old American helicopters and airplanes are on display. Inside, artifacts and relics such as old photographs and artillery tell the story of the war from the North Vietnamese perspective. Phrases refer to the "American War" and to the U.S. and South Vietnamese armies as "the enemy" and "the invaders."
I flinch at a large photo showing what appears to be a South Vietnamese soldier eviscerating a North Vietnamese soldier. What grips me most are old newspaper clippings in English of the My Lai Massacre, in which U.S. troops mowed down hundreds of villagers, including women and children. Haunting photographs taken by American Army photographer Ron Haeberle hang on the walls: a frightened and frail elderly man just moments before he was shot and a child lying atop his sibling before being shot.
My throat tightens and my eyes fill with hot tears.
It is the only time I really think of the extremities of war during my visit. It is hard to focus on war when you have endless stretches of white beach to enjoy. I wonder if the soldiers who came here 40 years ago felt the same.
Ellie