Eastward Ho!

Disneyland & The Golf Course: A Tour of Wartime An Khê

An Khe, 1971. View of the Ba Bridge from the north. On the left is the old French army base and airfield, later run by the American military and today by the Vietnamese army.

This post is about An Khê which is a town 70km east of Pleiku via the Mang Yang pass and 55km west of Quy Nhon via the An Khê pass. Situated between these two difficult mountain passes, the town has always been an important gateway to the insulated highland interior of Gia Lai and Kontum. It was of strategic importance during the Vijayapura Champa kingdom (11th-15th century) and it’s location was used to the advantage of the Tây Sơn uprising in 1771.

The town’s role as a staging ground for military operations continued into the French colonial era and the American Vietnam War when An Khê took on a unique identity. Amid the conflict, this highland town became the home to the unusually named places of “Disneyland East,” and “The Golf Course,”. During Tet holiday, I made a stop in An Khê to learn more.

Camp Radcliff and the Origins of “The Golf Course”

Wright [Brig. Gen. John M. Wright Jr.] pointed across the dirt airstrip where a day earlier we had landed in C-130s. “Triple-canopy jungle,” he said. “Big trees about 200 feet high. Then secondary growth up to about 80 feet. Under that, bamboo, thorn thickets, shrubs, and vines. And beneath all that is grass—turf. If we could magically pluck out all that foliage, it would look like a golf course…“If we scrape away the jungle with bulldozers, in a month we’ll have a giant dust bowl. That dust will be sucked into helicopter engines and turbines. This is the end of the longest supply line in the world. Every turbine blade, air filter, every fuse—every spare part—has to travel 12,000 miles. If our heliport is a dust bowl, we’ll wear out our ships faster than we can fix them. “So we’ll create a golf course. Chop down the trees, pull out the bushes and cut the bamboo, elephant grass, and the wait-a-minute vines—but leave the turf. – Marvin J. Wolf

In 1965 the US army established Camp Radcliffe at An Khe. The helicopter landing strip there got the nickname the golf course due to the grass. Although there never really was a golf course, it’s a strange word to see associated with 1960s Gia Lai (despite several attempts in recent years, Gia Lai still does not have any golf courses as of 2025).

Click here to watch a video of An Khe from 1966

Watching a local Bahnar lady doing some traditional weaving

“Disneyland”

Nowhere was the shock of massive encampment greater in Viet Nam than in the sleepy little town of An Khe in the barren Central Highlands. Late last summer, 21,000 troopers of the U.S. 1st Cavalry (Airmobile) set up tents and helipads near An Khe. Prostitutes and profiteers swarmed into the town; prices for everything from beef to beer soared, as did the incidence of disease among the Americans. Dysentery and other intestinal diseases multiplied fourfold within four months; venereal disease soon afflicted nearly a third of the G.I.s.

It was the Vietnamese village elders who came up with a solution, which Kinnard reluctantly accepted as the best among unhappy alternatives: the first brothel quarter built exclusively for American soldiers in Viet Nam. Half finished, An Khe Plaza, as the sign at the M.P. gatehouse declares, or “Disneyland,” as the G.I.s call it, is a 25-acre sprawl of “boum-boum parlors” built of concrete blocks and surrounded by coils of concertina barbed wire. Each parlor consists of a bar with eight cubicles opening off the back. Eventually there will be 40 parlors, bearing such rubrics as Paradise, Caravelle, Golden Hind, Hill Billy, Washington and the Moderate Tearoom.

The price of a “short time” varies with the demand from $2.50 to $5 and inevitably has produced grumbling. “General Kinnard ought to put his foot down,” complained one cavalryman last week. “Five bucks is too high. He oughta make three bucks the standard price.” The plaint is, of course, misdirected. An Khe Plaza is a creation of the Vietnamese and run by the Vietnamese, albeit for Americans.

Vietnamese girls who want to work in Disneyland must obtain a special entertainer’s card and visit An Khe’s clinic once a week for a medical examination by Vietnamese doctors and a U.S.-provided shot of a long-lasting penicillin-type drug to suppress disease. Forced to choose between morality and the morale of their men, the division’s officers are clearly troubled by Disneyland. But, as one colonel explained, “We wanted to get the greatest good for our men with the least harm.” For visitors to An Khe, even clerics and chaplains, Disneyland is as hard to condemn as it is to condone. In that respect, it is not unlike war itself, of which Disneylands—and far worse—are an inevitable accompaniment.

– Time magazine 1966

Disneyland in the foreground and Hon Cong mountain behind

An Khê Today

An Khe is one of the largest towns in Gia Lai outside of Pleiku. It might seen sleepy by most people’s standards but I had a great time here for a few days with some locals and some foreign English teachers.

Although I couldn’t get anywhere near the golf course because it’s a military area, I did go to where I believe disneyland used to be, there is no sign of it’s sorded past but a local cafe owner did give me a free coffee.

Where I believe the entrance to disneyland was.

View of An Khe town from my hike up Hon Cong mountain

Ba Bridge today, view from my hotel, Hon Cong mountain behind

Pleiku Prison

The well-known travel guide Rough Guides has this to say about Pleiku:

Though it’s not terribly easy on the eye, the regional capital of Pleiku possesses a carefree air quite in keeping with its far-flung location. The city was wrecked during the war, and so little of it was left standing that a near-total reconstruction was required when hostilities ceased. (source as of 08/01/2024)

This comment irritates me because it’s clear the author didn’t research properly. Pleiku wasn’t destroyed by the war—it was built by the war. The city expanded dramatically to meet wartime needs. Before the war, Pleiku was little more than a few bungalows and French administrative buildings. Contrary to Rough Guides‘ claim, many of these original buildings still stand today (source). It seems the writer visited, spent one night, found the city wasn’t Hoi An, and made assumptions based on a quick impression. However, for those who know where to look, some prewar remnants can be seen.

One such piece of history is Pleiku Prison, a site worth visiting if you’re interested in the countries past. Built around 1925, the prison housed both unruly indigenous peoples and political prisoners. The complex was surrounded by 3-meter-high walls and layers of barbed wire. Today, only one of the original buildings remains intact – but with it’s cramped, gloom cells – it’s a sobering glimpse into the past.

During the Second Indochina War, There was also a separate POW camp, where uniformed combatants were held, while civilian dissidents with suspected communist sympathies were imprisoned in the inner-city jail. It is claimed that after the Tet offensive of 1968 the prison help 800 captives. On March 15, 1975 the South Vietnamese were in a hasty retreat from Pleiku and the prisoners managed to break out of the prison prior to the arrival of the North Vietnamese army.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to give any other perspective on the prison because I’ve never been able to find any French or American records other than it being marked on the city map. I also can’t find any old photos. If you have any sources, please let me know.

Visiting Pleiku Prison is free. The main gate is typically locked and entry is via a smaller gate just at the top corner of the site. Today, there is a monument dedicated to the prisoners in the forecourt, commemorating their hardships and escape. In the Gia Lai province museum you can find a handkerchief which embroidered by Pham Kim Cuc during her time in Pleiku prison from 1968-1972 (source).

Key: 13 – civil guard camp, 22 prison. Many of the surrounding roads no longer exist but the red road north of the guard camp is now Hung Vuong and the modern route of Thống Nhất street can be seen going around the prison to the east. The long building which is currently a museum can clearly be seen, the + shaped building north of it remains as a ruin.

Christmas In Wartime Gia Lai

“Christmas, 1967”

The sand bags look the same:
a dismal green-grey bag leaks red clay
upon the bags below. Outside the perimeter,
children pick though the garbage,
thrown out waste of a thousand men.
Christmas in Pleiku, 1967, war fills
the surrounding hills. Across the valley
we see cloud puffs of artillery and

at night red, green, amber flares dangle,
shining bright beneath white parachutes
displays in sound and light rivaling the staged events of a thousand
towns across the “world” on New Year’s Day.
But this is Christmas: a time of truce.

Palmer Hall – source

U.S. Army men drinking rice wine from urns as they celebrate Christmas with the Montagnards. December 24, 1966

A war zone couldn’t keep Santa from his appointed rounds – Cheo Reo – Christmas 1971
Chris Towne

Maxmilian Kersthold, a U.S. Navy engineer stationed near Pleiku, plays Santa Claus, delivering gifts on Christmas Eve to Montagnard women and children in Mang Yang, a remote area of the Central Highlands, Dec. 24, 1965. | Associated Press

a parish in Pleiku (1967-69) Photo by Schneider (link)

The Battle of Plei Ring

The dirt road gave way abruptly to a stretch of wet concrete drying under the sun. Nearby, men were clearing up after a days work. A glance at Google Maps suggested I was only 1.5 kilometers from my destination, so I decided to park my moped on the verge and began walking.

From behind a hedge, an old woman called out, “Where are you going?”

“Plei Ring,” I answered.

She shook her head. “Plei Ring’s been under the lake for years. The road only leads to the water.” I replied that I think there is a monument there. “There’s no such monument” she said.

Her words lingered in my mind as I made my way forward, determined to find what I’d come for. While researching for my blog I came across the Battle of Plei Ring. I initially found references only in Vietnamese sources and found out there was a stele erected in the area to commemorate it – that’s where I was headed now. At first, I thought western records of the battle were nonexistent. It wasn’t until I closely studied old maps that I realized the discrepancy: where Vietnamese sources spell it Plei Ring, western accounts use Plei Rinh. This subtle difference highlights the care required when researching history so as not to miss important sources.

The Battle of Plei Ring involved one of the most formidable units of the French forces in the First Indochina War: Group Mobile 100 (GM100). Its core consisted of battle-hardened veterans from Korea, renowned for their valor in battles like Chipyong-ni, Wonju, and Arrowhead Ridge. The unit was bolstered by indochina troups in a process the french weirdly called « jaunissant ». After the Korean cease-fire in July 1953, this elite force was transferred to Indochina and formally reorganized as Group Mobile 100 on November 15, 1953. The G.M.s were designed as self-sustaining motorized regimental task force unit modelled on the U.S. Army’s World War II regimental combat teams. The G.M.s typically consisted of three infantry battalions with one artillery battalion, along with elements of light armor or tanks, engineer, signal and medical assets, totaling 3,000–3,500 soldiers

While up north things were heating up at Điện Biên Phủ, this veteran unit was tasked with securing strategic locations in the Central Highlands, after being battered around by the Viet Minh from Dak To down to Dak Doa, they moved to dig in at Plei Ring in the Ayun Valley, which was on what the French referred to as the “Pleiku-Ban Me Thot axis”.

The Ayun Valley is a striking contrast to the otherwise flat terrain of the Pleiku Plateau. From the ground, the plateau appears unbroken until the valley suddenly reveals itself—a vast, hidden expanse carved into the land. I was unaware of its existence during my first years in Pleiku until studying detailed 1:50,000 maps revealed the contours of this dramatic feature. Its natural concealment, reminding me of a ha-ha, probably made it an ideal approach for Vietnamese troops to advance undetected, likely influencing the strategic placement of the Plei Ring outpost.

“At that time, my unit operated in the southwest of Pleiku town, but we often marched through Ring village… Plei Ring post was located in the middle of a fairly flat valley. The post was triangular in shape, surrounded by sparse barbed wire fences, thatched roofs, about 15m in height, and they added patrols and guards. Many of my comrades on the march unfortunately died here.” – Ngô Thành (source)

On March 21, 1954, the Viet Minh’s 803rd Regiment launched a surprise attack on GM100 at Plei Ring. Employing rapid and decisive tactics, they overwhelmed the French garrison in just two hours. This victory not only disrupted the French defenses in the region but also boosted the morale of Viet Minh forces across other theaters of the war.

G.M. 100 setup camp at a small remote outpost called Plei Rinh. There they were viciously attacked again. First came the violent mortar fire, then the concentrated fire of rifles and machine guns. The CP was targeted and hit. Suddenly came the onrushing wave of black clad Viets screaming “Tien-len!” The post soon burst into flames as the Recoilless cannons peppered the grounds. All was sound, fury, and chaos. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the soldiers of the 803rd disappeared. The toll was heavy on the French… G.M. 100 had been severely crippled. But not beaten. – source

The French reported over 250 casualties, with the Vietnamese claiming to have neutralized nearly 1,000 enemy soldiers and destroyed more than 200 vehicles. Though figures vary, the significance of the Viet Minh victory is undeniable. It disrupted French control in the area and dealt a blow to their morale during a critical phase of the war. The GM100 would retreat to Pleiku and later move to An Khe setting the stage for their ultimate downfall at the (in)famous battle of Mang Yang pass.

Today, the site of Plei Ring village itself lies beneath the waters of Ayun Hạ Lake, created by the Ayun Hạ Dam in the 1990s. A small commemorative stele near the lake honors the sacrifices made. As I followed the newly paved road called “the French pass” into what was once the fertile Ayun Valley, now transformed into a reservoir, I imagined the events that unfolded here decades ago—the place is now makes a good location for a peaceful hike in the native dipterocarp forest.

stele with lake visible in the background

Plei Ring Victory Site Relic

The Plei Ring victory site belongs to the old Ring village, now the Ayun Ha reservoir area, Ring village, HBong commune, Chu Se district, Gia Lai province.

After Kon Tum fell, the French colonialists concentrated their forces to strengthen the defense of the Central Highlands, especially in and around Pleiku town with 9 battalions, including Mobile Regiment 100 (abbreviated as GM.100). At the end of 1949, they spread rumors to stir up public opinion, combined with consolidating the fortifications of Dak Bot station, establishing Kon Thup, Plei Ring, and Plei Tau stations as support points; in mid-1950, they strongly promoted the concentration of people in clusters near the station and traffic routes for easier control.

Carrying out orders from Inter-Zone V, Regiment 803 assigned Company 6 of Battalion 59 to attack Plei Ring post. The remaining force of the battalion acted as reserve, Battalion 39 was tasked with attacking the newly reinforced Euro-African company that was temporarily camping outside.

With the strategy of quick attack and rapid development, not giving the enemy time to react; after nearly 2 hours of fighting (from 2:30 a.m. to about 4:00 a.m. on March 21, 1954), our army eliminated more than 900 enemies from the battle, 20 vehicles were destroyed, 200 vehicles and artillery were severely damaged. On our side, 36 comrades heroically sacrificed themselves.

The Plei Ring victory of the 803rd Regiment, although not a large force, caused heavy losses in manpower and weapons and dealt a heavy blow to the enemy’s will to stay awake, creating a turning point on the Central Highlands battlefield. This was the premise for the 96th Regiment to wipe out the 100th Mobile Division at Dak Po in an ambush, threatening the enemy on the entire battlefield of Military Region 5; contributing to reducing and destroying the enemy on the spot, preventing them from supporting the main battlefields, especially the Northern Delta and Dien Bien Phu.

The relic “Plei Ring Victory Site” was ranked by the People’s Committee of Gia Lai province according to Decision No. 327/QD-UBND dated March 20, 2020. – engraving on the stele

Today, Ayun Hạ Lake covers what was once the village of Plei Ring, hiding its stories beneath the water. While the dam and reservoir serve the needs of modern life—powering homes, irrigating fields, and supporting livelihoods—they also submerge the traces of a history. The past may be buried under the water, but the stories are floating around to be found by those who look.

sources

Dak Doa’s Pink Grass Festival

There’s something oddly nostalgic about taking a drive I used to hate. My weekly 6am drive to Đắk Đoa once felt like a chore, but over time, the small town grew on me. I started to appreciate its quiet charm—exploring its cozy cafés, like one with tiny tiled-roof huts and hammocks, or wandering through the pine forest between classes. Occasionally, I’d take scenic detours from Pleiku, winding through rubber plantations, stilt houses, and ethnic villages. Since changing jobs, I no longer make this trip for work, this time I’m heading back to Đắk Đoa for a special event.

The small town of Đắk Đoa is known for its pink grass, nhět rơmuay in Bahnar (possible a species of red top, I’ve not got a proper scientific ID), a seasonal phenomenon that blankets the open fields. You could say it puts the sleepy town on the map, in fact I once did have a tourist map of Gia Lai that listed “pink grass” as Đắk Đoa’s only attraction.

Today, Monday—my precious day off—the pink grass was calling me back to Đắk Đoa. Held in late November, right after the more famous Chu Dang Ya Flower Festival, the Pink Grass Festival showcases the town’s unique natural beauty alongside its rich cultural traditions and strong sense of community. I’d never been before, but when a local friend invited me to check it out, I couldn’t resist.

I arrived at the small festival in amongst the pine forest south of the town and parked my bike, noticing a few curious stares as I stepped into the field. The sun was shining brightly, casting a warm, golden glow over everything, while little puffs of cloud drifted lazily across the sky. The air was clear and crisp, not too hot—just perfect T-shirt weather with a light breeze keeping things comfortable. The first thing that struck me was the grass—not quite the vibrant pink from the heavily photoshopped images online. Instead, it was a desaturated reddish-purple, having browsed some colour palettes online I’d now describe it as “Antique Fuchsia.” Subtle and not unpleasant, the color gave the landscape a dreamy sheen, far more refined than the photos suggest.

As I wandered, I noticed people gathering around a stage and decided to check it out, though I couldn’t shake the feeling of standing out. Just as I started wondering if I was even supposed to be there, I spotted my friend, Mr Suk, walking toward me with his two preschool-aged daughters. He’s a local-born English teacher I know from my time teaching his family here, and we’ve coincidentally worked on some of the same charity projects. His daughters were full of life, their energy lighting up the day more than any festival could. When one of them confidently said in English, “My name is… car,” I had to laugh and admire her playful confidence.

The festival itself buzzed with activity, featuring a traditional weaving competition and performances of local music. There were also stalls showcasing local organic produce, like peppercorns and macadamia nuts. Anticipation filled the air as judges examined the intricate brocades being woven, each thread telling a story of skill passed down through generations. Unfortunately, I missed all of that—arriving on the wrong day. The main events had wrapped up on Sunday while I was busy with work, and now, here I was on a Monday as the stalls were all packing up—such is the life of an English center teacher. With extra curricular classes to teach, I’m always tied up when everyone else is free.

I did arrive just in time to catch the awards ceremony on the big stage, where the winners of the previous day’s competitions were being recognized. There was a sense of pride and excitement in the air as the judges called up the winners to receive their prizes. I watched as different groups were called up, high fiving their friends as they came forward. Mr Suk’s family’s team won a prize for their brocade weaving, they were each awarded a framed certificate.

After the ceremony, we found a quiet, shady spot beneath the pine trees to sit on a woven mat. It was very pleasant in the late-afternoon sun. The soft breeze carried the scent of pine and earth. We settled in comfortably, and soon, our meal arrived—sticky rice, perfectly cooked, alongside tender grilled chicken. We ate together, savoring each bite in the relaxed, unhurried atmosphere. The girls played with their teddy bears that had been won at a fairground game: one capybara and one labubu – very on trend.

Driving back to Pleiku that evening, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the friendships I’ve built during my time here. These connections have not only pulled me away from the isolation that can sometimes come with being a foreigner in smalltown Vietnam but have also added meaning to my days. Festivals like this help mark the rhythm of the year in ways that might otherwise pass unnoticed, especially for outsiders. It’s a unique perspective—to see these events as both a visitor and someone rooted enough to share them with friends, offering a richer, more personal experience.

Bien Ho

It’s still dark when I arrive at Biển Hồ 9km north of Pleiku City. I shuffle nervously through the large crowd, unsure of where to go or what to do. The PA crackles in Vietnamese, but I can’t make out the words. I’m surrounded by seasoned runners adjusting their gear and some people looking a little apprehensive like me. This is my first time running a 10k, but I’ve been training for months now, ever since I decided to take on long-distance running this summer. Before then, I’d never run for more than a few minutes at a time. So when I signed up for this event, I knew it would be a challenge.

Runners waiting at the start line before the sun has risen

I’d come here to pick up my bib a previous evening, and in doing so, bumped into a friend I hadn’t seen since I lived in Saigon – 4 years ago. It showed how much of a draw this event is, pulling people not just from Gia Lai but from all over Vietnam. Around the starting line, a small fair had been set up, offering everything from local produce to fitness and wellness products.

I’m not just running for myself today; I’ve been sponsored by friends and family, raising nearly £500 for local community projects. The weight of that generosity makes me feel equal parts proud and determined—it’s about more than just fitness for me now.

As the starting countdown ends, the mass of runners moves forward like honey dripping off a spoon—slow at first then spreading out as it gains momentum. In my effort to show appreciation for the local area, I’d chosen to wear the HAGL football team kit—Gia Lai’s pride. It’s my small way of connecting with this place that’s become home. The first corner hosts a Jrai band playing traditional music. I know these musicians from Pleiku Roh; they spot me, shouting and waving as I pass. Their cheers make me grin—a moment of connection that reminds me why I love living in Pleiku.

The 10k route encircles Biển Hồ lake – the “Sea Lake” of Gia Lai province, a popular tourist attraction. We set off clockwise, taking us first past its iconic pine trees. The lake itself is a remnant of volcanic activity, formed by overlapping craters, it covers and area of 228 hectares and conveniently for today, a lap around is about 10km.

Biển Hồ isn’t just beautiful; it’s a place of deep cultural significance. Stone Age tools discovered here hint at its importance to early human settlers. Of course there are several “pourquoi” origin stories of this natural feature. One story says the lake was once only a small spring. But when the magical giant white pig belonging to Ya Chao was killed to be eaten, water erupted, creating the lake and turning Ya Chao to stone.

The first kilometer or so of running flies by easily. We pass a local school where a marching band is playing. Their music is invigorating, blowing away the last vestiges of sleep as the sun rises.

My guilty secret is that I’ve never actually run a full 10 kilometers before. My best distance is 8.5 km on a treadmill, and life’s been so busy lately with a promotion and moving house that I had no time to complete my running training program. At this point, I don’t know whether to conserve energy or push harder. Some runners are already walking, while others surge ahead with confidence.

We reach Nghĩa Hưng dam, crossing to the northern side of the lake near the old French tea plantation. The main body of Biển Hồ lies to the south, while the northern reservoir, created by a dam in 1978, shimmers in the early morning sun. Although some people call this upper reservoir part of Biển Hồ, the Jrai villagers call it Ia Rơnhing, after the stream that was dammed. Although there was no dam prior to 1978, it wasn’t the first of it’s kind. Centuries earlier, the Cham people are said to have attempted hydroengineering here, redirecting water for their agriculture.

American wartime photo of Bien Ho before Nghĩa Hưng dam was built viewed from the north

French missionary Henri Maître recorded(source) an oral legend from the Jrai people dating back to the time of the Vijayapura Dynasty, when the Cham dominated Gia Lai. The Cham reportedly drained Biển Hồ to irrigate the Menam plains on the north side of the lake. However after suffering a major defeat to the rebellious Jrai in the 13th century, they were forced out of the area. As the retreating Cham tried to seize a valuable jar from the lakebed—that had belonged to the same Ya Chao from the origin myth—spring water burst forth, drowning their entire army and reflooding the basin. This tale, perhaps contains some grains of true historical events, as it aligns with the Cham’s presence in the region; a Cham-era archeological site lies just 14 km away in An Phú (source).

The next water station is a welcome sight as the sun gains strength heating up the trail. By now, the different race groups—10k runners, 5k runners, and marathoners—have started to merge. The path narrows, creating congestion. Shouts of “42 coming through!” echo through the crowd as marathoners on their final stretch try to pass. Some people step aside, but others remain oblivious. While it’s great to see so many enjoying the event, I can’t help but wish for some more displays of etiquette.

As we round the far side of the lake, I spot one of my students wearing a 5k bib. We exchange a quick wave, and I feel a spark of pride seeing different generations out here, embracing the event.

The last stretch takes us along the spit at the southern edge of the lake. A marshal shouts that there’s only 400 meters left. At the tip of the spit stands the Quan Âm, or Lady Buddha, shrine. During the war, Pleiku became a sanctuary for Buddhist communities under the South Vietnamese regime, which systematically favored Christians. The iconic Quan Âm statue, originally erected around 1969, was rebuilt in 2018 after falling into disrepair. While this revival has brought new life to the shrine, some locals who grew up with the 1990s structure—a hexagonal pavilion—view the change unfavourably.

As I cross the finish line, exhausted but elated, a surge of emotion hits me. This wasn’t just about testing my limits; it was also about the generosity of the people who believed in me. Nearly £500 in sponsorship money will go to causes that matter deeply to me here. Thinking about the lives this will touch fills me with gratitude. Running around Biển Hồ, with all its beauty and history, feels like an offering in return. I remember this poem by Hồng Thanh Quang:

“Biển Hồ như tình yêu,
Mặt nước chỉ hiện ra từng đấy,
Nhưng ai biết ở sâu dưới đáy,
Nó ăn lan rộng đến bao chừng…”

(“Biển Hồ is like love.
Its surface appears only so,
But who knows deep below,
How far does it go…”)

Chu Dang Ya

“Teacher Will!” a small voice calls out. I turn and scan the bustling crowd to see a group of my former students grinning and waving yellow flowers, dressed in striking black Jrai clothes with intricate brocaded trim. They’re selling dã quỳ wreaths, made from the bright yellow tithonia diversifolia flowers. The occasion? The annual Chu Dang Ya Flower Festival. Established in 2017 (source), this festival draws visitors from across Vietnam to witness the mountainsides bloom in early November, at the end of the rainy season.

The girls are locals of the village that hosts the festival – a Jrai village about 20km north of Pleiku. They know me from the summer school I taught here this year. So of course, I buy a flower wreath. These flowers are so delicate that they start wilting almost immediately after they’re picked, so they have to work fast, making and selling the wreaths quickly before they fade. “Am I beautiful?” I ask them in Jrai as I put the wreath on my head. They laugh and assure me that I am.

My friends Jack and Jimmy, longtime expats, had different views about the festival’s authenticity. Jack described it as “a bit of a tourist trap,” while Jimmy had declared it “not worth the trip.” I decided to go anyway, having missed it during my four years in Pleiku (partly due to it being canceled during COVID), if only for something to write about. But as I walk through the grounds, I find something genuine in the community atmosphere. Despite the inevitable influx of outside vendors, I’m surrounded by familiar faces—some are my students and their families; others are friends who’ve come up from Pleiku like me. It reminds me of a village fête in England.

As I wander through the festival field with a large stage and up the winding road to the volcano there are hundreds of visitors taking taking portrait photos – this seems to be the main attraction for a certain type of visitor. People say that by the end of the festival, there are barely any flowers left on the plants as they’ve all been picked. However, for many locals the dã quỳ flower has become a symbol of Gia Lai province. Some expats have even gone as far as getting dã quỳ tattoos to commemorate their time in Pleiku. I don’t know how many people here know that the flower is not unique to Pleiku; Dalat even has their own Flower Festival which predates Pleiku’s (source). Although it is not native, the dã quỳ is a hardy flower and it has shown potential in raising the soil fertility in soils depleted in nutrients (source).

Though the city dwellers love the sight of the flowers, many rural locals are less impressed.

“Hoa dã quỳ … I used to hate them when I was little. It turns out now they are the tourist attraction. I hated the smell and the feeling when I touch them. And at the time we had those wild flowers everywhere. I didn’t appreciate it. I was into those fancy flowers I couldn’t touch.” – Helen Nguyen, friend of the author, 4/11/2024

As well as researching the local flora, I’ve been looking into the local history lately too, with help from Brother Hiep, a local seminarian who helped me during the summer school. The village is important because it was the first Christian village of the Jrai people. According to the tale his mother would tell him when he was young (and supported by church records), the village was established by freed slaves under the guidance of French missionary Father Gabriel Nicolas (source). This seminal Christian community for the Jrai people became a refuge, the location chosen because of the ring of mountains that surround it – protecting the inhabitants from nearby slave-trading clans. Nicolas’s church, built in 1905, endured until it was destroyed in 1972 due to the war. Today, a single wall remains, serving as both a site for quiet Christian reflection and a tourist attraction.

Eventually, between photo requests from Vietnamese holidaymakers and absorbing the festive buzz, I start to think about the one festive aspect I haven’t tried yet: the food. Before I can choose from one of the many food stalls, though, a group of locals sitting on a straw mat in an orchard waves me over to join them. I accept, joining them sitting cross-legged as they pour me a shot of rice wine in a shared glass, which they pass to the left, in the Jrai way. One man, dressed in an old Cambodian police jacket, insists on getting me a whole roasted chicken on a stick. I try to share it around, but he shakes his head, puts on a serious face, and says, “It’s only for you.” So I dig in.

The men casually ask a few questions that make me wonder if I’m being tested—‘What’s the name of the priest again?’ or, ‘Did you see him today?’ (I hadn’t; he was away in Saigon for four days.) They relax a little, maybe satisfied that I am indeed a friend of the community, and I win more of their trust by using what few words of Jrai I know. The conversation turns to local history, and I seize the opportunity to ask about the nearby church ruins and the village’s origins. One elder, born in 1951, confirms how the village was originally a settlement for freed slaves. With limited access to resources, they had to be resourceful—flavoring food primarily with ginger, which covered the forested mountains and gave the mountain its current name, Chu Dang Ya, or “ginger mountain” in Jrai. I try to absorb the details, but some phrases are lost in translation, and I feel as though there’s still so much I don’t know. I do catch a bit about salt shortages and subsisting on monkeys and cassava leaves, a sobering lesson in the struggles these first settlers faced.

As the sun sinks behind the prominent peaks to our west, my host insists on packing me some sticky rice in bamboo to take home. He also insists on giving me a lift back down the slope by moped, rounding off my visit with much unexpected kindness. For all the opinions about the festival’s authenticity, the dã quỳ seems to me to be an apt symbol here—they fade quickly, but their roots are resilient, nourishing the soil. This festival may have its commercial aspects, but it’s also a time for the community to come together. For anyone considering a visit, I’d say go. It’s good for the community, and as far as experiences go, this one’s a festival I’d return to.

My cousin Alice climbs Chu Dang ya surrounded by da quy flowers

Pirate Radio in Wartime Pleiku

House hunting in a small Vietnamese city, like I’ve recently been doing here in Pleiku, is pretty stressful. There are no letting agents—just a Facebook group that moves at lightning speed. Thankfully, getting out to actually view places has been rather fun for me to offset the stress; it’s given me a chance to explore parts of the city I hadn’t had any reason to visit before. One viewing took me down the old French airport runway, now a public road, and another led me near the current airport onto the road that once led to the American 71st Evacuation Hospital. I get a bit of a buzz out of seeing these sites.

The old French runway, later Camp Holloway as it is now

This gives me a good excuse to write up this topic because it took place at the 71st Evacuation Hospital (here). The site has no shortage of stories, such as the lives of the nurses who served there, like Diane Carlson Evans. Today, though, I’m sharing a snapshot of something more off-beat — a pirate radio station that was run by some rogue engineers. It’s a far cry from the official radio propaganda I’ve written about before, and just the kind of offbeat details I love learning about when digging into the history of Pleiku.

At the time the pirate radio was on the air – 1971 – the Vietnam War still had a good four years to go, but for the U.S. Army, things were beginning to wind down. Under the policy of “Vietnamization,” introduced by President Nixon, the U.S. was gradually transferring the responsibility of the war to South Vietnamese forces, aiming to reduce American involvement. The 71st Evac Hospital had reduced their staff considerably, giving the buildings that were no longer used over to the Signal Corps. The area had an eerie liminal quality that was captured in photographs by Joel Dinda who was with the Signal Corps and living in the Hospital grounds. The atmosphere of these photos brings to my mind the style of Wes Anderson film, which I also find a fun lens through which to think about the story around the pirate radio station.

71st Evacuation Hospital – Pleiku 1971 – photos by Joel Dinda

“By 1971 the 71st was but a pale ghost of itself, and most of the hospital complex had been either ceded to the local Signal Corps folks (that would include me) or completely abandoned. So I spent my Vietnam year living in a hospital ward… All in all, we Signal folks thought the medical operation a mysterious and wonderful thing; we shared the complex but had little interaction with the professional staff, and less with the patients. ” – Joel Dinda

One of those signal folks was the main character of our pirate radio story: SP5 Schmidt of the 146th Signal Company. SP5 meaning Specialist 5-stripes rank.

“Since the war was winding down (for us GIs at least) a lot of equipment was being turned in to our shop from field sites reducing their inventory as they shut down. That provided a marvelous opportunity for me to scavenge an excess intercom for conversion to what would become the Peanut Whistle of the Central Highlands, so named after the HAM (amateur radio) nickname for a low power transmitter.” – SP5 Schmidt

SP5 Schmidt, stalled truck, Pleiku, April 1971

Schmidt and a group of co-conspirators from the his company used their vocational skills to cobble together a homemade broadcasting setup and started transmitting their pirate radio station on 95FM. They called it the Peanut Whistle of the Central Highlands, and each volunteer took on their own radio persona to remain anonymous – because what they were doing was strictly against the rules. Schmidt went by “The Choo-Choo-Cherry Kid” (a name inspired by his drink of choice: vodka mixed with Choo-Choo-Cherry powdered drink mix from care packages). Other DJs went by equally whimsical names like Goofy Grape and Rah Rah Root Beer. One of the crew had even been a professional DJ before being shipped off to Vietnam.

Peanut Whistle FM Station Console, Pleiku, 1971
Cassette (l), LPFM Transmitter (c), Cassette (r)
Harmonica (front) for live concerts

SP5 Gray at the Peanut Whistle controls, 1971
(Photo by SP5 Schmidt)

The station didn’t exactly have a massive range—about two miles, depending on conditions—but that was enough to cover the medevac hospital and, the nearby Pleiku Airbase, and on a good day maybe Camp Holloway.

If you hop over to Schmidt’s website (my main source for this article), there’s more information about the pirate radio as well as a modest collection of photos and even some audio. One photo that caught my eye was of the officers’ latrine, which got hit by a 122mm rocket. Luckily, no one was using the facilities at the time. This was possible because the hospital was close to Rocket Box, the area I wrote about last time when I went to see one of the rockets in the museum. It’s funny how these things connect.

officers latrine at 71st Evac Hospital hit by 122mm rocket

The Peanut Whistle wasn’t the only pirate radio station operating in Vietnam during the war. One of the most famous was Radio First Termer, run by a DJ who went by the name Dave Rabbit. Broadcasting from a brothel in Saigon, Rabbit pumped out heavy rock and anti-war commentary, gaining a lot more fame than our Choo Choo Cherry but maybe that was due to his inner-city location.

Fortunately, CCCK and his friends were never caught by the military police or other radio authorities. They even managed to throw pool parties at the medevac hospital’s pool—I was surprised to learn a pool even existed. I find a lot of joy in stumbling across these quirky stories, it adds a lot of colour to the history of my adopted home, Pleiku. There’s something absurd about this story—especially through the lens of the liminal looking photos.

You can listen to some of The Peanut Whistle of the Central Highlands on YouTube.

Bonus photo of SP5 Gray stood by a traditional Pleiku house looking very Wes Andersony

Rocket Box

During the Vietnam War, Da Nang earned the nickname “Rocket City” because of the near-constant barrage of rockets launched by the Viet Cong. But what fewer people know is that Pleiku had its own version of this during the war, a place that became known to soldiers as Rocket Box. It was located about 20km from Pleiku the city, and was the area west of the POW camp and was bombarded with rockets fired from the jungle of Chu Prong. Back then, it was a hotbed of military activity, but today, it’s just another quiet stretch of land, its violent past largely hidden beneath the coffee fields.

“This area was called the rocket box, as it was the right distance for the enemy to fire 122mm rockets towards our base camp.(source)”

I wondered if some of the old 122mm rockets like those used at Rocket Box had found their way into Pleiku’s museum. I popped over to find out. After paying 10,000 dong for my ticket, I wandered inside, finding myself as the only visitor in the entire building. I quickly found the rockets upstairs in the war history room. Unfortunately, the staff seemed as uninspired as the museum’s attendance numbers. The woman at the front desk was chatting with her friend and didn’t seem the least bit interested in my questions about the rockets – where they were sourced or who might know more about them. I was met with blank stares and shrugged shoulders. So I took some photos and went on my way.

me and the 122mm rockets, Gia Lai Museum

A 122 mm rocket impact crater at
II Corps Headquarters, RVN, 1971

“The launch system was often just prop it up pointing in the right direction and shoot. But with no guidance system and a range of many miles to targets beyond sight, the VC couldn’t actually target specific buildings or predict where they would strike. That poor accuracy played to their advantage since they were pretty much for harassment and we all knew that even low value targets were just as likely to be hit as the high value ones.” (source)

example of how the rockets were crudely set up (photo not from pleiku)

looks like the Chu Prong mountains behind, this is where the viet cong fired the rockets from

“Every couple weeks the VC would fire missiles at us. While the rockets certainly weren’t harmless–people died in this incident–they were far more scary than they were dangerous. Typically, we’d be ducking nine rockets in a day: Three in the early morning, three more around noon, and three before supper. They’d set up the rockets on the outskirts of the city–near the whorehouses, I’m told–and retreat into the town before the Hueys could respond. The intended target was usually the local military headquarters (II Corps). Since our Commcenter was on the line defined by the launch site and the target, we had more than a few close calls. But by the second rocket in each set, we’d be in the bunker, wearing tin pots & flack jackets.” – Joel Dinda

My next mission was to explore Rocket Box itself. I knew it was home to Landing Zone (LZ) Ruth (source, source), and I had coordinates for LZ Ruth: ZA168528. If that looks like an odd grid reference, that’s because it’s in MGRS format, which is a bit intimidating to interpret for the uninitiated. Luckily the old maps have a guide so I was able to convert it to latitude and longitude which can be put into google maps.

Guide to the MGRS system as seen on the map containing Rocket Box :- Plei Mrong 6537 II

Armed with the coordinates, I set off, curious about what I might find—maybe an old crater or some other remnant from the past. The October air was cool and crisp, and we’re just entering my favorite season in Pleiku—the dry, chilly months that follow the rains. I took the bypass and turned off into a Jrai village where I stopped to admire the rong house, chatting with some local Jrai along the way. As usual, they were intrigued to see a foreigner wandering off the beaten path; one man even asked for a selfie, which has become something of a routine for me here.

Americans interacting with the montagnard inhabitants of Rocket Box 1969

As it turned out, the Jrai I spoke to had something far better than craters—they told me about a little-known waterfall, not marked on Google’s map. Now, if you’ve traveled around Gia Lai with me, you’ll know that I love swimming in waterfalls. I can’t resist diving in, and this hidden gem didn’t disappoint. It wasn’t just a trickle either, but a full, roaring cascade that tumbled into a verdant hollow before flowing out to feed rice paddies. It was high noon by this time and the day had warmed up significantly. So the cool, shady pool at the foot of the falls was a perfect escape from the midday heat.

While I was relaxing in the hollow I noticed a remnant of the war – not a crater, but the flowering shrub chromolaena odorata, also known by the common name, “Jack in the Bush” (or in this case Jack in the Rocket Box!). It’s an invasive species from the Americas. The Jrai have their own name for it – they call it hruk se or hruk kŏ “airplane weed,” based on the folk belief that it was spread by US aircraft during the war (Jonathan Padwe 2020). In reality, though, it had probably been known in the area for a generation before that (according to the catholic missionary and ethnobotanist Jacques Dournes). Either way, it’s an interesting piece of folk taxonomy that highlights the association in people’s minds between the spread of the weed and the war era. This weed does well in areas affected by “bombturbation” – a term coined to describe how repeated bombing churns up the soil, mixing strata and altering the habitat. So it’s no wonder I found it thriving here in an area famous for being rocketed.

showing my distain for invasive species!

So, while I didn’t stumble upon any rockets or craters this time, the drive was nice, and my adventure led me to a hidden waterfall so it turned out to be a delightful day, and a reminder that the land has its own way of preserving history, even when the helicopters and rockets have long since gone.

sources

Padwe, J. (2020). Disturbed Forests, Fragmented Memories: Jarai and Other Lives in the Cambodian Highlands. K. Sivaramakrishnan (Ed.), Culture, Place, and Nature.

Poste Robert, Kontum

While researching the story of Mereyna, I stumbled upon another curious episode featuring some of the same characters caught up in a rather different affair with the Sedang people—this time, a decade later. The deeper I dug, the more it became clear that this story deserved its own blog post.

A place called Poste Robert kept popping up in the records. If you glance at a map of Vietnam from that era, you’ll find it marked just north of Kon Tum city, an odd name to see in the heart of the Indochinese mountains. Why is there a European sounding place name in the middle of nowhere? Naturally, I couldn’t resist the urge to dig deeper and also couldn’t resist taking a trip to see the location for myself.

Location of Poste Robert on a map for 1920

After the Meyrena affair in 1889, the French were keen to assert control over the region. A large enough force was brought in to try to bring the Sedang territory firmly under French rule. The Sedang, of course, were far from thrilled by this development. Their submission, as it turns out, wasn’t as easily won as Meyrena would have had people believe. They opposed the French presence vehemently, and tensions flared over the construction of roads and the increased numbers of outsiders.

In 1901, a militia commander named Monsieur Robert was sent to establish an outpost near the confluence of the Poko and Psi rivers at a place called Kon Ketou. His task was straightforward enough: protect French interests and maintain some semblance of order between Attopeu and Kon Tum. Kon Ketou sat just 8km north of Kon Gung where the Meyrena episode had taken place a little over a decade before.

By all accounts, the Sedang were not pleased. The post disrupted routes they’d long used for trading commodities with the Jrai people to the south – these commodities were usually taken from the inhabitants of Quang Nam and Quang Ngai by force. Grumpy about this interference, some Sedang leaders decided it was time to remove Robert and his militia from the picture altogether.

Robert, aware of the tension, was warned of a potential attack and set up a guard. Thinking that no one would dare strike in broad daylight, he had the guard keep watch all night. So it was that on the morning of May 17, 1901 he dismissed the guards who had been on night-watch. That decision would prove fatal. At around 9 a.m., a group of roughly a hundred Sedang warriors launched a surprise attack. The post was caught with it’s pants down, and chaos ensued. In the melee, Robert was stabbed twenty times with spears before the attackers melted back into the jungle.

Enter Father Pierre Irigoyen—a name that might ring a bell from the Meyrena episode. He too had caught wind of the plot and, alongside Father Emile Kemlin, another missionary stationed nearby in Dak Drei, made a desperate dash to warn Robert. Unbeknownst to them, it was already too late. When they arrived later that evening, they followed the sound of gunfire through the darkness and found the surviving militias, who had already placed Robert on a stretcher, gravely wounded. Father Irigoyen took charge of the group and led them safely back to Kontum. Sadly, Robert’s injuries were too severe. Despite the best efforts of Father Guerlach, who treated him upon their return, Robert succumbed to his wounds.

The French, undeterred, rebuilt the post later that same year and named it Poste Robert in honor of the fallen commander. For a time, the name appeared on maps of the region, though by the 1970s, when the Americans took their turn mapping the area, it had vanished. Interestingly, the Americans followed the same tradition of naming military places after fallen soldiers, as seen with Camp Holloway in Pleiku City.

The incident was far from the last time the Sedang would show their dissatisfaction. In the years that followed, they launched several more attacks, including repeated raids on Father Kemlin’s residence in Dak Drei. These strikes were among the earliest signs that the Montagnard people wouldn’t be easily subdued by this western powers. The so-called “pacification” of the region would continue to drain French resources for years to come—stories I’ll explore in future posts—culminating in the Montagnards getting their final revenge at the battle of Mang Yang Pass.

For the purposes of this blog post I decided to visit the confluence of the Poko and Psi rivers, even though the precise location of Poste Robert is unknown. It was too tempting a geographical outing to pass up. It was about an hours drive out of Kontum by moped. There’s a Rngao village near the confluence, perched on the same west bank where Kon Ketou once sat. Upon arrival, I spotted the nha rong, a traditional communal house that stood proudly in the village. As I wandered about, a group of local kids gathered around to peek at me, their curiosity mixed with a hint of fear at the sight of a strange foreigner.

To break the tension, I decided to entertain them by pretending to be a zombie, and their laughter filled the village green, easing the initial awkwardness. With spirits lifted, I left my bike behind and made my way down to the riverbank, scrambling through fields and a rubber plantation as I went.

There was, of course, no trace of the French post. Nonetheless, it was easy to imagine the scene over a century ago when tensions ran high between the French forces and the Sedang people, with this peaceful riverbank serving as the backdrop to so much history. On the southwest bank, a round hill rose like a quiet sentinel. As I squatted in a bamboo thicket and looked across to the hill, I imagined smoke curling up from behind a wooden stockade while Sedang warriors, perhaps in this very spot, crouched in the undergrowth, planning their assault.

My adventure took an unexpected turn when I got a nasty bite from a centipede, a sharp reminder that this land, despite the rolling fields, hasn’t quite surrendered to the encroachments of civilization and still has surprises from its wild past. Limping back to my bike, I struck up a conversation with some locals who eyed me with a mix of curiosity and caution. I was particularly taken by the village’s charm, where many houses—though they were the typical modern brick bungalows found throughout Vietnam— sported extensions crafted from woven bamboo.

What struck me most about when researching this post was how a simple curiosity over a strange name on a map led me right back to the familiar names of Irigoyen and Guerlach. It’s a reminder of just how deeply these missionaries were woven into the fabric of the region’s history, their influence reaching far beyond the confines of their religious work. It leaves me wondering what adventure their mark on history will lead me on next.

Disneyland & The Golf Course: A Tour of Wartime An Khê

Camp Radcliff and the Origins of “The Golf Course”

“Disneyland”

An Khê Today

links

Pleiku Prison

Christmas In Wartime Gia Lai

The Battle of Plei Ring

sources

Dak Doa’s Pink Grass Festival

Bien Ho

Chu Dang Ya

Pirate Radio in Wartime Pleiku

Rocket Box

sources

Poste Robert, Kontum

Sources