Saigone
“Saigon, shit, I’m still only in Saigon. Every time I think I’m gonna wake up back in the jungle.” – Captain Willard, Apocalypse Now
The ‘Pearl of the Far East’ – renamed only minutes after the wrought iron palace gates fell to Communist tank 844, Saigon was and is the furiously beating heart of Vietnam.
A quiet trading port before the French arrival in the mid 1800’s, Saigon grew quickly once colonized. The rich vein through which the French needle extracted the lifeblood of the Vietnamese, having deemed it a ”colonie du exploitation“.
Execution of anti-French rebels during the Tay Rebellion.
The modern history of Vietnam is a period of foreign invaders and bloodshed. First the French, then the Japanese, then the French once more before their final defeat.
The Americans, seeing the smoking crater of Dien Bien Phu, and witnessing the utter devastation of the French at the hands of the fierce jungle fighters of the VietCong, decide to tag themselves in.
For decades it would stand as our longest conflict until recently surpassed by the war in Afghanistan.
The Americans set up shop in Saigon, the heart of the Southern resistance against the Communist stronghold in the north, Hanoi.
Half a million young men filtered through the myriad bases surrounding the city, orienting themselves to the sights, smells, and oppressive heat before being routed North to search out and destroy the enemy in the jungle itself – their home.
A bucket of war medals and tags for sale at an antique shop in Saigon.
The War has been over forty years now – long enough for the victors to whitewash the blood from the walls, patch the bullet holes, and re-write the textbooks.
The beautiful French monuments; the Opera House, Post Office, and Government buildings still stand. Too beautiful and painstakingly built by Vietnamese slave labor to be destroyed, they still remind passersby of their history even if the adjoining cemetery housing the past French architects and governors was long ago bulldozed for a children’s park.
In a city with this hard of an edge it can be difficult not to harden yourself against it. Bag snatches are common, and as a tall white tourist it is impossible to blend in.
Stepping out into the night in search of something to eat in the steaming back-alleys will always have a hint of danger to it – either physical or intestinal. People are not always the most welcoming, but will rarely turn you away. They may however sit and stare collectively at you until you leave, charging you doubly for the pleasure of their company.
Sometimes it’s worth it.
Despite the return of State control to many aspects of life in the South, Saigon still retains some of the brash color and flashy style of the swinging sixties.
Muscle cars ply the streets, passing gaggles of modern young women decked out not in the traditional Ao Dai, but in Chanel and Dior. Starbucks Frappuccinos are not only tolerated in this Socialist paradise, but beloved by a young generation yearning to forget the War(s) and make as much money as possible in the process.
The old main promenade, the local Champs–Élysées, was originally named Rue de Catinat for the French gunship which first pried-open the doors to Vietnam, flooding her with missionaries and mercenaries.
Catinat was the place to see and be seen by the French for a hundred years. Like the city itself, it’s name has long since been changed. It is now Dong Khoi, or ”Street of Total Revolution”. It’s aged hotels, casinos, and cafes have been either left to wither and rot, or gutted, painted, and trotted out to wistful tourists hoping to glimpse the colonial life.
I took in my own moment as a tourist years ago – a $5 coffee on the veranda of the Hotel Continental facing the Opera House.
As I sat sipping my sweetened iced coffee I was approached by an elderly Vietnamese man with an armful of English newspapers. Feeling especially literate in the home of such famous writers as Graham Greene, and Rabindranath Tagore, I forked over some Dong for a wrinkled old copy of the Tribune.
The elderly man smiled and sauntered away, leaving me to read in peace, only to spring back up an hour later and offer to buy it back for half.
Everybody hustles.
At sundown the city bursts into a roar of tiny engines as gangs of office women and businessmen tear home through the clogged streets.
Sidewalks are fair game at this time of day and pedestrians dodge streams of bikes the moment one chooses to jump the curb. It’s kind of like trying to walk the halls in high school except if you do bump into someone they might take a leg off.
Nevertheless, it is exhilarating, and simply watching the never-ending swirl of traffic flow hypnotically by is a sight in and of itself.
“The victor goes forwards, no time for a victory grin, already engaging in another contest of will. Saigon traffic is Vietnamese life, a continuous charade of posturing, bluffing, fast moves, tenacity and surrenders.”
― Andrew X. Pham
Saigon is a city of contradictions. More approachable and fun than stoic Hanoi, but jaded and cold to the touch of many foreigners. It’s indifference is at times off-putting, and many travelers I have met will never return, but if seen in the scope of it’s history, in the same way as modern Nepal or Cambodia, the trials suffered through, it is far easier to appreciate it for what it is – conflicted.
The young heart of a nation yearning to be modern while still paying adequate respect to the past that fought and died for it. The recipients of a generational gap caused by war, that like all such historical influxes of young people will either give them comforts or a new cause to fight for.
The inhabitants of this city have waited out the French empire, the American empire, and will weather the next one in the same fashion and with the same hard earned patience.
“Life is a struggle,” runs a Saigon proverb, “in which sorrow leads to defeat.”
Tough as nails.
In true imperialist fashion my own time has run out here in this adopted land. My paid paper welcome nearly expired it is time to catch the last dust-off out of country and into the next jungle – The Kingdom of Cambodia.
Xin Chao!
– Nick
Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger. – Willard
