‘Down town Saigon and around'; Tips for the tinkers, tailors, soldiers and spies.

A little goes a long way in downtown Saigon, now formally known as Ho Chi Minh City, depending on which side of 1975 you come from. The great north and south divide still reigns supreme, even in the far off dynasties of south East Asia. And although communism took a firm grip on the monopolization of the vibrantly working vertebras of the whole country, the southerners still fervently retain distinct memories of its turbulent past by out of habit more than anything else still referring to it as Saigon and also out of habit retaining their economic prowess with systematic capitalist free-trade...well, by comparison.

 My immediate notions are that everything about this place is based on the ‘little theory', little people, little organization, little independent thinking and most of all little Dong (Vietnamese currency) - and little dogs! But all of these and much more are bundled together in such a controversial web of hereditary ingenuity and on such large mass, that ultimately the ever so little becomes mightily substantial. Remember, take little steps my friends, little steps. There is that enough bollocks?

Little stepping off of the plane at Saigon airport (officially known as Thanh Son Nhat) you'll be smothered in the chops by a velvet cushion of warm tropical coated air. It then takes stronghold of your lungs, sinuses and to a lot of folk their sexual deviousness's. This should persist until your sweat soaked body cools itself in an air-conditioned room (bar), or unlike Boy George who prefers drinking tea to any sought of carnal delight (massage parlour).

It's a city like any other, with masses of people trying to make, break or just idle away their futures. A creation of man-made wealth to the few and poverty to the masses, a city filled with romance that lures its muse from the core and a staunchness that derives from a thousand years of hurt, re-joy, hurt, re-joy and, well, you get the picture.

 History is largely apparent and leaves its mark with the many French style colonial buildings and street names like Le Duan, Pasteur and Le Loi. The Vietnamese have been sufficient in mustering up enough support for their countries past dignitaries in the guise of street names, but their chillingly oppressed past from the Chinks, Septic's and Frogs have left a lot to answer for as to any recognition to any Joe Blogg weary eyed two-bit westerner. It still has heaps of un-chartered historical value to offer credence to such a patriotic nation. Yet on the whole the average local lives in a perplexed happy state - be it in the mind or the city. Their dwelling habits and I'm guessing through not a lot of choice, are to live on each other's shoulders like stacked Bourbon biscuits in a tin, tall and narrow, crammed and identical, but nonetheless made pleasing and desirable, pleasing if you like to skip furniture and most necessary amenities but desirable in the shape of a creamy chocolaty centred T.V.

Many, and I stress many, who are wealthy enough live in clean domestic splendor, if not still in blushingly close proximity, some houses are so close it's possible to borrow a cup of sugar without leaving your house. But there are still the millions who dwell in dank poverty, in shacks made from planks of wood, sheets of metal and drapes of tatty and frayed tarpaulin, with no electricity or running water, the only bath lay in the river, which doubles as the kazi (Europe in its cobblestoned heyday), and just a paddle down stream they still breed the fish from which we gladly chomp on down at the local ‘Vietnamese chippy' on a Friday night. It can all seem very reflective of the townships of South Africa, yet South Africa has a tendency to keep poverty on the outskirts of town as is their ‘beautifully democratic want', whereas Saigon's is as intermingled as its two minute grease loaded stir fried noodles - so pho - so good! (poor fool, poor).

 Yet amongst all this squalor and depravity lies a hybrid of beauty and tranquility. An endless stream of canals and waterways that wreaks of the bare arsed stench of poverty, but glistens in the face of perfection to the waning lost romantic. Faultless in its detail to reminisce the wayward soul back again towards Venice or Amsterdam in its and their most medieval of, as said before, salad days. The wooden planks and stoned and decayed structures intertwine over small broken mason bridges then hide themselves away behind somebody's washing hanging out to dry over a stinking cesspit, whilst yet another beauticians shop blue rinses yet another em.

 I could, again, sit here and say they're happy because they seem it-but then what the fuck do I know, I'm just a South-East London city boy. But what I do know, are the ‘big brotheresque' loud speakers fixed high on the lampposts in designated public areas and residential parts, ‘ordering' the nation to have a good day, because the government insists it so. Actually, this is a practice that it seems has died out a tad in recent years, that and expressing the fact that the folk living in No.11B/8 haven't paid their water bill, that, and if your selling wares in the street, be it a few mangoes, some papaya or a sharpening of knives service, remember to sell high to the rich capitalistic dirty foreigner!

(*I say this with a certain degree of tongue in cheek, but the essential flavour of the notion is most apparent or should I say was. It has moved on in a large degree, perhaps from ‘accustomed' inhabitants and their welcomed longevity to ‘the street' or that badgering the foreigner for an eon on end is fruitless, so to speak. Either way, on my street they never really were, and most certainly are not now, a hindrance.)

For a country whose recent history has been consistently ‘red' the city's decor can denote a feeling of overcast grey - as is not uncommon in any other sprawling metropolis around the globe. Yet in parts there are hundreds of trees that line the roads, which give it again another French feel, and you forget how massive some of them are when at eye level, when all you see are their white-washed trunks, which of course is a cunning ploy to detour the traffic bumping into them - Marc Bolan style. But when it comes to chopping the over hangs off in a bit of road-side surgery, the chunks of tree that litter the road temporarily are enough to make...oooh a couple of zillion dong, 14m exercise books and chops to shake a stick at.

With the rest of the city's colours consisting of an off- white and grey, looming at you like a derelict warehouse it's hard to think that this does anything but camouflage, no not camouflage but distract, the tree's natural brown-barking base coating. Colours are filtering in slowly, as Nam gradually prospers, but you can't help but think that a spot of dye in the ‘Blue Star Cement' might shake off the appearance of one huge great battleship.

(*Another massive update here is the huge constructional expressway of new hotels, offices and homes over the past few years - glass, tall and tinted, shop-fronts - all fashioned and pruned - Gucci and Louis Vuttenbiberger, what ever the bag man of Paris is called? Saigon's gloss has changed in 7 years more than be described right now - but let's get back to 2000...)

As you head down town you'll be hassled from day one, until suddenly one day every hassler in town recognizes you and leaves you alone. That's when you've become a veteran, meaning that you've stopped sweating so much and no longer look ‘new'. The cyclo man will follow you for miles, aching for a pay ride, - ‘a tour of the city sir?' they have manners, but for twenty minutes manners can wear as thin as their wiry spoke wheeled bodies. This will persist until he spots someone who is sweating just a tad more and therefore sees a better meal ticket, usually for them dried skunk and pho I believe! Mind you everyone hassles you here, I presume it's all just part of the barter-market culture, which is fast being ramsacked outta-town from our modicuddled fixed price supermarket age in the West - what ever happened to ‘Oi, oi broccoli, two-bob a cauli' - you do realize that the European Union's head office in Brussles, that non-descript vegetable on wasteland of tax-payers democracy, where the European MP's spunk it up large, once decreed that the banana sold in Blighty's shores should not arc to the degree of ‘too bent' but must be straight! - Only patience and a relaxed composure will deal the reality - that is ‘working for a living' - remember that? - Which surely applies all over the world on many different levels. Still, the people who come here should know that I mean here it's not like going to Bognor Regis. Bognor holiday makers shouldn't be here God damn it!

The indoor and open markets of Ben Thanh are also a chaotic maze of fabric, metal and livestock, which make a meander round the shops a collosul headache of rustle, clank and oink. At times, and, much like Morroco too, the impending ‘good price for you' motto isn't as harsh and persistent as it used to be - still, it's there with enough dose of ‘gotta get out of here' and ‘no thanks, ‘no thanks', ‘no thanks...' that a trip to the market tailor is always a major kerfuffle.

So basically at the end of the day everyone hassles you, and that's without mentioning the night time gals having a word at Apackoflips night club - the ‘girlie girls', the ‘girlie boys', the ‘shoe-shine boys', the ‘paper boys', the ‘xe-om boys' and every shop owner, taxi driver and working-man and woman that exists. It's busy it's alive, have it, if you want it, it's here, who said red is dead, the red fire in this city is passionate with bursting life, ‘come in and take a look, have a gander, take it home, cook it, this colour is for you sir, very nice, very cheap, only one dollar, where you go, you want a bike, you like massage, chewing gum, postcard, something you like sir?' - Uck-man Yank TV is sometimes comforting...na!

If that doesn't grapple your hook then the volume of traffic surely will. The place is a beehive of Honda 90cc's or come to that every rip-off manufactured bike that copy-rite free Nam can reproduce or import or so it seems. Be it a Daelim, Suzuki, Honda or Yamaha. There are literally millions of them and most definitely no helmets and strictly no laws and ha, ha, ha what license? There's no such thing as a right of way and in most cases not even a left or right side of the road, not to mention the amount of passengers permitted. It's not uncommon to see a family of five, their shopping and their pet dog and a grin zooming down the road, weaving in and out quicker than the loom that made their shirts and probably in the wrong direction - yes, they wear their shirts back to front.

Cars are definitely increasing in numbers but are primarily the expats chauffer driven Lexis's, Mitsubishi Pajero's or Cheriko Jeeps. Foreigners are not permitted to drive in Vietnam, I think that's just in case they give the locals good habits. The cars and taxis are fun, where you often pull away in fourth, but if you've ever been in a traffic jam made up purely of motor-bikes then that's spooky, irksome and the longer you've been here - fucking annoying. I saw a Humvee the other day - what a colossal fucking tank- size thing that is - not suitable for Nams roads at all, but then showing wealth these days isn't frowned upon. Anyway, where was I?  Mostly the traffic flows like blood through the veins, but when Vietnam needs to celebrate (football and holidays) there's not an inch of tarmac that isn't covered by rubber.

Although it's horrible to see cars making an impact, it's strangely assuring to see the old American jeeps left over from the war doing their rounds in abundance. That goes for the huge transportation trucks and lorry's that trundle through the night streets, depicting the logistics of an old army on the move lost in the time warped and vacant war. I'm not saying that war is the go, but the old timers (jeeps and trucks) still working as they did is.

There are many old war remnants for that matter, the streets shoe-shine boys use old ammunition boxes for their brushes and polish and the road side mechanics use abandoned military hospital supply boxes for their tools. The crippled bendy limbs and broken bodies of the Agent Orange victims are everywhere, still wearing fatigues that could easily be thirty years old or at least look it. The war is apparent everywhere, from museums in the cities to the still bogied minefields in the south. Yet 70% of the population here were never even born during the war. 70% of the population are under thirty years old. So, people's grievances seem minimal, if not non-existent. I'm sure of course that is not the case and war and its traumatic mental scar is etched on many an unforgetful family. But Buddhism it seems are not so much a forgiving breed but more reliant on the cycles of life - onwards and onwards my friends.

Most folk have their reservations about the Septics and that's worldly understandable. Happily enough though I can say that they have the same thoughts about the Frogs, oh what bliss this country can be. Two of the most love to hate countries in the world and the little fella's love to hate them both, well we've all had our history haven't we?  But then deep down you can sense a tolerance level pointing towards any westerner, after all there are enough of us here, an estimated 25000 in Vietnam and 15000 in Saigon alone. The Brits along with the Kiwi's it seems are making headways, quietly providing experts in the fields of marketing, IT, and teaching etc. This can also stretch to a list of most western countries from Canada to Europe, Russia and the sub-continent. The Septics are making huge waves since their allowance back in 1994. But let it be known, the Aussies here have a stronghold tighter than a Bondi Beach lifeguards budgie smugglers. The Aussies have a pretty solid stance here and have been laying the collective foundations for financial and development success for the past ten years or more, an apprenticeship that has boded them well within the communist government. Their efforts along with every other nation are welcomed and gratefully rewarded by the Vietnamese, but there will come a time when the expats expertise isn't needed anymore and Vietnam will not be a developing country  and so we'll all be kicked out of this fiercely patriotic and built in ‘western using' proud nation. A nation so proud that after years of oppression from Johnny Foreigner such as China, Septics and the Frogs, it is now only just beginning to find its own shoe size. They'll be fucked if they're just going to give it to the Aussies. The Aussies probably think they are doing well, but then so did Jason Donovan in the eighties. They also think that they're good at sport because they have a couple of players in the English premiership and a couple of Rusky imports, pole vaulting in their athletics team - but how wrong they are, okay, okay they're not so bad at rugby, cricket and swimming I suppose.

The Brits and the other nations here on the whole are the well-to-do public school boys and girls-high flying in the dirty thirties bracket and most probably went to university when they were still universities and not some Mickey Mouse pumped up sixth form college,- just like the Septics where you can get a certificate for learning how to breathe. Then there's of course the likes of me - a lucky fucker who's been able to avoid the the so often blagged, hailed and spittle-spouted his way through the, ‘Stand back and listen to me, I've got a made up past and I'm important,' crap!

If your not teaching here then you're  most definitely involved in IT, banking or marketing, you know, people who think they're a bit wacky living abroad on a salary three times more than their entire work force and living in pads which Hugh Hefner could quite happily cavort with three page 3's and a small goat.

But on a whole what a splendid crowd the expats are. Our weekly gathering in Saigon South to play touch rugby is truly a fine experience of man's  camaraderie. Played twenty minutes south of the city centre it's one of the only green open spaced pieces of countryside where you can cavort with a swinging outstretched cat. The river flows past the newly restored grass seeded footie pitch, echoing the sounds of the  tut-tut barges and tugs that haul the constructional raw materials into town. Absolutely blissful on a serene summer's day, but in the rainy season it's like playing on a polluted bowl of thick porridge. What ever petrol's, acids and chemicals are in the soaked mud, they lay dormant in your skin just long enough to give a small irritable rash. Nothing that can't be cured with a few complimentary cans of cold ‘Tiger' beer and some good old hearty jovial banter back at Vasco's. Needless to say the social life is revolved around booze and fags (not those, you Septics) and for those who still haven't recovered from the sweats since arriving then there's an abundance in the guise of the country's sexual frivolity. I can't work out if the locals are just poor and always gagging for it, or if it really is just a money incentive, a free passport and a ticket out. I hope that generalizes them enough, I mean if we were to praise our indigenous friends too much then they would only get encouraged. In fact we have some great Vietnamese friends ourselves - oh! aren't we culturally little brave soldiers. What a load of bollocks, I think I'm having a paranoid attack of I'm not a racist, honest I'm not, I say the same about anyone, I'm just a git.

If the city sweats are weighing you down why not take a slow bus to the Mekong Delta. This will capture the most pacifist of Guardian readers and transport them into images of a televised war, remember the show, what was it called again - ‘We gotta get out of this place' alias the American war. It's a mind-boggling landscape of waterways, forests, jungle and paddy fields, it looks like a bowl of vegetable noodle soup! The minute waterways that cut through the forest were used as hideouts in the war by the Vietcong and as you pass by the minefields and the odd bunker in a dug out canoe you can't help but think that Willem Dafoe is in front of you and Tom Berenger behind. Again if you are a Guardian reader then you'll think that it's just beautiful countryside.

This can also count for the floating market, a surreal experience reminiscent of Deptford high street in a flood. Then there's the mountain top Pagoda's which overlook the paddy fields as far as the distant towering mountains that create the border between Vietnam and Cambodia.

Now if that don't float your boat stick your thumb up your arse and sit on a tranquil beach in Mue Ne just passed Phan Tiet. It's a three-hour drive north east of Saigon, a stretch of beach which is gradually becoming more commercialized by enclosed resorts, yet the sands still remain un-congested, a stroll of seven km's or so of pure white sands, pounding waves and safe waters. Vast dunes and local fisherman protect this idyllic spot from it ever becoming a Blackpool. I say enclosed resorts because that's what they are, little camps of accommodation, eloquently set on stilted bamboo huts. The cheapest are the best boasting a more casual and relaxed feel about them. As you go farther up market there's a sense of plastic ‘Butlins' feel about them and then you might as well be in Blackpool, except of course for the view, a Bounty advert beach as you stare out past the fisherman in their one man round boats and onwards to the South China Sea.

You can always hire motorbikes and drive through the surf on treacherous sands to visit a remote fishing village up the coast and get pissed with the locals and play football with the kids, then take a two hour drive in the pitch dark and howling rain, cross country through makeshift paths, shifting sand and pot-holed tracks back to camp, like we did on Christmas day, all on a Honda 90cc. Anything and everyhting goes.

Absolutely anything goes, it's a fricking weird country, fun, frolics and freedom or just an endurance test to whittle down our patience? It's supposed to be a communist country, well it is in many ways, but probably more of a liberal socialist country. What I do know that is Britain has more rules and probably less freedom. Ah! no one knows what quite to expect when the red machine's in full effect. Well we bloody do actually - the government is going to sanction everything that's imported/exported or anything that's made and sold then grab a hefty levy then copy everything else and get rich by thinking they're doing hard work - you know 16 hour days with only 4 hours worth to show for it, the typically Asian ethic towards work. Whilst the real grafters play football barefoot in the road dodging the Honda's or what ever the cheaper imports are then go home to their wooden hut next to the stinky Saigon river, or smooch on lovers wall, Vietnam's equivalent to hanging outside McDonalds. And fuck yes God help us when that arrives - hooray for communism I say, the most frustrating unfair policy Carl Marx never dreamed of.

So think of us whilst you are sitting in your central heated, shag piled brick overcoats, looking out at the freezing drizzle wishing it was your turn to drive the sun, ‘Mr. Blue Sky you did it right, but here comes Mr. Night, creeping over now his hand is on your shoulder, never mind, I'll remember you this, I'll remember you this night. Mr. Blue Sky please tell us why you had to hide away for so long, so long....... If you haven't got it get it and turn the knob up to number ten and beyond

Vietnam - an amazing country with some beautiful people, a global success? You  bet yer!

cf.

p.s. join me next time when I take a trip up to Sapa to meet the ladies with the big thighs.