·
There’s a buzz that reverberates through the little town of Non Nuoc. A shrill energetic hum that seemingly has no single source. Rather, it comes at you from every nook and cranny, every side street and alleyway. Literally bouncing off the walls. An industrious, dusty hum that fills the day, the only reprieve coming at
·
It’s eight a.m. and our car is winding it’s way uphill through a cold, grey drizzle. In the damp of the morning, we’ve passed silently through a strange landscape that shifts unexpectedly from the impossible green of the coffee plantations, to the deep, terracotta orange of the soil that provides the raw material for the
·
The arrival of the train from Saigon seems to have brought the small white station in Hoi An to life. In the bright glare of the morning sunshine, everything is a messy blur of chatter and business as people disembark in one confused mass of bags, boxes and bodies. Everyone seems to know where they
·
Is there anything better than waiting to take a train in a new and unfamiliar land? There’s a distinct buzz about it that doesn’t come with air travel. Airplanes take us from A to B. They suck us up in one place and spit us out in another. Any sense of having moved across continents
·
Guerrilla. Spanish for little war. A strange word. After all can war ever be a “diminutive” thing? Here in the Cu Chi Tunnels, the idea that war, as it is practiced by the outgunned and outnumbered, can ever be anything less than a determined, coordinated and concerted effort, certainly seems ridiculous and improbable. “Little war”
