day 12. The War and All Its Sadness: A Hilarious Farewell (Almost)

Well hello, folks! I reckon this is probably going to be my last proper blog post, as today marks the definitive end of my holiday—apart from that brief interlude in Hanoi for flight connections. I've booked precisely zero activities for that grand finale; it'll simply be a late afternoon arrival, a scramble to sort out luggage (some of which has been patiently waiting for me in Hanoi), and an early night for a truly ungodly departure time to the airport. So, what marvels transpired today?

After winning the prestigious "Dickhead of the Year" award the other day, today's suffering paired into insignificance that almost felt insulting. But I can assure you, I am suffering like you've never seen anyone suffer before. First things first, en route to the main event, we stopped at a handicap village. This particular one was specifically for children affected by Agent Orange, that delightful little herbicide the Americans used to defoliate forests during the war. Turns out, it affected quite a lot of people, causing birth defects much like thalidomide did to folks in the UK and, well, everywhere else.

This place? It was a place of unexpected beauty. There were about nine young people, each with varying degrees of handicap. I found myself drawn to a young lad at what he called the "Eagle Station." He was creating pictures of eagles. Trust me, these weren't just "paint by numbers" affairs. Each outline was being meticulously filled in with mother-of-pearl and eggshells. The whole picture glistens, boasting seven different colours when the light hits it just right. I was, frankly, coerced into buying one. I couldn't *not* buy it. I fell into conversation with him, and for a young man, he spoke remarkably good English. He told me he had no legs, only seven fingers, and sight in just one eye. We talked about his father, who'd passed away early due to Agent Orange exposure (it's Agent Orange, by the way, not "Asian Orange"—a common misnomer for the pesticide he was referring to). I asked him about his work; he completes four pictures a month, and the money he earns covers a small fee for his station, with the rest going to his mum to support them.

Then came the moment of truth. I asked him how much he wanted for the last one he'd just finished, fresh back from being polished. It was the largest one he'd ever done. "Whatever you want to give," he said, with an almost imperceptible pause, "though there is a minimum of $100, and I need to earn $400 a month." I gave him $300 for one picture. I felt like crying; my heart genuinely ached. And to add a touch of dramatic irony, I only had $350 in my wallet! I hadn't brought out any more cash. So, $300 went to the eagle, and it's coming home with me. I don't have a picture to show you yet, as they packed it up securely for the flight, but I'll update the blog later to reveal this absolutely gorgeous piece. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Next, we ventured to the Cu Chi Tunnels. Now, at this juncture, anyone contemplating a chuckle at my expense, please take a step forward and then promptly bugger off, because the next bit was not funny in the slightest.

We arrived at a firing range (not a driving range, as one might mistakenly assume). Yesterday, I'd met two chaps on the trip, and they were, of course, on this one too: Luis, a Peruvian, and Ashwan, an Indian "child" (his words, not mine, on being an aeronautical engineer). Apparently, they're both aeronautical engineers in Australia, believe it or not, and on holiday together. Not gay, just best mates. We decided to have a go at an AK-47, all three of us. You pay for your bullets, you shoot them. Luis, being an ex-military man (though I'm still not entirely convinced he wasn't just in the pay office, considering his shooting prowess), decided we'd all have a competition. The loser buys dinner. I kept quiet, having done a bit of army time myself, and actually, I was a marksman. Ashwan, meanwhile, was all for it, despite India's notorious reputation for being... well, not exactly world leaders in anything war-related.

Ashwan went first, aiming for the left target. I took the middle, and Luis had the right. The targets were about 10 feet apart and 120 metres away. Ashwan proceeded to shoot, and I watched the bank behind the targets. He was three feet too high, two feet too low, three feet... I don't think he came anywhere near the bullseye, never mind the actual target. Then it was my turn. This was mine to lose. The instructor asked if I wanted to go "double report" or "automatic." I politely declined automatic, knowing full well you can lose five or six rounds to the heavens, as those guns always pull left on automatic. "Double report," I declared, meaning two shots per trigger pull. And wouldn't you know it, I scored a solid 95! Nine out of ten shots on target. Even the instructor was impressed, muttering he hadn't seen that in a long time. Then came Luis.

Now, Luis isn't the biggest fellah I've ever met—about 4 foot 6, maybe 4 foot 8. He got onto the firing line, went full automatic, and proceeded to hit *my* target. Then Ashwan's target. He was about 10 feet away from his *own* target. He just looked at me, looked at Ashwan, and then back at me. "I think you owe us dinner," his expression said. It was absolutely hysterical, but that wasn't even the funniest part. The funniest part came next, when they finally got their revenge.

We arrived at the tunnels. These tunnels—200 miles of the damn things—were built for the Vietnamese to run in and out of constantly. They perfected something called the "duck walk," where you bend at your knees and shuffle along. It's utterly impossible for someone of a certain... *gravitas*. Ashwan was immediately out of the running; he wouldn't have even made it through the entrance to be lowered in. The opening is only 18 inches square, then expands to roughly two feet square inside. So, he was relegated to waiting at the other end of the tunnel. We had three options: 15 metres (what the ladies do), 50 metres, or 100 metres.

I, ever the optimist, decided on 50 metres. I squeezed myself down, got in position, and started squirming forward, the rep ahead of me with a torch illuminating my increasingly desperate path. After about 20 yards, I thought, "You've bitten off more than you can chew, Wilson." Then the cramps set in. I tried to revert to my knees, but the tunnel floor was riddled with roots and boulders. I didn't know what to do, so I ended up on my hands and toes. That lasted about 10 yards. I peered ahead: "Another 20 yards to go?!" I was starting to feel like I really shouldn't be there. The first thought that popped into my head was, "How deep can a JCB dig, anyway?" Somehow, I managed to get within five metres of the end, on my knees. They were bleeding, sore, and I was absolutely drenched in sweat. I couldn't give up now; I *had* to conquer those last five metres. It was a slug. I finally reached the end, and somehow, I'd managed to turn myself around. I attempted to go up the steps backwards. When my head and shoulders reached the opening, I couldn't get my shoulders out. My arms were still by my side, and I couldn't lift my legs because the steps were now *behind* me, not in front. "I need some help!" I croaked.

Ashwan grabbed my arms and, bless him, tried to drag me out. But then he decided to drop me, just for a laugh. He didn't quite grasp that I couldn't support my own weight on my legs, so I tumbled back down the tunnel. Eventually, they hauled me out, making it look like an immense struggle. It wasn't. He's about 19 stone, and I'm about 11.8. I finally emerged, but I simply couldn't stand up. My legs had completely given out. The undercarriage was out of action. The only way I could walk was to straighten my legs like a mannequin. Luis was absolutely killing himself laughing. "You walk like a catwalk model!" he shrieked. "I'm going under!" I thought. No doubt about it.

Out of the blue, a young girl in a white shirt, one of many schoolchildren there, approached me. "Where are you from?" "England." "England! England! I like England!" Then another lad, about 12, popped up. "Where in England?" "Leeds." "Leeds! Leeds United! Good football team!" I, of course, had to inform him that he didn't know squat about football. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by about 20 or 30 kids, all eager to speak English. "Right," I declared, "photo opportunity!" The rep took a few pictures of me with them, which I've posted. These children were unbelievably funny. One even told me he supported Manchester United. I was going to chin him, but I decided to let it slide.

From there, we headed to the rest area, which I definitely needed. Everyone else was out admiring the spoils of war—captured helicopters and tanks, now delightfully rotten. One must summon a certain kind of courage to drag oneself onto a tank, and then onto a helicopter. Trust me, the pictures lie; I was in agony. All in all, it was a pretty good day, a marvellous day out. The kids made it, and the young lad with the picture? Wonderful. Anyway,

I got back and indulged in a foot massage, and then, inexplicably, decided on a head massage. I have some rather robust hair, and this woman attacked my head with the grace and precision of an MMA cage fighter. She was pulling my hair, tweaking my nose, poking me... it was an experience. This was no gentle Indian head massage like I used to get in England; this was more of an assault. And, credit where it's due, it did the job. I can still see little sparkly things we used to call "stars" in our eyes. Anyway, I've just had a shower and I'm writing this now because it's time for dinner. I'm meeting my two little friends, and I'll have to spend a penny as it's on them. Hopefully, I'll be able to rustle up some pictures tomorrow to put on the blog. I think what I'll do instead of a daily exploit blog tomorrow is a summary of my holiday here, with some tips: what to do, what not to do. Hopefully, that will be as informative as the other days. I've had an absolute blast doing this blog; I genuinely look forward to it. And the best part is, I'll have it as a memory now—pictures, narration, it'll all be there for me to just click a little button and read.

Hoping you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! There aren't many of you out there, but whoever is reading, take my warmest wishes with you. If you come to this wonderful country—and trust me, it *is* wonderful, you won't be disappointed—the only advice I can give you in closing is this: if you're even a little hesitant about coming, just book the plane ticket. Don't even bother booking hotels or anything; as soon as you get here, you can book everything, and everyone will be eager to help you. But I'll sign off now, and I might update this later. But once again, if this is truly the last blog, thanks for listening (or reading), and please, come over here. Support these people. They definitely need it, and you won't be upset. Trust me.