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We drop off our gear and board the bus, one by one; Ants marching in the Vietnamese sun. Hours, days fly as fast as the scenery. 8 hours…Nha Trang…4 hours…Da Nang…8hours…Hue…3 more…DMZ…the laundry list of dirty little semi-costal towns tumbles by. On to the next battlefield, to one more village destroyed, to another beautiful pagoda honoring an ancient king, to miles of underground tunnels protecting nothing from an enemy long ago exhausted. We hop out. We hop in. Our beautiful puke-green air conditioned haven protects us from the elements (it often rains) and shields us from the grotesquely bleak peasant-life that the faces beside the road play out. We joke about the life of pop stars, one up each other with wild tales of drunken adventure, trump each other in battles of geography, sleep in absolute boredom. Outside, dark sun-drenched heads turn, then shrink into the distance. We are cultured. We are wealthy. We are American apathy.