We arrived in Saigon, now officially known as Ho Chi Min City, in the afternoon with enough time to grab a quick gin and tonic beside the pool surrounded by more white faces than we had seen in the last two weeks.  The stereo pumped out loud music as we chose a table, not for the best view of the Mekong, but to catch every possible breeze.  It was ninety degrees.  If an infinity pool that gently pours over the side of the building from 25 floors above the sidewalk is meant to be soothing, the effect was lost on me. Perhaps it was the disconcerting sign stenciled into the three-foot high plexi-glass railing – the only barrier between one side of the pool and a rather nasty fall — that warned: do not lean on glass. Saigon is not Hanoi.  With all deference to the reunification of Vietnam after the end of the Vietnam War, the north and south are still divided in subtle and not so subtle ways.  More on that later, or read Melissa’s latest post, Saigon In Thirty-Six Hours. 

Our evening plans, as described in our itinerary, included a “wonderful,” and “very safe” Vespa tour of Saigon.  I liked the “wonderful” part, but found the “very safe” part somewhat alarming.  If you invited someone on a tour of Seattle and casually said, “by the way, it is very safe,” the first thing the tourist thinks is why is this reassurance for my safety necessary.  I might have thought the same thing about the Vespa tour except after experiencing the drive from the airport to our hotel, I realized the “very safe” assurance was actually similar to someone telling you that cliff diving is “very safe.”  To describe the streets of Saigon as choked with traffic is like calling a volcanic eruption a gentle boil.

Nonetheless, we boarded our Vespas.  Melissa got the young cute guy.  He told her later that night as they were flying through the streets and Melissa was hugging his waist, that “driving you on my Vespa makes me very happy.”  I bet it does big guy.  I got the older (and totally kind) guy.  Every time I climbed on or off his bike he unbuckled my helmet as if I were ten.  I’d like to think I could have done it for myself, but after the gin and tonic and experiencing my first traffic circle (complete mayhem), I was grateful for the help. By the end of the night I just stood still with my chin out and eyes closed until he lifted the thing from my head. By the way, wearing a helmet on a Vespa in Saigon is about as comforting as wearing a seat belt on a plane.  Think about it. 

Our “very safe” tour included five stops with snacks and drinks – alcoholic or otherwise.  Take one guess which choice I made.  The food, like all the food on this trip is fresh, spicy in the most delightful, mouth-watering way and succulent.  Our official tour guide – a young 25-year-old woman with the first tattoos I have seen in Southeast Asia – met us at each stop to explain the meal.  Her name is “Na” as in Christina without the first two syllables.  She works at least three jobs: an English language tour guide from 5 or 6 until 9pm, a bartender from 10pm until almost 3am, and a freelance graphic designer (her official degree) in the mornings.  She gets up everyday at 6am.  She lives with her sister and boyfriend, and she was looking forward to a few days off for the lunar New Year to visit her parents in Hoi An, the same city Melissa and I had just visited.  She was going to ride her motorbike for two days to get home and two days to return to Saigon.  Over the course of the evening, Na told us her story.  I’ll save that for another post.

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I’d like to take one moment here to describe for you the types of things you typically see on motorbikes.  You might think, like I did, that the bike would contain a driver and possibly one passenger sitting behind him or her.  You would only be partially right.  Most motorbikes have at least two people.  Many have entire families with the toddlers standing (on a box or on the scooter itself) in front of whomever is driving.  I saw mothers sitting sidesaddle behind their husbands carrying an infant in a sling.  I saw as many as four people on one bike.  I saw every conceivable package strapped in every conceivable way to the bike including live chickens in plastic bags and even a live goose, its neck protruding from its bag and flapping in the wind like a dog’s ears hanging out the window of a car.  It is simultaneously terrifying and magical, a type of choreographed chaos.  And here’s the thing: although everyone uses his or her horn, no one ever gets mad, ever.  It’s like a school of fish swarming through the streets being briefly divided by cars, buses and vans before rejoining as one synchronized unit. Like Saigon, it takes some getting used to before you see its elegance and grace. 

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There is so much more to Saigon and Vietnam, but I am unable to capture it in one post.  I do not yet have the distance to process the relentlessness of it all.  Like the traffic, it just keeps coming at you.