China Beach, Then and Now

We climb Water Mountain, tallest of the five limestone outcrops. According to legend, the hillocks represent the elements, the others being earth, wind, fire, and metal. On the way to the look-out we visit a shrine to a female deity, where Quang Duc relates a Vietnamese creation myth. Then we stop in a cavern that houses a miniature temple, complete with its own stone guards. Blue sky shows through gaps in the cavern roof, courtesy of the shells fired on it to flush out hiding Vietcong.

I want him to point out where the dozens of American military installations were – the marine-corps units, helicopter bases, and special-forces com-pounds. But Quang Duc is more interested in stories about his favourite gods or historical figures such as Minh Mang, the emperor who built many of the temples and lived in the palace at Hue. Minh Mang had three-hundred-and-sixty-five wives, Quang Duc says, one for each day of the year. “He must have been tired,” he speculates.

After climbing through a gap in the rocks, we gaze down on the South China Sea. Quang Duc lists the names of the separate beaches. Below us is Non Nuoc, where U.S. officers had a facility. Further up, past a former helicopter base, is Bae My An, followed by My Khe, which incorporates the city swimming areas. Towards the north, closer to Nui Khi, or Monkey Mountain, are beaches he knows only as T.18 and T.20. These are present-day Vietnamese military installations. Local names for local places.

I wonder about the development schemes. Quang Duc shows me where resorts are slated to be built, including a golf course adjacent to the Furama. But he has his doubts. “Corruption,” he says with a shrug, ignoring the dozens of sightseers gathered around us, keen to eavesdrop on a conversation they can’t follow. “And poverty,” he adds.

Quang Duc says he isn’t bothered by my questions about the American facilities, or by the use of the name “China Beach.” His heart, though, clearly isn’t in a U.S. military tour of the region where he has spent his entire life. He’d much rather talk about emperors and goddesses and the need for better roads and higher morals.

Still, I ask one more question. His face goes blank at the movie title and he struggles with the peculiar word, which he has never heard before. “A-pock-lips?” he asks. “A kind of prophecy,” I answer. “Usually of doom and destruction.” He asks about the film, but I say it doesn’t matter. It was someone else’s beach, and someone else’s war.