I Miss Saigon
Bridges are wonderful things: They allow an undisturbed, birds eye view onto mayhem below whilst maintaining a safe distance. Combining with an eye level glance through building's windows, they perfectly satiate crytoscopophilia. This thought came to me as I ambled slowly along a particularly wonderful feat of engineering which conjoins Saigon's District Four to its beating heart and epicenter, District One. I looked down and mused that it was like a party that I had not been invited to or did not belong in, yet the superior height of the bridge had the happy effect of not allowing me to feel left out. The artificial superiority gave me access and views that I otherwise would not have got if simply standing and staring. After all, it's rude to stare. That's what everyone says. Not from a bridge, I say.
I stood and watched old ladies sitting on their haunches with spilling baskets of vegetables in front of them, they peeled and gossiped, gossiped and peeled; all accompanied with frequent peels of laughter. A man sat in the corner of an open door way, a wide frame with colorful metal shutters rolled back to either side like curtains to a stage. He made eye contact with an eager rat hoping to get in on the vegetable action and proceeded to wave his slipper menacingly. The rat, disappointed, slipped off to stage right. To the opposite side of the bridge, away from the street theater, is Bitexco tower; tall, proud and bizarre with its disc shaped growth jutting out of one of its shiny, chrome sides.
Cyclists and motorbikes continued to their own tunes, between the middle of these two polarities. Bobbing limpet hats, helmets, caps and bare heads swam past me as I wandered down to the streets of district one, off my pedestal and straight into the smoky throng.
The bridge may also offer a metaphor, here it comes: The bridging point between cultures is a common theme but there are also the personal bridges, built and smashed as time moves on. Needless to say, pensivity is becoming rather a feature as the alarm clock for my time in Ho Chi Minh approaches its ring. I have hit the snooze button too much and now its time to take flight (in reality, board an extremely long train). A friend recently asked me whether I would miss Ho Chi Minh city, or just the people. I answered, instantly "oh the city as well, of course" but upon trying to back up this statement I realized that my reasons were thin and vague. I was unable to specify what it is that makes Saigon, Saigon (I, like the locals it seems, insist on calling the city by its old name) and what it is that I admire and love so much about this city. I intend to get to the bottom of this by the time I reach the bottom of this blog.
One thing that cannot be separated from Saigon is its traffic and ubiquitous motorbikes, far more frequent than cars . My relationship to this beeping, stressful, fast and furious river had its ups and downs but if nothing else, it provided consistent excitement; putting your heart right into your mouth as you cross the road or put all your faith into your smiling GoViet driver as he whizzes across the oncoming flow. The city, in effect seems to behave like a broken television set: the bottom half of the screen in fast forward, perpetual motion, creating a dizzying and blurry colourful band of light and action. The top half remains stationary and stalwart: sometimes in the form of proud skyscrapers, sometimes humble and squat abodes. Taking this dodgy analogy further, the bottom half of the television set habitually offers up sights to behold; a gallery of images, each more ridiculous than the next.
A recent favourite, whilst sitting outside a favorite haunt 'Hanoi Cafe', drinking 'Bia Hanoi' before my friend left Saigon for Hanoi (I guess we enjoyed the strange pattern) we witnessed a woman ride past on her motorbike with her large brown dog sitting in the footwell, its paws resting upon the dashboard. This sight alone is fairly common place in Saigon, but the image is not complete: the dog was a fashionista and wore pink sunglasses and a scarf around its neck. The arrival of celebrity dog came shortly after my friends statement "I'm going to miss Saigon and all the strange sights you can see". Perfectly cued and executed, I could almost swear I saw the dog take a little bow after the performance.
Saigon is also a feast for the eyes where architecture is concerned. Its variety of colonial and Indo-European buildings peeking out among more modern creations creates a fun game of hide and seek.
One particular sagging pile always caught my eye with its patchy brown tiled roof paired with off white walls. It sits on the corner of a busy street, nearly overgrown, giving the sense that it was in some way going 'back to its roots' and returning to nature amidst a concrete jungle: A colonial version of Ta Prohm temple in Angkor Wat. Sadly I cannot name or locate this building as whenever I passed it I seemed to sit in a happy daze, unaware of my position within the city. A common occurrence.
As well as history, this fast paced city inevitably has its modern palaces too: my favorite, Landmark 81, is nothing less than iconic. Like the moon, you can see it from
wherever you may stand in the city. Shaped like a rudely gestured middle finger, it commands attention from passers by. It was officially opened on the 26th of July, 2018 designed by British firm Atkins but funded and constructed by two Vietnamese companies, Vingroup and Coteccons. The building is designed to represent a bamboo clump, an important symbol for Vietnamese people. Despite generally hating modern 'eyesores', this particular one I have to forgive: it is persistent, stubbornly making its way into your conscience and eyeline, successfully blending elements of the East and West. Such a feature of postcolonial Ho Chi Minh, former Saigon.
The local houses of the city, like their country, are tall, narrow and never matching, rarely found in terraced blocks like the Georgian streets of Dublin. Their roofs will reach a steep pitch and they are bright and colourful, often with a family business on the bottom floor. Their mismatched quality is at times confusing and at others, endearing. In the more central districts, acres of apartment blocks dating from the 1960's house thousands of families. These fabulous and decaying buildings are dense and vibrant with some becoming revitalised and refurbished into trendy cafes and art spaces, most notably 42 Nguyen Hue street which looks over the 'Times Square' of Saigon. The famous 'Catinat building', which features in Graham Greene's book 'The Quiet American', an area of colonial chic then and a trendy expat haunt now is at risk of demolition. It is on the corner of Ly Tu Trong and Dong Khoi Street (formerly Rue Catinat). The elegant 'Loft Cafe' is found in this building.
The market near my homestay in Go Vap district where we would visit to buy supplies for lunch and dinner will always hold a fond place in my heart. Like an outdoor supermarket where the aisles are occupied by motorbikes, nowhere else would I witness dog meat for sale; large fish lying on slippery tarpaulin mats making decapitated bids for escape or my favourite secondhand shop which I would visit far too often and come home laden with a weird and wonderful assortment: pinstripe dungarees, colourful dresses or Hawaiian shirts (which now stuff my bursting backpack). To this market I would often visit on the back of a students' motorbike. One student, Tuan, used to particularly enjoy letting me do the shopping or haggling. He would sit back, chuckling and teasingly pretending to not speak Vietnamese when I would ask for his help! When asked by curious stall owners if we were 'a couple', Tuan would reply, 'Yes'. Laugh. Proudly flex his muscles, and drive off on his motorbike with me on the back, unaware of our new status.
The streets of Saigon are also invariably linked to food and the wonderful, exciting variety of cheap and delicious eats which can be sampled on small plastic tables and chairs. Sitting on these always reminded me of childhood and seemed to suit the fun loving nature of the Vietnamese in general.
Of course, like any city and like any experience, none of it would be the same without the incredible people that I was blessed to meet and to live with in homestay. My family of 'Young Buffalos' as we affectionately called ourselves; my wonderful students who were always so incredibly generous: Quynh Thi (cutie) my coffee date partner with inspiring curiosity and interesting opinions, my 'Little Prince' who would refer to me as 'his Queen' (great for an ego boost!), the crazy Luna (short for lunatic) who would join me in singing Frank Sinatra's 'I love you baby' far too loudly and out of tune in the Kitchen, and my partners in crime for an unforgettable night out in District 1, a handsome
German boy--lets call him Goebbels and Ola, a beautiful Polish photographer and pal. This blog is short and the list of people I met is long, making it impossible to name and shame everybody. Suffice to say, I miss every single person that I met during my time in Saigon.
When talking about the friendships of Homestay, it would be rude to leave out the infamous 168 bar, 'our local', in which street Karaoke was sung, also out of tune and many of these friendships blossomed.
What I wouldn't do to walk along 71 Đường số 1 in Cityland Centerhills (a disappointingly American name for what was a very local district) and witness the many restaurants spilling onto the streets, the buzz and atmosphere as evening set in, parties expanding and the Christmas lights that were never taken down twinkling and winking at you merrily. The friendly smiles and greetings of 'Hello' from complete strangers followed my meandering path and linger still in my memory.
Saigon, I wish to say, once and for all: "Một – Hai – Ba – dzô!"
I stood and watched old ladies sitting on their haunches with spilling baskets of vegetables in front of them, they peeled and gossiped, gossiped and peeled; all accompanied with frequent peels of laughter. A man sat in the corner of an open door way, a wide frame with colorful metal shutters rolled back to either side like curtains to a stage. He made eye contact with an eager rat hoping to get in on the vegetable action and proceeded to wave his slipper menacingly. The rat, disappointed, slipped off to stage right. To the opposite side of the bridge, away from the street theater, is Bitexco tower; tall, proud and bizarre with its disc shaped growth jutting out of one of its shiny, chrome sides.
The bridge may also offer a metaphor, here it comes: The bridging point between cultures is a common theme but there are also the personal bridges, built and smashed as time moves on. Needless to say, pensivity is becoming rather a feature as the alarm clock for my time in Ho Chi Minh approaches its ring. I have hit the snooze button too much and now its time to take flight (in reality, board an extremely long train). A friend recently asked me whether I would miss Ho Chi Minh city, or just the people. I answered, instantly "oh the city as well, of course" but upon trying to back up this statement I realized that my reasons were thin and vague. I was unable to specify what it is that makes Saigon, Saigon (I, like the locals it seems, insist on calling the city by its old name) and what it is that I admire and love so much about this city. I intend to get to the bottom of this by the time I reach the bottom of this blog.
One thing that cannot be separated from Saigon is its traffic and ubiquitous motorbikes, far more frequent than cars . My relationship to this beeping, stressful, fast and furious river had its ups and downs but if nothing else, it provided consistent excitement; putting your heart right into your mouth as you cross the road or put all your faith into your smiling GoViet driver as he whizzes across the oncoming flow. The city, in effect seems to behave like a broken television set: the bottom half of the screen in fast forward, perpetual motion, creating a dizzying and blurry colourful band of light and action. The top half remains stationary and stalwart: sometimes in the form of proud skyscrapers, sometimes humble and squat abodes. Taking this dodgy analogy further, the bottom half of the television set habitually offers up sights to behold; a gallery of images, each more ridiculous than the next.
Saigon is also a feast for the eyes where architecture is concerned. Its variety of colonial and Indo-European buildings peeking out among more modern creations creates a fun game of hide and seek.
As well as history, this fast paced city inevitably has its modern palaces too: my favorite, Landmark 81, is nothing less than iconic. Like the moon, you can see it from
wherever you may stand in the city. Shaped like a rudely gestured middle finger, it commands attention from passers by. It was officially opened on the 26th of July, 2018 designed by British firm Atkins but funded and constructed by two Vietnamese companies, Vingroup and Coteccons. The building is designed to represent a bamboo clump, an important symbol for Vietnamese people. Despite generally hating modern 'eyesores', this particular one I have to forgive: it is persistent, stubbornly making its way into your conscience and eyeline, successfully blending elements of the East and West. Such a feature of postcolonial Ho Chi Minh, former Saigon.
The local houses of the city, like their country, are tall, narrow and never matching, rarely found in terraced blocks like the Georgian streets of Dublin. Their roofs will reach a steep pitch and they are bright and colourful, often with a family business on the bottom floor. Their mismatched quality is at times confusing and at others, endearing. In the more central districts, acres of apartment blocks dating from the 1960's house thousands of families. These fabulous and decaying buildings are dense and vibrant with some becoming revitalised and refurbished into trendy cafes and art spaces, most notably 42 Nguyen Hue street which looks over the 'Times Square' of Saigon. The famous 'Catinat building', which features in Graham Greene's book 'The Quiet American', an area of colonial chic then and a trendy expat haunt now is at risk of demolition. It is on the corner of Ly Tu Trong and Dong Khoi Street (formerly Rue Catinat). The elegant 'Loft Cafe' is found in this building.
The market near my homestay in Go Vap district where we would visit to buy supplies for lunch and dinner will always hold a fond place in my heart. Like an outdoor supermarket where the aisles are occupied by motorbikes, nowhere else would I witness dog meat for sale; large fish lying on slippery tarpaulin mats making decapitated bids for escape or my favourite secondhand shop which I would visit far too often and come home laden with a weird and wonderful assortment: pinstripe dungarees, colourful dresses or Hawaiian shirts (which now stuff my bursting backpack). To this market I would often visit on the back of a students' motorbike. One student, Tuan, used to particularly enjoy letting me do the shopping or haggling. He would sit back, chuckling and teasingly pretending to not speak Vietnamese when I would ask for his help! When asked by curious stall owners if we were 'a couple', Tuan would reply, 'Yes'. Laugh. Proudly flex his muscles, and drive off on his motorbike with me on the back, unaware of our new status.
The streets of Saigon are also invariably linked to food and the wonderful, exciting variety of cheap and delicious eats which can be sampled on small plastic tables and chairs. Sitting on these always reminded me of childhood and seemed to suit the fun loving nature of the Vietnamese in general.
Of course, like any city and like any experience, none of it would be the same without the incredible people that I was blessed to meet and to live with in homestay. My family of 'Young Buffalos' as we affectionately called ourselves; my wonderful students who were always so incredibly generous: Quynh Thi (cutie) my coffee date partner with inspiring curiosity and interesting opinions, my 'Little Prince' who would refer to me as 'his Queen' (great for an ego boost!), the crazy Luna (short for lunatic) who would join me in singing Frank Sinatra's 'I love you baby' far too loudly and out of tune in the Kitchen, and my partners in crime for an unforgettable night out in District 1, a handsome
German boy--lets call him Goebbels and Ola, a beautiful Polish photographer and pal. This blog is short and the list of people I met is long, making it impossible to name and shame everybody. Suffice to say, I miss every single person that I met during my time in Saigon.What I wouldn't do to walk along 71 Đường số 1 in Cityland Centerhills (a disappointingly American name for what was a very local district) and witness the many restaurants spilling onto the streets, the buzz and atmosphere as evening set in, parties expanding and the Christmas lights that were never taken down twinkling and winking at you merrily. The friendly smiles and greetings of 'Hello' from complete strangers followed my meandering path and linger still in my memory.
Saigon, I wish to say, once and for all: "Một – Hai – Ba – dzô!"
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