Cu Chi Coo Chee Coo

Q1 is short for Quan 1 or “District 1”. All inner suburbs of Saigon are named this way from 1 to 12. If you’re familiar with Saigon or sarcasm, it’s right near District 2.  I’m in a Q1 cafe opposite my hotel when I notice busses at a park at the end of the road. Hang on… I remember this park… It’s the one where OUR bus parked when we arrived on Tuesday, where the really friendly and helpful taxi driver helped us into his taxi and drove for 15 mins, on meter, asking if I like Bruce Lee:

“Where you from?”

“Australia”

“Ahhhh, you ly Brut Lee?”

“Pardon?”

“yooooo lyBrut Lee?”

“I love Bruce Lee”

What the hell does Bruce Lee have to do with Vietnam or Australia? Had he been looking at my facebook? Did he see me in that double-feature for half-price cinema four years ago in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong? Has he seen me do that thing where I beat up 30 guys with a toothpick and a pair of flajandaluggongs? Can I even do that? Do Shorty and this taxi guy know I’m having an intense internal monologue full of cognitive misfires?” Then the penny dropped.

Firstly, I was wearing the Bruce Lee t-shirt. I’m an idiot. Secondly, he doesn’t give two flying fornicating bovines whether or not I like Brut Lee, he’s just seeing how far he can drive us before we notice that EVERY SIGN on EVERY SHOP on EVERY STREET has the address written on it. He had driven us in a 15 minute circle through Q1, which is where I asked to be taken. I sit now staring, nay, glaring with bitterness and irreverence at the spot he picked us up from to take us to where I am now sitting, 100 metres down the road. But let us not dwell on the past, but look to the future. That of which in the next few days involves floating down the Mekong Delta and staying overnight with a Vietnamese family, working and playing with the children of Dieu Giac Orphanage, nonsing about doing a lot of nothing, and of course getting drunk. Even better the little fellow crossing the intersection now, waving at me and dodging motos, is the tour guide for today’s adventure; the tunnels at Cu Chi.

Cu Chi is not far to the north-west of Saigon and we were there in no-time, we were with a tour group today but it was small and to be honest, you wouldn’t see a thing without the guide. The Cu Chi Tunnels are some of the most well preserved and most intricate examples of the Viet Cong underground tunnel network and base systems in Vietnam and are quite incredible. Many of these tunnels already existed before the American involvement and for a reason I cannot remember as I was too busy thinking about an episode of Harvey Birdman I saw the night before while the tour guide was explaining it. First stop was the old bunkers where you sit down with a few other groups and watch a mostly ancient, restored and poorly edited history of the “American War” on a large screen at the front. The film is heavily anti-American and it was quite funny when it finished and I woke up to see that every single American tourist had left the room during the film. They might want to consider another edit.

Next stop was a 10 meter, original and untouched tunnel, left as it was the day the war ended. The entrance was about 40cm x 25cm (That’s about 16’ x 10’ for our 17th Century readers). The guide warned everyone that inside is extremely tight and not for the faint hearted. I stepped back, Shorty jumped straight in, along with two other chicks who also had big-girls-blouse-boyfriends. We watched, faces tinged blue, palms sweating with the knowledge of what it would be like explaining to their fathers how we let their little girls die in a tunnel in South East Asia. With a chorus of sighs we saw little hands poking out of the exit 10 metres away, along with girly giggles, obviously a result of discussing the fact their lads are wussies. Then something happened that I’ll never forget and is a constant reminder of how awesomely blunt and literal Vietnamese people are.

One of our more “healthier” comrades decided she wanted some of this exciting tunnel action and jumped feet first down the hole without any guidance or consultation from our guide. She stopped at the waist like Winnie the Pooh with a honey jar full of pork crackle and the guide shouted “No, no sorry you cannot go into this tunnel, you are much too fat! Hahaha!” Everyone was stunned and silent, except me, I did one of those stupid raspberry spits that happens when a laugh escapes like a freight train out of your protesting mouth, making it much more obvious you just thought it was funny than if you had just executed a calm whisper-giggle. She gave me a look as if to say “Like you can talk.” And I returned the glance with a “Wasn’t me that said it” grin.

As we meandered through the forest he pointed out various entrance holes, breathing holes and smoke chimneys that you wouldn’t find if you tried. They are literally under your nose, everywhere. I can imagine how uptight you would feel walking through this area during the war, looking for the “bad guys”, and there is literally hundreds of them 5 metres below you. The feeling you are really there suddenly got more realistic as automatic gunfire began echoing through the trees. It was getting closer. Then we hit the main tunnel entrance. The main tunnel that has been opened for tourists is around 50 metres long and has exits every 5 – 10 metres. The tunnels are extremely tight and have actually been widened 3 times the size of the original size to accommodate Western visitors.

We dived in and started through, a combination of knees and duck waddling, head-first drops, feet-first crawls and watching the group slowly drop off through exits along the way. Only 4 of us made it to the room. The room was simply awesome, when you stand there with the knowledge that the spot you are standing, the exact spot, is where Viet Cong generals devised the Tet Offensive; the turning point, and last straw, in the Vietnam War. Out the other end and dripping with sweat our team of quitters awaited patiently. The gunfire was now really loud and with the same tone as one would offer cups of tea, our guide said “Okie dokie, who want to fire guns?”

BAM

I was at the front of the line that wasn’t even formed yet. I know this bit, we get to fire the shit out of a 1947 Avtomat Kalashnikov, better known as an AK-47. I’ve fired the M-16s and SLR 7.62s before. Fun, yes. But you don’t feel like Snoop Dizzle on a trizzle to kizzle muthafizzles on the rizzle holding an allied shooter. US$1 per bullet, minimum 30 rounds, and a pair of Sony headphones with the chord ripped out for ear protection. They made absolutely squat difference when I pulled the trigger on that bad boy. I squeezed 25 rounds into the (obviously evil) corrugated iron deer 100 metres away, then looked at Shorty.

The 5″1’ ball of guts, mettle and legs stepped up to the gun. She’s cack-handed, a lefty, so the military helper dude kind of had a minor aneurism, attempted to switch her grip around and was met with a look only a tiny cute chick can scare you with. He settled for getting her to hold the magazine and PYOW PYOW, she was off. When she had nailed the screaming corn out of the evil deer she looked at me, eyes wide like a cat that has just murdered a rat and is still in the grips of bloodlust and busted out “We’re joining a gun club when we get home, gimmie another 30 bucks.”

Breathe hole