The Balute

Tam Hiep was a quaint little straw and mud village that grew rapidly, in 1965, into a seedy sprawling boomtown full of shops, bars, restaurants and whorehouses with most establishments serving as all of the above. New construction had erupted into a multitude of frame structures covered with misprinted beer can sheet metal and screen. These, were crowded along the main road, amongst clumps of stucco and thatch that were the original village. Paths and lanes led subtly off to other neighborhoods hidden from the casual passer.

            A Vietnamese sergeant invited me to visit for dinner at his home in Tam Hiep. We had worked together for a while and got along well. It was a special event for me. Pleased with an opportunity to penetrate cultural boundaries, I wore a clean set of fatigues and reviewed customs and language. I wanted to be very graceful.

            With a bottle of Bacardi’s rum and a another of Crown Royal, I left for my friend's house. I came equipped with a mess of chewing gum, some pictures from home and a few packs of cigarettes stashed in large pockets. A 32 revolver clung to my ribs in a holster beneath the loose fitting jungle tunic. Partly hidden, a large sharp knife hung in a sheath over my right hip. The village and the route to it were "secure" but only a fool with a death wish would let his

guard down. To pack a small piece to a social occasion was as proper as a tie on Wall Street.

            A Lambretta carried me to the main intersection in the center of the village. This was a busy market and shop area where four streets came together at the main road. The driver made a quick veering left dodge in front of an oncoming deuce-and-a-half and whirled the three-wheel taxi-cycle to a halt by the front of a two-story stucco building. I paid too much for the ride and

stepped into the entrance of the lane that led to my destination. At the front of the building a small alleyway passed through to a wider lane. The lane angled away from the road. I quickly brushed off some young boys hustling their sisters. Pretty girls smiled and beckoned from sporadic doorways as I approached my friend's home.

            Sergeant Tran lived in an apartment in the center of a long building. The building was one of a pair of thatch-roofed structures with whitewashed adobe walls. There were several doors

in the buildings, each leading to an apartment. Inside the door was a large room with a high ceiling. Bamboo partitions rose to the height of the outside walls separating the apartments. The

area within the peak of the roof was left open. Sounds carried easily from one home to another and any loud event was a public event. Privacy was had by speaking in low tones. Curtains divided the large single room into sections. Wires, strung tautly between the walls supported the curtains. A low wattage light bulb hung from the roof beams. A reflector concentrated the light downward. At the rear a small room served as a kitchen, utility, bathroom. The kitchen had a low door that opened to the community plumbing ditch. In the dry season you could step out the back and there was a trickle of water passing through a narrow, shallow trench. During the monsoons the water would rise to the doorway. I later rented one of these apartments and came to know my neighbors intimately

            This evening, though, this was all very new to me. My local relationships had thus far been limited to the bars and whorehouses and some street vendors. That had kept me fairly

entertained. God! The whorehouses! Here I was, after years of culturally enforced near acetism, right smack in the middle of my wettest dreams. No teen-age courting games to play, just plain

dollars for sensation. The going rate was 3 dollars for a short-time and negotiable up to about ten for a real party. I have never in my life received better value for my money than for the

wares and wiles of these beautiful women.

            Actually, most of the people that I met were involved in some level of the vice that crawled ambiently upon this strange, strange land. We had come, a bunch of farmboys and city punks, black to white, the main thing most in common, we had, was our poverty. The rich boys mostly got deferments. They stayed safe at home and played with hippy girls and made riotous judgement against us. We had come by order to bring order to this land so close to the very ancient gurus of order. Most of these people were Buddhists. Many were Catholics. The thing they had in common was thirty solid years of war in which the Viet Minh had slowly

and desperately gnawed like a rabid rat at every fist that was sent to smash it.

            Tonight I was the guest of honor. The men sat in chairs around the table. The Women and children arranged themselves in another ring about the room. Sergeant Tran took one end of the table, I the other. Women supplied beer in glasses over ice. Liquor was poured in small glasses. Rounds and conversation, jokes and laughter led to a parade of exotic foods. Many were obvious. Most were delectable. The composition of many dishes was not apparent. This made me nervous. Good manners required that one eat anything he puts on his plate. The meal was leisurely. Much talk was macho war stuff. I was shown a jar of pickled VC ears. The ARVN soldiers agreed that it was easy to do things to the VC after they have attacked your friends and family. They also confided, as many people did, that they did not trust the Saigon Government and they described corruption they were certain existed. The laughter and the strangeness combined with the drink. A huge basket of eggs appeared on the table.

            “You like?” Tran pointed to the eggs. This was the most familiar food I had seen tonight and I enthusiastically responded. “Yeah! I like eggs!” The eggs were passed out and set upon egg cups. A pause indicated that I should begin. I had seen egg cups used in a three stooges movie. I cracked the top and removed it. The inside was black! I did not want to cause Tran’s wife embarrassment. I wanted her, or someone, to notice and rescue me. I stalled. I downed a shot of Coginac and cracked the hole larger. Someone would surely see. I guess I gave the impression that I did not know what to do next. Tran said something. He cracked his egg, stabbed his spoon into the hole and pulled out a black baby chick and slurped it into his mouth. I mumbled “Sort of like eating oysters, huh?” Everybody laughed. I downed another shot, chased it with beer, crossed my eyes, dug out the chick and tossed it into my mouth. Everybody watched as I tried to smile and act like I was chewing while I tried to get the downy sacklike thing past a throat cramped with revulsion. The baggy part went down. My tongue clamped the hard little head to the roof of my mouth. The neck stretched and parted. Now I had to chew the head to get it by the throat. My molars did this while my tongue and cheeks and gums minimized contact. I finally gagged it down. A swallow of beer completed the job. A shot was waiting. My eyes and nose were running. The spectacle I must have been came to me just as the room sort of cheered. A couple of guys pounded me on the back. It was a humorous test! They knew an American GI would not like this delicacy. These folks understood my respect for them. They returned respect and real friendship. The next morning I awoke in my hooch with a massive hangover. Staggering into the mess hall for breakfast, I was confronted by my favorite food, eggs. I reeled out of the building. It was a week before I could be around eggs in the morning. A month or so passed before I could eat them again.