Read Online The Language of Men by Anthony D'Aries - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony D'Aries
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want to pretend I'm not as curious as they are, but I am. Like everyone else, I have paid to be here.
A petite Vietnamese woman enters the museum and gives a brief history of the tunnels. She is dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt, heavy pants, and boots. Vanessa and I are dripping with sweat, and so are the other people we've met on the tour: the heavy-set couple from Missouri in denim shorts and t-shirts, the young guys from Norway with thick eyeglasses and strappy leather sandals, the middle-aged widow from Vermont in weathered hiking boots.
Though expanded to accommodate Westerners, the tunnels are still very tight. My shoulders brush against the walls, and sometimes we turn sideways to squeeze through a particularly narrow section. The walls drip. Our guide leads us into a five-foot-wide room that was once the tunnels' hospital and birthing center. Clay dummies with broken ears sit in the corner—one pregnant, the other wearing a white surgical mask. An Indian man with a video camera holds his lens less than a foot from their faces.
I am suddenly reminded of my family's vacation to Howe Caverns in upstate New York. I was eight years old. My parents had recently purchased their first video camera, and my brother and I shot hours and hours of shaky footage that gave my parents motion sickness when they watched it. My mother often narrated the scene, talking to me or my brother, or describing the beautiful weather. Later, she'd complain about the sound of her voice. "If it bothers you so much," my brother said, "don't talk."
We took the camera inside the caverns, which were lit by yellow and red and purple flood lights, casting long shadows on the slick stone walls. Most of the footage looked like it was shot with the lens cap on. In the darkness, the tour guide's voice echoed. I asked my brother if it was my turn to hold the camera. My family wandered in the cave for almost an hour, whispering.
Here, our Vietnamese guide explains that many children spent their whole lives in the tunnels, surviving only to age three or four due to food and water restrictions. Some never saw daylight. The Indian man disappears around a turn, following his camera's red glow. I imagine him watching the footage when he returns home. His family will sit around a high-definition, flat-screen television, sipping tea, captivated by crystal-clear darkness.
At one point in the tunnels, I have to hold my breath to squeeze through a passageway. When we resurface on the shores of the South China Sea, the tour group is relieved.
"So sorry if you came here for guns," the guide says.
I stare at her, wiping my forehead.
"In Cu Chi Tunnel, south from here, you shoot gun after tour. But no here. Very sorry."
She smiles, turns away from the sea and leads us up the hill, as the Indian man's video camera captures our return to higher ground.
After buying bottled water from one of the vendors along the dirt road, I pull out
Lonely Planet
and look up Cu Chi. For a dollar a bullet, you can fire an AK-47, the official weapon of the North Vietnamese Army. Afterwards, you can eat boiled-root soup, drink bitter tea, and pretend you are the enemy.
8
IN HANOI, Vanessa works with a translator, Ngon, who is around our age. When she introduces herself to me, she tells me her name means "soft and nice communication," and asks me about mine. I hear Bruce Willis in
Pulp Fiction
answer for me: "I'm an American; our names don't mean shit."
"I looked it up once," I say. "Think it means 'priceless.'"
She nods, then turns to Vanessa. "Vanessa, I never asked what your name meant. What does it mean?"
Vanessa blushes. "Butterfly."
"Why are you embarrassed? That is very beautiful."
"My father used to call me that." I turn and look at Vanessa, but she's still looking at Ngon.
Ngon thinks for a moment and then her eyes light up as if she's made a great discovery. "Do you guys like pizza?"
That night, as Vanessa and I get ready for dinner, I skim
Lonely
A petite Vietnamese woman enters the museum and gives a brief history of the tunnels. She is dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt, heavy pants, and boots. Vanessa and I are dripping with sweat, and so are the other people we've met on the tour: the heavy-set couple from Missouri in denim shorts and t-shirts, the young guys from Norway with thick eyeglasses and strappy leather sandals, the middle-aged widow from Vermont in weathered hiking boots.
Though expanded to accommodate Westerners, the tunnels are still very tight. My shoulders brush against the walls, and sometimes we turn sideways to squeeze through a particularly narrow section. The walls drip. Our guide leads us into a five-foot-wide room that was once the tunnels' hospital and birthing center. Clay dummies with broken ears sit in the corner—one pregnant, the other wearing a white surgical mask. An Indian man with a video camera holds his lens less than a foot from their faces.
I am suddenly reminded of my family's vacation to Howe Caverns in upstate New York. I was eight years old. My parents had recently purchased their first video camera, and my brother and I shot hours and hours of shaky footage that gave my parents motion sickness when they watched it. My mother often narrated the scene, talking to me or my brother, or describing the beautiful weather. Later, she'd complain about the sound of her voice. "If it bothers you so much," my brother said, "don't talk."
We took the camera inside the caverns, which were lit by yellow and red and purple flood lights, casting long shadows on the slick stone walls. Most of the footage looked like it was shot with the lens cap on. In the darkness, the tour guide's voice echoed. I asked my brother if it was my turn to hold the camera. My family wandered in the cave for almost an hour, whispering.
Here, our Vietnamese guide explains that many children spent their whole lives in the tunnels, surviving only to age three or four due to food and water restrictions. Some never saw daylight. The Indian man disappears around a turn, following his camera's red glow. I imagine him watching the footage when he returns home. His family will sit around a high-definition, flat-screen television, sipping tea, captivated by crystal-clear darkness.
At one point in the tunnels, I have to hold my breath to squeeze through a passageway. When we resurface on the shores of the South China Sea, the tour group is relieved.
"So sorry if you came here for guns," the guide says.
I stare at her, wiping my forehead.
"In Cu Chi Tunnel, south from here, you shoot gun after tour. But no here. Very sorry."
She smiles, turns away from the sea and leads us up the hill, as the Indian man's video camera captures our return to higher ground.
After buying bottled water from one of the vendors along the dirt road, I pull out
Lonely Planet
and look up Cu Chi. For a dollar a bullet, you can fire an AK-47, the official weapon of the North Vietnamese Army. Afterwards, you can eat boiled-root soup, drink bitter tea, and pretend you are the enemy.
8
IN HANOI, Vanessa works with a translator, Ngon, who is around our age. When she introduces herself to me, she tells me her name means "soft and nice communication," and asks me about mine. I hear Bruce Willis in
Pulp Fiction
answer for me: "I'm an American; our names don't mean shit."
"I looked it up once," I say. "Think it means 'priceless.'"
She nods, then turns to Vanessa. "Vanessa, I never asked what your name meant. What does it mean?"
Vanessa blushes. "Butterfly."
"Why are you embarrassed? That is very beautiful."
"My father used to call me that." I turn and look at Vanessa, but she's still looking at Ngon.
Ngon thinks for a moment and then her eyes light up as if she's made a great discovery. "Do you guys like pizza?"
That night, as Vanessa and I get ready for dinner, I skim
Lonely
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