The New Expatriates

Old hands of French Indochina called it le mal jaune--a benign affliction that could turn even Paris boulevardiers into confirmed expatriates.

After the French Expeditionary Forces left Viet Nam in 1956, thousands of Frenchmen stayed on, as businessmen, priests, adventurers, smugglers and doctors, some for the best of reasons, some for the worst. Almost two decades later, the American military withdrawal from Viet Nam is complete--but an estimated 9,000 Americans have chosen to remain behind.

Some are dedicated to helping the homeless and crippled; others are seeking the fast and easy buck. Army deserters run bars in the coastal cities; honorably discharged veterans turn in their O.D.s for saffron robes and study to become Buddhist monks. Some of the American expatriates are fleeing broken marriages; others simply prefer the style and pace of life in Viet Nam to the rat race back home. Whatever their reasons, it is clear that the "yellow sickness" has now claimed its share of Americans. A sampling:

> Jack Rowley, 43, is a tough Seattle engineer who has spent the past 2 1/2 years building roads and bridges in Viet Nam. He has no intention of returning home. Why stay? "Every place is basically boring," says Rowley, "but Viet Nam is less boring than most because it's different--the language, the religion and especially the women. Vietnamese women are the only people who give you your money's worth here." Rowley neither drinks nor smokes, runs three miles a day, and works out six times a week--"to show the Vietnamese that not all Americans are out of shape." Adds Rowley: "I don't want to look like the fat, sloppy, stupid Americans coming over here now." Running his hand through his Prince Valiant-styled hair, he puts down the new arrivals: "The only difference between the carpetbaggers of the post-Civil War period and now is that we are organized and sponsored by the American taxpayers' money."

> Dr. Patricia Smith, 46, has lived and worked in the Highlands capital of Kontum for 14 years. A graduate of the University of Washington Medical School, she has spent that time working with the Montagnard tribesmen, operating an 87-bed hospital that is funded by contributions from the U.S. Soft-spoken and portly, she drives about Kontum in a red Honda sedan. Dr. Smith has survived many minor disasters and at least two major ones. In 1968, her hospital was badly shot up during the Communist Tet offensive; four years later, the ARVN 23rd Division set up a fire base in the hospital, looting and vandalizing the building in the process. She is undeterred by her problems: "I couldn't practice medicine in the States," she explains to visitors. "The standard of living is too high; people there are concerned with minor, senseless things. For a medical person, the need to be needed can really be satisfied here."

> Ralph Lombardi, 49, arrived in Viet Nam in 1962 as a securities salesman, leaving behind a wife, a Thunderbird and a town house in Brooklyn Heights. "When I came here," he says, "I had high blood pressure and ulcers --after the first year, both problems had vanished." Lombardi never got around to selling stocks. Instead, he played piano in a Saigon hotel for 18 months at $900 a month: when the American presence was at its highest levels, a polished entertainer like Lombardi was very much in demand. Today he ekes out a meager living by teaching at the University of Saigon (salary: $42 per week) and writing an occasional magazine story. Fluent in eleven languages, a former Oxford lecturer who also taught at Seton Hall and Colorado State, Lombardi is content in Saigon. "There's a feeling of complete freedom here," he says. "A man with a little money in his pocket can do anything--smoke opium, sleep with three girls, meet interesting people. The subtle charm of Saigon is not to be denied."

> Dick Hughes, 30, formerly a Boston drama teacher and a friend of Actor Jon Voight, went to Viet Nam in 1968 simply to discover for himself what was going on. Five years later, he runs seven houses of refuge for orphaned Vietnamese boys (five in Saigon and two in Danang). "You have to understand that these boys have nothing," Hughes says. "In Viet Nam, one's career, even one's personal identity, is sublimated to the family. When you lose your family, you lose everything." During the past five years, almost 1,000 boys have stayed at Hughes' homes, which are funded by private American contributions. The boys get whatever help they need, without strings, to find first themselves and, eventually, jobs. Hughes himself lives in a simple one-room apartment, and draws expenses of just $50 monthly. "I've learned a great deal from these kids," says Hughes. "After seeing them pull themselves together, I think I could deal better with a personal tragedy now. I know I'm a good actor, but perhaps this role is the one I'm supposed to play."

> Charles Munroe, 37, arrived in Saigon as a young engineer in 1965 and spent the next year living it up. Then he married a Vietnamese girl, and his goals changed. Since last summer, he has worked for $400 a month as a consultant to Saigon's Ministry of Finance, helping set up the country's first securities market. Munroe, who was once a broker in Beverly Hills, is convinced that overseas investment in Viet Nam is about to take off. "By 1975, there should be a rush to invest," he says, "in everything from rice, fruit and fish to rubber, timber, molybdenum and oil. There are tremendous long-range business opportunities. It's like frontier California; there's a great potential for growth."

> John Tabor, 28, of Jaffrey, N.H., will be ordained as a Roman Catholic deacon next month after seven years of study in a Vietnamese seminary. Then he will spend the next several years working in a poor Danang parish. Tabor, who went to Viet Nam as a Seabee, has difficulty expressing himself in English these days; he has spoken Vietnamese almost exclusively since he entered the seminary. "It was in 1963, when I first came to Viet Nam, that I began to see things clearly. At least in spiritual matters, the Vietnamese should have been advising the Americans. I can never learn enough about Viet Nam. This is my home now."

> James Swanson, 31, a native of Brownsville, Texas, is better known to the Vietnamese in his new home of Ben Tre as "Ong Tom" (Mr. Shrimp). He is determined to make himself a wealthy man by selling that tasty commodity.

Swanson saw Ben Tre first as an infantryman, nine months after the Tet offensive. The town had been partially destroyed, as an American major so memorably remarked, "in order to save it." Swanson returned for a second Viet Nam tour as an adviser in 1970 and dreamed up the idea of buying shrimp from Delta fishermen and reselling it in the lucrative Saigon market. After his discharge in July 1972, he put up $3,000 of his own money, talked $20,000 out of four Vietnamese partners, and went into business. Swanson expects a profit margin of 20% by the end of this year; in three years, he expects his income to double. Ben Tre is a bit too quiet for Swanson's expansive Texas tastes, but friends back home keep him supplied with his favorite jalapeno peppers, pinto beans and Gouda cheese. "Once I get rich," he says, "I'll get good cigars shipped in from San Antonio."

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