Keep your eyes peeled... Charlie could be anywhere...

The complex history of Vietnam and it's cycles of colonial violence and (illegal) wars of foreign aggression against it mayhaps be better left to Jessica with her sober erudite analysis of events, happenings and their subsequent complex socio-ideological outcomes and effects on people and culture. To put it lightly the Vietnamese got FUCKED during the 20th century. By the French, By the Yanks, by the WTO and the World Bank and as i have seen it so far, a little bit by themselves. But from this point i digress from the events at hand. The highlight of May 1st, 2009, waking up at 6:30 am was that I.

Was not.

Hungover.

Something about the tropical climate allows me to consume vast quantities of drugs and alcohol with only minor side effects the next morning. (Much more about this later)

The sun rises, i wake up and shower off the evenings sweat, scraping filth and bug droppings from myself, chasing various bugs the size of small cats from our room and having a quick wank to jump start the day. At this point my thoughts turn to food. Cheap, tasty delicious food... I wake Lexy and head downstairs while she readies her beautiful self. Even in the tropical heat my muse shines like a goddess while us lowly degenerates sweat buckets and leave a trail of cash-scent like a dog in heat... money and sweat. Filthy lucre which smells of opportunity to the touts and food cart operators.They want to mount us from afar and take our western dollars. My pity is a deep dark walnut inside and it is coated in empathy, but that empathy is a thick tar and is only scrapped off, and balled into a hash like substance when i feel a tug on my heart strings that is beyond mere poverty and some how transcends the poetic. I think poor nations see us as obese disgusting creatures of waste and consumption (which we can be) belching, farting and consuming all in our wake. If they had it their (our) way i would eat 12 meals a day and consume 20 litres of beer, purchase 200 American dollars worth of knick knacks and still be unsatisfied... And the tragedy is, this might be a reality for some tourists...

But at this moment a french loaf stuffed with egg and chili calls, a glass of fresh water and a deadline.

We are to hop a bus North to see where the Viet Minh guerrillas dug tunnels and booby trapped the wilderness so they fight the fascist French colonial government and 25 years later slaughter the American pigs who invaded their home land, raped their women, burned their villages and took their dignity in a ideologically flawed criminal war of aggression against a sovereign nation... (sound familiar?)

Cu Chi tunnels encompassed a total of 150 square kilometers 65 km north of Saigon and were a major hot spot for fighting in the insurrection against the French as well as a Viet Cong stronghold for weapons, hospitals, barracks and battle sights during the Vietnam/American war. A wonder and a macabre claustrophobic beauty to behold the tunnels were often 3 levels deep with the primary level around 3 meters high and serving as hospitals and kitchens. (The full engineering details would blow your mind for people tunneling with crude wood and recycled metal) Below that are tunnels no more than a meter high, dug into solid clay, soft and permeable yet strong enough to support the ant hill like tunnels dug by the Viet Minh. Below these, the tunnels shortened to only 40 cm in height requiring one to crawl belly first. These tunnels were riddled with pit falls and man traps. Sharpened punji sticks and gruesome traps waited for their victims, who, once trapped were easy prey for the AK-47 wielding Viet Cong.

We entered these tunnels, which had been expanded by 40% (for whitey) and entered a dark oppressive underground that quickly closed in and forced us into a permanent squatting position. I traveled the length of the tunnels thinking about what it would have been like sitting in the darkness, the drone of a B52 bomber overhead and the percussive thunder of its 10 tonne bombs as they littered the barren wasteland above spraying hellfire across the landscape and decimating life in a place that they had no right to be.

Fuck it. I want to fire an AK 47.

50 buck later and i had 3 clips in hand and a set of sub-standard ear protection. I started on a single shot setting which was truthfully less that ideal. I had shot .22 caliber rifles in my youth in Alberta and while the kick of the Ak was much more noticeable, it lacked that jeune se quoi. This was remedied by switching the death dealer to full auto, at which point it began to pound my shoulder like a thrash band bass drum as i ran through the clip in a few seconds. The stock had heated to an uncomfortable point and brass cartridges littered the floor. Cordite and sulfur reeked through the air permeating our clothes and smelling of the Gates of Hell. Satan and awesomeness? I'm sold. I suppose i now have a love affair with rifles that will need to be satisfied. I'm on the road to whiskey and vodka appreciation, perhaps assault weapons are next.

I exited the range and promptly did a shot of Snake Whiskey. On the house. Back to the bus for a nap and then we figured we'd light up Saigon with our own brand of East Van fun...

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