Quang Ngai Hotels
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Pinkville
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This morning I had the interesting experience of almost missing the the stop for Quang Ngai, but the nice conductor managed to unlock the door before the train was moving too fast so I could jump out. Quang Ngai is an impoverished provincial capital--my main goal was to arrange a train going to Saigon. I managed to get one at 2:30 PM (soft sleeper, thank God). This gave me time to rent a motorbike and drive the 8 miles out of town toward the ocean to My Lai--a stop that would remind me that this is not just a cheap vacation.
The Vietnamese hamlet, sub-hamlet, village system is too difficult to describe here, but suffice it to say that the village (a collection of hamlets) is actually Son My, and the main massacre took place in a hamlet known as Tu Cung, but shown on army maps as My Lai 4. The first thing that you notice is how tiny the area is--everything is laid out for you to see. Beyond the socialist realist monument there are foundations where the houses were, beyond that you see the rice paddies where the helicopters landed. The trees that survived in the village are heavily scarred with bullet holes, the first time through I didn't even notice the small irrigation ditch where Lt. Calley executed 130 villagers.
The woman who gave the tour was the daughter of a survivor of My Lai 2, a nearby hamlet that survived with only 90 dead (the memorial lists the names and ages of all the victims--504 a number that the US still disputes as closer to 300, with typical disdain for the ability of other cultures to count their own dead. Seeing as how the victims all came from seven extended families--I think that's what the guide said--I'm willing to trust the Vietnamese on this one. In any case, while the Vietnamese government likes its propoganda, what would be the purpose of that? You can almost hear the converstaion, "You know what sounds worse than 300 dead, 504!). My guide showed me the names of her relatives, all with ages after them. It was tough but I was okay with it until she pointed at a name and said, "My aunt," and I read the age next to it. One. That was a bit much for me.
The museum that stands next to the site does not pull any punches towards the soldiers involved. On the other hand, it has quite a lot of information about the peace movement in the United States, and has an entire section devoted to Hugh Thompson (the helicopter pilot that ordered his crew to fire on the marines if they continued the massacre), especially the fact that it took thirty years for the army to give him a medal for his actions. I then spent a little while talking to the tour guide over tea (any American that makes the trip out seems to get tea), who wanted to know if I had any relatives who were in the war. I hadn't really ever thought about it, and the answer seems to be no. She says Vets come there all the time--and she has even met one vet who was part of the battallion--but, and I see this again and again, the Vietnamese seemingly make no connection between being American and American policy or actions.
Anyway, the ride back gave me an opportunity to look at the living parts of My Son. The landscape is beautiful, just rice paddies divided by rows of cocunnut palms. And since this is really the only rural Vietnam I've seen so far up close, I was surprised that the little kids really do run out and yell "Hello," when some white dude goes by.
Enough war.
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