Tag: Saigon

Strong in broken places

I see strength in broken places every day. In people peddling lottery tickets, in pedicab drivers, in xe-om and  conical-hat ladies.

They move about under the shadow of high rises here in Saigon.

Broken limb and broken dream.

Yet I see strength in their struggle.

I see resilience where there should have none.

Death is in no special hurry, writes Hemingway.

A farewell to arms. An invitation to plowshares.

Cultivate and enculturate, learn and love.

I see students pairing up and partnering up.

I see students strive for and take ownership of their future, here and abroad.

Even an eagle needs a push.

Raise the standard (academic) and quality.

Raise the bar and the price. No pain no gain.

Like their African-American counterparts in the US, young Vietnamese are discovering their USP (Unique Selling point): Vietnam Got Talent, soccer,

and fashion (design).

In between 2000 and 2012, I have seen gradual changes: from bicycles to motorbikes, from motorbikes to Vespas, from Vespas to V6 .

Upward mobile.

Skyscrapers that reach out to the heaven.

Soar.

Touch the face of God.

Show and prove to the world that you exist and make a difference.

Wipe those tears from the children’s eyes. Lift your face to the rising sun and pray that God would have mercy .

Reincarnate or resurrected, active voice or passive voice, just find your voice.

Colonial days and imperial days are over. After darkness comes day light.

The storm that swept through Saigon last week was more than symbolic.

It cleansed the city of impurity and inertia. Now, with a cleaner slate to start over, I expect to see the next phase of growth, of optimism and confidence.

After all, I live here now. My city. When it does well, it rubs off on me as well.

Strong in broken places. Even death is in no special hurry. So why should I.

Memory of a flood

I jumped on the divan and sat in the middle of it, as far away from the rising water as possible. For a  3 year-old, the sight of water everywhere must be frightening. Water like what was brought in yesterday by the storm. Saigon was hit direct.

Trees toppled and treasure lost.

The French architect planned this Indochine admin city for less than 100,000. Now it caters to 10 million. Tu Xuong, Hoang Van Thu and Ky Hoa, all saw huge oaks fallen.

These oaks were like heroes of a thousand faces, stood firm to witness the changing of the guards.

I listened to the radio back in 1963. General after general making great claims just to be toppled by another.

Boom, bang.

The city was flooded not with  water, but waves of army men and women. Some from Australia, others Korea. What did they have to gain – showing off their Martial Art and weaponry ?

To lose?

Amerasian children later immigrated to the States.

They were accepted by neither society.

This land is our land, from California to the New York Island.

From sea to shiny sea. America America….?

Can’t even take care of your own, however illegitimate.

Don’t blame it on the controversial war.

When the GI had sex, he was just American as Apple Pie.

When Agent Orange was sprayed, the toxicity was traced back to DOW.

Just as American consumers are blaming Made-in-China dry-wall products.

Have you ever heard of RFID? We got the technology to scan, to search, to ID.

Come on!

Be brave. Clean it up and move on.

Just as people are doing all over this city now. Solve the big problem by divvying it up into smaller pieces. Make for good firewood.

The water is now receding. Life is back to normal i.e. noise, pollution and traffic jam. Yet people are happy to pack away their ponchos. Soldiers during war also packed away their ponchos. I saw them retreat (7th fleet). I saw people toss bags of  currency that were no longer of any value. I saw tears in the rain. Rain like yesterday once more. Rain like when I was growing up. Jumping right into the middle of the divan, hoping to stay clear of the rising water.

Memory of a flood, of rain, of tears and of separation.

Of loss and of despair. Water recedes, rain stops fallen, but tears still flow. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be pain. I know, I know, no pain no gain. But pain of your own choosing is different from imposed pain.

Ask the GI’s who fathered those Amerasians. They would rather forget than be reminded. Yet their Amerasian children are growing up, hopefully married and raising a family of their own. Their grandchildren will surely ask? Why do I look like this?

What event brought my parent here? Who and what did grandpa say if anything when met? How would he react? Shameful? Regretful? Forgetful? Memory of a flood. Memory of a war. Biological memory of humanity in the balance. 

Mua Saigon (rain on tin roof)

Out of hundreds, emerged one. Winner of the throne. Winner of brand simple. Vua Hung Vuong, Vietnam‘s first King. His campaign? Neither communication skill, nor combating skill. But culinary skill. Simple dishes yet full of meaning: square bean cake representing the Earth, round one the Moon.

Harmony without and symmetry within.

Bingo!

The throne is yours. May the gods bless your descendants. Expand and guard the territory now known as Vietnam.

Big and small, wave after wave.

Rain and tears.

Falling on tin roof and tile roof.

Musical- sounding and melodramatic.

Separation and reunion.

Hatred and healing, forgiveness and forgetfulness.

It’s easier to take revenge than to win the enemy over.

Whatever the motive, the results are the rewards.

Mua Saigon mua HaNoi.

Love those wet feet that stand deep in the mud. The agrarian culture.

Back bent over to harvest rice in the bowl.

Um. An di con. Eat so you can grow up and may your future be better than mine. Broken back and broken heart.

Go some place and don’t come back. How can I?

How do you expect me to turn my back to the buffalo in the field or the bean cake on the table?

Brand simple.

Square for Earth and round for Moon.

Incense for the altar and candle for the grave.

Noi chon nhau cat run (birth place and burial-place).

The apple cannot fall far from the tree.

You can take a boy out of Saigon but you can’t take Saigon out of the man.

District 1 to District 10, and any number in between.

Crooks and intelligentsia, fake and real (vang thau lan lon). Who cares!

Keep bragging. It’s your fate to be born here and die here, in whatever style you choose . The lucky ones went overseas. Are they “saved?” Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world, it ended when you said Goodbye.

Mua Saigon Mua Hanoi.

The rain keeps pounding on neighbors’ tin roof. And I feel jolted, by caffeine and endorphin, nicotine and nostalgia. It is so weird that I miss Saigon while already in it. Perhaps I miss what Saigon itself is missing: the longing for things past. Shared poverty and joy. Shared human fate. Bonjour Tristesse. Makes me teary. Makes me want to reach out and pull someone in my arms and say “it’s going to be OK”, you and I, fellow human being. After the rain the sky always clears up. Cry with me and for me, for now, rain and tears. No one will laugh at us. For everyone is doing the same but too ashmed to admit. Mua Saigon. You cannot understand it until you are in way deep.

Saigon Jazz

It reminded me of the scene from Woodstock: long-hair kids, guitar, tatoo and scooters. All converged in an alley. Parking was a problem. I asked neighbors to pitch in: it’s a wake for a musician friend who had recently passed away.

His students came from My Tho, those with eye-sights and those without. They jammed, they celebrated, they sang.

Come Together….right now.

My friend, the host, wore red shoes and brown hat. He jammed too. A lot.

After all, he has done so with the SF Jazz band.

Someone got to get those blind musicians some food. There you go, buddies. Want some beer?

So we went on: band after band.

A mini-Woodstock, minus the mud.

I learned about my deceased friend by experiencing his music legacy.

My friend had reflected on his life before he passed away in a hospice: his friends (who were present last night) and his students (who were playing then) were nearest to his heart.

I have never been prouder.

We played together when we were in 7th grade.

The passage of time tore us apart but meeting him before his death helped fill that gap.

He was alert and caring.

I blogged about him in Long’s Last Christmas.

But last night, at Jazz night in Saigon, he “reincarnated” through younger versions of himself.

You want to be rejuvenated, then that’s the place to be.

I am a believer in the healing power of music.

Last night, I learned one more thing: it helped the blind express themselves much better than those of us with sights.

I wish you were there. I wish to hear those blind musicians again, soon. I miss them already.

Then came the rain

It rained on the book fair here in Saigon.

Word and water don’t mix.

But I must admit seeing young readers eager to browse anything and everything, even kissing the note books we handed out, warms my heart.

I can relate to why the Happiness Index listed top countries such as Costa Rica and Vietnam.

Money might not equate to happiness despite its buying power.

Except for things money can’t buy: loyalty, happiness, class, intellectual ability and natural talent in the arts. Yes, money can buy arts, but only commercial art.

We are nearing the Sunday evening gathering at my friend’s studio.

Not concert for Harrison, but for Long, our dear musician friend who had recently passed away.

Celebrating a life.  A pursuit of perfection. Of Art.

In my last conversation with him, I promised to live in full (as I always have).

A promise is a promise.

Long’s musician friends who still love him dearly, will have to perform early since they still have to make a living later that evening.

Books, music, and arts. We are here to make our marks in the world, to brand, to make it lasting and influential. To know and be known that we once existed.

Many held a low view of themselves. Others overshot their positions.

I know my friend well. He lived within his means, his range and his circle.

He left behind many people who are still endearing him.

And he had been one of the few with a smile that is hard to forget.

Thinking of Long, I associate a 7th grader with short-sleeves, playing bass guitar.

Time passing, but not dividing, lost but not forgotten.

I hope when I am gone, I can make a few dents like my friend.

Dents in people’s hearts, because they would be uncomfortable thinking of me. How the hell did he carry all those chips on his shoulders!.

I love Long because of who he was.

The rain has stopped. It served its unintended purpose: street washing. Now can my people go to the book fair!

Vibration and sensation

What do you do when you are awaken in the dark, with trumpet sound out “auld lang sync”? (To te con me danh du).

Should we forget the time we picked daisies in the field.

Yet that vibration created sensation at the early hour here in Saigon.

The departed tried to fight traffic to his/her burial ground. No more struggling and striving, action and reaction – stimulus and response. Just vibration without sensation. Stimuli with no response. The dead is gathering dust. Girls become ghosts. The ghosts of Vietnam.

No rest for the weary.

Just more exploitation built on top of the other.

Auld Lang Sync. Chet cha con ma nao day, thang Tay het hot, than lan cut duoi.

Goodbye Saigon

Last night I said goodbye to a good friend. He was going back to California. We sat and listened to Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World (Vietnamese singer but if you closed your eyes you would think the black legend was there in person). I recalled a scene from Good Morning Vietnam whose subjective shot of a chopper take off from the lush paddy field of Vietnam country side.

It’s hard enough to befriend then having to say goodbye.

Today a graduate from our school also had his goodbye at the airport.

Australia-bound. Health-care job. Brain-drain. Foreign currency gain. Such as fate of emerging countries whose citizens went abroad on guest-worker visas (Philippines and Thailand).

When I left the city for the first time – I thought it was for good.

No preparation. No Visa. Just take off.

I managed to stop and say goodbye to my best friend.

But that was it.

Seeing this young man with best friends at Departure Gate stirred up some envy (good emotion) in me.

After all there should be a proper way to bid farewell.

We are built with innate desire to connect.

To be torn apart from the land of birth and tossed into the wild unprepared is akin to suicide.

Yet it happened to the best of us .

Strange land (wheat vs rice) strange custom (football vs soccer), culture (fast food vs slow cooking) strange measurement (british vs metric) and strange socialization (the wave).

People might be overly friendly. But that was just customary. Beneath the facade lies an iron core: don’t get near me – stay away from me.

The loneliness of being a stranger in a strange land, of leaving the familiar (identity) for the unfamiliar (a Social Security number).

The rejection one gets when trying so hard to bend the new surrounding after one’s own image.

The abandonment after years of trying to integrate oneself into the mainstream (anglicized names, or first name first in reverse order of the old).

It could be exhausting. No wonder tourists found themselves on Saigon‘s Main Street (Dong Khoi) whose shops conveniently catered to their taste: beer – beef- and R&B (I even overheard California Dreaming last night at Bier Garden).

One cannot appreciate a place or a person until one experienced total loss. No one misses the well until it is dry up.

I love My Saigon on the double because I thought I had lost it.

Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained.

Despite the dust and noise I have experienced during my re-entry.

No lush green  field like in Good Morning Vietnam.

But I love it. For I had once thought I would never get to see it again.

Now I cherish the pavement and the monument.

Someday I hope to convey this lost/found sentiment to a wider audience.

But for now …I think to myself ……What a Wonderful World.

My Saigon

Like Trinh Cong Son‘s Diem Xua, I got my own imprints of what  Saigon was like.

Especially on Sundays, like today.

Shaded streets, short strolls and sweet smiles.

Who needs all the executive shirt with designers’ emblem on it.

Instead of shirt, just smile even when you are not on camera. “Cuoi len di em oi” Just smile.

Le Sourire.

Flowers for the graves, flowers for the grade school teachers.

Lots of laughters, lots of tears “Ta chi can mot nguoi cung voi ta doi chet moi ngay”

Just a person to pass the time with while awaiting death inevitable.

Hence, Saigonese put on their best.

Last night, at a friend’s private birthday party, I sat outside on the balcony, looking into the glass door, taking in the scene, as if it were a movie set. Was I there, or just watching myself being there?

Am I in or in but not of it?

They say you can take a Texan out of Texas, but you cannot take Texas out of a Texan.

Perhaps the same holds true for Saigonese like myself .

Something about the French cafe, the Vespa, the Chinese noodle, and now, the KFC.

Saigon is a synthesis.

We “cao dai (unitarian) every strand of thoughts and expressions.

No one knows or is let in to our core. Double protection.

Suspicious of foreigners yet embrace them all.

Like on LinkedIN.

Like on Facebook.

Like on Twitter.

Just smile.

Le sourire.

Lots of laughter and lots of tears.

Just one life time.

But in mine, I have seen Saigon live multiple lives.Try every dish, every taste: bitter cucumber or  pickled lemon.

We take everything and leave out nothing.

During my entire life interacting and learning about Saigon , I have yet seen Saigon lose out.

It blends and synthesizes everything.

To the point where you could only recognize it by its smile.

Then the younger generation takes over.

You see the resemblance but can’t put a finger on it.

Turns out it’s that smile underneath the facade.

They smile when they are happy and when they are sad (see Understanding Vietnam).

Saigon’s smile is more of a reaction than an expression. “You always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows”.

My Saigon. Cuoi len di em oi, du nuoc mat rot chet vanh moi. Smiling while swallowing tears.

Saigon, smoke and smog

You got to be stronger, you got to be wiser….

Cigarette companies are employing sales girls to peddle their tobacco here: buy two get a lighter etc…

The girls, all well cast to fit the bill. Sampling a product, hooked for life.

Best way to break in a market is via Direct Sales: Likeability, Commitment and Consistence, Social Proof (everyone who is in the know, smokes this).

Young men, beers in hand, and cigarettes in the mouth.  All the good die young.

For now, let’s party on. Born this way, born that way.

Born to be wild and born to run. Born in the USA or born in Vietnam.

Trees help sucking off the smog. Rain helps.

But not nearly enough. The dirty air masks are proofs.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Full-lung capacity. Half-life to infinity.

Things might seem to have changed, but then, it seemed to have stood still. People still want to be recognized, to climb the social ladder and to be hip. What are those Filippino bands doing here in town? Our new priests, who help us along? Consecrate us for hedonism?

Saigon knew how to enjoy itself way back. Last night, to prove my point, a guy sang “Don’t let me down” at Acoustics. The audience couldn’t hum along, but I could. That was my signature song at Chu Van An.

Again, the current might have flown down stream, but up-stream, the game plan remains the same: sourcing for new revenue stream, building customer’s loyalty and maximizing customer’s life-time value.  One pack of cigarette at a time.

I am all for a good time.  Even a smoke. But to fall victim and be arm-twisted by agents of Death in disguise, is something I am not falling for.

I wish they sold second-hand smoke masks. The direct sales force will have to shadow the cigarette gals and sell 10 out of every lighter the later managed to push. Now that’s fair game. Born this way, remain this way.

I will survive…..even though it might seem as if  “it’s the end of the world” at times, here in Saigon, for as long as one cares to notice.

Museum of Loss

If you sneaked in the back street of Independence Palace here in Saigon, you would find  Cafe 30-4, named after that fateful day. Most of us have seen that 1975 tank-crashing-gate photo. But from the vantage point of the Cafe where I sat yesterday, I could only see people playing tennis and tourists walking about trying to use up the price of admission.

I felt a lump in my throat and heavy pull at the legs before entering this unholy ground.

The same feeling I had when entering the US consulate a few years back for notary public.

Those spaces represented more than just brick and mortar. They had territorial integrity but lost it.(The French originally built Saigon as Admin Centre for IndoChine).

The spot where the consulate now is, used to be the US Embassy.

And Cafe 30-4 had been just a side entrance for Palace guards.

And so it went with my visit to the Museum of Loss.

Loss of youth,  innocence, and root.

When I got to the US, the first thing I was given was an A number (for Alien).

Later, I “graduated” to a D (for driver). Some day, when cashing out, I get a “S” for Social Security.

Back to our Museum of Loss. In Dalat, at least you would find Bao Dai Palace, still presidential: high on the hill, with some class and signs of  Vietnam transition from Monarchy to Modernity (Western).

IndoChine at the time, shared  inter-regional currency under French colonial.

Those neighboring countries are still connected albeit loosely:

Thailand, still with King. Cambodia and Laos remain underdogs and China is riding to ascendency.

Things were quiet at our Museum of Loss, except for occasional tennis ball contacts. Players are still wearing white, just as the day of Big Minh (who was waiting to hand over the key of the Independence Palace) playing against Westmoreland.

I excused myself after getting up from that chunk of wood (used as stool)..

At least Cafe 30.4 got shades. It also sits in the shadow of Saigon’s former Self. I walked out feeling estranged. In fact, I couldn’t wait to fetch a taxi to the future where I might find hope and promises. It’s the future which decides the winner. Call it “horizontal” marketing, where market dictates the terms and values of everything. To turn a historic landmark on its head, and make a few bucks out of it is what I called entrepreneurial. In loss we find a way out, and in death life.