photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Tales from the Road
by Harvey Hunt
I want it clearly understood at the outset that I like the Lams. I think they are fine hard working people who escaped from Vietnam, raised a wonderful family and made a comfortable life for themselves in this country. In fact, my son, Shelby, and his wife to be, Ky Lam, were so pleased with the way that the Vietnamese/Gringo cross-cultural relations were going that they invited both sets of parents to come and visit them in Hanoi, where they were living and teaching English. But there were things about the Hunts that confused and confounded the Lams and the converse was definitely true. The Lams had struggled to achieve a “good life” in America and it had taught them to be quite frugal. They thought the Hunts had a pretty extravagant lifestyle, retired and living in San Francisco. I can be a bit defensive at times, but I’ll grant that they did have a point. For example, I had no intention of taking a long trip like this and foregoing creature comforts, regardless of what anyone thought. So when the time came, I made first class lodging and transportation arrangements for my wife Sandy and me that would, at least, insure us some level of comfort and privacy.
Everything would have gone fine if I hadn’t made the mistake of delegating one important detail to Shelby: the all-important trip from Hanoi to Ho Chi Min City (Saigon). He arranged for a van and driver to take us south, and he got one barely large enough for everybody to fit in. I’m sure he thought it would save money and impress the in-laws. So for the last five days of the trip, the six of us were packed into a vehicle that should have been sent to the scrapheap.
We stayed in the same hotels, ate together, went sightseeing and visited the Lams’ relatives together. At times the bathroom was the only escape from these “bonding opportunities,” but any time away from the van was a welcome respite from the eight to ten hours a day we spent traveling over washboard roads. The clunker had long since lost its springs. My guess is that it was still in service only to torture American tourists for the atrocities committed during the war.
Our driver played his role of tormentor to the hilt. We bumped, jostled and swayed our way through the countryside. He took fiendish delight in ducking into oncoming traffic, turning his head to give us a toothy grin, and then waiting until the last possible moment before moving back to our side of the road. Mrs. Lam (Em), Sandy and I were in the very back of the van while Mr. Lam chatted away contentedly in Vietnamese with the driver up front, well out of earshot. The kids were in the middle seat.
Time on the road could have easily dragged, yet every passing scene seemed to remind Em Lam of her life so long ago in Vietnam. Without any expression, as if she were reading from a novel, she began to tell Sandy gripping stories of her former life. This was clearly a woman-to-woman conversation. She spoke in hushed tones both for emphasis and confidentiality. Nevertheless, Shelby, Ky and I listened intently while at the same time trying to appear nonchalant. My strategy was to stare out the window and pretend to doze. Shelby and Ky tried to look like they were reading.
Early in the trip, as we passed a yellow and green Buddhist temple, we noticed a newly married couple in traditional dress standing out front. Em confided, “My marriage arranged by my family. My parents know I love another man, but they no like him. He handsome strong and I want run away with him. That would disgrace my family, so I go through with wedding.” Her tone turned wistful as she said, “Mr. Lam, he a good man, so it’s OK.” The message was all too clear.
As we passed a group of teenage girls in their school uniforms, Em spoke of a time when she was their age. “When I thirteen, my mother pregnant with my younger brother. When her time come, she make me come into bedroom and watch the delivery. I always think that the way babies were made was plenty disgusting to begin with, but this mixture of blood, membrane and private parts make me sick to my stomach. I begged Mommy to let me leave. ‘No,’ she say, ‘you must stay and learn’.’”
Our arrival in her hometown of Sep Jam jogged Em’s memories again and she recalled how her family hid her husband from both sides during the war. She laughed heartily and said, “Mommy never let him forget. She never feel his debt fully repaid.”
We passed by the house where she and Mr. Lam had lived. She whispered, almost to herself, “When the North soldiers come into my town they take our home and turned it into a police station.” She hid her face as we passed, fearing that she would be recognized and arrested, even though more than three decades had passed.
“In 1969,” she continued, “it was clear we must leave the country. Everything was taken and times were bad because Grandma and Grandpa were from China and Chinese not trusted. Our family decide to escape by building a boat. We got stuff anywhere we could like old houses and trash dumps. We buy an old outboard motor and fix it up to power our boat.”
With glassy eyes, she said: “We wished it would take us to some place safe.” She paused for a long time to regain her composure then continued. “We know the trip would be dangerous. Thai pirates roamed the waters off Southeast Asia. Those bad guys stopped and boarded any boats they could and took everything of value. But we know we need lots of money to live on in America. We have iron box in our backyard with all our money, mostly American dollars. So Mommy roll up all the big bills and sew them in the piping of our jackets. I afraid they steal my wedding ring, so I sew a small pocket in the crotch of my underpants. The pirates did stop and board us, and they did take everything they could find. They missed the jacket piping and my wedding ring.” Well, I thought, at least they had the decency not to go treasure hunting in her underpants.
This dialogue continued all the way to Saigon—one jaw-dropping story after another. Later Ky, Em’s own daughter, confided that she had never heard many of these stories before and now had a great deal more understanding of her parents.
As we look back on our Vietnam adventure, Sandy and I often chuckle and recall how we thought our trip would be a challenge and that we would have to distract ourselves by visiting historic sites and doing lots of eating and drinking. There was plenty of that, but the stories Em told us on the road are our most enduring memories.
Everything would have gone fine if I hadn’t made the mistake of delegating one important detail to Shelby: the all-important trip from Hanoi to Ho Chi Min City (Saigon). He arranged for a van and driver to take us south, and he got one barely large enough for everybody to fit in. I’m sure he thought it would save money and impress the in-laws. So for the last five days of the trip, the six of us were packed into a vehicle that should have been sent to the scrapheap.
We stayed in the same hotels, ate together, went sightseeing and visited the Lams’ relatives together. At times the bathroom was the only escape from these “bonding opportunities,” but any time away from the van was a welcome respite from the eight to ten hours a day we spent traveling over washboard roads. The clunker had long since lost its springs. My guess is that it was still in service only to torture American tourists for the atrocities committed during the war.
Our driver played his role of tormentor to the hilt. We bumped, jostled and swayed our way through the countryside. He took fiendish delight in ducking into oncoming traffic, turning his head to give us a toothy grin, and then waiting until the last possible moment before moving back to our side of the road. Mrs. Lam (Em), Sandy and I were in the very back of the van while Mr. Lam chatted away contentedly in Vietnamese with the driver up front, well out of earshot. The kids were in the middle seat.
Time on the road could have easily dragged, yet every passing scene seemed to remind Em Lam of her life so long ago in Vietnam. Without any expression, as if she were reading from a novel, she began to tell Sandy gripping stories of her former life. This was clearly a woman-to-woman conversation. She spoke in hushed tones both for emphasis and confidentiality. Nevertheless, Shelby, Ky and I listened intently while at the same time trying to appear nonchalant. My strategy was to stare out the window and pretend to doze. Shelby and Ky tried to look like they were reading.
Early in the trip, as we passed a yellow and green Buddhist temple, we noticed a newly married couple in traditional dress standing out front. Em confided, “My marriage arranged by my family. My parents know I love another man, but they no like him. He handsome strong and I want run away with him. That would disgrace my family, so I go through with wedding.” Her tone turned wistful as she said, “Mr. Lam, he a good man, so it’s OK.” The message was all too clear.
As we passed a group of teenage girls in their school uniforms, Em spoke of a time when she was their age. “When I thirteen, my mother pregnant with my younger brother. When her time come, she make me come into bedroom and watch the delivery. I always think that the way babies were made was plenty disgusting to begin with, but this mixture of blood, membrane and private parts make me sick to my stomach. I begged Mommy to let me leave. ‘No,’ she say, ‘you must stay and learn’.’”
Our arrival in her hometown of Sep Jam jogged Em’s memories again and she recalled how her family hid her husband from both sides during the war. She laughed heartily and said, “Mommy never let him forget. She never feel his debt fully repaid.”
We passed by the house where she and Mr. Lam had lived. She whispered, almost to herself, “When the North soldiers come into my town they take our home and turned it into a police station.” She hid her face as we passed, fearing that she would be recognized and arrested, even though more than three decades had passed.
“In 1969,” she continued, “it was clear we must leave the country. Everything was taken and times were bad because Grandma and Grandpa were from China and Chinese not trusted. Our family decide to escape by building a boat. We got stuff anywhere we could like old houses and trash dumps. We buy an old outboard motor and fix it up to power our boat.”
With glassy eyes, she said: “We wished it would take us to some place safe.” She paused for a long time to regain her composure then continued. “We know the trip would be dangerous. Thai pirates roamed the waters off Southeast Asia. Those bad guys stopped and boarded any boats they could and took everything of value. But we know we need lots of money to live on in America. We have iron box in our backyard with all our money, mostly American dollars. So Mommy roll up all the big bills and sew them in the piping of our jackets. I afraid they steal my wedding ring, so I sew a small pocket in the crotch of my underpants. The pirates did stop and board us, and they did take everything they could find. They missed the jacket piping and my wedding ring.” Well, I thought, at least they had the decency not to go treasure hunting in her underpants.
This dialogue continued all the way to Saigon—one jaw-dropping story after another. Later Ky, Em’s own daughter, confided that she had never heard many of these stories before and now had a great deal more understanding of her parents.
As we look back on our Vietnam adventure, Sandy and I often chuckle and recall how we thought our trip would be a challenge and that we would have to distract ourselves by visiting historic sites and doing lots of eating and drinking. There was plenty of that, but the stories Em told us on the road are our most enduring memories.