Having proved, without a shadow of doubt, that we were who we said we were, and that indeed, the bags we were carrying belonged to that self-same person, we were allowed out of Saigon Airport. It was only 6 kilometres to our hotel, but our Traffic Awareness Anxiety reached a whole new level. Separate lanes for motor cycles – good. Many cars & buses – OK. Taxis – bad, very bad. Old rules apply only if there are no taxis in the mix.
Our hotel, the Asian Ruby, had chosen the Vespa as an art form in the foyer. The former Vespa owner was thrilled, and patted it often.
Next morning we left our hotel at 5.30 am so that Thach could show us the difference between 5.30 traffic and 5.50 traffic. He probably wouldn’t have got us past Notre Dame if we had been any later.
This was the start of our 29,976 step day. This day was not calculated in beers. This day ended with cocktails in the Rooftop Garden of the Rex Hotel, a hangout for US servicemen during the American War. One cocktail was the same price as two meals at Pho 24, the noodle joint near our hotel.
As expected, the delightful parks were full of people doing exercises, dancing, sweeping and playing badminton.
We were just taking the circuitous route to the coffee shop, for yet another Best Vietnamese Coffee ever, although a couple of our group did jump in on the jazzercise for a few minutes.
Next to the coffee shop was a park where owners bring their caged birds for a bit of companionship (birds) and coffee (owners). They all looked like budgies to me, but I can’t tell a red-whiskered bulbul from a Chinese laughing thrush if you paid me.
However, we could tell a grub from a cricket at the bird food sellers.
To put the final edge on our breakfast hunger pangs, we did a quick spin through the Cua Tai Markets, where the freshest of absolutely everything is sold. It must have been scrupulously clean, as there was no hint of bad odour.
Seafood was still alive, ducks had been playing in the pond only yesterday, and the courgette flowers hadn’t even had time to get bewildered.
By 8.00 am, we were on “day at leisure”. Thirty degrees, and 99% humidity. We had the compass, the map, the pedometer and a plan.
We had glimpsed the Reunification Palace on our walk. It had been opened in 1966, a modern version replacing the Norodom Palace built for the French. We were given the impression that it was a flurry of extravagance by the Puppet of the moment. By April 30, 1975, the office of President of South Vietnam was a hot potato. Duong Van Minh had only been in the job less than 3 days when a PAVN-T54 tank drove through his front gate.
He said, “We have been waiting for you so we could turn over the government.” The ranking North Vietnamese officer, Colonel Bui Tin replied, “There is no question of your transferring power…You cannot give up what you do not have.”
A most civilized conversation, in the circumstances. Meanwhile, a young soldier had raced up to the balcony to fly the North Vietnamese flag. We were free, even welcome, to stand in the same spot.
Sustained only by an iced coffee (remember condensed milk?) we marched the length of Le Duan Street in search of the History Museum. We walked right past the site of the former US embassy, which is now something ignominious like a driveway to a bank. It seemed a long way from Operation Frequent Wind, so named for the number of helicopters coming and going to clear US personnel in 1975. We found the Museum, but struggled to work out how to get in, so decided on lunch “at the end of the street” – guide speak for “how on earth did you end up there”.
The first café told us they had “no food”, in spite of a reasonable supply within arm’s reach. We think it was because a) they thought we wouldn’t like it or b) that we would eat it, and try to pay for the extraordinarily cheap food with a credit card.
The first café told us they had “no food”, in spite of a reasonable supply within arm’s reach. We think it was because a) they thought we wouldn’t like it or b) that we would eat it, and try to pay for the extraordinarily cheap food with a credit card.
Trudging on, we found another who brought the menu which consisted of 2 photos. One was a plate of meat and chips, the other a bowl of noodles and vegetables. We chose the latter, and for less than $8 total had a delicious meal, two beers with ice (!), two green teas with ice, and more dubious ice on the side. Grand.
Happily, the History Museum was also worth the effort.
It was essentially single storey, purpose built by the French around a charming courtyard. Once again, we were two of only a score of people visiting.
The rooms were pleasantly fan-cooled, the only air conditioning being in the room with the mummy. This was not an old mummy. She was, in fact, somebody’s Mummy as recently as 1869.
We caught up with a bunch of missing Champa statue heads, some excellent phallic statuary and of course, a lovely big bust of Uncle Ho.
Whereas a number of the historic buildings have gardens full of tanks and helicopters, the History Museum’s was full of cannons. We prefer armoury that was before our time.
Early to rise and early to bed had become the norm, so a special effort was required to get to an evening performance of the Puppet Theatre. Fortunately our show was in a building, not in a rice paddy, where it had its origin a thousand years ago, and the tradition continues.
Our “stage” was a pond, with puppeteers working in waist-deep water behind heavy curtains. The puppets are lacquered wood. The 6 traditional musicians provided the music, sound effects and dialogue. The dozen or so skits were very entertaining and funny.
The men were always outwitted by the fish and animals, and bollocked by the women. Golden rule: don’t sit in the first couple of rows. The dragon boat turns are reckless.
The Vietnamese had started digging tunnels here when they were fighting the French in the 40's and 50's.
The Cu Chi tunnel complex was more than 200 km long, and now visitors can access a small part. The intrepid can descend for a few minutes in a tunnel that has been widened for tourists – most of whom do not have the “slim build” you get when you are fighting and starving.
Thousands of tourists visit this area every day. We were early (of course) and were reasonably oblivious to the multitudes following us through the bush trails, along which were examples of booby traps, ingenious recycling of American trash for weapons, chimney systems to hide smoke outlets and photo opportunities.
It was really hot, really humid, and bloody scarey when the guns started firing. At this stage we didn’t know that you could hire an AK-47 and blast 10 shots into a quarry. It could be tacky, but even the souvenir shop was Communist austere. And besides, these people had been to hell and back, and I figure they could do what they wanted with their history to make up for goodness knows what their land still harbours.
Feeling a little sombre, our group headed back to HCMC. Sidetrack: we were told the locals still call the original city “Saigon”, and the wider metropolitan area, Ho Chi Minh City. I like “Saigon” – no disrespect, Uncle Ho.
Our final stop was at the War Remnants Museum. 
It was originally called “The House for displaying War Crimes of American Imperialism and the Puppet Government”. Fair enough. It was shortened to the “Museum of American War Crimes”, and then relations “normalized” – hence “Remnants” which doesn’t mean anything. The grounds are full of planes & tanks & bombs. The building has room after room of photographs. The only room I saw in its entirety was on reconstructed bridges. I should have known that the Agent Orange room would do me in. On the ground floor there were scores of children’s drawings, calling for peace.
Our final excursion was an overnight trip to the Mekong Delta. Early start, morning tea stop under sufferance, and a quick stop at the extraordinary Cao Dai temple at Cai Be.
It would seem that Caodaiism is a mix of several religions, to be somewhat simplistic. The followers are most devout, spending hours per day at prayer. They certainly seem to have most things covered, from the Divine Eye & the Dragon, to the Phoenix & the Tortoise.
Being a modern religion, neon hits the spot, don't you think?
We swapped bus for boat at Cai Be, and embarked into the labyrinth of the Mekong Delta. Immediately all cameras were out again. No dozing on this bus. River traffic was just about as hectic as the city equivalent. Constantly, chug-chug-chug of outboard motors with 5 metre propeller shafts.
Cottage industries, albeit for tourist trade, abounded on the banks. Sesame bars, anyone? Snake wine? Popped rice? Bookmarks? Oh, good, I’ll have a couple of those.Part of the burgeoning cottage industry is the homestay. Often a trip to the Mekong is regarded as a long day trip from Saigon, or alternatively, some pretty basic backpacking. The former travel agent had expectations along the lines of “bunk room, outside cold shower, long drop” without any regard for the fact that the water table is 2 inches below the ground.
Our homestay exceeded her expectations, and when we discovered there was beer next door, everyone was happy.
After compulsory entertainment on the front verandah, with green tea, and chug chug chug just metres away, the decision was made to go for a walk before compulsory cooking lessons.
Two hours later we returned via the beer fridge next door. However, we had been privileged to “wander” along paths, occasionally shared with a motorbike, beside people’s homes.
It being a Sunday afternoon, all the children were home, and were very quick to make us feel welcome.
The fine roosters, which we assumed were for the pot, may well have been for fighting. The geese were certainly feisty.
The two cops in our group studiously ignored the possibilities of this boat’s cargo.
Although many of us had gone to cooking school in Hoi An, the homestay cooking class was something else. No cooking class, no dinner, I suspect. The owner didn’t speak English, and “hello” and “two beers please” wasn’t going to cut it from our side. Thach translated, of course, and was keen to show what a wonderful whizz he was in the kitchen.
The end result was excellent, and we dined al fresco, on the front verandah, with beer. Chug chug chug (just in case you thought it has stopped).
While our accommodation far exceeded expectation, mainly in the form of a little ensuite bathroom with toilet & warm shower, our proximity to the outdoors was more noticeable as the night progressed. Although snug in our mosquito nets, by 3 am it was CHUG CHUG CHUG because that’s when all the farmers head off to market with their lovely fresh ducks and courgette flowers. It was manic. The roosters had started at 2 am, and reached a new crescendo at 5 am. We do not believe one breed crows on the high tide, and the other when the sun comes up. But then, that would explain it, wouldn’t it? The really good news was that the snorers could sneak under the radar.
We were all a bit weary now. Thach had nearly lost his sense of humour, due to lack of sleep. We did go to one of the floating markets on the way back to the bus, but were probably about 3 hours late for the real action. We knew what time the vendors had set out!!
There could have been a bit of dozing on the bus, but it was always interesting to watch the enterprise of people sitting beside the motorway with a little table, 6 bottles of water, 2 fizzy drinks, a few packets of popped rice and a watermelon, “doing business”. They were spaced about every 50 metres, and were constantly on guard for the next prospective customer in this “ardently capitalist communist country”.
And the dozers would have missed the Can Tho Bridge –known locally as the Australian bridge – just like the Hue tunnel is known as the Japanese tunnel, for the same reason.
And the dozers would have missed the Can Tho Bridge –known locally as the Australian bridge – just like the Hue tunnel is known as the Japanese tunnel, for the same reason.
Our final night was back in the Asian Ruby. Even the Sewells did a quick dash to the shops, albeit a pretty flash department store, all bedecked for Christmas (another retail opportunity) where we knew we could a silk duvet inner in a matter of minutes. It took longer to get it into the suitcase.
And just to remind us what we would be leaving behind, our van trip out to the airport next morning was at peak hour.
What a classy blog Guys. Great photos (an excellent eye for colour) and typical Sewell superb commentary. You've instantly brought back a raft of happy memories for us.
ReplyDeleteWhat comes next in Sewell Ramblings, we wonder? It'll be worth waiting for!