Until last Friday. We took our trip to the astounding metropolis Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon, and I think that the students were as impressed as I with the differences between that city and Hanoi. The two cities have the sort of uneasy rivalry, bordering on mutual ridicule, that one sees between Osaka and Tokyo, Beijing and Shanghai, and New York and Every Other Place in America that Considers Itself, However Ludicrously, an Important City. But it's hard for me to take sides, given my new affection for Hanoi and even newer affection for HCM City.
The physical layout of the city, with wide, French-style avenues (wonder how that happened), certainly contrasts with the (as one of my students put it) nearly medieval character of of sharp, twisty roads in Hanoi. The prevalence of foreign businesspeople (including, perhaps most prominently, an astounding Korean presence) also suggests a kind of cosmopolitanism that one doesn't necessarily see in Hanoi, even with the gorgeous mergers of architectural styles that have yielded the distinctive character of the streets up here. But the in-your-face modernity of HCM City's District 1, with its luxury hotels and boutiques, could also lead one to neglect Chùa Bà Thiên Hậu, or the Thien Hau Temple, with its distinctively Chinese roots. It's dedicated to a goddess who particularly protects sailors and fishermen (and, if you look at a map of Vietnam, you'll see why she might be of more importance here than in, say, Laos). Most noticeable to the students (including the one who first took a version of this snapshot, which I immediately did myself; she shall remain nameless though I encourage her to write a post to take credit for her good eye, since this is a much
better photo than any I'd have dreamt up on my own) were the visuals of the offerings, mostly in the form of incense. For special wishes that one might want to make, a long stick of incense makes a statement, but after it burns out in 48 hours, what then? Those with special goals -- whether to pray for their child's application to school, or the memory of a loved one -- might wish to purchase one of the hanging, conical incense spirals that sit alongside one another, dropping bits of still hot ash onto those who gather to take photos at the edge of the courtyard.After the temple, we took in more of the rich melange of religious influences in HCM City by heading to the
famous Cathedral of Notre Dame, which sits a bit uneasily alongside the spectacular Central Post Office. The Cathedral is an architectural wonder, from the Escher-like tile work on the floor near the entrance to the neon-veiled Mary to the left of the spectators. The wall tiles around Maria are thanks and messages from donors who have presumably paid money to make sure that their prayers are remembered permanently in this highly visible symbol of Vietnamese Catholicism. I wish that there had been some worshippers with whom we could have spoken, but we were not there during Mass and could therefore intrude, as touristic ethnographers, into
their prayers. Instead, we took photos of one another's feet against the perception-destroying floors and of the silently glowing Mother of God.
I had to meet a friend that night, so I skipped out on the group dinner and wandered around the hotel area early in the evening. The Circle K convenience store chain, which I haven't seen up here in Hanoi but seemed to be everywhere in HCM City, is a sentimental favorite of mine because they're all over Japan. I pulled into one around 6:45 p.m. to load up on bottles of water and razor blades, struggling even worse than usual with my Vietnamese because of the difference in accents between Hanoi and HCM City, when an alarmingly sudden and violent downpour began. Walking back to my hotel seemed unwise. One of the other customers purchased a can of beer and pulled out his cellphone, speaking into it in obviously native Japanese. Thank God. For the booze and the chance to feel like something other than a monolingual nincompoop. I purchased a beer myself and stood there, chatting first with the staff and another customer in a hideous mixture of Vietnamese and English, and then to the other fellow in Japanese. I was beginning to do something I've read about in novels, seen in movies, watched on TV, and occasionally heard about from acquaintances before they politely excuse themselves and move to another table. I was making a new friend. In HCM City. Maybe, just maybe, I had found my place.
And then they walked in. They looked innocuous enough, two cute little girls, probably around 10 years old, both of them taking off their soaked shoes before walking through the door. The staff obviously knew them, as the Japanese man did. One of the girls had obviously decided that The Feral Kid in The Road Warrior was far more than a mere comedic foil; he was a model for both appearance and action. She started right away with the English: "Mister, please buy me Milo," referring to the sort of chocolate drink mix that one, I guess, puts into liquids that don't contain alcohol. Since I presumably might have mistaken her for a pushy street urchin coming up to a random stranger and demanding that he buy her stuff because, frankly, he's stuck in a convenience store in the middle of a rainstorm and she can make the experience even more purgatorial than it sounds, she immediately emphasized the magnanimity lying behind her request. Well, demand. Well, frankly, order. She said, "Not for me, for my sister," pointing at the other kid. The other girl also said, "Mister, please buy me Milo......Not for me, for my sister."
The other customers and staff, having seen this routine before, told the kids to knock it off. I looked at the Milo, calculated the price in my head, and decided, you know, this kid deserves something for figuring out a way to bug wealthy foreign tourists this efficiently. I reached for the roughly $2 package of Milo, at which point the girl immediately said, "not this one....that one!" I followed her finger to a massive jar of higher-end chocolate mix, running about $14. At this point, I said, "err..." though, to be fair, I was trying to think about how to say "err....." in Vietnamese, which made me less eloquent than I might ordinarily have been.
The girls continued harassing me, but I wouldn't bend. Sorry, for a couple of kids who have learned just enough English to bug the hell out of me, $2 is as high as I go. To irritate me enough to pay for $14 or else make me escape into the certain death afforded by the monsoon, they'd better learn how to recite the entire screenplay for You've Got Mail. I kept offering the smaller tin but they would have none of it. Fortunately, the rain the let up in time for me to avoid the certain segue to Hanks/Ryan/Ephron and my complete and utter capitulation. I said goodbye to the Japanese fellow, shaking his hand. The Feral Kid -- and I suspect that this is an image I will take with me to my grave -- reached out her hand to shake hands with me; when I reached for it, she pulled it back immediately and smoothed her hair, mocking me with the old "fake handshake" trick. I took off down the block, with the girls following me, screaming for me to buy the gum, at a much higher price, that they had just purchased at the Circle K. Realizing that they were going to find out the hotel at which I was staying -- which I couldn't see as being of a lot of benefit to me -- I stopped into a bar with two security guards in front, both of them laughing and then yelling "Đi Đi" to the kids, sending them on their way.
The following morning, the group went on a tour of the tunnel area of Cu Chi District in Saigon, about an hour's drive from the center of the city. This was an elaborate underground complex used by the Vietcong to stage their raids in the Tet Offensive. Now, of course, it's a tourist site, with all that that implies -- and so much more. The show begins with a lecture by one's tour guide (ours was terrific, and it appears that individual guides have the right to do a lecture and then show the film that's available on DVD in the opening lecture room). The documentary, apparently made in 1967 for a Vietnamese-language audience, is a fascinating piece of work. The English-language translation, evidently added much later (as was the electronic soundtrack), sticks uncomfortably close to the original; someone apparently hadn't gotten the oft-repeated memo about how the Vietnam War was a tragedy for both sides, that it was the result of mistakes, and that we're beyond that and that the USA and Vietnam are now good friends. In this video, peasants are valorized for their skill in killing Americans. Indeed, there was apparently a citation known as the "American Killer Hero Award," which may not roll off the tongue in English as easily as "Medal of Honor" or "Silver Star," but one can't fault it for a lack of descriptiveness. I'll admit to loving the video for the same reason that I love watching just about any piece of film or television that undermines our most valiant efforts to sanitize and cleanse the past. The language and emotion of the video were raw, and for that reason good preparation for some of the more striking parts of the tour. The display of booby traps -- all filled with bamboo spikes meant to penetrate hearts, stomachs, legs, arms, genitalia, skulls -- would have been alarming even if not accompanied with a mural proudly showing caricatured American soldiers screaming in pain as they're killed by one contraption or another. It's hard as well not to be impressed by the way in which the firing range -- a couple of bucks per bullet, should one want to fire away from an AK-47 or M-16 -- is located uncomfortably close to (by which I mean, 20 feet or so) the refreshment and souvenir station that comes up 2/3 of the way through the tour. The last section of the tour allows people to crawl through the tunnels (I declined, not so much out of fear as a sense that, having left my regular glasses on the bus, I'd be unable to see anything through my prescription sunglasses) before sitting down for a few strips of tapioca dipped in peanut. It was probably the most memorable and enjoyable tourist site (and I know tourism!) I've ever visited.
It was hot out, unsurprisingly, and I stopped back at the Circle K for some water on the way to my hotel. The Feral Kid popped in again, this time with another, older "sister." Recognizing me, she immediately demanded that I buy her some Milo. I declined, thinking that she'd maybe give up or rethink her negotiating strategy (by which I mean, her strategy of not negotiating). She grabbed my forearm, leaning forward to knock me against the candy rack, then attempted to block my door, preventing me from exiting the store. Quick note: it's very odd to stand directly across the street from a very elite-looking Sheraton hotel and feel that you're unable to get out of a convenience store because you're worried about being attacked by a ten-year-old with the rage virus. But I've always felt that the way you know you're making the world a better place is by thinking about your effect on the children. And at the moment of that push, I could rest assured: sooner or later, I rub everyone the wrong way, and not just in Hanoi.
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