She didn’t reply.
We rode in silence through the fog-shrouded mountains under a sunless sky, the smell of wood fires hanging in the heavy air, and the damp chill seeping into my bones and my heart. I think I hated this place.
Susan said something to Mr. Loc and he stopped.
I asked, “What’s up?”
She replied, “There’s a trail there that leads up this hill to some longhouses.” She took her camera and got out of the RAV. She said, “I want to see a Montagnard village.”
She started up a steep trail off the side of the road. I said to Mr. Loc, “Be right back, Charlie. Don’t go away.”
I got out and followed Susan up the trail.
About two hundred meters up the side of the hill, the land flattened, revealing a large clearing in which were six longhouses built on stilts.
In the clearing were about two dozen women and twice as many kids, all going about their daily activities, which seemed to consist mostly of food preparation. The whole area looked very clean and free of vegetation, except for short grass on which grazed small goats and two tethered hill ponies.
The women were wearing long, dark blue dresses with white embroidery, gathered at the waist with scarves.
The dogs started barking as soon as they smelled us, but the Montagnards kept at their tasks, and barely gave us a glance, though a few of the kids stopped what they were doing.
The dogs ran toward us, but they were small dogs, as all the dogs were in Vietnam, and I didn’t remember them as being particularly vicious. Still, I wished I had little doggie treats. I said to Susan, “They won’t bite.”
“Famous last words.”
“Don’t kneel to pet them — they don’t get petted and they might think you’re looking for lunch.”
Susan waved to the Montagnards and said something in Vietnamese.
I said to her, “This is the Tribingo tribe. They’re cannibals.”
A short, stocky old man, who had been sitting on the stairs of a longhouse, rose and walked toward us. He wore an embroidered long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and leather sandals.
I looked around again, but didn’t see any young or middle-aged men. They were all hunting, or maybe drying heads in the smokehouse.
The old man came right up to us, and Susan said something to him, which included the word My, and they both bowed.
Susan introduced me to the old man, whose name sounded like John, and we shook hands. This guy was old enough to have been a Montagnard fighter, and he was eyeing me like I might be here to give him new orders.
Susan and the old man, who was obviously the village chief — the honcho, as we called them, even though that was a Japanese word — chatted, and I could tell they were having a little trouble communicating in Vietnamese.
John looked at me and surprised me by saying, “You GI? You fight here?”
I replied, “A Shau.”
“Ah.” He motioned us to follow him.
I said to Susan, “I think they’re going to have us for lunch.”
“Paul, stop being an idiot. This is fascinating.”
The old man informed us that he and his people were of the Taoi tribe, which I hoped weren’t into human sacrifices, and he showed us around the small village, which had no name; according to Susan, it was called the Place of the Clan of dai-uy John, or Chief John. Dai-uy is also captain, and John was not his name, but that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t think I’d find this place in the Hammond World Atlas, especially if it changed names every time they got a new chief.
Susan asked for and got permission to take photographs of everything and everybody. The dogs followed us wherever we went.
John pointed out all sorts of things that he thought would interest us, and which did interest one of us.
He introduced us to everyone, even the kids, and Susan kept up a conversation with him as she translated for me. Susan said to me, “He wants to know if we’ll have food with him and his people.”
“Next time. We need to get moving.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You won’t be when you see what’s on the menu. Also, they take forever to eat a meal. They must have learned about four-hour lunches from the French. Tell him we need to be somewhere.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
I looked at the old man and tapped my watch, which maybe he understood, and I said, “Khe Sanh.”
“Ah.” He nodded.
We finished the village tour, and I noticed that the kids were not following us, or begging for money or candy, like the Viet kids usually do in Saigon. Only the dogs dogged us each step of the way.
The old man led us to the wooden stairs where we’d first seen him sitting and invited us to come into the longhouse. There were leather sandals and homemade shoes all over the steps, so Susan and I took off our shoes and so did John.
We climbed the stairs, and the dogs did not follow. Americans should learn to keep their dogs outside, like the primitive Montagnards did.
We entered this wooden structure about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. The floor was wood planking, with multicolored throw rugs scattered around. Tree trunk poles ran down the center of the longhouse and held up the peaked roof.
There were small windows covered with thin fabric that let in some daylight and a few hanging oil lamps, which were lit. Obviously, there was no electricity. Toward the center of the longhouse was a big clay oven, but no chimney, and I recalled that the smoke rose to the roof and filled the room, which kept the mosquitoes away at night.
There weren’t any people in the longhouse, and the hammocks were folded and hung along the walls. I counted about twenty of them, and I tried to picture twenty people of all ages and both sexes sleeping together in this communal house filled with smoke. No wonder there weren’t as many Montagnards as there were Vietnamese. I asked Susan, “You ever do it in a hammock?”
“Can we change the subject to something cultural?”
John led us to the center of the longhouse where his space was. He was the honcho, so he had a big area, filled with bamboo chests and boxes. There were machetes and knives hung on the wall, along with some scarves and strips of leather.
I noticed a big square table in the center of the longhouse about a foot off the ground, stacked with porcelain and pottery.
In an odd way, this communal society was the Communist ideal, yet the Montagnards hated the rigidity and control of the Communist government, and were basically free-spirited and independent. Plus, they didn’t like the Vietnamese anyway.
John sat cross-legged beside a big wooden chest and so did Susan, so I did the same, which is easier than squatting like the Viets do.
John opened the chest, pulled out a green beret, and handed it to me.
I took it and looked at it. Inside was the label of an American manufacturer.
John said something to Susan, who translated, “He says this was given to him by his American dai-uy during the war.”
I nodded.
He took out another green beret, said something, and Susan said to me, “This was given to him only three years ago by another American — a former soldier who had come to visit.”
I said to Susan, “I don’t have any green berets to give him.”
“Give him your watch.”
“Give him your watch.” I asked, “What the hell is he going to do with a watch?”