Coming and Going

I have a vague notion of life in wartimes. While traveling through Cambodia and Vietnam, I was steeped in the atrocities caused by war, particularly the American influence.
    From Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Min City, the small backpacker party with me, transfers vehicles at the boarder. The travel company arranges a pick up as we walk the 400 yards from the Cambodian immigration checkpoint to the Vietnamese immigration station. At the waist high gate welcoming foreigners to Vietnam, is a short man with solar-darkening glasses and an unmistakable grin, waving...

at the group to hurry onto the Vietnamese side. He tells us to fill out the form and wait for the robotic assembly line to move our passports and paperwork down a row of well-dressed waxed officers each with a mundane integral task and a stamp.

    We gather our things and proceed beyond the tin checkpoint office. It is two days before Tet, Vietnamese Lunar New Year, the final days to get into the country and prepare for festivities galore. Our Vietnamese guide accompanies us to Saigon (Ho Chi Min City) and lightens the few hours with his witty jibes about our appearances or our home country.

    We quickly learn our guide’s name, Quat, and I am immediately impressed with his command of English. He retorts back, “I should hope so, I studied in Ohio for four years and became fluent.” I feel a bit embarrassed, because I am offended to hear, “you speak such good English. How long have you been studying?”

    I typically retort, “I should hope so, I am an American.”

    Quat seems to take it much better than me. Besides, he is Vietnamese yet prefers the company of foreigners.

    The ride begins like Girl Scout camp; first we have an icebreaker where Quat tries to guess our nationalities. He looks at the Swedish couple and gets them right, the three Germans he guesses right, but he misses the Norwegian boys and incorrectly pegs me for being Japanese, a common mistake when I travel. I explain that I am an American and he shoots back, “Oh, shit.” He glances at the driver, who does not speak English and says, “We have to be careful what we say.”

    Every other word he uses is “bullshit or “Oh Shit!” with his hand cautiously waving off seriousness. Quat has an energizing youthfulness and clearly is twice the age of any passenger in the car. He curses like a sailor and knows all the catch GI phrases of the 70s, something he learned from his US military friends, who also taught him quick wit.

    Quat’s job as a tour guide is easy, he prefers to be the talker. As the van pulls into Saigon’s outskirts, we fill up because all gas stations will be closed the following days for Tet. Quat turns to me and jabs, “You don’t look like an American.” Without skipping a beat, I say, “I am Chinese-American.” I am used to the question.
    He responds, “Oh Shit! Did I offend you?” I explain it happens all the time.

    This is the opening Quat was hoping for in the conversation, and he follows up with the most popular rhetorical question in my travels, “Why did President Bush win the election?” as if there were some conspiracy and each American was involved in illegal voting. There are no short answers to the questions, and Quat is not terribly interested in them anyways. He moves onto to criticize NASA and the billion-dollar project Bush approved to send Americans to Mars.

    Quat is his own comedy show with great commentary on America and politics. On the way to Saigon, Quat eases into politics via America by explaining he would much rather have democracy. Quat explains Vietnam’s Republic is just capitalism in the hands of the state. It is risky to voice dissent, but Quat’s candidness is routine and he is fully aware of his sympathetic foreign audiences.

    We stop on the main travelers’ street in Saigon. We all get out and rally around the Lonely Planet guidebook deciding between cheap and very cheap accommodations. The Norwegian guys and myself linger behind, hoping to make a date with Quat that evening. The three of us agree he is jovial and seems to prefer the company of foreigners, so we invite him to dinner. He happily accepts, shaking our hands to confirm the invitation.

    Each time I shake Quat’s hand, it is hard not to notice his missing right index finger. I hope later that evening he would reveal the story.

    At dinner, we gather around Quat, hoping he will indulge our curiosity. He seems to enjoy the attention and begins storybook time with us. Over a few cold Saigon beers and tasteless American hamburgers, Quat reveals his role in the war.

    He is trained in military intelligence, English and interrogation skills. During the war, he was a translator and interrogator. In 1966-1969, Quat lived at an Ohio military base, where he developed an affection for America’s single-family homes and pot roast. He looks back on that time in America like a veteran reminiscing about his youthful innocence. Laughing at his own high hopes in America, Quat explains, “Shit, back then, I knew nothing about the world.”

    To avoid being recruited by the Viet Cong before the war, he cut his right index finger off at the base of his knuckle to prove he could not shoot a gun. The excuse works and he is left alone. During the war, he works closely with American G.I.s and, today, is proud to call on their friendship when he needs a financial favor. Like all wars, he admits to having seen people die, his friends and his enemies.

    I asked if he feels bad about questioning his own people. Without hesitation, he explained, they were the enemy and there was “no love lost.” He further details interrogating suspected Viet Cong, who brand him a traitor and refuse to help the Americans. He watched countless Vietnamese get tortured and killed.

    One specific memory of watching death was lining up a group of suspected Viet Cong along the river’s edge and machine-gunning them. Their bodies rolled lifelessly into river to be carried away, unconscious.

    Throughout the war, Quat wanted to become an American and his G.I. friends promised to help him. The US government promised him that pending America’s win, he could come to America.

    Quat’s demeanor never wavered, his humor true to form from the moment we met. There is little disappointment heard when he did not get to live in America, there is no emotional well when he recapped Vietnamese being killed, and there is no sense America owes him anything. Things I expect to follow war and emotionally traumatizing events; if nothing else, bitterness in not becoming an American. Quat seems to fill his pain with humor and emptiness with foreigners spellbound by his story.

    Quat is in Vietnam for the rest of his life. He accepts his fate. To break the monotony, he interfaces with foreigners, especially Americans; maybe as a way to recapture the good old days. I came to Vietnam, to consume fresh cuisine and explore the countless war memorials; but as an unexpected bonus I sat fireside to Quat’s wit and war stories. At a time when America is at war elsewhere, his experience leaves a guilty residue and a retrospective fear of the Quats in Iraq today. I wonder what small promises are being formed with the Iraqi Quats, before leaving. In those instances, I wish I could be more than an American coming and going.