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OpEdNews Op Eds    H2'ed 10/29/17

Dak Lak

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Message Linh Dinh
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Ea Kar, 2017
Ea Kar, 2017
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It was a 200-mile journey from Saigon to Dak Lak, a highlands province that saw much fighting during the Vietnam War. Just north of Saigon, I passed quite a few grand villas, with two dog statues on gate columns, though some owners outdid their neighbors by having lions instead.

The further north I went, the smaller the houses became, and the more churches I saw, some brand new. The government states that only 8% of Vietnamese are Christians, but the true percentage must be twice that, at least. I saw many graves with crosses.

As I climbed higher, the rubber trees gave way to coffee and pepper plants. Here and there, an avocado orchard or corn field. Noticing people on motorbikes with a windbreaker or hoodie, I suddenly became alarmed at not having brought a coat, but the temperature never dipped below pleasantly cool.

One recent summer evening in Catalan, a man I was chatting with at an outdoor cafe shudderingly said he had to rush home because it was getting too cold, and I thought he had to be joking or a wimp. "You live in the US. This is nothing for you. I'm freezing!" It's all relative.

Serpentining upward, dragonlike, I skirted the Cambodian border. The Ho Chi Minh trail was once just on the other side. At a dusty intersection, an old bicyclist had on gray pajamas and a black combat helmet. Though with a face like a squashed prune and toothless, he can still aim straight, I'd bet. A propaganda billboard advised, "FIRM WITH THE RIFLE, STEADY WITH THE STEERING WHEEL."

In Dak Lak Province, most of the place names aren't Vietnamese, but even in strange-sounding Ea Kly, Ea Kar or M'Drak, all I saw on the streets were Vietnamese, for they have taken over. A century ago, there were 151 Rade villages in the area, so where were the Rades?

A Vietnamese, Quan, informed me, "As we move in, they retreat further into the forest. Plus, they dress just like us now, so if you see them in town, you may not notice. They are darker, though."

Smiling, Quan added, "And their women are rather disgusting, when you look at them. There's something not quite right about them!" Like a tolerance for heat or cold, it's mostly what you're used to, I suppose, though novelty, for some, can be intriguing.

Born in harsh Binh Dinh, Quan moved to Saigon as a teen. In college, he often couldn't afford more than a plate of rice with pig liver and bean sprouts for lunch, for it only cost 9 cents. He rode a cheap Chinese bike that often broke down. Now, Quan owns several businesses and was in Dak Lak to buy land for a recycling plant. Looking into exporting organic Vietnamese vegetables to India, he visited that country recently. His wife went to Dubai for fun.

With Quan, I visited a business associate of his, also a Vietnamese. Everything inside Truong's house was tired looking. The front room was decorated with a large picture of fruits and vegetables, something you'd find in a barrio grocery store. The backroom had two wooden beds and a beat-up glass cabinet, containing faded, threadbare and long-outdated clothing. His parents came out to greet us. The old man wore a white and baby blue golf shirt that featured this stitched on tag, "THTP Buôn Ma Thuột" ["Buon Ma Thuot High School"]. After four decades, maybe he's still enrolled.

Truong, "Yes, this area is changing very fast. More and more people are coming in, and the trees are being cut down. You hardly see elephants anymore. The elephant is very important to the Rades. It's their spiritual core. Plus, elephants hauled timber. Now, elephants are only used to give rides to tourists."

"So they're being bred just for that?"

"It's not easy for elephants to breed, big brother! You don't know. They're very picky, and can only mate in the forest. Once they've paired up, you have to let them wander into the forest. They can only have intercourse there."

"If you let them go, how can you find them later?"

"They'll come back by themselves!"

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Linh Dinh's Postcards from the End of America has just been published by Seven Stories Press. Tracking our deteriorating socialscape, he maintains a photo blog.

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