The first thing that hits you landing in Vietnam is the noise; the incessant beeping of horns; car horns, motorbike horns, truck horns. Second is the light; strip lighting, headlights, fairy lights, lanterns. And third is the rows upon rows of trees, towering above the smoggy sprawling city, hoping to at least offer some redemption from the exhaust fumes below.
Saigon was our first port of call when travelling to Vietnam early April. We arrived in the dark, and a hair-raising taxi ride from the airport threw us into abyss that is a city torn between communism ideals and American consumerism. They say that Cairo, London, New York are the cities that never sleep. I wonder if they have ever been to Saigon, because the place is pulsing.
A day walking its streets, and a night frequenting its bars leaves you feeling as if you’ve been on high spin in a washing machine.
Our hotel was a stone’s throw from Ben Thanh Market, which can only be described as a kaleidoscope of colours, sights, and goods of varying quality and quantity, accompanied by not-too pushy saleswomen. The phrase ‘American quality’ is often heard, which we were later told means ‘of the highest quality’ because the Vietnamese ironically perceive all things-American as the best. Ben Thanh was also our introduction to Vietnamese street food; large open barbecue grills lined with fish, shrimp, pork, and frog, often with the live animals in pots below looking up at their impending fate.
A beer is a dollar, and a dollar can get you very good Saigon Green beer. Drunk on the pace, lights and headiness of our surroundings, we ventured on to Biu Vien, a street lined with bars, and tables and clientele spewing out onto the road. With its waiters accosting would-be customers as they pass, villagers selling dried squid on carts, bikes laden with sugar beet and bamboo canes, young children trying to sell chewing gum and dancing on the street, and sunburnt backpackers nervously navigating their way around armed with maps and guidebooks, this part of Saigon is an onslaught of all the senses.
The next day we moved further south with a day tour of the Mekong Delta – an area shrouded in mystery, and tales of war. This is where life slows down, as we sat on a bright green boat crossing the churning brown Delta waters. Due to its history, Vietnam isn’t quite open to visitors just making it on their own; tours are required to explore this area, and so we joined a small group of eclectic travellers on a trip around three islands, lovingly called Phoenix, Turtle and Unicorn.
You know that feeling you get when you travel, of experiencing something really special to regale to others? Sadly this isn’t where you’ll get it. With tours intended to generate as much money as possible from tourists, there is a slight lack of charm to the locals singing, plates of shocking pink dragonfruit proffered, coconut sweets and jars of snakes marinaded in alcohol you don’t ever want to drink. However, there is a magic to being rowed through the undergrowth in a turquoise boat, spotting water coconuts sprouting either side, lulled by a crooning guide and the occasional greeting from the mysterious green depths.
Wrenched back from the peace and quiet of Mekong’s lapping shores, we were back in Saigon for an obligatory Communism history lesson. I like to put museums in the same category as reading a newspaper: come out in the end knowing both sides of a story. The War Remnants Museum is not one known for its objectivity (its name perhaps gives it away), and can certainly not be featured in my newspaper-category. If you are (like I was) unlearned about the Vietnam War, you could be forgiven for completing the first exhibition floor, still without a clue about what happened.
Perhaps as an eternal reminder of the atrocities inflicted, the museum walls are painted orange and lit up by orange watt lights. The graphic images decking the walls are certainly not for the faint-hearted. Feeling slightly drained and shell-shocked, we left the museum to continue wandering Saigon’s streets, ticking off monuments such as the Reunification Palace on the way. Saigon’s colonial era is very apparent, with the huge French influence on building structure and design. Perhaps Parisian ghosts from years passed haunt these places, drinking coffee out of Vietnamese china and fanning themselves against the haze of humidity.
Before planning our Vietnam trip, I was advised to avoid Saigon, but I’m glad I chose to ignore it. The city sucks you in, violently hurtles you around, and ungraciously spits you out on the side of the road. But don’t any of that put you off. Overwhelmed, exhausted but buzzing on seriously excellent Vietnamese coffee, it was time to salute Saigon, and board a plane to Hanoi.
To be continued….
