by Chris Tharp
It was a lonely afternoon in Tae-ha. The beach in front of the little harbor was as empty as the town, save a white dinghy sitting forlornly atop the rounded stones. As I looked to the far side of the stretch of rocks, I saw a metal spiral staircase winding up a cliff face. This was the beginning of another seashore walkway, but the way had been blocked off with a high fence. As I gazed more closely, I saw that the staircase was battered and bent, warped and crushed like a soda can, no doubt the result of a violent storm, a testament to the real power of the sea. Closer was a queer building that resembled a railway station. A sign read: Tae-ha Monorail. A single track snaked up the side of the mountain, a kind of funicular railway. Two cars sat idle and unoccupied below. Tae-ha’s attempt at attracting the island’s tourists had obviously fallen short, and the result was depressing.
I stripped down to my boxers and stared out at the water in front of me. The small waves drew the stones out to sea as the tide ebbed, raking them over each other in a soothing clatter. I waded into the cool clear water and then dove in, immediately cleansed and refreshed. I popped up to the surface, took in some air, and swam back under, taking in the world below. Many of the white and grey rocks on the bottom were covered with a kind of luminescent green kelp, which glowed brightly in the clear water. Pieces of it broke free and danced under the waves. For a moment I hovered there motionless, eyes open, surrounded by brilliant, emerald confetti of the sea.
When I came back up for air I just floated there, slowly treading water, relaxed and filled with a sense of peace. A jetty stretched out nearby, hemming in the tiny bay with jumbles of pylons. They looked like giant, concrete jacks. A ragged gang of seagulls perched atop the barrier; their shit ran down the concrete in long white streaks, like rivulets of melted ice cream. They paid me no mind. They just sat there, fat and happy, their eyes scanning the horizon in search of threats or food.
*
I upgraded to first class for the return trip to the mainland. It was only six bucks more and well worth it. The cabin was bright, clean, and well air-conditioned; the seats were soft and comfortable. The only drawback was the TVs, which were even louder than the ones on the lower decks of the Sunflower. They blared out one of those ridiculous Korean team challenge comedies where everyone yells, all the time. I popped in my ear buds, activated my “Sounds of Nature” app, and gazed out the window at a rolling ocean that barely registered in my gut.
The original idea to go to Dokdo had been a laugh. It had come to me over beers with a friend. Why not go do Dokdo and write about it? There’s so much ammo there. I thought it would be weird and funny. It would be so easy to make fun of all of those ajummas and ajeosshis who view a trip to Dokdo as their sacred, patriotic duty. I could sit back with my pen, cock my eyebrow, and judge them. But soon I realized that the trip was much bigger than I originally thought—that perhaps more than just nationalism was at play here. And whatever I thought of Koreans’ feelings on the matter, they were just that: their feelings. I could stand back and comment, but that surely wouldn’t change the way they felt.
Dokdo represents a certain longing that we all have—a longing to agree on something, a longing to belong. It’s something that, at least in Korea, everyone recognizes as theirs, something that’s worth fighting for. Despite our militaristic nature in America, I’m not sure we really have such a thing. Would we ever, as a nation, rally over a set of rocks? Sure our military would protect our territory, but would we really be invested in the cause? Could just a few islets become a national touchstone that united all Americans, that electrified both our collective pride and shame? Do we even care about anything that much anymore? Sure, the national mood after the attacks of 9/11 gave us a taste, and there is never a shortage of patriotic bluster and flag-waving come war time, but even so, we don’t feel so deeply connected as a people. Public opinion in Korea is basically unanimous. There is no dissent on the issue. Is such a thing even possible in the USA, even when we’re in the grips of righteous, nationalistic ire? Dokdo made me think about all of this, and made me envy Koreans just a bit, if nothing else than for their unwavering, earnest commitment. Those few moments on the bow of the boat drove that home. And even if I didn’t understand it any better, I was glad that I had come. Political fireworks aside, Dokdo is a spectacular piece of natural real estate to behold.
When we landed in Pohang and disembarked, I heard the familiar sound of a voice squawking through a megaphone. The Christian man was still there, standing behind the fence in the exact same spot, delivering his holy message. Did he ever leave? He spoke the same words, wore the same clothes, and carried the same sign. He was relentless.
As I walked by, I gave him the nod.
COBRA
Vietnam, 2005
“Hey Dong,” I said, waving him over. “Check it out.”
There it was in English, next to my finger, stuck between entries for Bamboo Garlic Chicken and Steamed River Fish: Fried Snake.
Dong took in the selection, barely nodding his head.
“Can you please order it for me? I want to try it.”
“Hmmm,” he mused, sucking on his lips.
“Fried snake, see?” I said, pointing again. “I’d really like to have some.”
“But I already make order.”
“I know, I know, but I want eat some snake.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ll pay extra. I don’t mind.”
Dong struggled to find his words. “This snake… this snake no good.” He paused and sized me up, like a manager considering taking on a young boxer, or a hardened sergeant eyeing a new recruit.
“Still… I wouldn’t mind trying it.” I looked across the table to Sam, who shrugged in mild encouragement, as if to say, Go for it, dude.
“You want the snake, yes?” Dong asked in his twangy Vietnamese accent, dropping most of the consonants as the words ricocheted off his tongue.
“Yes,” I had now totally convinced myself. “I want to eat some snake.”
“Hmm… okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I take you good snake. This snake no good,” he said, waving the menu away. “Tomorrow I take you cobra. Good for strong. Good for man.”
He made a fist and stuck out his forearm, the universal Asian sign for STAMINA.
*
I hadn’t come to Vietnam on some great culinary adventure. I had simply come for a vacation. I wasn’t seeking the strange, exotic, vomit-inducing cuisine that has made stars of some on the Travel Channel. I just needed to escape the gripping cold of the northern winter through sun, beach, cold beer, good food, and cheap prices. But there was something else, another reason pulsing underneath: I was making a pilgrimage of sorts. Because of the war, Vietnam, or at least the idea of the place, has haunted many Americans, including me. Several of my childhood friends had Vietnam-vet dads with dead stares, unfathomable angst, and tempers that burned magnesium-hot. I was fed the staple of films and pop-culture Vietnam War fare, from Apocalypse Now to Platoon to Full Metal Jacket. So part of me yearned to step foot in the actual country, to see the palm trees and smell the red dirt and try to comprehend what had happened some thirty years ago. Though I was working in Korea, this was to be my first real Asian vacation: why go to overrun Thailand, when instead I could set foot in the place where the shit really went down?
So my buddy Sam and I flew into Ho Chi Min City, or Saigon, depending on your geography, sense of political correctness, or loyalty to the Hanoi regime. I found that most foreigners did indeed refer to the place by its newer name, in honor of the glorious victory of the Vietnamese people, as well as a nod to old Uncle Ho himself. However, most of the locals still called it Saigon, and no amount of revisionist cartography or re-education was going to turn the tide as far as that was concerned.
During our first few days there, we paid homage to the war and all things Vietnamese: we crawled through the Viet Cong tunnels at Cu Chi, enduring a histrionic sixties-era propaganda film exhorting the “bastard American imperialists” and their “South Vi
etnamese flunkies.” We witnessed ex-guerrilla guides demonstrating nasty, bamboo-spiked traps, designed to kill and maim American GIs, while a gaggle of bloated, sunburned Russian tourists joked and laughed, obviously delighted to see their former tax-rubles at work. We rode motorbikes around Saigon, getting separated in the unstoppable river of other riders (Sam was eventually shepherded back to our hotel by a local Good Samaritan). We shot rusting Kalashnikovs and American .45-caliber pistols at animal-shaped targets for a buck a bullet. We took a boat tour on the Mekong River, tromped through villages, dined on fresh-caught fish, and endured a tourist hard-sell at the local rice candy factory. We sucked the meat of crazy tropical fruit with names like Jack, Dragon, Durian, and Star. We sipped tea and were sung to by adorable local girls in silk dresses. We even saw our unflappable guide Dong stung by several angry bees at a honey farm.
We now found ourselves in the crumbling town of Can Tho, a drab and smallish city located on the banks of the Mekong and the site of a raging battle during the American War. The place looked as if it had never fully recovered. Dong checked us into a cavernous, belittling hotel that looked as if it had been designed by Stalin’s personal architect—all moldy concrete, cold tile floors, and mysteriously stained carpet. We seemed to be the only guests. At reception, we were made to fill out probing and lengthy check-in forms; they insisted on holding on to our passports. I tried to protest, but was assured by Dong that it was for “security reasons.”
For dinner, the always-cool Dong took us to a restaurant in the center of town, right along the river. We followed a narrow staircase to the second floor and sat at a creaky table made of dark wood. The room had its own French terrace and was stuffed full of European tourists, who gesticulated, smoked, and spoke in hushed, Continental tones. Small lizards darted along the bare walls while ceiling fans whirred languidly overhead. The place was steeped in the rhythms of the Mekong and very Indochine. I half expected a group of mustachioed, white-linen-clad colonial administrators to sashay in, grab a table, and begin shouting out orders for wine.
“So are you up for it?” I asked Sam.
“Eating cobra?”
“Yeah. Cobra.”
“Sure… I guess.”
“We are in Vietnam,” I said, sucking down a cold gulp of 333 Beer. “I saw it on TV one time—you know, that curly-haired chef who travels around and eats everything. What’s his name again?”
Sam looked back blankly.
“Anyway, this is some live, fresh shit. They kill the cobra right in front of you. Bam! Then the guy slices it open… and get this: he drains the blood into a shot glass which you drink, right then and there.”
“Sounds delicious,” Sam sniped.
“But that’s not all. He then cuts out the still-beating heart, which you chew up and swallow.”
“Great. What about the rest of the snake?”
“What do you mean?”
“The rest of the snake. You know—the body? What they do with it?”
“Oh, yeah. They fry it up, or maybe it’s steamed… I don’t know. Anyway, they serve it with rice and you eat that too. But it’s the opening act that brings in customers.”
“Hmm…” Sam leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag on his smoke.
“So, what do you think?”
“When in Rome,” Sam exhaled, raising his eyebrows. “But the heart’s all yours…”
*
By eleven the next day, we were on the road with Dong, on our way back to Saigon, after a morning spent on the river. We were meant to visit a floating market, but alas, we came along during one of the few days that it’s ever closed. Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, was just two days away, and the country was in the midst of preparations and on the move—on its way to visit family members in far-off cities and provinces. The road was heaving with traffic of all kinds: buses were crammed with people inside and supplies on top; whole families balanced on 100cc motor scooters—fused together to maximize all possible space; cars wove in and out, overtaking on the left and the right, honking and sputtering blue fumes. The scene was total chaos, and I held onto the car door armrest with a constrictor-like grip. Sam, like me, was sweating pure fear. Dong, of course, was unperturbed and blindly passed trucks on corners while puffing on his omnipresent cigarette.
Adding to our misery was our ever-growing hunger. We each had eaten a tiny bowl of noodles at around seven that morning, but the fuel had since spent itself. What had begun as a small twinge had now evolved into a full-blown need for more food.
“I’m seriously starving. I need to eat soon,” Sam croaked.
“Me too, dude. I’m famished.”
No sooner had we declared our need to eat when Dong pulled off of the main road and stopped the car in front of a storefront.
“Here there is the snake.” He gestured to a large sign above the joint’s door, featuring a huge, garishly painted, nasty-looking cobra. Sam and I gazed at each other, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.
“Here we go,” I said.
Sam nodded his head in silence and followed me through the door.
The restaurant was located in a basement. It was dank and bunker-like, all concrete, with an assortment of plastic tables and chairs. A few fluorescent bulbs sickly lit the place, revealing a massive mural on the wall, depicting more colorful and extremely venomous-looking cobras. The days leading up to Tet must mark a lull in national cobra consumption, however, for despite it being lunchtime, there was no one in the place, other than the bored-looking older couple who ran it.
Upon seeing us, the couple’s indolence evaporated. They were immediately on their feet, excited by the prospect of some business, and no doubt turned on to the scent of cash reeking from these two tourists’ pores. Dong’s Vietnamese greeting sounded like a taught rubber-band being plucked, and we were immediately led into a back room containing a large scale and about ten burlap sacks hanging from the wall.
Dong consulted with the old man and turned to us.
“How big you like?”
“What?”
“You want big cobra or small cobra?”
I looked at Sam, who just shrugged and shook his head.
“Is there a difference in price?” I asked.
“Big cobra very expensive.”
“Uh… I guess we’ll go with medium?” I said, looking back at Sam, who, with each second, collapsed further into himself.
“So, yeah,” I continued, “One medium cobra, please.” It was as if I was ordering French fries or a latte.
The old woman considered the burlap bags and grabbed one in the middle. The snake inside writhed violently as she took it off the wall and over to the scale, all business.
Dong and the couple formed a huddle of sorts around the scale, weighed the bagged snake, and began to talk in quieter, more serious tones, no doubt the financial negotiations, which, in bargain-cultured Vietnam, can take some time.
Sam took advantage of the lull in the action. He sighed, turned to me, and said:
“I can’t do it, dude.”
“What?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You don’t want to eat any?”
“Nope. Don’t wanna do it. I don’t wanna eat a cobra. I’m really hungry and want a normal meal—like some rice and chicken and fish or maybe a good ham sandwich.”
“A ham sandwich?”
“Yeah. The sandwiches are awesome here.”
“But we’ve come this far already.”
“You go ahead. Knock yourself out. I’ll watch. But I’m not eating any.”
“You’re not eating any?”
“Listen man, I never really wanted to eat snake in the first place. This whole thing was your idea. I ate rattlesnake back in Idaho once, and it was okay, but not that great. I feel no need to repeat the act.”
And he was right. The whole crusade to dine on snake had been my personal mission. I was the one who insisted on it from the beginning. Nowhere in the proceedings could I
recall an enthusiastic endorsement from my travel companion.
“Well screw it, then. I don’t want to sit here and eat a cobra alone.”
So it was decided.
*
Dong took the news reasonably well, despite the fact that he probably lost face in front of the old couple, a great indignity in any East Asian culture. We loaded back into the car and continued down the road. But I did detect a change in his demeanor. He seemed to look at us differently, to regard us with much less respect than before. We had undoubtedly proven ourselves to be something less than men in his eyes: all bravado, no balls. I don’t know the Vietnamese term for “complete and total pussies,” but I’m sure it was reverberating inside of his head.
Despite our reduced status on the Southeast Asian stratum of machismo, Dong was still our guide for the rest of the day, and as such, suggested another restaurant.
“They too have snake. No cobra, but there is the snake.”
He took us to a lovely outdoor restaurant located on the banks of a swiftly flowing muddy stream, and they indeed did have snake. Four to be precise—listless, half-dead Asian pythons—each about three feet long. They sat in an inch or two of water at the bottom of a dirty aquarium, next to a tank containing some large fish that were also available for consumption.
After some consideration, I pointed to the one I wanted, and it was removed from the tank by our waiter slash python-wrangler. He held it by its tail and proceeded to whip it around in a circle, bashing its reptilian brains on the pavement beneath: SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
A group of middle-aged, well-heeled German tourists—lunching on deep-fried elephant fish—looked on in horror from their table just feet away.
After the snake was unceremoniously dispatched, its executioner took it back into the kitchen, where it was ground up and fried, along with some onions and other seasonings. In ten minutes it appeared at our table, in a bowl, along with a crispy rice-wafer. We broke off pieces of the wafer and used them to scoop up the minced snake meat.
At once I regretted my decision not to eat cobra, which is said to have a nice firm white meat. This python flesh was nothing of the sort. It was dark, greasy, and mushy in texture, as if the meat itself had absorbed the mud in which the creature had spent the majority of its life. Even worse were the bits of snake vertebrae scattered throughout, adding an unwanted crunch. It was an oily, nasty dish—nearly inedible—but we endured and took down every bit of our reptilian hors d’œuvre, rewarded afterward with a set menu of fish, chicken, rice, and soup. This was very much to Sam’s satisfaction, despite the fact that he never did get his ham sandwich.
