Searching for Shangri-La
In ways, we are all searching for Shangri-La in the sense of looking for a better life, or somewhere better to live it. This collection of stories recounts a few steps of Ron's path on this endless journey, and below is a sample story to whet readers' appetites. This story will occasionally change, but to read the entire collection, you'll need to buy it online at Amazon. To listen to Ron reading this story, click on the play button on the audio player below.
A Visit to Uncle Ho
Portrait of Ho Chi Minh
I stood under a leaden sky at the corner of Ba Dinh Square in Hanoi, waiting to be escorted through the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. I wasn't quite sure why I was standing there, as I had never willingly gone to gaze at a corpse before.
I was in Vietnam on holiday, so I had decided to try to avoid all reminders of the inexpressible horrors that swept over the country during the 20th century. I wanted to focus on the dramatic landscapes, the colorful minority groups and scenes of everyday life.
But it wasn't easy. Just strolling through parks had brought me face to face with bullet-scarred missile launchers; the museums were full of war wreckage, and the pith helmets so popular among locals gave me the feeling that they were still living in constant expectation of an air raid. My resolve to ignore the past had evaporated. I knew that the role Ho Chi Minh had played in shaping the modern country was inestimable, and I was curious to see the patriotic looks on the faces of Vietnamese visitors, for whom such a visit is tantamount to a pilgrimage.
Perhaps I also wanted to test my own reaction to the experience. Fifty years earlier, along with Mao Zedong, Ho Chi Minh had been a hero of mine when I was a student radical in my native England, disillusioned with the lack of caring in so-called democratic societies. Some years later, I became embarrassed about my waving of the little red book as I learned belatedly of some of Mao's catastrophic decisions. Yet the frail image of Ho Chi Minh had always seemed benign to me and as I prepared to face him, I felt I was about to enter the presence of someone more than human.
Indeed, the life of 'Uncle Ho', as he is affectionately known to his people, reads like a Hollywood epic. Born of humble origins in a village near Vinh under the name Nguyen Sinh Cung, he sailed to Europe as a galley boy in 1911 when he was only 21. He spent time in Paris, London and the United States doing a variety of jobs, such as waiter, pastry chef and photo-retoucher. While living in Paris, he was swept up in the fervor of the Russian Revolution and saw communism as the solution to Vietnam's subjection by colonial powers, so in 1924 he went to Moscow for training.
Aware that he could be arrested in many countries for expounding his radical views, he changed his name and appearance regularly, and little is known of his actions over the next few years. He moved from country to country like a spy in a novel, spending time in China, in Thailand (where he lived as a monk for a while) and Hong Kong, constantly trying to co-ordinate efforts to secure Vietnam's independence from the French. In 1941 he slipped back into Vietnam and founded the Vietminh Front which would eventually bring about complete independence in 1975.
In 1942, he was imprisoned in China, but his release was secured, ironically, by the Americans, in return for information about the Japanese. In 1945, near the end of the Second World War, Vietnam was in chaos. The Japanese had occupied the country for most of the war, but as their surrender became more and more likely, Ho acted swiftly. Vietminh troops stormed into Hanoi and Saigon, and Ho declared the independence of Vietnam. However, the presence of the French and later the Americans delayed this dream for another 30 years. Ho Chi Minh, whose name means 'bringer of light', died in 1969, so could not witness the reunification of Vietnam that had been his life's sole purpose.
The escort arrived in a crisp white uniform with a small group of visitors and gestured at me to join them. We walked along a red carpet sheltered by a simple awning until we were opposite the entrance to the stark and sombre mausoleum. Then we executed a sharp left and passed under the gaze of guards who were checking us for hands in pockets, smoking, immodest attire, talking or any other behavior which might be construed as disrespectful. We continued through a huge pile of wreaths and into the dark, cool confines of the marble interior.
Still, I felt uneasy about the approaching encounter. Uncle Ho specifically requested to be cremated, but the authorities were intent on giving him the same treatment accorded to Lenin and Mao. This involved a secret process devised by the Russians to preserve Lenin, requiring special chemicals and a year's work to complete. Even then, the body is sent back to Russia each September/October for 'touching up'.
Ho was politically correct in his opinion. Communism, like Buddhism, takes a pragmatic view of death, and professes cremation as the most practical way of dealing with corpses. Cemeteries take up a lot of space, and of course if everyone buried their dead, there would be no room left for the living. Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum occupies an enormous space in the heart of a city of over six million people. I imagined his small, bony face might bear a gruff expression of displeasure.
We were marched up a gently sloping ramp, scrutinized at every step by the stern, stony gazes of the guards, to the dim display chamber. The silence seemed absolute; even our timid footsteps were absorbed by the thick-piled carpet. We were led down one side, past the feet, and along the other side of a glass-walled casket containing the mortal remains of the man. Spotlights picked out his face and hands, calmly crossed on his chest. Rather than looking annoyed, the face emanated the beatific, contented expression of a Buddha. He looked pale, rather understandably, and his grey hair was so thin it was almost invisible. It could have been a good wax copy, but the sanctimonious atmosphere told me it wasn't.
I knew we were not supposed to pause as we passed through the chamber, but I had to freeze momentarily in mid-step as I passed his head to allow the moment to sink in. No doubt Vietnamese visitors looked on those features more as those of a deity than a man. That was not my experience. Instead I saw him somehow as an old friend who reminded me of my youth - one of those dishevelled, bohemian-looking characters I had hung out with at rock concerts long ago. Like Ho, we had sought to uproot what we saw as a derelict social system by dropping out of the rat race and living in communes. Unlike Ho, our actions had changed nothing.
Yet fifty years after the fulfillment of Ho's dream, Vietnam has turned into the kind of corrupt and unequal society that Ho struggled so hard to avoid. I wondered what he would make of it all if he could come for a walk around town with me. He might not be impressed by the mausoleum with its stern and pompous appearance, but he would probably approve of the purposeful bustle on the streets and the faithful renovation of historic buildings in the city. He might even approve of the new 20-storey blocks of exclusive offices and residences, but whether he would approve of the visible gap between rich and poor, I am not so sure.
All these changes are the results of the 'doi moi' (new thinking) policy which has been in effect since the 1980s, allowing traders to operate in the free market. Ho would have surely been disappointed to be sitting next to me on the plane when I arrived in the country; my first impression of Vietnam was a Pepsi ad splashed across the side of a shuttle bus. After centuries of valiantly fighting off invaders by land, sea and air, Vietnam had finally succumbed to western influences, which had slipped through a crack in the door.
Ho would surely agree that the Russian model of communism did not evolve as he envisaged it. But then again, where would he look for guidance, to feel that rush of enthusiasm and optimism he felt in Paris early last century? I doubt he'd be impressed by the USA's role as the world’s self-elected police force, nor would he find much solace in the protracted battles for independence that continue on all continents, not to mention frequent terrorist attacks that have global populations living in fear. For all our technological advances, we humans appear to be incapable of devising a political system that offers any hope of living in harmony with each other and our devastated environment. It seemed Uncle Ho would probably be happy to get back in the casket. I almost wanted to hop in with him.
I felt strangely exhausted as I emerged from the enormous tomb into the late-morning glare and squatted on the steps bemused by the sensation. It was only 11 a.m., and I had a list of half a dozen other places I wanted to visit that day, but nothing seemed relevant any more. Wet spots brightened the speckled marble at my feet, and I glanced up to see a tropical storm about to dump itself on me.
I was in Vietnam on holiday, so I had decided to try to avoid all reminders of the inexpressible horrors that swept over the country during the 20th century. I wanted to focus on the dramatic landscapes, the colorful minority groups and scenes of everyday life.
But it wasn't easy. Just strolling through parks had brought me face to face with bullet-scarred missile launchers; the museums were full of war wreckage, and the pith helmets so popular among locals gave me the feeling that they were still living in constant expectation of an air raid. My resolve to ignore the past had evaporated. I knew that the role Ho Chi Minh had played in shaping the modern country was inestimable, and I was curious to see the patriotic looks on the faces of Vietnamese visitors, for whom such a visit is tantamount to a pilgrimage.
Perhaps I also wanted to test my own reaction to the experience. Fifty years earlier, along with Mao Zedong, Ho Chi Minh had been a hero of mine when I was a student radical in my native England, disillusioned with the lack of caring in so-called democratic societies. Some years later, I became embarrassed about my waving of the little red book as I learned belatedly of some of Mao's catastrophic decisions. Yet the frail image of Ho Chi Minh had always seemed benign to me and as I prepared to face him, I felt I was about to enter the presence of someone more than human.
Indeed, the life of 'Uncle Ho', as he is affectionately known to his people, reads like a Hollywood epic. Born of humble origins in a village near Vinh under the name Nguyen Sinh Cung, he sailed to Europe as a galley boy in 1911 when he was only 21. He spent time in Paris, London and the United States doing a variety of jobs, such as waiter, pastry chef and photo-retoucher. While living in Paris, he was swept up in the fervor of the Russian Revolution and saw communism as the solution to Vietnam's subjection by colonial powers, so in 1924 he went to Moscow for training.
Aware that he could be arrested in many countries for expounding his radical views, he changed his name and appearance regularly, and little is known of his actions over the next few years. He moved from country to country like a spy in a novel, spending time in China, in Thailand (where he lived as a monk for a while) and Hong Kong, constantly trying to co-ordinate efforts to secure Vietnam's independence from the French. In 1941 he slipped back into Vietnam and founded the Vietminh Front which would eventually bring about complete independence in 1975.
In 1942, he was imprisoned in China, but his release was secured, ironically, by the Americans, in return for information about the Japanese. In 1945, near the end of the Second World War, Vietnam was in chaos. The Japanese had occupied the country for most of the war, but as their surrender became more and more likely, Ho acted swiftly. Vietminh troops stormed into Hanoi and Saigon, and Ho declared the independence of Vietnam. However, the presence of the French and later the Americans delayed this dream for another 30 years. Ho Chi Minh, whose name means 'bringer of light', died in 1969, so could not witness the reunification of Vietnam that had been his life's sole purpose.
The escort arrived in a crisp white uniform with a small group of visitors and gestured at me to join them. We walked along a red carpet sheltered by a simple awning until we were opposite the entrance to the stark and sombre mausoleum. Then we executed a sharp left and passed under the gaze of guards who were checking us for hands in pockets, smoking, immodest attire, talking or any other behavior which might be construed as disrespectful. We continued through a huge pile of wreaths and into the dark, cool confines of the marble interior.
Still, I felt uneasy about the approaching encounter. Uncle Ho specifically requested to be cremated, but the authorities were intent on giving him the same treatment accorded to Lenin and Mao. This involved a secret process devised by the Russians to preserve Lenin, requiring special chemicals and a year's work to complete. Even then, the body is sent back to Russia each September/October for 'touching up'.
Ho was politically correct in his opinion. Communism, like Buddhism, takes a pragmatic view of death, and professes cremation as the most practical way of dealing with corpses. Cemeteries take up a lot of space, and of course if everyone buried their dead, there would be no room left for the living. Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum occupies an enormous space in the heart of a city of over six million people. I imagined his small, bony face might bear a gruff expression of displeasure.
We were marched up a gently sloping ramp, scrutinized at every step by the stern, stony gazes of the guards, to the dim display chamber. The silence seemed absolute; even our timid footsteps were absorbed by the thick-piled carpet. We were led down one side, past the feet, and along the other side of a glass-walled casket containing the mortal remains of the man. Spotlights picked out his face and hands, calmly crossed on his chest. Rather than looking annoyed, the face emanated the beatific, contented expression of a Buddha. He looked pale, rather understandably, and his grey hair was so thin it was almost invisible. It could have been a good wax copy, but the sanctimonious atmosphere told me it wasn't.
I knew we were not supposed to pause as we passed through the chamber, but I had to freeze momentarily in mid-step as I passed his head to allow the moment to sink in. No doubt Vietnamese visitors looked on those features more as those of a deity than a man. That was not my experience. Instead I saw him somehow as an old friend who reminded me of my youth - one of those dishevelled, bohemian-looking characters I had hung out with at rock concerts long ago. Like Ho, we had sought to uproot what we saw as a derelict social system by dropping out of the rat race and living in communes. Unlike Ho, our actions had changed nothing.
Yet fifty years after the fulfillment of Ho's dream, Vietnam has turned into the kind of corrupt and unequal society that Ho struggled so hard to avoid. I wondered what he would make of it all if he could come for a walk around town with me. He might not be impressed by the mausoleum with its stern and pompous appearance, but he would probably approve of the purposeful bustle on the streets and the faithful renovation of historic buildings in the city. He might even approve of the new 20-storey blocks of exclusive offices and residences, but whether he would approve of the visible gap between rich and poor, I am not so sure.
All these changes are the results of the 'doi moi' (new thinking) policy which has been in effect since the 1980s, allowing traders to operate in the free market. Ho would have surely been disappointed to be sitting next to me on the plane when I arrived in the country; my first impression of Vietnam was a Pepsi ad splashed across the side of a shuttle bus. After centuries of valiantly fighting off invaders by land, sea and air, Vietnam had finally succumbed to western influences, which had slipped through a crack in the door.
Ho would surely agree that the Russian model of communism did not evolve as he envisaged it. But then again, where would he look for guidance, to feel that rush of enthusiasm and optimism he felt in Paris early last century? I doubt he'd be impressed by the USA's role as the world’s self-elected police force, nor would he find much solace in the protracted battles for independence that continue on all continents, not to mention frequent terrorist attacks that have global populations living in fear. For all our technological advances, we humans appear to be incapable of devising a political system that offers any hope of living in harmony with each other and our devastated environment. It seemed Uncle Ho would probably be happy to get back in the casket. I almost wanted to hop in with him.
I felt strangely exhausted as I emerged from the enormous tomb into the late-morning glare and squatted on the steps bemused by the sensation. It was only 11 a.m., and I had a list of half a dozen other places I wanted to visit that day, but nothing seemed relevant any more. Wet spots brightened the speckled marble at my feet, and I glanced up to see a tropical storm about to dump itself on me.