And just when I was starting to get the hang of Thai, it’s time to learn the basics of a new language. The ‘plane banks hard left and then right as we swoop around the city like an enormous vulture, lining up for the runway. From my window I can see countless factories, rice paddies and the winding Mekong as we drop in altitude sharply before touching down. It must have been a manual landing; the autopilot wouldn’t have made such a mess of things.
I’ve been travelling solidly for two days now; covering 800 Kilometres overnight from Chiang Mai to Bangkok, 30 to the Airport (having bartered the taxi driver to half price), and a further 1000 in to Vietnam’s Capital. On arrival and exiting through security, I’m glad to have paid for an arranged pickup to my hotel. It may only be a dozen Kilometres, but leaving the Airport car park I am greeted with a deluge of engine hums and sounding horns. My driver takes it all in his stride: Three mopeds headed for his offside door – no problem. Turning left cutting through a flood of bikes, coaches and the occasional car – edge your way and it’ll be fine. Five minutes in and the initial amusement has dissipated; I’m stamping my right foot in vain search for a dual-control brake. This is utterly insane.
Rush hour, twice every day and this the latter recurrence; “Between five and eight now and six to nine in morning”, I’m told. And with a reported five million mopeds here, I dread to think of the accident statistics. You can’t walk here, it’s simply impossible and they desperately need to invest in an underground network (there isn’t the space for anything like the SkyTrain in Bangkok). It is a shame that bicycles have been replaced with these droning, inefficient death machines; though they are indeed used for everything here and with the prices of four-wheeled transit still orders of magnitude higher – it makes sense.
Thankfully a few oases exist within short reach of central Siagon (same same as Ho Chi Minh). Two oval parks bisected by road, are frequented by locals at dawn playing a myriad of games and exercising; from the mundane walking, to an interesting variation on a theme of badminton, using a larger shuttle and the soles of feet as racquets. Clearly requiring a great deal of coordination and skill, it’s nice that both genders demonstrate the same level of dexterity.
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Following day
Americans. I’ll admit I like them. Screw conventional aversion, they’re alright; extroverted, friendly and talkative. There’s one small problem with them though – and visiting the War Museum, the onslaught of tragic and upsetting images had everyone in tears, me included. It’s good then, that there’s escape on hand in the form of decommissioned US Army Vehicles to the side. Breathe deeply, let the surge of emotion pass and when you’re ready, head to the second floor for some impressive photography.
Although laced with a hint of propaganda, the Vietnamese representation of history ensures there’s no denying just how barbaric and brutal the US approach to War is – especially when using it as an excuse to test their latest developments in weaponry. Geneva Conventions? Screw that, there’s some new weapons to play with;
get sum, hooyah. The legacy of Agent Orange is very much visible; a man approaches me and offers to shake my hand. I notice that he has none, nor feet, and is carrying a satchel with books for sale. Skilfully selecting one, he offers it to me and though nothing he carries is of particular interest, I ask if I can simply offer a donation. “No donation. I sell!”, he says turning abruptly, insulted. Curtis Lemay, Commander of the “Strategic” Air Command summarises American tactics perfectly; “...they’ve got to draw in their horns...or we’re going to bomb them back in to the Stone Age”. Grand strategy; though I don’t think he’d be very good at Chess, being more inclined to smash your pieces with a lead weight and skip around shouting victory. The
strategy of an 11 year old bully.
Upstairs, and the gallery makes me pine for my youth spent with a 35mm Leica, 21mm Lens and Viewfinder; as much as I love my digital camera, it does seem like cheating. Poignant photography Wars make for, and the collection is impressive in all ways that photography should be; from mounting a Leica to the end of a helicopter-mounted turret with a long cable-release, to capturing the moment smiling US Marines inflicted water torture on a suspected Viet Cong. The $1.52 billion they were ordered to pay to Vietnam annually pales in to insignificance when seeing these horrors.
And yet walk around Ho Chi Minh City, smile at the people seemingly risking their lives on mopeds and you’ll receive the warmest and most genuine smile back. Not everyone is enamoured with tourists of course; the older generation clearly uncomfortable with white skin, though thankfully due to a lack of British involvement (the one place we didn’t wreck), on hearing my accent, all is forgiven. On tour for the day, my local guide Slim Jim (or Thong in Vietnamese), has knowledge of Cockney Rhyming Slang to rival anyone unlucky enough to be born within earshot of the
Bells. After an hour negotiating the thousands of dare devil motorbikes, the coach finally exits the perimeter of Saigon, headed North to visit the main Cao Dai Temple.
As new religions go, it’s certainly intriguing, if very cult-like. There’s three colours representing other religions, three saints including a French poet, seven chairs that remain empty and nine
apple and pears for each level of spiritual hierarchy. Sadly, the founding Pope wanted autonomy from Vietnam and raising an Army, he was soon on the run exiling to Cambodia. Once he had passed away, the cult was left lost and wanting; their hierarchy incomplete.
Shh, be quiet; they’re starting. Understanding the need for visitors (presumably to spread the word and also increase coffers), we are treated to a balcony view of the proceedings. Gong to my left out of sight – louder gong to my right – music begins (if you can call it that), and like a childhood nativity play, enter stage right the colourful precession. All under the watchful eye (See), that sits at level 9, which no one can sit at due to the death of the war mongering Pope.
If all this by now sounds surreal, that’s because it is; like all religions there’s strange obsessive behaviour, rituals and ceremonies that seem eccentric and rules to follow that are perplexing and to any intelligent mind; plainly silly. Whilst trying desperately to differ itself from other cults – being a blend of several established religions itself – there remain two strong similarities with all other competing cults. The first is inequality amongst the genders (all religions are created by crazed men, clearly), and the second is a thirst for power and money, hence the army. This sounds like a good deal: Screw it, I’m starting my own religion right now. Expect some publications surrounding my new
Science and don’t dare
Suppress me or I’ll consider you
Fair Game.
Heading back the way we came and detouring North, the coach arrives at the Cu Chi Tunnels. Still owned by the Vietnamese Army, my 75,000 Dong entrance fee is paid begrudgingly. Don’t visit if you suffer from claustrophobia, or are fat. The highlight is crawling underneath a 115m tunnel, extended to “King Size” so punters can get a feel. If you’re over 6 foot, you’ll need to get on all fours; over about 80 kilos and you may get stuck.
We finish with a Vietnamese video that was shown throughout the country in the 1960s. Whilst full of anti-American propaganda, it’s nonetheless amusing. A young girl, who’s beaming smile and pretty face contrasts incredibly with the AK-47 she holds in her hands, shows that the women were just as war-hardened as the men. The narrator explains how she has “killed 118 enemies” and has hence received three medals for her heroism. Either way, I’m glad I wasn’t facing any of the ingenious traps, my favourite of which is the trap door – even preventing the top half from impaling you, the hinged bottom half will still “make you ladyboy, then you go to Bangkok”, Slim Jim retorts.
