liberation day. twenty eight years ago to the day the resistance enced in the south. north and south vietnam were united.

everyone has off on the vietnamese fourth of july and some of the students asked julie and i to go to tri ton district with them. we were going to visit two million dollar hill.

we woke up early, took the dog to a friend’s house and headed south-west. the ride was pleasant until we saw a terrible accident. a young girl was laying on the road crying in the fetal position and an older man lay motionless in a large pool of blood that seemed to be coming out of his head. after that we drove much more carefully.

the hill was very festive. there were games and rides and music and lots of people there. we climbed up it once again and witnessed the gigantic rocks and the narrow caverns that the americans never seemed to be able to control. the visitors seemed to care less about the hill and more about having fun. they were mostly young and jumped and climbed from rock to rock taking photos.

the festive atmosphere was broken every few minutes by the banging sound of guns. there is a shooting range to the side of the hill and, for about 25 cents, you can shoot a gun. the gunshots echoed violently up the rock face of the mini-mountain. i jumped the first time i heard it. it made the experience that much more real for me.

we climbed down the hill that the american army showered with over two million dollars worth of bombs. i wondered what the area would have looked like if the american government would have spent two million dollars here on economic development. i wondered if the dry soil and tiny shacks on stilts would look any different. would you be able to see so many rib cages?

next there were games. there was a large bamboo swing that was mildly entertaining. there was also karaoke but i couldn’t be persuaded to sing. some people tried their luck on the bamboo balance beam. there was an irritating kid standing at one end making it shake. one game drew a lot of attention. one person would put on a large mask that acted as a blindfold. the mask was of a very pink man with a very white beard. they would be given a stick. nothing like a blind person swinging a stick for family fun! they would be placed about fifteen feet from a three pots that were suspended from a tree branch. his/her goal was to break one of the pots with the stick and win a prize. the blind stick wielder was also distracted by noise. one man played a large drum. another man followed the blind man with cymbals. a third man hummed and hooted into a bullhorn. the idea was to not let him hear the crowd’s directions. i tried it and missed but not by much. i saw a large rock on the ground near on of the pots. i took off my shoes and tried to find the rock with my bare feet. i found it but my swing was a bit off. i hit the pot with my hand.

as we were leaving someone suggested that i shoot some of the guns. i have never shot a gun in my life and didn’t really want to. soon enough i got carried up in the group enthusiasm. “sure, i’d love to shoot a gun for a quarter!”

i had also recently read that jeb bush said, “the sound of our guns is the sound of freedom.” since i had really never experienced the sound of guns before, i was sure i had never truly experienced freedom. i wanted a taste of true, american freedom.

there were three guns sitting on large blocks. one gun looked like something soldiers would have shot in world war one. the next gun looked like the guns that the communists are supposed to use and the final gun looked like the gun americans were supposed to use. the last gun was sheik and black and silver and magic. it looked light and smart. it looked as if bullets would simply hum out of its barrel and, through the work of technology and ideological superiority, find their target mercilessly. i gravitated towards the american gun and crouched over it. i looked down the sight and decided what should fit with what. when i had decided, i held my breath, pushed the butt firmly against my shoulder and slowly pulled the trigger.

all the romance instantly left. all my fantasies about magic and bullets and zipping and zooming went up in a puff of smoke and a deafening blast. guns are only romantic with bullets still in them.

the “sound of freedom” turned out to be a eardrum-shattering, window-rattling explosion occurring an inch and a half from my right ear. the “sound of freedom” makes you shout a bit after you’ve heard it. the “sound of freedom” can be heard from miles around. the “sound of freedom” is caused when high explosives ignite behind a small, metal ball. the “sound of freedom” causes the ball to be thrust through the air at high rates of speed. if you’re on the other end of the “sound of freedom” stay as low as possible. if that doesn’t work, the “sound of freedom” will free your soul from your body.

i moved over to the communist gun. i was drawn by curiosity, not the student’s bidding. they had enough noise for one day but i wanted to know how the other ideology sounded.

the gun was wooden and handsome. it had a long, curving, voluptuous magazine underneath. the wood was shiny and contrasted nicely with the coal-black metal. i lowered myself onto the second gun. i pulled the butt close to my shoulder once again and looked down the shaft. i found my target and slowly squeezed the trigger.

once again, all the romance left in a flash of smoke and a deafening explosion happening an inch and a half from my right ear. the sound of that gun sounds remarkably similar to the sound of freedom. i wondered if my hearing wasn’t acute enough to distinguish the difference.

i walked back to the students and yelled something at them. they asked me something and i yelled back, “what?”

i never thought guns were sexy until i held one. i always knew guns like the ones i shot today were machines designed for one thing and one thing only. i find that thing absolutely repulsive. after i shot one i realized how truly ugly they are. i guess it’s a simple lesson to learn. they have a remarkably powerful and alluring charm but once you’ve dug a bit deeper, all that charm seems to vanish into the boom-thud-bang-crash-kill-maim-and/or-injure “sound of freedom”.

what kind of music do vietnamese youth enjoy? well, they are fed a steady diet of pop songs that deal with love. they should be experts on the subject.

they sit in coffee shops all over southern vietnam staring at televisions. they sit next to each other. they never sit across from each other. they sit in lawn chairs in dimly lit places. they watch music videos. they do this for hours.

the videos are really quite a variety. sometimes it’s a young man with blonde streaks in his hair singing about how he lost his girlfriend and how much he misses her. sometimes it is a woman with blonde streaks singing about how much she misses her old boyfriend. sometimes it is a group of girls singing about how they just can’t get the thought of one boy or another out of their head. sometimes it’s a group of boys singing about how they can’t get the thought of one girl or another out of their head. sometimes the group is a combination of boys and girls singing about love in one form or another.

a few of the songs are bitter towards love. one chorus cries, “cry, cry, cry! i don’t care.” (translation). other songs talk about how love makes some people resilient. one chorus cries, “some day i’ll sing. i’ll sing and we’ll be together again.” other songs are just silly and about love. one chorus happily chants (in english), “forget me, forget me not!” i’ve never used the phrase “forget me not” but it has become quite a popular song over here.

young people don’t like rock or rap or anything like that. it actually doesn’t exist. i went to buy a vietnamese rap cd and was told to head up to saigon and find it in some shady corner shop. young people devour songs about love. most of them will admit that they’ve never been in love before. they will also spend hours expounding on the awesome power of the stuff.

i personally can’t stand the music. the songs are repeat constantly. jack, julie and i have half of them memorized already.

"the sound of our guns is the sound of freedom."
-jeb bush may 27, 2003

there are those that would disagree with him.

there’s a large, concrete box near where i live. it’s where all the teachers wash themselves.

i’ve actually never seen a female teacher washing themselves there. it’s always men. they walk out in their underwear, lather up and bathe.

first they cover themselves in water. secondly, they use their soap and wash all over. thirdly, they rinse off. it’s a simple process but they end up doing it on the side of the road.

the road that leads to our house is gravel. it is full of potholes. the large, concrete box sits right along side the road. that’s where people take baths.

i don’t know how the female teachers get clean. i don’t know if they ever take a bath. i know how the male teachers get clean. they rinse by the side of the road. i don’t know how they ever actually feel clean though.

it snowed black soot today. i was sitting outside of our cozy kitchen when it all happened. the blue sky with violently pink and purple clouds opened up and ashes rained down on us all. i sat staring up at the sky wondering why it was all happening and what it all meant. i decided it was nothing and went back to staring except this time i didn’t think about anything.

there are a lot of brush fires in these parts. the area is dry and it’s a good time to burn anything worth burnin’. many people clear fields this way and thick trails of smoke run up to the sky horizontally. some people build small brush fires next to the roads and you walk and ride through them. they’re harmless and you hold your breath because you don’t know what’s in the smoke. the smoke wafts around you like you’re wading through weightless water.

the fires on the streets are made out of a variety of things. sometimes they burn old, dried coconuts. they have been drank by thirsty vietnamese people and then discarded. the sun sucks out all of the moisture and they burn easily. all you have to do is put them on a pile and light a match. sometimes on campus they burn small piles of leaves and sticks. there are open areas with large trees and the sticks and leaves and anything else the tree lets fall are gathered into small groups. they’re all lit at the same time and they all leave horizontal smoke trails up to the sky. all the trails point the same direction but some are closer than others. i stand and watch them burn.

there’s something fascinating about fire and there’s something beautiful and mysterious about smoke.