Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City?

Saigon, Ho Chi Minh City, HCMC, whatever you want to call it, the big, bad southern city is a maelstrom of activity. Last night, my first day in Vietnam, I sat at a street corner mesmorized by the non-stop chaos of motor-scooter traffic. Like Cambodia the only rule seems to be "stay on the right side of the road most of the time". Several roundabouts dot the city center, each time I've passed through one on the back of a motorcycle taxi or "xe om" (seh-om) I can't believe we make it to the other side. It is anarchy in motion; rather like being in a sea of fish that refuse to school but dart around in whichever direction takes their fancy. As if by a miracle, they hardly ever crash into one another. Making a simple turn requires a faith in the driver bordering on religion. Trying his best not to slow down he cuts maniacally across the opposing lane of traffic with mere inches to spare then revs the motor to race down the next narrow street at break neck speed. If taking a xe om borders on lunacy, crossing the street is tantamount to suicide. Imagine stepping into the path of a raging herd of buffalo and you have the idea.

Burgeoning commerce and free enterprise have once again become a part of the city's psyche. Restaurants, hotels and shops have burst on to the scene in a way that only capitalist countries have managed in the past. Incongruously, amidst the glitz and glamour a red flag with the a golden hammer and sickle suddenly appears or a blocky, fifties-style bill board promoting the ascendency of the manual laborer. You wonder how the powers-that-be can hold on to their socialist ideals against such a blatantly money-making backdrop.

Daring the rampaging buffalo traffic, I went for a long walk. Generally I have a very good sense of direction but this once I surrendered myself to getting lost in the warren of streets and boulevards. It didn't matter. I was armed with the business card from my hotel; a manic xe om driver could help me find my way back if necessary. HCMC is a jungle of concrete and store fronts with many of the buildings several stories high and only one room wide. Most of the time I had to walk in the road as lines of motor scooters blocked most sidewalks. In back alleys I stumbled across low slung apartment complexes sporting forests of television antennas or hunched markets with refuse and pools of water littering the ground. And always, wherever I went, I heard the mating call of the xe om driver, "Hello! Motorbike? Motorbike?"
"Toi muon di bo," I'd reply, "I want to walk." That seemed to do the trick, they'd break into a broad smile and let me go on my way in peace and quiet.

Amongst all the varieties of establishments I discovered, the most interesting was a corner shop selling dead snakes and insects in bottles of alcohol. The owner assured me it was for medicinal purposes by pointing at various body parts and agreeing with me when I looked up the word for pain. Giant, black scorpions ruled one shelf but the crowning glory was the display of adult cobras, each menacingly rearing its head with another species of snake clamped between its jaws. It rather puts to shame the idea of eating the worm in a tequila bottle.

When I found myself having accidently come full circle, I decided it was time to make a catch a taxi to explore other regions of the city. Like every foreign visitor I pointed myself toward the War Remnants Museum. Originally it was known as "The Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes" but in a show of politeness was changed to fit Vietnam's new political face. Even so, America is still the prime villain. The courtyard bristles with different forms of US military hardware from the war years, each with a white on blue sign in Vietnamese and English explaining its speed and fire power with a few editorials telling how many thousands of people may have been killed by that particular type. Inside the halls it was no holds barred. Sections showed the ruthless efficiency of war and the pathetic aftereffects: Agent Orange Victims, people disfigured by napalm and phosphorus bombs, images of the My Lai Massacre, Viet Cong being tortured by American advisors. In a side gallery was a recreation of a prison from the era with plaster mannequins forever living out the conditions that the people in the photographs had to endure in real life. The final hall was dedicated to the people around the world who protested the war, from Americans to Japanese to Germans to Congolese and many more. It is a saving grace that many Americans did raise their voices as it is not lost on the Vietnamese people.

Outside the museum I met Van, a budding English language student. I'd been warned to expect such an encounter. The Vietnamese are mad about learning English, seeing it as a gateway to a better life. In general it's usually a one way affair with the student getting him or herself a free lesson. In my case, desirous of learning Vietnamese, the tide was turned and I got as good as I gave.

I've always known that during this journey the Vietnamese language was going to be the toughest nut to crack due to it's difficult system of pronunciation and accompanying tones. I was told by an American friend that it needs to be spoken correctly at all times as people might get upset at hearing it being mangled. As usual the reverse is true. I'm getting encouragement galore and great smiles of appreciation. After one day I've got down a few of the basics and been able to create quite a few phrases, but I'm quickly discovering that the local pronunciation makes it very easy to create nothing more than well-intensioned gobbledy-gook. Tomorrow I have an appointment at 1pm with Mr. Guang, an English teacher with a Saigon accent. With his help I'll start the refining process of the Vietnamese Phrasemaker.