After 20 years, I was returning home. There were many things I wanted to do.
I wanted to see if I could regain my parents’ house that was taken after they came to the United States in 1985.
I wanted to reunite with my brother my sister and their families, and help them establish some kind of business so they would not have to depend totally on our monthly financial support.
I wanted to help my niece, who had been accepted to my alma mater, Mt. Union College in Ohio, obtain a student visa.
I wanted my 7-year-old son, Chris, to become acquainted with his extended family and our Asian heritage.
And I wanted to give a very close American friend, Jerry–who has an interest in Vietnamese culture and gemology, and was accompanying us–the chance to look into gem mining, which has proved very profitable to Taiwanese investors in Vietnam.
But to be totally honest, I just wanted to return to Vietnam to say a proper goodbye.
In 1975, when I was 17, I had left without knowing I was leaving. Now I was about to make a connection with my past.
My husband, Manh, whom I met in America after we had both fled Vietnam, had decided not to come; it would be too painful for him to face the reality that the Communist government is now in power. But joining Chris, Jerry and me was my mother-in-law, Duc, who wanted to see her oldest son after 20 years of separation.
When we arrived in Saigon on April 20, the sight of the airport officials was unnerving. I felt I was facing my enemies. My mother-in-law slipped a custom officer a $20 bill, and he smiled broadly and waved us through. Jerry, who was not used to bribery, was annoyed, but in Vietnam it is normal and very much expected.
I walked outside into the arms of my relatives. There were flowers, hugs, tears and smiles.
My husband’s nephew, Bich, had rented a van ($15 U.S.). We were driven to a small villa that had been converted into a mini motel (also $15 a day). We sat down to chat. The next two hours were a blur, with people coming and going, food and drink being brought in and out. Saigon was quite hot in April. The air-conditioning in our room was much appreciated.
My sister Hoa looked years older than her age of 51. My brother Khanh, who is 47 and had once criticized my mother for smoking, now smoked cigarettes. “Suffering,” he explained, “drove me to do things I did not like before.”
We rented a van to take all of us sightseeing. We went to Dam Sen, an upscale outdoor restaurant. It felt strange to be regarded as an affluent person by my family. All my relatives worried about the expensive menu. I told them to enjoy. My sister said she felt like Cinderella; I told her I felt like Alice in Wonderland.
I ordered roasted pigeon (one of my favorite dishes), shrimp tempura and fried rice. The bill came to $75 for 10 people–quite costly by Vietnamese standards.
At the end of the meal there were some leftovers. I asked the waitress to pack them up for me, but my brother shook his head: “We do not take leftovers home; you must have forgotten that.” I looked at the amount of food on the table and told the waitress, “I am an American now, and in America we usually eat leftovers for lunch; pack it up, please.”
On the way home we drove along Bach Dang quay. Everything was still familiar to me: the light, the people, the life. I couldn’t believe it had been 20 years.
When I came home, an agenda had been planned for us. Four days in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City), then back to my hometown Tra Vinh in the Mekong Delta. A sightseeing tour of Dalat and Nha Trang were also in the works.
On April 24, my 20th anniversary away from home, I rented a van with a driver for $30 a day to take my son, Jerry and me–along with my sister and brother–back to my hometown; my mother-in-law would stay in Saigon with her family.
We made a stop in Vinh Long to visit my maternal grandfather’s house. Tears welled in my eyes. My uncle had donated this special home to the government, which used it for a while as a factory for floor mats. Now a high iron fence had been built around it, the factory had been closed, and we could not go inside.
We bought some incense and paid our respects outside, planting the burning incense along the fence. A neighbor ran out: “This is a house, not a pagoda–are you looking for a pagoda?”
“It’s our grandfather’s house,” we tearfully told him. He led us to distant relative’s house next door. While my brother and sister visited with them, I walked around the back to look at the Thien Duc River, made famous by many Vietnamese novelists, and recalled memories of summer days spent swimming and watching the fruit boats and snacks boats that crowded the river. But now there was no market-like activity on the river. The willows were still there, though, bowing their heads in silence.
We then went to see our aunt, the widow of my mother’s brother. The van could only go so far on the narrow street, so we rented a xe loi may, a motorcycle-driven vehicle. The vehicle bounced up and down over the chuckholed road as we went deeper and deeper into the village.
The sight of a large American man shocked most people we passed. Some older men ran out to gawk. One reached out to pull on Jerry’s beard. “I am not dreaming,” he said. “An American is really here.”
My aunt told me she was in the process of getting my grandfather’s house back; the situation seemed hopeful. She told me I should try hard to regain my parents’ home. I felt a sharp pain in my heart. I will do all I can.
I asked my aunt to take me back to yet another village on the Mekong River, the home of my late uncle. There, as a third-grader, I used to sit under a big old tree and put my feet in the cool river while I dreamily watched fishing boats float lazily by.
Red walls of flowers greeted us. I came back to the old tree and sat down. The river was still as huge as I remembered. A cool breeze softly penetrated my soul.
A distant relative volunteered to take Jerry, Chris and me to an island where we hoped to find some fruit. On the boat ride, Jerry marveled at the giant river, and all the fishermen on the other boats waved at Jerry. He was a novelty; very few Americans travel alone with Vietnamese.
We were dying of thirst when we got to the island. My uncle promised to take us to a nearby cafe. Forty-five minutes later we found a hut with a roof made of coconut leaves and a mud floor with no walls. A bed was located in the middle, a small table with three chairs next to it. Two small girls waited on us.
Everything we asked for–coffee, tea, soda–they didn’t have. No food either. Exasperated, I told them to give us whatever they had. They said they had lime juice but had to boil the water. We waited.
Finally the water was brought to the table along with glasses filled with ice. Yellow sugar dotted with a few dead ants sat in a small container. But there was no lime.
Sorry, the girls informed us, they forgot to pick the limes. Fifteen minutes later we finally got our lime juice. I closed my eyes, took a big sip and tried not to think about the ants waltzing in my glass.
Chris happily drank his juice, then went to play with a potbellied pig tied to the bed. He knew what he wanted for his next birthday.
We returned from the island to an anxious group of relatives. My aunt offered us coconut juice, and my cousin Jimmy gave Jerry the royal treatment–cool towels, a fanning and a drink of snake wine.
We had shown up unexpectedly and the market was quite a distance away, but my aunt put a dinner on the table for us: two stewed catfish heads, rice and a green mango. As we left, I gave my aunt a can of condensed milk from the U.S., a couple of sandwiches and a ripe mango. Her eyes lit up when she saw the milk; it was still a luxury in the countryside of Vietnam.
We arrived at my hometown about 8 that evening. At my parents’ house, I felt like crying, but my tears were dried. We stopped at the back gate. There was no more gate. A brick wall had been installed to divide the property; half of it was still owned by my sister and the other half belonged to a Chinese merchant who rented it out to some governmental agency.
I went around to the front and stood outside looking in. All of a sudden I knew how my parents felt 40 years ago when they lost their home to the French troops. It took them several years before they got it back. It almost cost my father his life–the French did not like a stubborn homeowner like my father who refused to give in.
Now the responsibility was mine. I must get it back and restore it to its former glory. Buried under the piles of lumber, bricks and other unsightly junk was my dad’s once precious possession–a beautiful sculptured garden with exotic Japanese grass, tropical fruits and flowers.
My sister had promised me a grilled lobster brunch. She had to go to the market before 6 a.m. to get them or there wouldn’t be any left. I remembered the giant fresh-water lobster I loved so much. Now we were lucky to have some small ones. Everything was exported so the government could get badly needed foreign currency for their forever sagging economy.
My brother told me he was bringing a friend to our family brunch, which we would hold at a nearby restaurant that sold my favorite dish, bun nuoc leo, a Cambodian rice noddle soup served with grilled lobster and roasted pork. I walked in and saw him sitting at a table with three communist military policemen.
He introduced his “friends.” I felt like I had been slapped across the face. I walked toward them with a blank stare. “If you care to join us, I will be glad to pay your bill,” I coldly told them. They did not and I was relieved.
But sitting in front of my most favorite meal, I couldn’t seem to get it down. Images of South Vietnamese suffering in re-education camps while their rights, possessions and families were destroyed by the military police came to mind. This was the only time I felt coming back to Vietnam was a mistake.
I spent the morning searching for my friends and teachers. In the afternoon we visited our ancestors’ graves. It was an emotional tour. The family graveyard was once adorned with iron-sculptured fence, flowers and shady trees. The fence had been removed; the ground looked bare and dry. A small market congregated there every morning. Nothing was sacred anymore. Everyone was only interested in filling their empty stomaches .
The trip led us to the end of the town where a war museum had recently been erected. I didn’t really want to be there, but I went along with the others out of curiosity.
There were two sections: “History of Uncle Ho” and “History of the War.” I was interested in neither because, I guess, I was on the side of the losers. Pictures of the captured American POWs gnawed at my heart. I had respect for Mr. Ho but not enough to forget all that had happened in the past.
We came back to my sister’s home for a late lunch. She had cooked a special homecoming meal with grilled mudfish and steamed crabs. But I took one look at the fly-covered dishes and decided I was not too hungry. I ate mangoes instead. Sure, there were mangoes in America, but none could compare to those giant, juicy and sweet varities in Vietnam.
That evening we took a sightseeing tour to Ao Ba Om, a scenic park that had become a historical landmark. Surrounded by thousand-year-old trees, a lotus lake and Cambodian Buddhist temples, the park had survived numerous hurricanes and was still a favorite place for picnics, school outings and peaceful walks.
The next morning I called the Office of the U.S. Representative in Hanoi to get information for my niece’s visa. The short phone calls cost more than $15–which I had to pay right after I placed them . An old friend came to see me, and we went shopping at the market. Most of the Chinese merchants I remembered were gone–probably deported back to their homeland or forced to seek refuge in other countries.
We returned to the hotel so I could check out. Jerry and my brother sent the driver back to tell us they were waiting for us at a local restaurant for lunch. I invited my friend to come with us.
We were driven to a place on the outskirts of town. The restaurant appeared a bit odd. There were several small grass huts. In each hut there was a table and four chairs.
My friend pulled me aside. “Don’t you know,” she said, “this is a hugging beer place.” I had heard of this before but never had been to one. A hugging beer place is similar to a go-go bar where men drink beer and cuddle with the girls; they could have anything–if the price was right.
I went inside, paid for the meal that had not yet been cooked and dragged my son, my friend and Jerry to the car. I told my brother I was leaving for Saigon that very minute. I felt totally embarrassed and insulted. Poor Jerry! He was having fun before I came to his rescue.
Back in Saigon, I arranged for another car to take us to Dalat, “the honeymoon city,” where my family used to vacation every summer. A pine country landscaped with mountains, lakes and waterfalls, Dalat has always been a favorite place for tourists.
We stopped for lunch at Blao, a small town famous for its delectable varieties of coffees and teas. We enjoyed curry flavor, stir-fried wild boar, venison steak with fries, fried catfish and vegetable chicken soup–a $20 lunch for nine people.
It was almost evening when we arrived in Dalat. The driver took us to a group of villas. We went into a cozy villa with a cottage sitting on top of a flower-covered hill. We were told we could rent a room there for $8 a night. We started bringing the luggage in when the owner saw Jerry. Apologizing profusely, she told us she was not licensed to rent rooms to foreigners and showed us to the villa next door. It was a little more modern and roomier, but the price was high–$15 for Vietnamese and $25 for everyone else.
We went out to shop for food and had a nice dinner on the beautiful balcony. The temperature dropped rapidly at night to a cool 50 degrees .
The next morning we all got up early to have a great breakfast at the local soup house Pho Tung. It was just wonderful to sit in front of a steamy bowl of noodle soup. My ca phe sua –cafe au lait–never tasted better. We bought some food and beverages and headed toward Camly, the nearest waterfall.
There are many waterfalls in Dalat. The most popular are Camly, Prenn, Datangla, Bongour and Gougar. All are exotic and lovely in their own ways, but we would have time to visit only a few.
On another afternoon, we set out to visit a ruby mine. We filled our gui–a handsome basket woven by the Montagnards–with picnic food and strawberry wine. We climbed a small mountain on the way to the mining village. On the very top we found a military garrison with a majestic panoramic view. We all fell in love with the place and decided to forgo our planned excursion to the mine.
We had the most fascinating time exploring inside and outside the garrison/castle. A man from the area joined our picnic and told us the place was haunted.
There were many supposedly haunted houses in Dalat. As a result, most were for sale at one-tenth their market value. Our new friend led us to a newly built but “haunted” villa. The price, we were told, was $6,000. (We inquired about buying this castle and were informed that the place belonged to the military and was not for sale but could be leased–for business purposes–for $4,000 to $6,000 a year.)
Before we left Dalat, we went to the Prenn waterfalls. Here we sampled Dalat’s favorite snack–sweet and fresh tofu with ginger. For a dime, a bowl of warm, smooth, creamy and delicious tofu gave us the needed strength to continue our sightseeing tour.
I was pleased to see the modernization of the area around the waterfalls–modernization that wasn’t too commercial. The current government had done something right.
Our last stop on our last day was Dalat’s arboretum. The flower garden was filled with gorgeous roses, orchids and other rare tropical flowers and plants. It definitely is a must-see .
I was not ready to leave Dalat with its always-temperate climate and landscape reminiscent of the Swiss Alps. But on April 29 we left for Nha Trang; I did not want to witness the big celebrations in Saigon on April 30–the 20th anniversary of the Communist victory.
The road to Nha Trang was quite scenic. We stopped at Deo Ngoan Muc, a dangerous cliff marked with roadside altars in honor of people who lost their lives when their cars slipped off the road. We also pointed out Thap Cham–the ruins of an ancient civilization which was destroyed when Vietnam expanded southward–to Jerry.
When we arrived in Nha Trang in the late afternoon we had problems finding a suitable place to stay. Without reservations we had two choices: Hai Yen, the most expensive place in town ($44 to $150 for a room), or Bao Dai Palace, the last emperor’s palace which had been converted into a hotel ($25-$60). There also were reclining chairs on the beach ($2). I would have loved to have spent the night on the beach under the stars, but my mother-in-law needed proper lodging so we decided to stay at the palace. And what a palace it was!
Jerry stayed in the main house, and for $35 he got an air-conditioned room with a TV and refrigerator. The courtyard was filled with magnolia and tamarind trees; the ocean view was fantastic. The rest of us stayed in recently built rooms on the premises for $25 per room.
For $60 we could have rented a three-bedroom suite with a private terrace overlooking the ocean–but all these suites had been booked by Japanese tourists.
The next day we regretfully checked out of our most gorgeous hotel and headed 20 miles north to Doc Let, a pearly white sandy beach, for an afternoon swim. As soon as we settled down on the sand, Jerry was surrounded by Vietnamese soldiers.
They were excited to see an American. They brought him beer and food. Many wanted to take pictures with him. Even with all the commotion, Jerry still managed some sunbathing–and promptly got his entire back burned. (He lamented for days of his second-degree burns, but all he got from me was an “I-told-you-so” look.)
While everyone swam or rested under the coconut trees, I sat thinking of how marvelous the view was and, if this were Hawaii, how much more I would have to pay for everything. No wonder there were so many tour groups pouring into this seaside resort.
We went back to Saigon, singing all the way. We even sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “America the Beautiful”–I guess I was a little homesick for the United States. I missed the freedom that a lot of us Americans seem to take for granted.
In Saigon, I treated myself to a total make-over–shampoo and hair styling, a facial, a make-up session, pedicure and manicure, all for $2.50. Life was good.
We also spent time with many gem dealers . My brother took Jerry to the National Gem Center, a government-owned wholesale shop. There, the guard tried to sell Jerry a synthetic ruby that he passed off as a real stone. We soon learned that any attempt by an individual to do business with the government agency would be stonewalled by corruption. To take advantage of the cheap labor in Vietnam, one should deal only with private enterprises.
We also spent a couple hours with a family friend (and lawyer) who we consulted about buying back my parents’ home. She told me that as a foreigner I would not be allowed to buy or own property in Vietnam. I had three choices:
1. I could pay $75,000 to the new owner and buy the house under the name of a relative who lives in Vietnam;
2. My parents, who do not yet have American citizenship, would have to come back to live in Vietnam and claim their ownership;
3. Or, they could make out a will and give the house to an heir in Vietnam; after their death, this person then can claim ownership.
I returned to my hotel room and prayed for a miracle. The first option would have been the most feasible, if only I had $75,000–in cash. I thought about my dream of buying the house back. I felt a deep sadness and hopelessness piercing my heart.
On our last day in Saigon, I went to the National Foreign Trade bank to set up an account for my sister-in-law (we had hoped to establish a business in Vietnam in the near future). The minimum deposit for a business account was $10,000, so we opened a private account instead. Now I could wire money to help my family.
We had also come back to Saigon to celebrate my niece’s 21st birthday. She has now grown into a bright and pretty young lass. I hope to see her soon in America.
As we returned to the United States, I felt a sense of disappointment because I had accomplished so little. I felt helpless. Nonetheless, I was glad that I had a chance to go back, to embrace my loved ones and to say good-bye.
I asked my son which he liked better, Vietnam or the United States.
“I like Vietnam because that’s where our family is,” he said, “but I like America because that’s where our home is.”
My sentiments exactly.
DETAILS ON VIETNAM
Getting there: No U.S. airline flies into Vietnam, but many Asian carriers (some in conjunction with U.S. airlines) offer connecting flights from Chicago usually with a free stop-over at their Asian hub. A round-trip ticket from Chicago costs about $1,100. A visa is required ($40) for everyone except children under 12.
Getting around: The best way to travel is to rent a car or van. For $30 to $50 a day you can have a nice air-conditioned vehicle with a driver (ask for one who speaks English).
Drivers are extremely courteous and hard working; they normally will serve you from 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. without complaint. Although drivers expect to be fed, most restaurants serve them free of charge. Drivers can act as wonderful tour guides, leading you to the greatest restaurants and hotels and inform you of the local culture and legal requirements. Unlike drivers in places like Hong Kong and Thailand, most drivers do not take commissions from retail shops, hotels or restaurants; they will not bring tourists to expensive places but will introduce you to local favorites.
Another great form of transportation is the motorcycle. The mini hotels where we stayed rent them out for $1 a day. For another dollar a day, you can request a guide .
You can also travel between cities by bus for a few dollars, but I wouldn’t recommend it–unless you like to travel with chickens.
You can also fly between major cities.
If you’re watching your budget, taxis are not recommended; they are as expensive as Chicago. Cyclos–three-wheel pedaled vehicles–are the cheapest way to get around Saigon (less than a dollar for a mile or two).
Lodging: International hotels are available in major cities, but the prices are between $100 and $400. Many mini hotels offer nice clean rooms and great service for $10 to $20 a day. They usually will cook your meals to order, make arrangements for transportation, do your laundry–and will not accept tips! Travel agents that specialize in Vietnam tours can book these mini hotels–for a fee–or you can book them when you arrive .
Dining: With Chinese and French influences, the country offers the best of both East and West. Seafood is abdundant. Except for the tourist traps , prices are incredibly low; we had a four-course dinner with beer and soft drinks for 15 people for $14. For breakfast, ask to be taken to a nearby market.
