With Australians having been intimately involved in the Vietnam War there was a certain hesitancy, a cringe even, on arriving in a place that had once been a battlefield and many of the folk around us considered enemies. Vietnamese have no such cringe. They are out there running just as hard and as fast as they can to turn their country around. That, coupled with having the youngest population under 25 of any nation on the globe, means this is a place that has very little concern about, or even awareness of, the immediate past. The rickshaw drivers, former officers of the South Vietnam administration/government, and unable to gain any other living and cut off from any pension support, are the only real visible evidence of the hurt from that period.

Nonetheless any visitor can hunt around without too much effort and find plenty or relics from the war period. And it is always good to go and see the museums that tell the story from the other side. We weren’t angels either.

Down near the zoo there is a lovely juxtaposition of imagery which sums up the current situation rather well. The T-55 tank here is backdropped by the new Toyota dealership in the background - recent political and military history backdropped by more recent commercial history. In turn both are backdropped by the museum building in the background that contains stories and evidence of Vietnam’s prehistory and precolonial history. Of the three it is what the Toyota dealership represents that has the attention of most Vietnamese today. Wring your hands all you like about the war Mr Aussie visitor, but don’t get in the way of us building our businesses. Fair enough. That is probably more healthy than our introspection - which I am happy to say evaporated within days of arriving here.

If you stop for very long [in down town Ho Chi Minh City(formerly Saigon)] - say two or three minutes - chances are good that you will be tapped on the shoulder by someone wanting to practise their English. This has now happened on the steps of the Opera House, on the banks of the Saigon River and of course up the back streets with MK and her family. In this instance the lesson was initiated by Nyugan Van Chung who arrived with a dictionary in hand. My initial suspicioun was that he wanted to sell me a dictionary. That proved not to be the case. Rather he came armed with numerous pieces of paper covered in lists of words which he was trying to rehearse.

On a steamy morning, with the drain stink of the Saigon River in our noses (though boys being boys were happily leaping into its swirling current, trying to catch plastic bottles and ear and throat infections) , in the shade of trees that drop goodness only knows what, we explored words starting with “ex”, which are especially tough for these people. And of course we made a whole lot of conversation, with things around us being the catalyst for the same. The Russian craft which serve as ferries became the subject of a geography lesson hence the hand drawn map here of Asia and Russia. And we had to take care of China at the same time since he had managed to confuse the country with porcelain. Sometimes a dictionary is only a hindrance.

But all in all we made good progress, practising sibilant and glottal sounds while at the same time doing our little bit for good neighbourly relations. Interestingly enough he volunteered that he asks numerous people to practise like this but said they were afraid to talk to him. He was not sure why that was, but we explored some possibilities - from Caucasians not necessarily being able to speak English through to a lack of confidence in themselves to teach. He is a very slight and unassuming fellow, not intimidating in any way and very plainly though neatly dressed. He was very proud of his very battered briefcase/satchel. I got a sense that he was sleeping in doorways.

He is down from Hanoi, looking for work. Born in June 1976, he told me he was the third child, second son, with no girlfriend. I wonder if he is one of those third child pieces of flotsam that get no support and somehow have to make it on their own. There was no evidence of any job. He told me he came down here to the river every day to find people he could practise his English with. I am glad I accepted his offer. It was a morning well spent. Even if he was part of a security detail. Under all that patter, a part of me strongly suspected he was. Though I resisted the urge to test him and try and trip him up on his language exercises. Heck, I am here on a holiday. Relax and go with the flow. I did, and the conversation was doubly sweet for that.

In the early summer months of 1984 we drove 3000km north to the tropics for a holiday. Yup, pretty crazy. On our second day we drove into a wall of dust near Dubbo. It was a wall not unlike this one pictured in 2002 near Griffith. The outstanding difference was that in 1984 there was not a blade of anything green in sight and the country was gripped by a serious drought. We crept along in our little van in a dangerous activity of driving from one white dash on the road to the next. We could not see any further than that. The occasional swirl in the dust suggested a vehicle had passed us going the other way. It took an hour to clear the storm.

Right now our farmers are enduring one of the worst droughts on record. At least in the eastern states of this country. A sad result of this drought is the high number of farmers and others in “the bush” committing suicide. Depression is a major issue with these men and I understand as many as two a week are opting out this way. To help encourage these men and their families, and to draw our attention to the problem the Salvation Army had a local story teller, Murray Hartin, write a poem which is doing the rounds in this part of the world. I have copied it here below but you can find it on the author’s website here. If you like some original bush poetry check his videos where he recites his own material. It warms the heart. But none more than this one below.

Rain from Nowhere

His cattle didn’t get a bid, they were fairly bloody poor,
What was he going to do? He couldn’t feed them anymore,
The dams were all but dry, hay was thirteen bucks a bale,
Last month’s talk of rain was just a fairytale,
His credit had run out, no chance to pay what’s owed,
Bad thoughts ran through his head as he drove down Gully Road

“Geez, great grandad bought the place back in 1898,
“Now I’m such a useless bastard, I’ll have to shut the gate.
“Can’t support my wife and kids, not like dad and those before,
“Crikey, Grandma kept it going while Pop fought in the war.”
With depression now his master, he abandoned what was right,
There’s no place in life for failures, he’d end it all tonight.

There were still some things to do, he’d have to shoot the cattle first,
Of all the jobs he’d ever done, that would be the worst.
He’d have a shower, watch the news, then they’d all sit down for tea
Read his kids a bedtime story, watch some more TV,
Kiss his wife goodnight, say he was off to shoot some roos
Then in a paddock far away he’d blow away the blues.

But he drove in the gate and stopped – as he always had
To check the roadside mailbox – and found a letter from his Dad.
Now his dad was not a writer, Mum did all the cards and mail
But he knew the writing from the notebooks that he’d kept from cattle sales,
He sensed the nature of its contents, felt moisture in his eyes,
Just the fact his dad had written was enough to make him cry.

“Son, I know it’s bloody tough, it’s a cruel and twisted game,
“This life upon the land when you’re screaming out for rain,
“There’s no candle in the darkness, not a single speck of light
“But don’t let the demon get you, you have to do what’s right,
“I don’t know what’s in your head but push the bad thoughts well away
“See, you’ll always have your family at the back end of the day

“You have to talk to someone, and yes I know I rarely did
“But you have to think about Fiona and think about the kids.
“I’m worried about you son, you haven’t rung for quite a while,
“I know the road you’re on ‘cause I’ve walked every bloody mile.
“The date? December 7 back in 1983,
“Behind the shed I had the shotgun rested in the brigalow tree.

“See, I’d borrowed way too much to buy the Johnson place
“Then it didn’t rain for years and we got bombed by interest rates,
“The bank was at the door, I didn’t think I had a choice,
“I began to squeeze the trigger – that’s when I heard your voice.
“You said ‘Where are you Daddy? It’s time to play our game’
“’ I’ve got Squatter all set up, we might get General Rain.’

“It really was that close, you’re the one that stopped me son,
“And you’re the one that taught me there’s no answer in a gun.
“Just remember people love you, good friends won’t let you down.
“Look, you might have to swallow pride and take that job in town,
“Just ’til things come good, son, you’ve always got a choice
“And when you get this letter ring me, ’cause I’d love to hear your voice.”

Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in gear,
Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,
Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away
Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.
Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held high,
He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.

He called his wife and children, who’d lived through all his pain,
Hugs said more than words – he’d come back to them again,
They talked of silver linings, how good times always follow bad,
Then he walked towards the phone, picked it up and rang his Dad.
And while the kids set up the Squatter, he hugged his wife again,
Then they heard the roll of thunder and they smelt the smell of rain.

This is going to look like a plug for QANTAS. Consciously not so, although I do admit enjoying boarding a QANTAS flight at a foreign destination after being away from home for a few weeks and hearing the flight attendants and their accents from home and seeing their relaxed way of going about things. And I also have to admit to a twinge of pride when pedestrian traffic jammed up Frankfurt Airport as everyone pressed to catch a glimpse of Wunala Dreaming, the QANTAS aircraft seen here in this photo (by Craig Murray). I had just disembarked and wondered what all the fuss was so followed the crowd to see. On a glum, wet and overcast autumn day in Germany this plane brightened things up. And if I recall correctly it was the first time the aircraft had landed in Frankfurt. Sometime in 1995.

But QANTAS had prompted this blog for another reason altogether. As you may have gathered I have a fascination for Google Earth. All that Air Force photo imagery work is still in the blood I guess. And what QANTAS has done here with Google Earth, admittedly in a neat bit of self promotion is a sign of things to come with Google Earth. Take a tour with Qantas around the world. I thought it was pretty neat.