Ho Houses

Uncle Ho died at 9:47 a.m. on September 2, 1969 and I remember this because Ha was crying when he told me. Actually he didn't say "die" he said "breathed his last," while sobbing softly and looking mournfully at the little bunker. This being Friday, Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum was closed, so I'd been spared having to look at the Great Leader's corpse. Ha had, however, treated me to an extended treatise on Uncle Ho's life, beginning with his birth in a humble village to his last heroic hours. There was no mention of an immaculate conception, but it wouldn't have come as a surprise.

Thoughts on revolutionaries aside, I couldn't help but be impressed by Ha's obvious sincerity. He wasn't born until long after Ho's death, but these people love their leader. (If they don't, they are probably not allowed to be tour guides.) So I was shocked when he criticized the current regime. "They don't care about the people," he frowned. "It is only about making money. You want to see where we kept John McCain?"

Not really - torture depresses me and I'm still reeling from October's visit to Cambodia's S-21. But my friend Sarah had been good enough to arrange this day tour for me, and I could tell it was important to Ha. He'd already shown me the Confucius Temple of Literature and the Ngoc Son Temple, so we hopped back in the car and took off for the old Hanoi Hilton.

(There's a new Hilton, too, and I had a pic but half my disk has been lost in a tragic Flickr uploading accident, so you don't get to see it. I also lost snaps of the sacks of of dried goat penises in the Hang Da market and a keeper of me flashing a peace sign beside a huge Communist banner. "Why do you keep laughing?" puzzled Ha. "Because this will really, really hack off my dad.")

To his credit, Ha didn't say one word the entire time we were touring the prison. It's not a very big place and I am glad I've seen it, if only to renew my appreciation for America's unceasing self-criticism. Those who'd like to silence dissident voices should spend half an hour wandering through this propoganda palace, where the guillotine and dunking barrel are displayed as atrocities of the French colonialists while the American POW section shows off billiard balls, tennis shoes, and a volleyball net. Ask McCain how much pool he played the next time you see him.

But pampering foreigners is now the rule of law, to the point that purse-snatchers have faced firing squads. So I was surprised when the crazy guy slugged me while I was waiting for Sarah. He'd walked into the lobby where I was uploading photos and started speaking urgently in Vietnamese, slapping his hand on my shoulder and gesturing to an official-looking pamphlet, some kind of laminated ID card, and a 100,000 dong bill.

"Sorry, I don't understand." And I didn't, really ... he was wearing an old uniform and if he wanted to see my papers, he'd have to get them from the hotel clerks. He waved the banknote at me again and then hit me on the arm. Hard.

I'd memorized "thank you, no thank you, hello, goodbye, excuse me and delicious" but it was time for both English and volume. "Mister, if you touch me again I will KICK YOUR ASS."

Thankfully, this alerted the boys behind the counter before I had to take on a nutcase in camoflage. They had my new foe out in the street in five seconds flat. "Sorry. He won't be back." I rubbed the bruise on my arm and hoped they were right. (They were.)

With that one exception, everyone I've encounted has been as benevolent as the public relations team at Hoa Lo prison would like you to believe McCain and Co.'s captors were. "Where you from? America? Oh, thank you. Thank you for being here." The hassle is minimal, the city is beautiful, and the fig and gorgonzola beignets I had with Sarah at the Green Tangerine (38 Duong Thanh) may be the best thing I ever tasted.

If you get here, try the fish at Cha Ca La Vong, too. And if you see a con man in cammies, tell him I could've taken him. Really.