Surrender To Saigon It Haunts, It Agitates, It Beguiles; It Sucks You In And Won’t Let You Go
In most Americans’ minds, Saigon will forever mean the Vietnam War.
Nearly 22 years after communist troops claimed the city, the war that killed 58,000 U.S. soldiers still stubbornly haunts Americas collective psyche.
In Saigon (officially Ho Chi Minh City, but everyone still calls it Saigon), the legacy of the war evokes intense emotion on every street, around every corner: the former United States Embassy complex, overgrown, eerily empty and encased in barbed wire; the American War Crimes Museum, where the atrocities still live in exhibits of torture, mayhem and massacre; the grim basement “war rooms” in the Reunification Palace, where the South Vietnamese government directed its final, futile efforts.
Yet, while the past is unavoidable in Saigon, so is the present. With stunning clarity, visitors soon discover that Vietnam is a country, not just a war or an anguished state of mind.
And Saigon is a living, complex part of that country, populated by people who are hospitable, remarkably resilient and forward-looking. Centuries of conflict seem to have given them a tenacity that is evident in how they deal with the considerable daily challenges of contemporary life.
The city’s colorful exoticism makes it one of the most fascinating destinations in Asia. Saigon today churns, agitates, compels: Markets bustle with hyperactivity; pagodas enchant; night life is lively, with everything from hip new bars to theater featuring the ancient culture’s timeless traditions; artisans create beautiful handicrafts that are a bargain-shopper’s dream; young women dressed in the traditional “ao dais,” the white flowing tunic and pants, aggressively maneuver through the throngs of traffic on Honda motorbikes.
The juxtaposition of the present and past makes the city seethe with the surreal:
Children play kick-ball and try to sell you postcards - “Ten for one dollar!” they shout in impressive English in front of the decaying former U.S. Embassy.
In the searing downtown heat, an old woman clad in black pajamas and conical hat struggles while balancing a heavy load of produce on her back. Behind her, modern cranes reach skyward over the building site of a new Hyatt hotel.
At Apocalypse Now Bar downtown, the irony is palpable. Huey helicopters are painted on the ceiling, blood-red light bulbs glow eerily, posters of the 1979 movie for which the bar is named hang on the walls, Jimi Hendrix blasts from the stereo speakers. Saigon residents, European backpackers, French tourists and other foreigners pack the place. It’s clearly the hippest night spot around.
At the height of the Vietnam War in 1967, Saigon was home to 2 million people.
Since then the population has nearly doubled, to 3.8 million today. By 2001, growth analysts predict more than a half-million more residents for the city now named for North Vietnam’s leader during the war.
These days, Vietnam is slowly and cautiously opening its doors to Western tourism after years of isolation.
The change is spurred by the collapse of the Soviet Union and communist economic policies, the normalization of diplomatic relations with the United States, and the fear of being left behind as its Southeast Asian neighbors such as Thailand increasingly draw Western investment.
On a recent visit, many Saigon tourists were young back-packing Europeans seeking adventure and organized groups of older French tourists. (France, of course, has its own bloodied history with the country.)
We encountered no other American tourists, except for a group of veterans, who were there to visit the battlefields where they had fought and to build a hospital in the countryside.
Despite “doi moi” (Vietnam’s version of economic liberalization), the country remains mired in poverty. In Saigon, homeless beggars and street children persistently pester for sympathy and dollars.
In the morning, the city is shrouded in wood smoke, as most people still cook on open fires. The lack of adequate public restroom facilities turns outdoor walls into men’s urinals.
People carry on the business of living and working on the streets. Saigon doesn’t have the charm of sidewalk cafes, plazas or pubs commonly found in European cities. Instead, the sidewalks teem with people trying to eke out a living by selling everything from Zippo lighters to luggage to live chickens.
A butcher hacks a piece of beef directly on the cement. A woman tries to sell you a sick-looking puppy, one of a dozen she has stacked on one another in a small cage. Small stools and tables crowd the pavement where vendors offer “pho,” the traditional noodle dish. Under-employed and unemployed men sit around playing board games.
In the central district near the Saigon River, the city’s rhythms are played out against the backdrop of the former French colonial period. Most of the city’s attractions and nicer hotels, restaurants and shops are in this area, as is its abundant night life.
The lovely avenues, Notre Dame Cathedral, stately Opera House and elegant buildings are aesthetically pleasing. Still, they create a cultural curiosity in a society that mounted an epic struggle to overthrow the progenitors of such monuments.
Wherever you go in Saigon, traffic consists of a chaotic swarm of bicycles, pedicabs, motorcycles, motor scooters and taxis. The lack of traffic lights or signs makes each time you cross a street a death-defying experience.
On your first day of touring, you quickly realize that you have the choice of either staying on one sidewalk, or figuring out how to cross the street while remaining in one piece. (The method: Step out - there is never a clearing, so it’s useless to wait - and cross steadily and slowly.
This gives drivers adequate time, you hope, to adjust for your presence and veer around you. Motorbikes will not slow down, but they will try to avoid hitting you.)
The intense traffic, heat, noise and poverty can tire even the most hardy traveler. It’s easy to develop a love-hate relationship with the city in a fairly short time.
Still, Saigon sucks you in and doesn’t let go. As your plane takes off and you watch the Mekong delta disappear behind you, your mind isn’t dwelling on the pain of the place, but on its powerful mystique.