Vietnam: Museums and Amputees

Ben Tahn Market.
Saigon, Vietnam.

The man who split his time equally between standing behind the desk at the Giang Linh Hotel changing my U.S. dollars to Vietnamese dong, and sitting on a sofa watching TV and smoking told me that the War Remnants Museum was 1. Not very far, and 2. Cheap.  It basically met the minimum requirements for the sort of activity I was looking for.

I had spent a couple of days wandering around Saigon trying half-assed not to get lost.  I got lost routinely, but that is the point sometimes.  I would set out before noon or whenever I woke up, and return to my hotel for a couple of hours after eating lunch in one of the identical alcove restaurants to avoid the heat.  I would then head out again and find a market or some other place to walk around, take photographs, or just eat.  I was looking for some sort or tourist activity and the War Remnants Museum seemed to be the answer.

I walked as far as the Ben Than market, which has existed in one form or another since the early 1500’s, before succumbing to the heat and hopping into an official looking cab that did not screw me.  Fifteen minutes of snarled traffic and dilapidated buildings covered in grime and foliage later I was walking onto the War Remnants Museum compound.

Ben Tahn Market, outside.
Saigon, Vietnam.

The museum has one tall cinderblock structure that looks something like a parking garage (admittedly a pretty nice parking garage) that is surrounded by various vehicles and devices of the American war machine.  It seems to be the most heavily guarded parking garage in history.

Everything on display in the perimeter seems to be from the American military.  Amongst the landing craft, fighter jets, tanks, and attack helicopters are piles of unexploded ordinance.  Families take turns posing for photos next to giant machine-gun turrets. 

Off to the side is the recreation of a South Vietnamese political prison.  It is a hard thing to take in.  There is a guillotine that has seen heavy use.  The cages, regardless of being recreations, induce a feeling of intense claustrophobia when mixed with thick, hot air.  Every here and there are tools of torture on display next to photos of their results. 

Through the sights.  War Remnants
Museum.  Saigon, Vietnam.

The museum itself is largely dedicated to the reality of war in the eyes of the Vietnamese who suffered through it.  Walls are dedicated to the My Lai Massacre and in remembrance of the innocents of unknown villages who died at the hands of the “murderous, savage American aggressors.” 

It is a hard place to take in as an American.  While it is now called the War Remnants Museum it has had a few other names that were less subtle, for instance: The War Crimes Museum, The Museum of American War Crimes, and The House for Displaying War Crimes of American Imperialism and the Puppet Government.  The name has been changed to its current as part of Vietnam’s “normalization of relations with the United States.” 

Other exhibits include an extensive look at the results of Agent Orange, napalm, and unexploded ordinance.  Haunting black-and-whites depict children born with extreme mental and physical defects.  They are almost all wide-eyed and smiling, seemingly unaware at the horrible predicament they were born into; victims of a war long over. 

Another exhibit displays the photographs of the many photographers who died in Vietnam from dozens of countries. 

Outside, before I leave to get screwed over for the final time by a taxi driver, a man calls to me.  I see him first out of the corner of my eye.  As I turn I am taken back, shocked for a moment and then embarrassed that the man might have seen my surprise.  The man is a double amputee.

The Guillotine.  War Remnants Museum.
Saigon, Vietnam.

He tells me in quiet, fast, broken English that he had the misfortune of stepping on a leftover landmine.  His arms are cut to thin nubs of purple and bulbous scar-tissue just below his elbows. 

I notice them for the first time as he pulls out a book that he is trying to sell me.  The book is about the legacy of unexploded ordinance and mines that remain in Vietnam.  I look to his face and am again shocked, sickened, and then embarrassed.  His face is scarred to hell.  Purple lines and tears run from his chin through his lips to the rimmed hat that he is wearing.  His right eye is cloudy, faded, distorted, and dead.

I feel that I should buy his book but it is expensive.  He is persistent and becomes irritated when I tell him as polite as possible that I won’t be buying anything from him.  He takes the book from me and puts it back into an old saddle bag with his forearms.  He asks me where I am from and I tell him I am from Canada.

Read more...

Food and People in Saigon

An empty Street in the Backpacker
District.  Saigon, Vietnam.

The food in Saigon is cheap and everywhere.  I spent much of my time in Saigon just wandering around with my camera or trying to cross the street and I found that I was never more than a few meters away from food.  Pho stands seem to dot the overcrowded pavement in front of every other door.  Under foggy glass a collection of fresh vegetables and questionably fresh meat sat gathering a collection of flies.  In a minute you could have a bowl of pho for much less than a dollar. 

About these stands was an array of multi-colored plastic chairs and tables that were probably meant for little kids but were perpetually full of people enjoying their meals under the beating sun.

Courtesy of its history as a colony of France, fresh baguettes can be bought anywhere for next to nothing. 

The restaurants I frequented were largely across the street in the backpacker district.  Roads full of cheap restaurants, guesthouses, laundry, and booking services ran parallel to each other, forming this village of travelers, beggars, and more than a few dirty hippie drifters. 

The smells were intoxicating.  Lime and basil accented the smoke of burning meat.  Alcohol hung in the air as though the place were a giant open-air bar, which it basically was.  This place, the backpacker district was a little place of comfort for travelers without the luxury of a nice hotel or cloth napkins. 

Each restaurant had someone outside asking everyone who passed by if they were hungry, trying to drag in business as though they were fishing.  This is necessary because every restaurant there is almost identical: a long open room like a long garage, filled with tables and plastic chairs and cheap table cloths if there is one at all.  They lack ambiance but they deliver in quality food at low cost and the ability to watch as the night wears down. 

An Alcove Restaurant.
Saigon, Vietnam.

I sat towards the back of the alcove restaurant beneath a fan and still sweating.  Outside people laughed or shouted as twilight deepened.  The waiters and waitresses dropped all manner of dishes, pho and pineapple fried rice to burgers and meatloaf, in front of patrons from who knows why. 

Every now and again as I waited for my bowl of pho and pulled swigs of my warming Tiger beer a merchandise peddler would come in.  They usually had a tray of knock-off sunglasses or fans and they were usually visibly pissed off when you refused to buy anything. 

An American guy flirted with my waitress.  He is some sort of writer he said.  I blame him for my growling stomach. 

People walk in front of the entrance with loads of laundry or with backpacks that weigh more than half that of their owners.  So many dreadlocks. 

It is interesting to see who comes to these places.  For most people I do that thing where I try and figure their story out.  Do they live here?  Are they here for work?  Are they just passing through? 

The thing with Vietnam is that it has this weird mix of people.  The backpacker district is a good example of this.  Nobody here belongs but they don’t look entirely out of place.  Here and there are people in nice clothing wearing nice shoes and cargo shorts, but most people, including myself, have a layer of grime to them.  There are wild eyes in Vietnam and a sense of community. 

Then there is another population. I was eating lunch one day and they came in.  There were four or five of them.  Americans.  They wore Harley cutoff shirts or some cheap Saigon shirt that exposed black tattoos that had faded to a dull green.  They drank beer and talked and ate beneath a fan in the shade away from the sun. 

They were in their 50’s and 60’s I could guess and they were somber.  They laughed now and again but it was never the gut busting laughter that came from younger people who frequented these restaurants. 

As the meal wore on they became quiet.  Maybe they were tired and hot but they spent a long time drinking beer in silence staring out into the street.

Obviously what I am getting at here is that it is my assumption that some of these guys have been to Vietnam before under less than happy circumstances.  I wonder what it is like for the veterans of the war to return to a place that was so violent and horrible for them.  I wonder what brings them back.

Read more...

Saigon Traffic



The rotary. Saigon, Vietnam.



Saigon is set up in districts. District 1 is the main drag of the city and where the bulk of accommodations for visitors are located. The place is full of stores, sites, and people of every level of poverty and affluence. It was a dynamic and mad place and I am happy to have spent my time in Vietnam there.



Saigon, regardless of district, is controlled chaos, organized entropy. The mindset of Saigon is realized through the total shit show that is rush hour traffic. In District 1 there is a major rotary. In the center is a sculpture of a man who I assume is probably Ho Chi Minh. Five or six different roads pool into this rotary so that it looks like a nightmare to negotiate under normal circumstances.



In Saigon, like the rest of the world, rush hour is the plague of the day. The thing is rush hour seems to last most of the day here. Also, there are not too many cars. If there is some hidden population of four-wheeled transport then they know well enough to avoid this rotary.

Ajummas: not caring who is behind them internationally.
Saigon, Vietnam.

Instead of cars there are scooters and motorbikes. Thousands of them. When the traffic is bad, which is always, scooters clog the roads like blood pumping through excited veins. They ride as many abreast as possible and sometimes more than the road can hold. In effect, the street becomes a river raging in a flood, spilling rapids over its banks.

I made several trips to this artery. Firstly, because the spectacle of this traffic and the ragtag businesses that spring up about it (air-compressors, petrol in liter bottles of cola) is fascinating. Further, on the other side of the street is the backpacker district, full of cheap lodging, laundry, food and other logistic vendors. It is the place to be.

To get to the other side of the road, especially at the peak, is a lethal Why-did-the-chicken-cross-the-road joke. It seems impossible. There are not many pedestrian crossing signals and if there are they are usually inoperable or universally ignored by drivers and pedestrians alike.

To cross the street is a test of faith and steadfast nerves. The trick is this. Find an opening and start walking. Do NOT change your speed. It might even be helpful to look forward and pretend that there are not 800 scooters whizzing by you. Reach the other side and thank god that you made it. The other option is to wait for a local to cross and hope that they soften the blow when that hit comes.

Scooters.  Saigon, Vietnam.

There is a constant peal of anxious horns. Drivers on these roads seem to beep not so much as a warning or threat so much as an acknowledgement that they are entering into your space. Given that the roads are total gridlock (very fast moving gridlock to be true) the sound of whiny horns is constant.

Every so often a man in a pedal operated tuk-tuk or a salvager pulling a car stacked impossibly high with junk will come on and mess everyone up.

Read more...