Tag: Saigon

Fateful beach

When I heard that the beach (Vung Tau) was overcrowded during the long Tet holidays, I tried to imagine the sand, the surf and the separation (forced) I endured years ago.

We drove through neighborhood barbed wires and violated curfew, the day before Saigon fell, to spot escape routes.

I tricked my family into stopping along the way: my friend’s house (on pretext that we needed extra supply of fuel) to bid farewell. I couldn’t spell out why we had to leave much less where we were heading, except that there would be boats waiting further down the Delta, we hoped.

Earlier in the day, we did try the airport and US embassy to no avail (an uncle with proper visa got hauled over the barbed wires by the Marines to eventually board precious Frequent Wind‘s helicopter).

(see Last Men Out for eye-witness blow-by-blow accounts ).

Out of the corner of our eyes, we spotted a convoy of unmarked buses (Frequent Wind plan B contractors). Our petit Simcar immediately tailed the convoy whose eventual stop was the No 5 dock, just a few kilometers from today’s Thu Thiem Tunnel. Before we knew it, we had junked the car with extra fuel in it to climb over the sandbagged side of a barge. That barge got towed as soon as it was filled with clueless people like ourselves.

That river always required skilled navigators, one of whom was my friend’s dad. They had it all at their disposal to flee Vietnam had they chosen to. Instead, we were the ones who bid good-bye after taking his can of gasoline.

In the middle of the night, the tow-head left us with mere sandbags to fend for ourselves.

At dawn, it returned to continue on to International waters, where the 7th fleet was spreading out in formation over the curved horizon, out of firing range.

Neighbor boats got hit, then exploded,  Hollywood 3-D style.  That boat carried Chu Tu, one of our best social writers at that time. Choppers covered the sky like arrows in Gates of Fire (we fled in the shade then).

That morning rain was our supply of water, and Vung Tau, to this day, still was from my point of view, a D-day reversal. “Ain’t no sunshine” then.

Only rain and tears. Currency wiped out, flags down, guns dropped and choppers abandoned.

In the back of the war ship that we eventually boarded, a man sat tossing worthless money into the seven seas, as if performing a burial rite (he would have preferred rice over money). I couldn’t remember a word during the 4-day ordeal, except for a neighbor, in flight suit, asking me for a change of civilian clothes to help him blend in.

Premier Ky perhaps was on that same ship, whose milk supplies sustained many hungry children.

When we finally reached shores, a priest and a nun had already stood there to hand out sandwiches and coca colas.

My brother to this day still smells the taste of that ham sandwich (perhaps cost up to ten bucks, Pentagon‘s pricing), which sure tasted like honey in the desert.

He was a pharmacist but got drafted during the war to train military x-ray technicians.

Like a movie’s trailer, he now retires but has never returned to visit Vietnam or Vung Tau.

Unlike his youngest brother, me, who couldn’t wait to live out my life script (my last Tet in Saigon was 36 years ago hence a lot to catch up) except for Vung Tau.

I felt reluctant to go back where I had sat down and wept (by the River of Babylon…..) on my first trip back.

Today’s Vung Tau and Can Gio River are still opened to containers and cargo ships. Perhaps the winding topography still creates strong demand for skilled navigators, successors of my friend’s dad. But for me, one blind trip out was more than enough.

That trip stripped me not of weaponry (as some people were  so required to set foot on a US war ships), but of everything that constituted me: my home, relatives, neighbors and friends.

I was on the losing side, yet at Penn State a few months later, I joined in to chant “push them back, way back” at home games.

Friends in fellowship groups weren’t sure how to “place” me. “And there he was this young boy, ” who could at one moment “strumming my pain with his fingers”, then at another, struggled with his required readings.

For years since, from Palm Spring to Palm Beach, I have tried to live down that painful past. “Push them back, push them back, way back”. ” And he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there”.

Those who had never left everything for the unknown would never understand.

So I thought I could be of  help. There I was, organizing makeshift concert in an over-crowded refugee camp in Hong Kong, to help relieve the stress I had come to know too well.  “I walk alone in the middle of the sunset”. I hoped people there realize that out in the open seas, there were those with open hearts. For we all shared and surfed away from that fateful beach for unknown shores.

Flowers on concrete

It’s time to celebrate. Harvest time.

City folks here in Vietnam go home where beer and Banh Chung (Bean Cake) are waiting, while country folks truck in their flowers and fruits in the opposite direction to sell in the city.

This year, we don’t see the return of H5N1. So eat on. Chicken and ducks.

A friend of mine has an orchid farm in Da Lat. He could hardly come down for a visit . Too busy.

I am glad for him. Harvest time. The dead even got their joss paper money burned by the living as Holiday spending spree.

We chatted about cemetery in the States vs here in Vietnam. People did not know that in New Orleans, LA ; people were buried in stack-up tombs (below sea level, which occasionally broke the dyke as happened during Katrina).

The French left their architectural signatures both here in Vietnam and elsewhere like in New Orleans, Montreal and Cote d’Ivoire.

In Paris, they managed to keep traffic out of the city.

Here in Saigon, people  build out which means more congestion even when commercial trucks are restricted to off-peak hours).

Young students are eager to go home. This will ease traffic for a few weeks.

Perhaps there will be enough space for flowers to be sold on concrete sidewalks.

Flowers remind city folks of “Green Field”, lush country as seen in “Good Morning Vietnam” (soundtrack by  Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World). Those green fields got sprayed years ago with Agent Orange, whose long-term destructive consequences are still being sorted out.

Yet, lovers still “parking” in the parks, vendors still selling bouquets (for households to decorate their shrines).

A Vietnamese New Year song aptly says it all “Wishing the farmers with great harvest and young lovers their love nests. So let’s toast” (notice the imagery : harvest and nest etc..). Tet is inclusive, not just for city folks, or just the living. It’s democratized to include the afterlife population.

With the dead and undead join in, concrete or chemical can’t stop the sprouting of flowers on concrete.

Street sweeping in Saigon

I saw a funeral pouring out onto the sidewalk one day, and on the same  block, a wedding the day after.

Meanwhile, the street sweeper just went about his business of sweeping, regardless.

Even if they could use some industrial-grade sweepers, people prefer man to machine. This solves labor problems.

Scavengers make their daily routes by offering to buy anything and everything electronics.

Best Buy could use some help here.

E-waste! What a waste!

As long as one can make a buck, let someone else worry about sustainability.

I love trees but not to the point of being a tree-hugger.

But nothing gives me more pleasure than to see a shaded tree in the middle of a city.

Birds chirping, cyclo drivers napping, and my heart singing.

We got forests and we got trees.

It just that they are “unwelcome” here. Trees take up too much space.

Space for multiple use, such as weddings and funerals, marketing events and Sale Events.

One New Year down, another one (Lunar) to go.

Hoa Mai , kumquat , Lion heads, Earth man, lucky envelopes, confectionary of all kinds.

In the US, they are gearing up for Valentine.

Season changes, but street sweeper goes on sweeping.

Funeral or wedding, summer or fall.

He kept the streets clean, wiping out the past as if nothing had happened.

Bob Dylan’s equivalent , Trinh cong Son, once had a line “the bomb splattered from a distance, and the street sweeper paused to listen”.

If he were to compose a post-war version, it would be “the wedding karaoke party blasted out, and our street sweeper didn’t even stop sweeping”.

Oblivious to noise, dust, and smell, our street sweeper went about his business.

I hope among the stuff that got swept were some dead leaves; it would mean there were still hope of some shades under the scorching sun.

Street sweepers of Saigon keep sweeping and walking man walks on by. That walking man, c’est moi.

Long’s last laugh

My friend had a square jaw. When he laughed, his features became more pronounced. Already taller than most, he carried himself above the fold.

Not all kids in my school went to the Conservatory. You had to have talent. For that brief year in 7th grade, he joined us at music practice. “Can you play bass?” I did not know better, nor did I know what would become of us years later.

Long went on to play keyboard for the Crazy Dogs (w/wig and all). Power Trio.

In Senior High, when we each had gone our separate way, I went to the zoo for our version of Woodstock, not knowing he was up there on stage.

I would have been proud. Then years later, in California, we got to meet again, I found Long’s head all shaved (cancer). He had a career in music teaching and performing, most recently at the Hyatt lobby in Ho Chi Minh City.

Top of the line. Last Christmas for Long, as I woke up this morning thinking.

Requiem for a dying friend. Mozart’s style.

Last month, we had a long talk over the  phone before I boarded the plane for Saigon.

Like the story of the Last Leaf (to cheer up a dying man, the boy climbed up the opposite wall to paint a leaf on the tree to give the illusion that only when that last leaf fell that our infirmed person is allowed to die), I challenged Long to see who was going to die first.

That got him a huge laugh over the phone (I used reverse psychology).

Suicidal, like a song goes.

Vietnam‘s favorite English song, according to a study, is “Yesterday”.

In fact, in English class, we used that to illustrate Simple Past.

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.

Now, kids are into “I am on the Edge of Glory” Gaga, Gaga, Gaga.

Ah Jude, Ah Jude, Ah Jude.

The anthem of youth has always been some refrains such as “Wild Thing, you make my heart sing”, or “We will rock you”.

Something to unite the crowd or to ignite a revolution.

Long taught me one thing: sit back, relax, and let the energy loop from the problem in your hand to your subconscious, then you may find calm in the storm.

Our Western world in crisis can use this very simple advice.

France is now ranked the most pessimistic country as it comes to economic outlooks.

What happened to the innocence of the 60’s, of “Belle de jours”.

Bonjour Tristesse then.

To think of next Christmas when at the mention of my friend, whoever are left in our group will look back in sorrow and sadness.

But from that last conversation with him, I did not feel that way.

He seemed to take it with an air on the G-string.

He even told me “not to eat all that is placed in front of me” when in Vietnam.

I heeded his advice a couple of times when greasy food suddenly appeared in my bowl, at a wedding reception for instance.

I will probably go to the zoo today. The last time I set foot there, Long was on stage without my knowing it. We were rocking, with various bands competing for the same song “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”.

I hope somewhere in time, I will hear “Goodbye to you my trusted friend, we ‘ve known each other since we were nine or ten”.

I told Long I would be fearless against the wind, when it comes to conspicuous consumption for instance: spending the money one doesn’t have, to buy things one doesn’t need, to impress people one doesn’t like (Black Fridays? Yew! Walmart guard got trampled over in Long Island, or shoppers got pepper-sprayed?).

Even when Long began his quiet withdrawal to a hospice, I know he would pull up a chair, place his fingers on the key board just as I am now, albeit his covers the 7 notes, and mine the Alphabet, then he would inhale and let go.

The loop from fingers to feelings and back. The circle of life, his and ours.

Long’s last Christmas? Yes. But then next year, perhaps yours or mine.

That square jaw of my bass guitarist (sitting down, short sleeves) though seemed so far away, yet as near as Yesterday. I will never forget Long’s last laugh before my long flight East.

P.S. I am very saddened that Long has passed away and will be cremated in New Jersey (I hope his last Tet gave him ample time for closure). R.I.P. Long.

Slippery Saigon

Someone told me that the rainy season here would end soon.

Yet it is raining still. Outdoor activities like kung-fu class, xe-om, beer stalls all ceased.

I seeked shelters .

The trick to walk safely here is to step firmly with one foot into the sidewalk, not at its edge (which slopes down to facilitate water draining).

Yet the middle of the sidewalk  was often “occupied” by street vendors most evenings.

The last choice is to walk in the street where scooters in all directions fighting for right of way.

Rain or shine, the internet cafe are full: kids playing Chinese chess , soccer and Thumbelina online.

I found a restaurant that caters to Northern taste: boiled pork, shrimp sauce and stuffed tofu.

I miss mom’s cooking.

The owner paced back and forth trying to put his grandson to sleep (on his shoulder).

I remember my old baby sitter, who let me piggyback to and from kindergarten.

I wonder how many favors one accumulated in a lifetime.

And how many favors one gives back ( Karma currency imbalance).

We all need bail-outs at times and we all “occupy” at some point.

Meanwhile, I  read about the Obama’s latest injunction to use foreign aid resources to further human rights’ causes e.g. gay rights around the world.

It’s one thing to finally “don’t ask don’t tell” in the US.

It’s quite another to open US embassies and USAID facilities to be “gay sanctuaries” around the world.

Tall order indeed!

Has anyone briefed him about cross-cultural differences? about Cultural Relativity and Taboos around the world?

People barely got used to using “OK” (condoms) here, much less advancing “don’t ask don’t tell”.

For more than three weeks now, I have been out of one bubble just to enter another.

Here, in Vietnam, people are in constant motion; multi-taskers in the US would feel right at home (people riding scooters in busy traffic with one hand while talking on the phone and smoking).

On my first few trips here, I saw accidents that claimed lives. Lately, it has been less frequent.

Infact, phones are no longer the most sought after, nor are English classes (which are increasingly commoditized ).

Home Karaoke systems perhaps reach saturation point, just like chat room at internet cafes.

Indeed my IT guy and I couldn’t find phone cables (for fax and wireline phones).

Apparently telecom VN has gone completely mobile.

The working class meanwhile are trying to stretch their hard-earned money

(get paid, get a few dresses).

With holidays fast approaching, workers in China and Vietnam are scrambling for the last train home.

Saigon, though still slippery, will then be emptied of migrant workers.

“The Sad Hymn” (Bai Thanh Ca Buon) will be played way past Christmas.

Booze and beer will be consumed till the last drop. Caution: slippery when wet.

Nobody discussed “Occupy” here. We are 100 percenters, sharing the burden and hopefully the beer.

Why not while it lasts! Its famous movie star has just died of a stroke at age 54. His declared wish: someday to return to Vietnam,

and find acting gig among his peers. He has just felt short of that last wish. One of his screen appearances was in “We were soldiers“.

It’s slippery still in Saigon. I will sign off now before treading carefully home, or else, I end up in “We were alive”.

From sleigh to moped

http://www.economist.com/blogs/asiaview/2010/12/christmas_vietnam

Ho, Ho, Ho in Ho Chi Minh City. Toys for tots, delivered by Santa on moped.

When the US pulled out of Vietnam, it played “White Christmas” on Armed Forces radio.

Now, it’s peace-time Vietnam, where people enjoy every bit of cotton and confetti used to decorate the city’s manger.

I was there two years ago at that same spot just to witness my friend’s got pick pocketed.

Posing for a picture might cost you dearly.

But people in Vietnam do seem to enjoy the crowd and festivities.

Here in the US, on Christmas Day, all the stores, including fast food chains, are closed (except for liquor stores).

What a contrast!

Yet, both seem to move up one notch on the extended families scale: the atomized US culture makes allowance for families reunion, while the extended family culture in Vietnam  joins the whole city in celebration. Whatever the reason for the season, people feel a need to embrace, to be appreciated (gifting) and to loosen their purses (hopefully giving to charity).

French cultural residue still shows, when people say “Joyeux  Noel“.

As if on cue, I have a Facebook friend who decided to post Francois Hardy’s C’est Le Temps de L’Amour.  People are seen to hang out in front of Notre Dame Cathedral in Saigon, taking pictures and taking in the scene.

When I was in Cote d’Ivoire, I sensed a deja vu. It turned out that former Saigon is not too culturally distant from Abidjan. We all read about refugees began to pour over to neighboring Liberia (which some years back had its own instability) in anticipation of a military intervention there to enforce election results.

If you ask the people there, chances are they would say they celebrate Christmas as well, but not in the form you would recognize (longer church service for one). So Santa has to adapt, from one country to the next, and in Vietnam, from one District to another on mopeds.

It must be very hot in that bright red suit in Ho Chi Minh City, Ho Ho Ho, Hot, Hot, Hot.

 

Blind man amidst Saigon traffic

Yesterday I saw a blind man, cane first, feet followed, amidst really busy traffic.

He was neither assisted by a companion, dog or human being, nor by traffic alerts for the blind.

Yet he made it to the other side (without music from the Door) , and was on his way into an alley, which must be his way home.

I am sure his hearing must be extremely sensitive to compensate for his lack of eyesight.

Then I reflect back to my situation. I am  sure I have missed tons of signals during my trip: designer glasses, upscale bikes, Vespa resurgence, Western-style brewery, less road fatality and infrastructure improvement.

Still I have been blind to many situation, most obviously, the absence of the middle class.

Yes, more are out of the poverty level, but it will be another 10-20 years before we see the emergence of a “middle-class Vietnam“.

Since this society is inter-linked on a web model (extended families), we won’t see all-boats-rise for a while yet.

Case in point: the credit system has yet taken hold here because people have used to borrow from friends and relatives, and not institutions (which rely on home ownership as collateral). Banking, insurance and heavy industries are dominated by State-Owned Enterprises.

ATM‘s weren’t even around back in 2000 (one exception was at the Diamond Plaza).

Micro loan (similar approach has been successful in India), hui (turn-taking to borrow from the common pot) and pawning are still prevalent.

So, an economy whose rate of growth is only behind China and India, still functions under the old “trust”system, which further insulates Vietnam and impedes its otherwise ascension on world stage (i.e. access to a larger FDI pool.)

20 years from now, I hope to see Electronic Medical Records take hold here, as well as E-government and E-services. Vietnam Airline now allows self-check-in and there will be a traffic audio alerts to help our blind hero in his daily walk.

There was an Iranian film (the Willow Tree?) about a blind professor who after undergone surgery in France, decided that he did not like his new state of “seeing”.

Way philosophical for me, but the gist is : we can only control the smaller circle and  not the macro one.

To play God is to invite guilt. And I am sure our blind hero has every right to curse the dark (and traffic). Instead, he goes about his way, using cane for feeler and ears for sensors. Wonder what he hears everyday. Certainly, more than those who listen from their I-pods to tune out Saigon noisy traffic. Perhaps on the I-pod, we hear “Getting on to the other side” by the Door.

club elements

To have a good time takes some planning. To organize a dance party for instance.. Yet, here in Saigon, it’s happenin every night of the week, and more so during this festive holiday. Clubbing however is for stress relief. It got sight, smoke, sound and scene.

The feel.

Players know where to go, to spot a “happenin”.

When young, I often organized dance parties. So I know a thing or two about how to create a structure and space for bon vivant.

Energy creates a chain of its likeness. Contagious.

DJ’s, lighting, booze, dance partners, and those at tables nearby and guards, all contributing to success at clubbing.

The rhythm of the night, I want nobody but you, Every move you make etc…

are the must haves.  There is a peak time for every party, when everyone seems to be “in the zone”. A party synergy.

When no table looks at the others, that’s when people lost themselves in “the rhythm of the night”.

I threw a Christmas party in my basement the first Winter at Penn State.

Vietnamese abroaders showed up. We dimmed the lights and gave it a try.

It was cold out, yet warm inside. Young exile men and a few female foreign exchange students, trying to make the best of the situation and occasion.

Here, it’s so commercialized, and cookie-cutter-ed (almost bionic).

But still, if you thrive in clubbing sector, you can survive in business.

It’s purely market-driven and customer-service oriented, albeit young crowd. The good-time business, whose benchmark was set by studio 54.

They don’t use bouncers here. Instead, the uniformed guards circled among the crowd. And they are in your face, to make sure intoxication doesn’t lead to violence. Some clubs even have dancers on stage to catalyze and stir up the pot.

The sound is always deafening.

It’s as if people are trying to scare away the dark.

Las Vegas thrived on Hoover Dam‘s electric supplies. Here in Saigon, occasional black-outs interrupted the party. Don’t worry, we got

power generators, enough for karaoke upstairs.

Don’t be interrupted. Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

Live, love and laugh. I couldn’t remember where I was until I see the flag which reminded me that I still am in Vietnam, a Vietnam in transition,

with all the right elements in place, club elements.

P.S. As of this edit, the NYT also ran a piece on workers in China went clubbing after hours of assembling those I phones. A few years back, similar article would feature Bangalore‘s call center workers. It’s a logical and predictable outcome of automation, industrialization and human revolt against the machination of it all. The irony is, club elements involve a lot of machines: speakers, turn tables, smoke machines, light switches and fire alarm. Mr Bose, whose name is now the same as best sound system, passed away a few days ago. RIP. Who need more volume, when you can hear just fine, the music that is, and certainly not the conversation. That’s not one of club elements.

 

Wash away

Rain pours so hard here in Saigon. It feels like a city wash. Yet bike traffic never ceases.

Wet city streets didn’t stop weekend spontaneous racing.

Hard-earned money got washed away just as quickly as it is earned, mostly at beer stalls. People press RESET and go on. It’s not too different elsewhere.

Just differs in intensity and speed. Beer consumption is now ranked in the top 3 countries.

BBC News ranked Vietnam as number 7 most-risked nation in internet security.

In life, I also noticed an army of private security at every establishment.

It is not unusual to walk into a night club, just to find yourself surrounded by people: server, waitress, security and manager.

This spontaneous entourage would empty your wallet as quickly as a New York minute.

Meanwhile, everyone else is asleep, occasionally disrupted by the sound of street racing.

And when it rains again the next day, everything seems to take second place to the one and only priority: stay dry and stay alive (with bikers in front and next to you splashing water into your face). Pedestrian lights are now installed, with visible count-down to allow enough time for an amputated man to crawl across the street.

I admire his drive to survive here. And to everyone, it seems like a daily walk in Central Park.

I too press RESET a lot while here. A splash in the States will only be a free windshield wash. But everyone here seems to take nature’s disruption in stride. I have seen bikers talking on the phone, smoking while zig zagging through an alley. Or in the back seat, not just a lady with a cone hat. But the lady with a cone hat and her two baskets of donuts, balancing on her shoulders with a cane. Anything and everything is transported on wheels . Rain or tears couldn’t stop people in motion. Storm only serves as city-wash. It will take a few more decades to clear away the legacy of war, making way for peace and true prosperity. By the time you finish reading this, our amputated man has already crossed the street on his hands, asking you to buy a lottery ticket. He has already emerged a winner in my book.

 

Mother’s memorial and modern madam

It’s been a few days since full moon. But people here in HCMC still burn incense and ceremonial money for the dead, most particularly, for deceased mothers. Meanwhile, there is a class of women entrepreneurs who don’t mind drink you under the table, drive to work and in every aspect, personify the softer side of Saigon.

There is a list of richest women published yearly, from real estate to private university, and everything in between.

So, it’s either the upper crust, or those who sell lottery tickets in the rain.

Vietnamese lit often depicts mothers as stern but strong : handling everything in the back room, yet giving credits to their husbands, who mainly serve as greeters. We got the Trung sisters, and Ms Trieu who fought the Chinese invaders.

A new class of single moms have emerged to shoulder all burdens of modern life.

I took my mom’s picture back in the mid-80’s. So it was a bit of a surprise to see the miniature version placed in the back of Van Hanh Temple in Dalat.

I looked twice to find her name plate. She was and in spirit still is my mother, yet known as a teacher to others. She taught me life lessons e.g. be considerate always, put others’ need before your own, and never forget where you came from.

I used to stop by her assisted living apartment to visit, just to find a full meal waiting for me. Today’s equivalent of a Sheraton buffet.

Modernity is pressed for time. And traditional bon vivant is the sacrificial lamb. Burger and drink, want fries with it?

With its current rate, we might see not only the living but also the dead here end up with fast food.  For now, everyone still use ceremonial money and toss rice into the air, to be in harmony with the spirits world. Peace in this life and the next.

Anyone who knows a little bit about history of Vietnam, wouldn’t say it’s a machismo culture.

Watch out for Tiger mom here. Single-handedly, they once did what the whole Trans-Pact Partnership could barely reach an agreement i.e. how to contain and eject unwanted invaders.