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ENLARGE
A woman works on a graveyard in Central Vietnam.
Editor's note: This is one in a series of journal entries from Rick Gunn, a South Lake Tahoe photographer, detailing his two-year bicycle journey around the world. Along the way, he is soliciting donations for The Make-A-Wish Foundation. To donate, go to wish.org. To read his complete "Wish Tour" journal, go to www.rickgunnphotography.com.
It's only an e-mail," I reminded myself on the road to Vietnam, "just a handful of words typed on a computer screen.
Though I'd received it months ago, it was still renting space in my head. "Forget about terrorists," it warned. "Fear this!"
Attached was an article by the New York Times. It read, "Researchers link long-distance cycling with impotence."
This affected me.
As I crossed the 14,000-mile mark, the words from that e-mail sparked a conversation in my head.
"Fourteen thousand miles?" I wondered to myself, "I wonder if they'd consider that long distance?"
"Denial is not a river in Africa," a wiser voice replied.
My thoughts were interrupted when I came upon a group of U.S. military types clustered under tents. They were looking at maps in the parking lot of a nearby hotel.
As I tried to enter, a Laos security guard stepped in front of me and raised a vertical palm.
"Not allow," he said in broken English.
"But are those American soldiers in there?" I asked. "I'm American, can't I just ..."
"Not allow," he re-confirmed before flashing a bat-like smile.
"Could you just tell me what they are doing here then?" I asked before turning to leave.
"They're digging for spoons," he replied in a poor translation.
"Spoons?" I returned. "What the hell would the U.S. military be doing in the Laos jungle looking for antiques?"
"Bones," a man corrected from behind. "We are looking for remains."
It's only an e-mail," I reminded myself on the road to Vietnam, "just a handful of words typed on a computer screen.
Though I'd received it months ago, it was still renting space in my head. "Forget about terrorists," it warned. "Fear this!"
Attached was an article by the New York Times. It read, "Researchers link long-distance cycling with impotence."
This affected me.
As I crossed the 14,000-mile mark, the words from that e-mail sparked a conversation in my head.
"Fourteen thousand miles?" I wondered to myself, "I wonder if they'd consider that long distance?"
"Denial is not a river in Africa," a wiser voice replied.
My thoughts were interrupted when I came upon a group of U.S. military types clustered under tents. They were looking at maps in the parking lot of a nearby hotel.
As I tried to enter, a Laos security guard stepped in front of me and raised a vertical palm.
"Not allow," he said in broken English.
"But are those American soldiers in there?" I asked. "I'm American, can't I just ..."
"Not allow," he re-confirmed before flashing a bat-like smile.
"Could you just tell me what they are doing here then?" I asked before turning to leave.
"They're digging for spoons," he replied in a poor translation.
"Spoons?" I returned. "What the hell would the U.S. military be doing in the Laos jungle looking for antiques?"
"Bones," a man corrected from behind. "We are looking for remains."
The man was an Australian helicopter pilot who was assisting in the search for more than 2,000 U.S. soldiers still classified as missing in action.
I was only 5 years old during the height of the Vietnam war.
Now, some 38 years later, I stood on a roadside in Laos and watched as America was still bringing home its dead.
With that thought weighing heavy on my mind, I crossed the border into Vietnam.
From its origins at the border, Highway 9 brought a steady climb, followed by a steep mountainous descent to the Ben Hai River. There, I cycled in a state of ignorant bliss through a dotting of peaceful riverside villages.
Only later would I discover that Highway 9, and the Ben Hai River, were the exact demarcation line of the the 17th parallel, the de-militarized zone (DMZ), that separated the former North and South Vietnam. It was a place where tens of thousands of soldiers lost their lives during the brutal battles of Khe Sahn and Hamburger Hill.
By late afternoon, my ride along Highway 9 had confluenced into Highway 1, Vietnam's main north-south thoroughfare. It was here I'd spend the next month cycling south. My first stop was the central city of Hué.
Hué seemed a city of magic and spectacle, its streets aswirl with an unyielding vibrancy.
Carts, bicycles and motorcycles crowded the roadways, alongside a quaint collection of French Colonial architecture, food stalls and trinket shops. For three days I wandered its streets, threading a path through its bustling markets, back-alley pagodas, or floating villages along the Perfume River.
Each hit my gaze like a visual sock in the jaw.
The Vietnamese I met were curious and friendly, greeting visitors with a giggle and a smile. More likely than not, they invited you in for tea, or took time to talk. Most extended a kindness capable of penetrating the most jaded traveler's heart.
When it came time to leave Hué, I did so with the utmost reluctance.
In many ways, my life had been narrowed to a series of entries and exits, hellos and goodbyes, when all I really sought was the depth and quality of experience in between.
In my heart I wanted something different than the picture postcard experiences offered up by my travel guide. What I sought was something more meaningful, something deeper.
So I sent out a few e-mails.
In a stroke of luck, I received a reply from James Hathaway, co-founder of Clear Path International, a U.S.-based humanitarian mine action organization operating in central Vietnam. Clear Path International has provided surgical, medical, and financial assistance to more than 2,500 survivors of ordnance accidents and their families since the year 2000.
After an invite, I cycled 70 miles south to Da Nang, then made my way to the Da Nang Orthopedic and Rehabilitation Center, one of the places where Clear Path International assisted mine survivors.
There I was introduced to 25-year-old Vinh Nguyen Dinh. Vinh was being fitted for a new prosthetic leg.
When his doctors were done with the fitting, I watched as Vinh pulled himself to a set of training rails.
I was only 5 years old during the height of the Vietnam war.
Now, some 38 years later, I stood on a roadside in Laos and watched as America was still bringing home its dead.
With that thought weighing heavy on my mind, I crossed the border into Vietnam.
From its origins at the border, Highway 9 brought a steady climb, followed by a steep mountainous descent to the Ben Hai River. There, I cycled in a state of ignorant bliss through a dotting of peaceful riverside villages.
Only later would I discover that Highway 9, and the Ben Hai River, were the exact demarcation line of the the 17th parallel, the de-militarized zone (DMZ), that separated the former North and South Vietnam. It was a place where tens of thousands of soldiers lost their lives during the brutal battles of Khe Sahn and Hamburger Hill.
By late afternoon, my ride along Highway 9 had confluenced into Highway 1, Vietnam's main north-south thoroughfare. It was here I'd spend the next month cycling south. My first stop was the central city of Hué.
Hué seemed a city of magic and spectacle, its streets aswirl with an unyielding vibrancy.
Carts, bicycles and motorcycles crowded the roadways, alongside a quaint collection of French Colonial architecture, food stalls and trinket shops. For three days I wandered its streets, threading a path through its bustling markets, back-alley pagodas, or floating villages along the Perfume River.
Each hit my gaze like a visual sock in the jaw.
The Vietnamese I met were curious and friendly, greeting visitors with a giggle and a smile. More likely than not, they invited you in for tea, or took time to talk. Most extended a kindness capable of penetrating the most jaded traveler's heart.
When it came time to leave Hué, I did so with the utmost reluctance.
In many ways, my life had been narrowed to a series of entries and exits, hellos and goodbyes, when all I really sought was the depth and quality of experience in between.
In my heart I wanted something different than the picture postcard experiences offered up by my travel guide. What I sought was something more meaningful, something deeper.
So I sent out a few e-mails.
In a stroke of luck, I received a reply from James Hathaway, co-founder of Clear Path International, a U.S.-based humanitarian mine action organization operating in central Vietnam. Clear Path International has provided surgical, medical, and financial assistance to more than 2,500 survivors of ordnance accidents and their families since the year 2000.
After an invite, I cycled 70 miles south to Da Nang, then made my way to the Da Nang Orthopedic and Rehabilitation Center, one of the places where Clear Path International assisted mine survivors.
There I was introduced to 25-year-old Vinh Nguyen Dinh. Vinh was being fitted for a new prosthetic leg.
When his doctors were done with the fitting, I watched as Vinh pulled himself to a set of training rails.
Twenty minutes later, with muscles trembling and sweat pouring from his head, I stood in silent witness as Vinh took his first unassisted steps since the accident.
"Vinh was planting trees on his land," his doctor explained. "That's when he swung his pick into an unexploded bomb."
I cringed.
"It might take a while," the doctor concluded, "but Vinh will learn to walk again."
The next day, I again joined representatives from Clear Path International as they drove me to a small house in Hué. There, they introduced me to another survivor, 14-year-old Ho Van Nghia.
Nghia had been riding his bicycle near his home in the spring of 2005, when he came upon something he recognized in a rice field: an unexploded artillery shell. Although he knew it was dangerous, he also knew that its bronze casing could bring his family some money. (His family exists on less than 2 dollars a day.)
Carrying the unexploded ordnance back home, he sat near his front door and wedged it firmly between his legs. With the single stroke of a hammer, the ordnance exploded. Nghia lost an arm and both legs. As I sat with the boy for an afternoon, I began to realize that he had sustained injuries far deeper than the flesh. These were the deep psychological scars that were left within his mind.
I tried to explain to Nghia that there were many amputees, around the world who'd gone on to become swimmers, cyclists, and even a double-amputee that had climbed Mount Everest.
But Nghia's loss was too recent, and an undefinable sadness seemed to settle within his eyes.
Nghia's struggle was far from over. As was the fate of those who might follow.
Clear Path estimates that there are 800,000 mines and unexploded ordnances left in Vietnam. Ordnance that on average cause 1,000 accidents per year. Since the end of the war in 1975, more than 500 children have lost their lives and 4,000 have been injured in Quang Tri Province alone.
Many of these deaths were due to unexploded cluster bombs.
"The injuries we have seen from cluster bombs are just horrifying," said Martha Hathaway, Clear Path's executive director, insisting that they claim "too many unintended victims."
Fortunately, back in America, two people are trying to do something about this: Senators Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont) and Diane Feinstein (D-Calif.).
The legislation introduced by Leahy and Feinstein, called the Cluster Munitions Civilian Protection Act of 2007, proposes that no funds be appropriated to any federal department or agency for the use, sale or transfer of cluster munitions unless the munitions have a proven wartime detonation rate of 99 percent; their use is on clearly defined military targets not inhabited by civilians; and there exist plans to clean up those that fail to explode within 30 days of their use.
This legislation, although only a first step, brought me hope.
After thanking the representatives of Clear Path International, I returned to my bike and continued my tour south through the quaint coastal towns of Hoi An, Quy Nhon, and Tuy Hoa.
One afternoon, as I was riding along the coast, something caught my eye. It was a massive red monument just off the roadside.
Following a small footpath through a rusted gate, I came to an area where the view opened to something startling. It was a sea of gravestones too numerous to count - row after row - as far as the eye could see.
"Vinh was planting trees on his land," his doctor explained. "That's when he swung his pick into an unexploded bomb."
I cringed.
"It might take a while," the doctor concluded, "but Vinh will learn to walk again."
The next day, I again joined representatives from Clear Path International as they drove me to a small house in Hué. There, they introduced me to another survivor, 14-year-old Ho Van Nghia.
Nghia had been riding his bicycle near his home in the spring of 2005, when he came upon something he recognized in a rice field: an unexploded artillery shell. Although he knew it was dangerous, he also knew that its bronze casing could bring his family some money. (His family exists on less than 2 dollars a day.)
Carrying the unexploded ordnance back home, he sat near his front door and wedged it firmly between his legs. With the single stroke of a hammer, the ordnance exploded. Nghia lost an arm and both legs. As I sat with the boy for an afternoon, I began to realize that he had sustained injuries far deeper than the flesh. These were the deep psychological scars that were left within his mind.
I tried to explain to Nghia that there were many amputees, around the world who'd gone on to become swimmers, cyclists, and even a double-amputee that had climbed Mount Everest.
But Nghia's loss was too recent, and an undefinable sadness seemed to settle within his eyes.
Nghia's struggle was far from over. As was the fate of those who might follow.
Clear Path estimates that there are 800,000 mines and unexploded ordnances left in Vietnam. Ordnance that on average cause 1,000 accidents per year. Since the end of the war in 1975, more than 500 children have lost their lives and 4,000 have been injured in Quang Tri Province alone.
Many of these deaths were due to unexploded cluster bombs.
"The injuries we have seen from cluster bombs are just horrifying," said Martha Hathaway, Clear Path's executive director, insisting that they claim "too many unintended victims."
Fortunately, back in America, two people are trying to do something about this: Senators Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont) and Diane Feinstein (D-Calif.).
The legislation introduced by Leahy and Feinstein, called the Cluster Munitions Civilian Protection Act of 2007, proposes that no funds be appropriated to any federal department or agency for the use, sale or transfer of cluster munitions unless the munitions have a proven wartime detonation rate of 99 percent; their use is on clearly defined military targets not inhabited by civilians; and there exist plans to clean up those that fail to explode within 30 days of their use.
This legislation, although only a first step, brought me hope.
After thanking the representatives of Clear Path International, I returned to my bike and continued my tour south through the quaint coastal towns of Hoi An, Quy Nhon, and Tuy Hoa.
One afternoon, as I was riding along the coast, something caught my eye. It was a massive red monument just off the roadside.
Following a small footpath through a rusted gate, I came to an area where the view opened to something startling. It was a sea of gravestones too numerous to count - row after row - as far as the eye could see.
Thousands of graves dedicated to those Vietnamese killed in the war.
It had been 12 months and 10,000 miles since I'd broken down in tears beneath the 58,000 names carved into the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington D.C.
And now, a year later, and a half a world away, tears hit the soil for the other 3 million souls who died during this war.
As I stood at the foot of those graves that afternoon, I searched for some reason behind all this death and destruction.
Some explanation for it all.
My mind landed upon a single word: fear.
I recalled the firestorm of fear that swept my country during the McCarthy era. The collective fear of communism that resulted in the trampling of human rights, and ultimately the longest war in American history. A war that claimed nearly 4 million lives.
Then, I thought of the new wildfire of fear sweeping my homeland.
The fear of terrorism.
I pondered how many more of the freedoms our founding fathers died for would be eroded by this new collective fear; how many more wars, how many more maimed, how many more dead.
I wondered just how much further our society and its representative leaders would have to descend before we extinguished this path of fear, and embark on a new path of hope.
Despite all my wondering, something within my heart became perfectly clear that afternoon: Man was not put on this planet to enact war and violence.
For man's strength lies not in his ability to kill, but in his ability to understand, his ability to reason, feel, and create, and most importantly, his capacity to love and care for his fellow human beings.
WHERE: Vietnam - Lao Bao, Hue, Da Nang, Hoi An, Quang Ngai, Quy Nhon, Tuy Hoa
WHEN: Feb. 1-15, 2007
MILEAGE LOG: 13,739-14,302
ELEVATION: Sea level-1,100 feet
It had been 12 months and 10,000 miles since I'd broken down in tears beneath the 58,000 names carved into the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington D.C.
And now, a year later, and a half a world away, tears hit the soil for the other 3 million souls who died during this war.
As I stood at the foot of those graves that afternoon, I searched for some reason behind all this death and destruction.
Some explanation for it all.
My mind landed upon a single word: fear.
I recalled the firestorm of fear that swept my country during the McCarthy era. The collective fear of communism that resulted in the trampling of human rights, and ultimately the longest war in American history. A war that claimed nearly 4 million lives.
Then, I thought of the new wildfire of fear sweeping my homeland.
The fear of terrorism.
I pondered how many more of the freedoms our founding fathers died for would be eroded by this new collective fear; how many more wars, how many more maimed, how many more dead.
I wondered just how much further our society and its representative leaders would have to descend before we extinguished this path of fear, and embark on a new path of hope.
Despite all my wondering, something within my heart became perfectly clear that afternoon: Man was not put on this planet to enact war and violence.
For man's strength lies not in his ability to kill, but in his ability to understand, his ability to reason, feel, and create, and most importantly, his capacity to love and care for his fellow human beings.
WHERE: Vietnam - Lao Bao, Hue, Da Nang, Hoi An, Quang Ngai, Quy Nhon, Tuy Hoa
WHEN: Feb. 1-15, 2007
MILEAGE LOG: 13,739-14,302
ELEVATION: Sea level-1,100 feet
