Saigon for the soul
I sit on a stone bench outside my new home on a monotonous street of terraced houses (which could belong to a Parisian Boulevard ) regularly and have long phone calls to relatives and friends. Without fail, during these blabber sessions, I am visited by rats and cockroaches who remind me just how far I am from home or, for that matter, downtown Paris. Their squeaks echo from holes centimeters from the bench and cockroaches try to explore the new pale hillocks which are my feet.(I don't let them succeed in this mission, I'm not feral ) My home in Ho Chi Minh is a Homestay, an apartment which is occupied by 35-40 Vietnamese students and 8-10 foreign teachers like me. In the Homestay I live and eat for free in return for teaching English for 3-4 hours per day. My homestay's street is not typical of the streets in Saigon but belongs to a housing estate called 'Cityland Centerhills' a residential project hinting at The American Dream which seems to capture the Vietnamese imagination.
Luckily, communal living is not a hardship for me and feels much more enjoyable than living alone--solitary splendor for some, solitary confinement for me. This has been my set up for the past four months, albeit originally planning on staying for just two weeks and continuing to travel. My weeks fly by in a blur of motorbike rides to and from rehearsals for a play (which will finally debut at the end of this month) and several jobs as a paid English teacher. My favorite is teaching a group of seven five year olds who much prefer to hang out of my arms or sit on my lap than learn colours or to sing 'If You're Happy and You Know It'.
Quite suddenly I find myself in a position where "Ill be home after 2 months" seems like a good joke. Six months later, of which only two have been spent traveling, 'backpacker' no longer seems the correct adjective. I simultaneously relish this opportunity however also yearn to move and to escape the smoggy hot mess of Saigon. On this slight trope of 'twenty something year old travelling around South East Asia to find oneself', I have learnt that a Phoebe in a big city is not a happy Phoebe. This feeling is exacerbated given the lack of effective public transport or the substitute of a bicycle. To go anywhere I must hail a motorbike taxi using the app grab or the more economic and local option--goViet. This lack of connectedness within a city creates a form of segregation, not through animosity or even cultural divides, but through infrastructure or the lack thereof. Rather than one city, Saigon feels more like a collection of independent citadels joined together by a maze of bridges. My knowledge of the city's geography is, as a result, embarrassingly limited.
My rehearsals take place in Thao Dien in district 2, the unofficial Beverley Hills of Saigon, populated mainly by pale expats and wealthy English speaking Vietnamese. I once heard it being referred to as The Left Bank, perhaps this should be taken one step further, calling it The West Bank. It spreads itself comfortably on the floodplain on the left side of the Saigon river. In The West Bank you find vegan eateries, International schools, Craft Breweries and hot dog bars. GoVap district, where I live, is the other extreme of languid locals lounging outside family run businesses or beer bellied men crowding around cans of Bia Saigon . Weaving motorbikes and rickety bicycles peddled by fearless women in conical hats exist in perfect harmony, neither one getting in the others way and each bike weighed down heavily by packed boxes of food stuffs, ladders, windows, extended family members, large dogs, toilet seats (a Vietnamese portaloo?! ) and everything in between. The aforementioned conical hat is fastened under the chin by a silken bow and rings bells of Mary Quite Contrary's garden of "Silver bells and Cockle shells" or Little Bo Peep trying to find sheep; in this case trying to find a buyer for some mouthwatering street food.
Our 'local' of choice is the beloved 168 bar where the only beer options are Tiger or Bia Saigon, these are drunk with large chunks of Ice in your goblet (putting ice in your beer is one custom I will never get on board with). Night time entertainment is found in a dizzying variety of Karaoke bars and food is unlimited with street food vendors displaying freshly cooked varieties of tasty morsels in ingenious transportation devices.
A regular treat is our near nightly pilgrimage to buy Banh Mi, a fresh baguette spread inside with Pate and filled to the brim with pork, carrots, cilantro, soy sauce and gravy; a culinary example of the enduring legacy left by the french but with a distinctly Asian twist.
A recent trip to Dong Thap province in the Mekong Delta with a student from Homestay brought me into contact with the very local delicacy of rat meat. I ate it barbecued, pleasantly surprised by its juicy deliciousness --even better than chicken though much more bony. We also visited a marshy field of Lotus flowers where wooden buildings on stilts sprung up from the wetlands, bridged together by timber walkways. Here you could rent one of the raised huts in order to eat a meal cooked with the special ingredient of Lotus. Meanwhile the sun gently gave way to a yolky hue as it set on a horizon of pink petals and green belly button shaped leaves.
In the Mekong, the sharp contrast between tradition and modernity that seems to define Vietnam made itself as clear as its muddy river banks. I stayed in a house beside a long and busy stretch of canal. This stretch of water was far busier than the concrete road that ran along each side of it and everyday I watched long wooden boats (painted with watchful eyes on the front) chug up and down, transporting fruits, vegetables, piles of red brick, sand and once, stacks upon stacks of hay bales! I watched as wiry men, wet with sweat would carry heavy loads of brick using a bamboo basket system resembling a weighing scales and resting heavily on one shoulder. I was told by my friend that the roads beside this canal were only built four years ago as a volunteering project when she was in university in Ho Chi Minh . Before this it was a mud track. Since this voluntary stint she has stayed in touch with the family that put her up during the project and they have become a home away from home for her. I was also lucky enough to stay with this family and to experience their exceptional kindness and hospitality despite our complete language barrier. On the last night of my stay, after learning that my favourite food was Banh Xeo (a kind of pancake filled with pork and shrimp) they insisted on making it for me. From scratch. This involved plucking coconuts from the trees and grinding them to add into the batter. The Banh Xeo, when eaten, is wrapped in rice paper with green leaves and dipped into fish sauce. An incredible contrast of flavors and an incredible skill to wrap a neat roll, one I do not possess!
Ho Chi Minh city, in opposition, oozes rapidity as hurtling motorbikes driven by impassive drivers seem to replicate the pace at which capitalism is embraced and the economy rises. Sky scrapers abound whilst paired with sprawling and low rise markets in former colonial buildings. An infinite number of Coffee shops inhabit old and new buildings alike in every district. For a youthful population that like to wake up and smell the coffee. Starbucks, happily, has not caught on.
Despite a transport system which leaves a lot to be desired, the resulting chaos becomes infectious and the blur between road and pedestrian pavement creates an unconscious shared space. Motorbikes may rule the roost but a lack of demarcated zones for traffic allows for creative licence and a users free for all. A rebels paradise forgiving no false moves.
Another favourite feature of the city is the tall buildings like childhood dolls houses, refusing to match one another. Some are attached, others not, with nonsensical narrow gaps in between, fit for nothing, following their own logic of space. The colours are always bright and all feature narrow balconies filled with tumbling pot plants or laundry lines. Thick piles of electricity wires run along every street, the city version of jungle vines.
Saigon has soul and I have been lucky to experience the city beyond the backpackers' Bui Vien Street. I am currently witnessing the onset of its rainy season which I am taking to like a duck to water.
Quite suddenly I find myself in a position where "Ill be home after 2 months" seems like a good joke. Six months later, of which only two have been spent traveling, 'backpacker' no longer seems the correct adjective. I simultaneously relish this opportunity however also yearn to move and to escape the smoggy hot mess of Saigon. On this slight trope of 'twenty something year old travelling around South East Asia to find oneself', I have learnt that a Phoebe in a big city is not a happy Phoebe. This feeling is exacerbated given the lack of effective public transport or the substitute of a bicycle. To go anywhere I must hail a motorbike taxi using the app grab or the more economic and local option--goViet. This lack of connectedness within a city creates a form of segregation, not through animosity or even cultural divides, but through infrastructure or the lack thereof. Rather than one city, Saigon feels more like a collection of independent citadels joined together by a maze of bridges. My knowledge of the city's geography is, as a result, embarrassingly limited.
My rehearsals take place in Thao Dien in district 2, the unofficial Beverley Hills of Saigon, populated mainly by pale expats and wealthy English speaking Vietnamese. I once heard it being referred to as The Left Bank, perhaps this should be taken one step further, calling it The West Bank. It spreads itself comfortably on the floodplain on the left side of the Saigon river. In The West Bank you find vegan eateries, International schools, Craft Breweries and hot dog bars. GoVap district, where I live, is the other extreme of languid locals lounging outside family run businesses or beer bellied men crowding around cans of Bia Saigon . Weaving motorbikes and rickety bicycles peddled by fearless women in conical hats exist in perfect harmony, neither one getting in the others way and each bike weighed down heavily by packed boxes of food stuffs, ladders, windows, extended family members, large dogs, toilet seats (a Vietnamese portaloo?! ) and everything in between. The aforementioned conical hat is fastened under the chin by a silken bow and rings bells of Mary Quite Contrary's garden of "Silver bells and Cockle shells" or Little Bo Peep trying to find sheep; in this case trying to find a buyer for some mouthwatering street food. 
Our 'local' of choice is the beloved 168 bar where the only beer options are Tiger or Bia Saigon, these are drunk with large chunks of Ice in your goblet (putting ice in your beer is one custom I will never get on board with). Night time entertainment is found in a dizzying variety of Karaoke bars and food is unlimited with street food vendors displaying freshly cooked varieties of tasty morsels in ingenious transportation devices.
A recent trip to Dong Thap province in the Mekong Delta with a student from Homestay brought me into contact with the very local delicacy of rat meat. I ate it barbecued, pleasantly surprised by its juicy deliciousness --even better than chicken though much more bony. We also visited a marshy field of Lotus flowers where wooden buildings on stilts sprung up from the wetlands, bridged together by timber walkways. Here you could rent one of the raised huts in order to eat a meal cooked with the special ingredient of Lotus. Meanwhile the sun gently gave way to a yolky hue as it set on a horizon of pink petals and green belly button shaped leaves.
In the Mekong, the sharp contrast between tradition and modernity that seems to define Vietnam made itself as clear as its muddy river banks. I stayed in a house beside a long and busy stretch of canal. This stretch of water was far busier than the concrete road that ran along each side of it and everyday I watched long wooden boats (painted with watchful eyes on the front) chug up and down, transporting fruits, vegetables, piles of red brick, sand and once, stacks upon stacks of hay bales! I watched as wiry men, wet with sweat would carry heavy loads of brick using a bamboo basket system resembling a weighing scales and resting heavily on one shoulder. I was told by my friend that the roads beside this canal were only built four years ago as a volunteering project when she was in university in Ho Chi Minh . Before this it was a mud track. Since this voluntary stint she has stayed in touch with the family that put her up during the project and they have become a home away from home for her. I was also lucky enough to stay with this family and to experience their exceptional kindness and hospitality despite our complete language barrier. On the last night of my stay, after learning that my favourite food was Banh Xeo (a kind of pancake filled with pork and shrimp) they insisted on making it for me. From scratch. This involved plucking coconuts from the trees and grinding them to add into the batter. The Banh Xeo, when eaten, is wrapped in rice paper with green leaves and dipped into fish sauce. An incredible contrast of flavors and an incredible skill to wrap a neat roll, one I do not possess!
Ho Chi Minh city, in opposition, oozes rapidity as hurtling motorbikes driven by impassive drivers seem to replicate the pace at which capitalism is embraced and the economy rises. Sky scrapers abound whilst paired with sprawling and low rise markets in former colonial buildings. An infinite number of Coffee shops inhabit old and new buildings alike in every district. For a youthful population that like to wake up and smell the coffee. Starbucks, happily, has not caught on.Despite a transport system which leaves a lot to be desired, the resulting chaos becomes infectious and the blur between road and pedestrian pavement creates an unconscious shared space. Motorbikes may rule the roost but a lack of demarcated zones for traffic allows for creative licence and a users free for all. A rebels paradise forgiving no false moves.
Another favourite feature of the city is the tall buildings like childhood dolls houses, refusing to match one another. Some are attached, others not, with nonsensical narrow gaps in between, fit for nothing, following their own logic of space. The colours are always bright and all feature narrow balconies filled with tumbling pot plants or laundry lines. Thick piles of electricity wires run along every street, the city version of jungle vines. Saigon has soul and I have been lucky to experience the city beyond the backpackers' Bui Vien Street. I am currently witnessing the onset of its rainy season which I am taking to like a duck to water.
Well worth waiting for this latest report! Ben Hamilton Baillie, that pioneer of Shared Spaces and whose life we celebrated in Bristol at the weekend would be delighted with your account of street life! Thank you and more please!
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