Nothing Here To Bind You
 by Wade Stevens Ricks

ANDREW X. PHAM ARRIVED IN THE UNITED STATES IN 1977, culminating a harrowing exodus from post-war Vietnam. He and his family survived a communist re-education camp, near drowning at the hands of hapless fishermen-turned-smugglers, and a stint in an Indonesian refugee/prison camp.

Then things really got interesting.

Pham, driven by his stern and violent father, followed the Asian immigrant archetype for success: He went to engineering school at UCLA and graduated into the ranks of suitdom. Along the way, however, he failed to establish an identity; when his beloved but neglected older sister committed suicide in the mid '90s, he quit his job and went out to find one.

Pham seized on a bicycle as his vehicle for exploration. From the mountainous California coast, he cycled into Mexico. Then he flew to Japan, and ultimately to Vietnam. His travels in his native country provide the structure for the retelling of his family's troubled history, that of modern Vietnam, and the sorry state in which that country currently finds itself.

While Pham pumped some serious miles atop his bike, that conveyance is sometimes little more than a prop for a serious and dramatic chronicle of a man's struggle to find meaningful passage through a sometimes merciless life. Catfish and Mandala is a significant book on many levels: an interesting travelogue, a gripping tale of imprisonment and escape, an honest and revealing portrait of a disfunctional family, and an elaborate examination of one's psyche and the environments that define it.

Arriving in Vietnam, Pham is distressed to find that his former countrymen do not recognize him as one of their own. Some think him Korean, others suspect he is Japanese. A group of small children decides that he is Russian. Although he speaks the language fluently, many detect an accent that sets him apart. To the unforgiving, he is "Viet-kieu," a betrayer who has returned to flaunt his wealth and success.

After being gone for more than a decade and a half, Pham finds that his fuzzy memories do not correspond to the current reality of this "developing nation." He starts out in Ho Chi Min City, which he continuously refers to by its pre-war name of Saigon, even though he recognizes little about the city where he once lived. He is targeted by hucksters, beggars and corrupt cops who all assume he is a potential source of lucre. He is often disappointed to find that beautiful and friendly women are actually hookers on the prowl.

And while the ubiquitous fish sauce may be in his blood, his system is unprepared for the raw Cobra hearts and goat testicles that are offered up to vanquish his hunger, much less the animal blood-fortified wine that he is supposed to use to wash it all down. All of this brings up bad memories of a mean uncle who favored dog meat, a delicacy that is still in ample local supply.

Pham illustrates one of the great ironies of Vietnam: It is a country full of skinny people who seem to be preoccupied with food -- selling it, cooking it and eating it. While some of the cuisine may seem odious, at other times Phamís descriptions are alluring: sautéed pork, clay pot catfish, egg rolls, vegetables prepared in various sauces. Nevertheless, the author seems to fare poorly in his culinary encounters, spending much of his time retching or hurrying to the sanitary facilities (that is, when there are some).

He comes to dread any encounter with locals, nervously waiting for a hook in each transaction: a plea for help, a proposition or a plain country butt-whipping. Amid all this shabbiness, however, he occasionally finds aid from some dignified and friendly, if unexpected, source. There are the aging bike mechanic who refuses to accept payment for fixing Pham's travel-ravaged cycle and the merchants and railmen who protect him from venal police and abusive bullies.

As he travels, Pham finds much of the male population inert and alcohol-addled. He recalls that his own grandfather, once proud and prosperous, spent his dotage sucking on an opium pipe, trying to nullify a mind full of regret. As a traveler in modern Vietnam, the grandson seems to find little evidence of the wisdom and industry of his ancestors, but rather resignation and self-doubt.

Pham also seems intent on puncturing the image of Vietnam as a lush, beautiful paradise. "They have no idea that they have gnawed away their nature," Pham writes. "There is not much left and they donít even know it."

He concludes that the tunnels of Cu Chi, the protective underground labyrinth that helped the North Vietnamese baffle and defeat the American war effort, is the only man-made attraction in the country "worth the price of admission."

As he pushes north toward his father's hometown of Hanoi, Pham finds his progress stymied. His movements are constantly monitored by constables, who scrutinize his travel documents and look for ways to extract bribes.

Once he arrives in Hanoi, however, he finds comfort and friendship in encounters with other foreign travelers. One of the book's interesting tableaus is Pham's visit to Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum. Although he has every reason to despise the father of Vietnamese communism, the author accords respect to the legacy of "Uncle Ho," even as he humorously describes the scene as foreign visitors gape at the leaderís corpse.

Also memorable about his Hanoi days are Pham's encounters with a deaf-mute street boy. Unfortunately, the friendship provides Pham with another opportunity to question his own humanity, to doubt that he has done enough for someone he cares about.

Though he may now be a naturalized American citizen, Pham is trapped by the familial concerns that preoccupy his native land and his Old World family. He recalls the words of an elderly Vietnamese American man who was his mentor: "To live a good life, you live for others, not for yourself. Your parents bring you into this world so you be what they want."

Pham and most of his siblings ultimately chafe against their filial bindings. As Americans, they live in a country where children leave home early and often don't return; children grasp at whatever pursuits appeal to them, regardless of whether there is promise for a lucrative career or not; the elderly are ignored rather than revered, often deposited in nursing homes or abandoned outright.

As he traverses Vietnam, Pham realizes that despite his aura of confusion, his relative prosperity has been fortuitous. As he contemplates the fortunes of a little street girl, he notes:

"Random. My world -- her world. But for my parents' money, I could be any one of the thousands of cyclo drivers, vacant-eyed men wilting in cafes, hollow-cheeked merchants angling for a sale. Everything could shift and nothing would change. No difference. The shoes to be filled were the same."

Eventually, Pham concludes that he has become too Americanized. That he doesn't fit in his native country. He admits he is shamed by the fact that he finds his roots repulsive.

As a reader, one hopes that Pham can heed the advice of an aging tour guide who takes him back to see the prison camp where his father almost died: "Forget this place," the man says. "go see the world. Everything has changed. Your roots have turned to dust. Nothing here to bind you."

Wade Stevens Ricks is a writer/producer who lives in the Boston area.

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