Last day in Saigon and return to China

I decided not to go to the War Museum in Saigon and I’m still not sure whether or not that was an act of moral cowardice. My reasons were threefold. Firstly, I was on holiday, the museum sounding depressing, and I don’t want to be depressed on holiday. Secondly, I studied the Vietnam War in great length for my History GCSE (for non Brits, GCSEs are the qualifications you study for between the ages of 14-16), and felt I had studied enough gruesome photos and video footage of it for one lifetime. Thirdly, what I really, really wanted to do was just sit down in a café with a book and a cup of coffee and read and watch the world go by.

So that is what I did. As I was the only customer in the cafe for most of the time, I got into conversation with the waitress. She was from the Mekong Delta, but like many young people from that area, had moved to Saigon in search of work and a more interesting and exciting life. Although she told me she was not very fond of working in the café (and despite this she was an excellent waitress), she did it so that she could improve her English, which would hopefully eventually lead to her getting a job in the tourism industry. It was an fascinating insight into the hopes and ambitions of young Vietnamese from poorer backgrounds.

I also saw a couple of interesting sights. One of them was this cart selling bananas. Another was three high school girls, dressed in a very chic uniform of navy culottes with a white short sleeved blouse all riding the same bicycle. One sat on the back parcel carrier, one sat on the seat and another stood on the peddles. It was a very enjoyable, lazy morning.

The afternoon was spent mainly bargaining hard in shops for dvds, books and souvenirs. We picked up a lot of dvds for about 40p (60 cents) each, and most of them actually work properly too.

Our flight back to Beijing had a stopover in Nanning, a city in southwest China, and those of us flying to Beijing had to get out of the plane, go through immigration, and then get back on the plane. Perhaps because we were coming back into the country on our foreigner’s residence permits rather than a entry visa, and as it is a small airport they hadn’t seen many of these, or perhaps they were all power crazed jobsworths but immigration took ages. A woman in front of me, travelling on an American passport, was refused and was taken off by an immigation official (but reappeared not long afterwards and was allowed through).

When it got to me, the man checked my photo page obsessively, bending it so much I thought he might tear it, then checked and rechecked both my expired employment visa that I had originally used to enter China back in September, and my current residence permit. I was getting more and more sweaty palmed as this went on, worrying that immigration would delay me so much I’d miss the connecting flight. After getting me totally discomforted, he eventually stamped my passport and waved me through.

cock of the walk, Saigon

And my issues with Chinese officialdom were not done for the day. Because of the temperature difference between Saigon (30ºC) and Beijing (-10ºC) I had packed a few thermals at the top of rucksack to change into at Beijing airport. So after getting my bag from the carousel I duly trotted off to the bathroom to put them on.

When I came back, I saw to my horror that my bag was being investigated by a sniffer dog! The English speaking customers officer then started asking me if I had any fruit (yes, fruit) in my luggage. Confidently and honestly, I replied no, but the dog said otherwise. They asked me to turn out the pocket that the dog had indicated might be hiding a contraband banana. I brought out a battered Mandarin phrasebook, a pair of shower shoes, oddments of Asian currency and, finally, encased in a plastic bag, my still wet bikini bottoms. The dog went mental. The customs guy got me to open the bag. As I drew out what are, after all, glorified ladies' knickers, he morphed from confident official to mortified small boy, and hastily made his apologies and walked off. Somehow I didn’t feel the dog was going to be getting at tidbits that day.

Mui Ne

Our next escapade was to at Mui Ne, a coastal resort a few hours north of Saigon. When we arrived I was a bit disappointed with the beach: I had been hoping for the luxurious open expanses of White Beach, but the actual beach was tiny, almost non existent at high tide. Instead, there was a terraced area belonging to the hotel we were staying at that fronted onto the beach.

My disappointment quickly turned to enjoyment though: because we were on private land no one could harass us, and I stretched out on a lounger with a book, occasionally pausing from the addictive Captain Corelli’s Mandolin to stare into the sea. And how could anyone argue with sunsets like this?



The next day we took a tour of some of the interesting local sights. At the harbour, we got talking to one of the local girls who was selling a variety of heinous trinkets. She worked all day to help support her family, then would go to school for two hours at night. She was fourteen. Her English was excellent because she got her education through a sponsor a child programme, and so went to a school that was taught entirely in English. Despite her long days, she was incredibly cheerful and happy.



Our next stop was the Yellow Dunes where you can surf down the dunes. We dutifully paid the incredibly small sum to one of the young boys who worked renting sand surfing boards to tourists and set off to one of the highest dunes. This is the point at which I decide to develop cramp. In both my calves. I half staggered, half hot stepped up the dune, melodramatically collapsing on my knees when I reached the top.

The sand surfing board boy showed us how it was down, tobogganing penguin style down the dune and then effortlessly running back up. When it was my turn to go, I lay on the board and pushed off - and promptly got stuck not even halfway down the dune, with my skirt blown up! Trying to recover a little dignity, after I had pulled my board free of the sand, I tried going down sitting on the board. This was only marginally more successful, until I got wedged again.

At that point I gave up and started the journey back to the top. Never has the clichéd phrase ‘one step forward, two steps back’ been so apt. Every footfall saw me frustratingly slide back to a millimetre in front of where I had just been. Eventually I abandoned all attempts to maintain a shred of poise, and clambered up on my hand and knees. The stunning views made up for the embarrassment though: I had never realised that there was so much contrast in the landscape of Vietnam.

On our last morning I finally got into the swimming pool. I have not been in a swimming pool for thirteen years: the last time was when our high school attempted to teach 30 girls how to swim in a pool that, at the very most, was four or five metres by three, and no more than four foot deep. Since then I’ve only ever swum in the sea. It was very strange to be in water that had no current, smelt like chemicals instead of salt and to have smooth tiles under foot rather than sand and stones. It felt too easy and sterile somehow, like I was cheating.

For other worlds, visit My World Tuesday.

Mekong Delta

rice paddies

On our way to the Mekong Delta we sped past picture postcard Vietnam: lush green paddy fields tended by people wearing traditional conical hats. What a postcard won’t show is the numerous men who stopped their scooters by the side of the road and took a quick whiz on the fields.

Our first boat trip was along some of the larger rivers:

We stopped for lunch, and afterwards were entertained by traditional Vietnamese singers and musicians. I say entertained, but like with traditional Chinese music, I just found it all a bit too high pitched to be enjoyable. However, our guide explained the historical background to the songs, and this was more interesting, especially as I hadn’t realised how important Confucius was to Vietnam as well as China.

view from the riverbank

After lunch we visited a site that demonstrated traditional Vietnamese crafts of rice wine making, rice paper making and popcorn making. We got to try a sample of the rice wine, which tasted like a very cheap vodka, but is not quite as foul as the Chinese rice wine, baijiu, which burns it way down your oesophagus before wrecking havoc in your stomach. We also got samples of Vietnamese peanut brittle, which was being sold at comically inflated prices.

making rice paper

I wandered off down the riverbank, where I saw these rice papers drying over the chicken coop:

That evening we stayed overnight in a town called Can Tho. Our guide gave us instructions on how to get to the road with lots of tourist friendly restaurants, so after getting settled into our rooms, me, A and K set off to find some chow. We began to realise that we had got lost when we were walking along the riverbank, and instead of restaurants, we were looking at tiny little convenience stores and, on the other side of the river, shanties. I was quite glad we got lost though, as we saw this sunset and accidentally had one of our most memorable Asian meals.

This was at a local place, with an entirely Vietnamese menu, and not only did we not speak a word of the language but we didn’t even have a phrasebook. We wanted chicken, so we flapped our arms to mime a chicken, and then attempted to mime eating bread. At first the waiter clearly thought we’d lost our minds, but then he quickly caught on, and brought us a raw chicken wing from the kitchen to inspect. When we indicated that that was quite acceptable, he disappeared and came back ten minutes later with a basket of amazing chicken wings that had been cooked in a mouth watering lemony garlicky sauce. Then he bought us several baskets of equally good fresh bread. Over a couple of beers we people watched as the place filled up, and said hello to some very cute Vietnamese children.

The next day we started by visiting a floating market. The vendors will put a sample of what they are selling on a large pole, and buyers with sail around the market picking their produce.

After inspecting the market, we took trip on a narrow boat through some of the smaller rivers. This was fascinating as it gave us a chance to glimpse at the lives of the farmers of the Mekong, whose simple subsistence lifestyle is so far removed from my own that I find it hard to believe that it still exists.

Our last stop was at an orchard. We were given a fruit tasting plate to start with and I was delighted that no one else at our table liked mango, as I got to eat almost the entire plate by myself. Then we were escorted through the orchard, and tasted a fruit looks like small oranges but tastes as sour as a lemon. We were introduced to this odd looking fruit: apparently this is a small specimen!

Cu Chi Tunnels

examples of bombs dropped by the Americans

We were all eager to visit the Cu Chi Tunnels, a site of the Vietnamese resistance during the Vietnam war, and now a museum, so we booked a tour with the famous Sinh Cafe. We had an unscheduled stop on the way at a shop selling ‘traditional Vietnamese crafts handmade by the handicapped’. There was no evidence of anyone disabled (or actually, anyone at all) at the ‘workshop’, and the finished goods looked identical to the mass produced tat on sale in a lot of the Saigon shops we had visited the day before. We didn’t purchase anything, needless to say.

an American tank that was abandoned and then used by the VietCong

The Cu Chi Tunnels museum starts off with a brief film describing the lives of the Vietnamese fighters, and how the hidden underground tunnels, linking kitchens (with craftily disguised chimneys), armouries, factories and living quarters, were vital to the resistance. We then went for a wander around the jungle, visiting a few huts demonstrating what went on in the tunnel factories and mannequins dressed up as fighters. Then we got to the firing range, where you could if so moved, fire off an AK 47. I found this a tad disturbing, and instead sat around getting a headache until the tour was ready to move off again.

We were also treated to a gruesome display of the different traps used by the VietCong: it made me appreciate why so many American soldiers became horrifically paranoid. When I showed my Senior 2 students photos from my travels, this one of an man trap undoubtedly attracted the most interest!

VietCong man trap

At this point, I was really not impressed with the museum. But then we came to the centrepiece: the opportunity to go down into an original tunnel. Part of me was tempted to pass as I can get a bit claustrophobic, but it seemed stupid to spend my time and money trolling all the way out of Saigon, just to chicken out of doing the most interesting thing there.

So, full of trepidation, I crept down the narrow stairs of the widened entrance. And found myself in a pitch black space so tiny that I could only get along by bending double (I’m five foot four), and that kept getting smaller and smaller until I was creeping along almost on all fours. There were unexpected twists and stairs, and I anxiously kept an eye on the person in front of me.

I could feel panic bubbling, and struggled to keep my breathing regular and even, as my hands scraped along the rough walls, feeling my way. My brain was reduced to the short circuit of ‘Get Out! Too small! Get OUT!’. Every second lengthened. I was so, so glad when at a sudden turn there was a dim shaft of sunlight. When I was back above ground I realised that I’d traversed five metres at the very most. How people managed to adjust to spending a large amount of their lives in these tunnels is beyond my comprehension.

original tunnel entrance - thankfully the one we took to get into the tunnels was a bit bigger than this!

In case I wasn’t feeling panicky enough, we had an extra few moments of anxiety when we realised that one of our party hadn’t emerged from the tunnels. I had a few moments of horror in case W had somehow managed to wander off into a tunnel he shouldn’t have and was lost under the jungle, but just as we were going off to alert our guide, he emerged.

Our last stop was at a mocked up dining room, where we ate some of the tapioca sticks dipped in spicy flavourings that much of the population subsisted on during the war. Most people didn’t take more after their first bite, but we all had a couple of sticks. It wasn’t great, and I certainly wouldn’t have wanted the stringy slightly dry blandness to be my main food stuff, but I’ve definitely eaten worse.

chowing down on tapioca

I’m glad I went, but it is a frustrating experience when it is clear that with some work and investment this could be an amazing world class museum, and much more informative about the experiences of the people who lived and fought here. Although perhaps in this respect the uniqueness of the Cu Chi Tunnels works against itself, as there is perhaps not a great incentive to invest in the site when you know that people will still come even if it is not a good as it could be.

I have been delighted to receive this lemonade award from Emily, thank you so much. I feel very honoured that she is enjoying my blog so much she wants to give me this. The award is for blogs that demonstrate great attitude and/or gratitude.

Rules for the award:

1. Put the logo on your blog or post.
2. Nominate 10 blogs that show attitude and/or gratitude.
3. Be sure to link to your nominees within your post.
4. Let them know they have received this award by commenting on a post.
5. Nominate your favorites and link to this blog

I am passing this along to a wonderful selection of blogs that I've stumbled upon in the last few weeks:

An English Girl Rambles

Granny Smith

Jane and Steve's Utah Trails

The View From This End

Wit's End

Ishtar News

Poetic License

Woman in a Window

Teen Gravid

Riverdale Ramblings

Thanks to you all for writing such interesting and thought provoking blogs.

Saigon

stripey Saigon streets

Arriving in Saigon was a slightly strange experience because, although it was evidently an Asian city, the European style of the architecture coupled with the way the super skinny buildings are all painted pastel colours reminded me strongly of Lampeter, the Welsh town where I went to university. The laid back traveller hippy-ish vibe added to the whole effect as well. Perhaps this is why I took to Saigon immediately. I know it has officially been called Ho Chi Minh City since 1975, but I never once heard it referred to as anything other than Saigon when I was there. So that’s what I’ll stick with. It’s easier on the spell check too.

shabby chic a la saigon

My favourite way to get to know a city is by walking round it, so I was glad that central Saigon is compact enough to get around on by foot. Although it did mean that on my way from our hostel to the Reunification Palace and the Saigon Notre Dame Basilica I had to decline the offer of a motorbike taxi on every other street corner. The drivers, although naturally vociferous, were also friendly: my ‘No thanks yous’ were met with smiles and ‘Ok’s, and I was never hounded down the street. I even felt a bit guilty for not taking one, but it was so enjoyable wending my way through the back streets, occasionally happening upon wonderful, shabbily elegant buildings that no-one has yet thought to gentrify.



no wonder my passport stamp says 'socialist republic of vietnam'

The road to the Reunification Palace, lined with trees and communist flags, was more attractive than the Palace itself which is a spectacularly ugly concrete box. There is a wooded park between the Palace and the Basilica, which offered a welcome shady place to pause.

A couple came up to me and asked me to take their photo, and then we fell into conversation. They turned out to be cousins, on holiday in Saigon from Malaysia, and we chatted pleasantly about nothing in particular for a while. Then they asked me to come to a party at their friend’s house, and I kept having to politely decline, without actually coming out and saying ‘No-one but a maniac would wander off to the house of two strangers she just met that could be serial killers.’

saigon notre dame basilica

When I got to the Basilica, they were starting a service so I couldn’t go inside. Instead, I peered in through the grate and then started on my way back. This involved crossing what seemed to be the main road in the city by foot, without the aid of pedestrian crossings, via the grandest roundabout I’ve ever seen. I got stranded for five minutes on it, before bolding taking my life in my hands and dodging the buses and scooters to get to the other side.

roundabouts are taken seriously here

I tried my first Vietnamese curry that night, which seemed (unsurprisingly) to be quite similar to Thai, but less spicy. There were shoot type things in it (lemongrass perhaps? I’m a bit fuzzy on south-east Asian cuisine) that I chewed on once and then spat out in horror. The rest of it was delicious though, and it came with a free happy hour starter of garlic bread. Weird combination I know, but garlic bread is one of the Western foods I miss the most in China, and I was going to take every opportunity to stuff my face with it.