Welcome To Saigon part I

I arrived in Saigon drunk and miserable. The flight attendants had obliged my every request for red wine, beer, spirits — whatever I wanted — and my lack of valiums meant that I was drunk and awake for 80% of the 15 hour flight.

As I got off the plane the climate consumed me. It was everywhere at once. The humidity carried heat into every crevice, every orifice. The swamp. I knew immediately that I had better get used to it. The sun wasn’t even out from behind the clouds… Evidently, it was going to get worse.

Immigration was painfully slow, but I had been primed with a warning to expect inefficiency unless I was willing to pay a bribe… I had a Visa On Arrival Letter and I knew it should have been relatively straightforward, although I was prepared for corrupt and inefficient immigration officers. I knew the choice usually came down to two options:

1) Pay a bribe, get through in minutes

2) Play by the rules and wait while they slowly process your papers, while they presumably watch you on CCTV, looking for any indication of lucrative impatience.

I could afford the bribe but the idea of handing over money to a corrupt fuck in a uniform rankled me. Fuck that. I had a book with me; I had music to listen to. I could wait.

I put on some punk rock, got out my copy of Hesse’s Steppenwolf and refused a pitifully unsubtle attempt to extort $50 in exchange for a quick stamp.

After 20 minutes of sitting around, happy in my own world I eventually obtained my 3 month tourist visa, passed security and walked towards the terminal exit.

Outside the airport a sea of people with placards bearing Western, Chinese and Indian-looking names waited for passengers… Vietnamese hawkers battled with each other for the chance to get you in a cab, sell you a sim card or otherwise engage you in some sort of overpriced transaction. I watched as my fellow countrymen fell for their treachery — handing over currency they didn’t understand for services they ddint understand to eager and well-versed con men. Fish in a barrel. I didn’t care.

Mo had arranged to meet at the smoking area so I slung my laughably small backpack over my shoulder, shuffled through the sea of tourists found myself a seat by the ashtray, stopping briefly to buy a 2 dollar beer from a coffee shop.

I sat, smoked and drank the beer. Then another two. He was uncharacteristically late. I guessed he might have presumed my ordeal with immigration should have taken longer… By the time he arrived I was back to peak drunkenness, having topped up the dizzy apex I reached on the plane with reasonable success.

“Hello stranger.” He grinned a broad smile of bright white teeth. I peered up, the sun stinging my eyes.

“Jesus… I’d forgotten how fucking tall you are. How the fuck are you?”

“Yeah, alright I suppose” He nodded at the pile of empty beer cans and cigarette butts at my feet. “I suppose I don’t need to ask the same of you?”

“Nah, I suppose not.”

He laughed silently as I stood up to give him a hug, “It’s good to see you man. Really.”

“You too brother, you too. It’s been… Shit, how long? Four years?”

“Something like that…” I shoved my pile of rubbish into a plastic bag and threw it towards a bin. “How’ve you been man? How’s this place treating you?”

“You know what… hold your questions for now. Let’s get into the city. It’ll be easier to explain once we get out of this place.” I nodded and, bag on shoulder, followed him to his bike.

The 30 minutes of terror that followed was powerfully sobering. Gripping onto the back of Mo’s bike — a cheap Chinese knock-off Honda Wave –while we weaved through what seemed to be a traffic system guided by absolute chaos stripped every drop of alcohol from my blood and replaced it with pure liquid fear.

Horns blared as collisions were avoided by mere inches, intersections teemed with meshed lines of traffic that seemed to be horrifyingly dangerous yet impossibly… efficient? Maybe efficient isn’t the word, but I was certainly surprised to not see more deaths on the road.

In fact, I didn’t see a single collision, despite numerous startling near misses. Moreover, the traffic was moving. As I watched the horror unfold I couldn’t help but think of London’s viscous traffic system: Millions of people just siting. Waiting for the green light that told them they could start crawling forward. Stop, crawl, stop, crawl…

Compared to that nonsense there seemed to be a certain elegance to the chaos of Saigon’s streets that, once the fear had started to subside, I couldn’t help but respect.

We arrived on a busy touristy-looking street that Mo informed me would be my home, until I found a proper place. Pham Ngu Lao. I recognized the name as the area that had once housed the American G.I.s during the war. It had since evolved into a hive of tourist activity with travel agents and salesmen of all sorts shouting aggressive sales pitches at any passing white face… They all bore the same look of cold industriousness as the hawkers at the airport, uncaring and indifferent yet desperate for sales.

Mo parked us up outside a place he said was a decent enough start and ordered us two Saigon Greens and two Pho Tais: noodle soup with strips of raw beef slowly cooking in the broth, served with a side of leaves, chillies and various weird looking condiments.

“So, welcome to HCMC motherfucker.” He pointed at his bowl. “Pho is everything you need to know about Vietnam. Simple, complex, tasty and as intense as you want it to be.” He pointed at the chillies.

I politely smiled at what I assumed to be an often-repeated, well-rehearsed gag of his.

“You’re gonna see a lot of shit here. Especially down there,” he pointed his chopsticks down a side road, Do Quan Dao. “End of that road’s Bui Vien. Vietnam’s version of Khao San Road.”

I first went to Bankok’s Khao San Road some years ago, as an early twenty-something. Before the brutality of London had stripped me of my naivety. The parties, booze and general atmosphere of carnage of Thailand’s ever-ready backpacker street were perfect for what I was back then.

But, that was then. Subsequent visits had routinely disappointed me, relegating it to the sort of place I would avoid unless absolutely necessary… I had no intention of returning any time soon.

Mo continued, “Everything’s for sale here, and everyone’s a threat. Bag snatchers and grifters mainly. Some people hate it, some people love it. Whatever your opinion though, it’s like nothing else you’ll ever see.”

“Like Khao San Road? So… pissed up sex pats… rich white girls getting their dreadlocks and fisherman pant uniforms… All ready for their ‘authentic experience’… that shit?”

“Well… yeah. Kinda. It’s less of a Trustafarian production line than Khao San Road, but you do see a lot of hippies…” he trailed off as he blew on a hot spoonful of thin pho broth. “It smells better too.”

“True… I was kinda looking forward that lovely mix of shit and flowers in the air you get in Bangkok.”

“Right… Something to do with the French sewage system apparently… There are hookers though. Sex pats. Scumbags. But good people too… You’ll see. Just keep your wits about you. The thieves love a drunken tourist and, no shit, you will get robbed.

“Everyone does. Keep your shit close to you.” He pointed at my iPhone, sitting on the table. “Like that. Don’t do that”

I put the phone in my pocket. “Sure.”

He sat chewing on a piece of meat for a moment, staring at me.

I gulped down my mouthful and returned his gaze.

“Well, let’s get it over with. I know you must have heard from London… So you probably know why I’m here. What do you want to know?”

Mo offered a measured shrug, while locking eyes with me, “I heard Kelly’s dead.”

I looked down at the table and nodded, taking newfound interest in a jar of pickled garlic sitting beside the chillies and Hoi Sin sauce.

“I heard people are looking for you.”

“Well, yeah…”

“But: I know you.” I looked up to see him still staring at me, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“And so I know that whatever they say happened doesn’t mean shit. So fuck that noise.”

“Thanks…”

“If you want to talk about it, go for it. If not, whatever man. That shit doesn’t matter. Alright?”

“To be honest, I get it. I get why they’re looking for me. Shit, I would be if it was my sister.”

Mo frowned. “Grief’s a fucked up thing man… Makes people do crazy shit… Look for easy answers… Easy scapegoats.

“You were probably right to get the fuck out of the way. At the very least until the dust settles and they maybe start to see sense.”

I nodded. We sat silently for a while, finishing our food. Then, gulping down the last of my beer, said, “Alright, fuck this. Lets go look around. I want to see some weird shit.”

He nodded with a smile, yelled at a waitress — something in Vietnamese — and we paid up. I grabbed my bag and we walked down the road, into Bui Vien.

The minute we turned into the road I could see what he meant. Khao San Road had nothing on this circus of insanity. I tightened up and stared at the madness around me… Prostitution, drug dealers, hustlers and thieves… Gullible marks primed for the street-hardened con artists. Filthy streets and shoe-less kids. Stray dogs and dirt-cheap beer.

Unsure how to get my head around it all I fought a brief mental battle… To leave in disgust or throw myself right into the filth?

After a brief moment of doubt I decided on the latter.

Mo elbowed me, “Welcome to Bui Vien bitch. Mind your head on the way down.”