Saigon by Ted Guhl

During my first moments in Saigon I half expected to see something shocking, surreal, a time-warped American tank, or columns of Viet Cong marching down the street. Instead I saw a rather poor, pleasant looking city of wide boulevards, hundreds of bicycles, motor scooters, cyclos, and a few cars and trucks. The people, dressed in a wide variety of clothing from lovely Ao Dais to Western business suits, appeared lively and attractive.
Leaving the taxi, three white jacketed doormen quickly whisked my bag and me into the lobby of the Saigon International, a small French-era hotel. Within minutes I was registered, assured that the required notification with the authorities would be handled by the management, and escorted with smiling efficiency to my modern air-conditioned room on the third floor. There was no elevator; however the stairs were wide with large windows on each landing, like those of an elegant European house.
I unpacked, cleaned up a bit, and went for a walk. Upon leaving the hotel I was approached by a cyclo driver.
"Hello. Where you come from?"
"USA."
"Where you going?"
"Walking around."
"I give you tour? Go to war museum. Go shopping."
"No, thank you, I just want to walk around."
"Maybe good restaurant? Show many temple."
"No, thanks. Maybe later."
"OK. No problem. I am here."
It turned out that the War Museum was at the first corner, but I missed the sign and kept walking. Despite some interesting examples of colonial architecture, the area seemed amazingly uniform. Each block had a few stores and at least one street vendor.
One shop that caught my interest was sold Buddhist paraphernalia; icons, incense, calendars, and so on. I went in and tried to ask a few questions about the wares, but no one spoke English. I managed to buy a calendar with a picture of the Buddha surrounded by Vietnamese children.
After returning to my hotel to regroup and study the map and guidebook, I was ready to venture forth again. Negotiating a US$1 fare from my cyclo driver took only a minute or two and we were off. A cyclo, short for "cyclo-pousse", is a bicycle powered mini carriage with the driver sitting behind the rider. Though one may feel a bit of guilt at being peddled about, it is a pleasant form of transportation used by anyone without a motorcycle. It is slow enough to enjoy the scenery and, if you look like a tourist, it comes with advice and commentary. Within a few blocks my driver began a pitch to be a guide for the rest of the day, the night and however long I might be around. I assured him that I wanted only to be let off outside the Rex Hotel and that from there I intended to walk about and explore.
"Okay, I wait for you, bring you back, Okay?"
I let him know that I had no idea how long I would be or where my walking would carry me. I might be two hours or late into the night.
"Okay, no problem. I wait."
"Maybe long long time you wait," I said.
I use "broken English" regularly and without self-consciousness. I had discovered in previous wanderings that this simplest form of language was effective and appreciated.
"Okay, no problem. I bring you back to hotel."
Realizing that I would most certainly be returning, I asked him how much?
"No problem, it's okay, anything you want."
"Two dollar?"
"Okay."
The driver dropped me off at the Rex Hotel, an ornate Gothic building which once served as a sleeping and watering spa for US military advisors and now home to one of the better known massage services. I walked east on Le Loi Boulevard to Deng Khoi Street, wandering off onto side streets now and again; absorbing sights and sounds. Every block or two I would pass cyclo or motor bike drivers who would ask me where I was going, or gesture questioningly.
Late afternoon found me still wandering the streets, I knew I was hungry and would have to eat soon if I wanted to keep my energy up but I could not make up my mind where. I wanted to try some of the local food from a small cafe or street cart but could not remember, beyond some rather strongly worded warnings about unwashed fruit and unboiled water, what the guidebooks had said about this. Finally I ended up eating some fast food chicken from a place called California Fried Chicken. It was dreadful and served me right for being so fearful.
Feeling dislocated, I returned to the Rex Hotel, where my driver found me immediately and gestured for me to get into the cyclo. "You want go eat?" he asked.
"I eat already," I replied, as we headed down the street away from the plaza.
"Want go to nightclub?"
I said nothing for a moment, trying to decide if a beer or two would feel right, or if I should return to the hotel. Part of my mind was warning me that I should watch out where I let myself be taken in this indecisive and somewhat uneasy mood.
"You want meet girl?"
"No. Maybe a beer."
"Okay. I know good place. Cheap." And off we went, east on Le Loi Boulevard and south down Deng Khoi Street again. Good lord, I thought, he's taking me to one of the tourist bars.
However, we were soon at the end of the street, turning right along the river, and the driver was saying something that sounded like "Foreign Paris."
"What?" I shouted, over the noise of a hundred mopeds.
"Foreign Paris, Foreign Paris" he exclaimed excitedly, pointing to a huge, very ugly Hotel floating on the banks of the Saigon River.
"Ah, yes, Floating Palace. From Australia." I agreed.
"Yes, Foreign Paris."
We turned another corner and pulled up at circular kiosk located in a traffic island in the middle of Nguyen Hue Boulevard where the patrons sat at tables by a long unused fountain. My driver indicated I should go get a beer and he would wait. I ordered a 333 local beer that turned out to be quite palatable. two young Vietnamese jumped up from the closest table and gestured for me to sit. They joined a larger group at another table. Almost immediately, another young man, perhaps in his late twenties, joined me.
The conversation began haltingly. He asked me where I was from; I replied and asked him what his name was. I learned, during the course of twenty minutes or so, that he was studying English, wanted to get a job in a Hotel, was somehow related to the owner of the Kiosk, and that his sister had a restaurant somewhere nearby. Although I was enjoying the first conversation I had had since arriving, I felt a vague sense of unease. There would be long minutes of silence. His eyes would often search around, almost as if there were some danger or possible embarrassment.
"Should I eat at your sister's restaurant?"
He looked at me as if he weren't certain what I had said.
"Is good food at sister's restaurant?" I rephrased.
He smiled and shrugged as if to say, not really.
A long pause ensued and then he asked me, "You want come to party Sunday?"
Uncertain I had heard properly I repeated, "Party?"
"Yes, party, Sunday. You come?"
"Where?" I asked.
"Restaurant."
"Sister's restaurant? Sure."
Another long pause ensued. Finally I asked, "What time?"
"Yes, Two o'clock."
Another pause.
"Where we meet?" I asked.
He looked decidedly confused and I began to feel more uncomfortable. Had the invitation been a whim that he already regretted? Was this some sort of scam that he hadn't quite worked out and wasn't certain he could carry off? However, he repeated, "You come to party? Okay?" in a voice that seemed somehow desperate.
"Okay, Where we meet?" I asked again.
"Yes," he replied, "we meet here. Two o'clock. Sunday."
But he wasn't looking at me. Something was definitely wrong here. What do I say? Surely this much discomfort couldn't be simply from the difficult of speaking English? Without much enthusiasm I said I would be there.
He left and I got back in the cyclo. The driver had further ideas and suggestions concerning the rest of the evening but I insisted we return to the hotel. Once this was accepted the negotiations for tomorrow's tour began. Feeling somewhat more confident in my ability to direct my own destination despite continued suggestions from him, I asked him how much he wanted to be my driver for the day tomorrow. He suggested that whatever I offered would be fine.
"Five dollars?"
"Okay, no problem."
Half way back to my hotel, a motor bike pulled up alongside and slowed to match our pace. On it were two attractive young women, perhaps in their twenties. The driver had a charming smile, full of playful energy. The rider, who looked a bit younger, was willowy, with dark hair and deep, searching eyes.
"Hello," the driver shouted, "where you come from?"
"USA", I shouted back.
"America. You want massage? Make love, good?"
Speechless, I smiled, looked away, then looked back. I shrugged.
"Where you going?"
"Hotel."
"We give good massage, good make love, yes?"
Rallying, I replied, "You young girls, I'm old man."
"Make love us, you feel like young man."
They were laughing and so was I.
"Hotel no let you come in." I said, trying to regain some control over the situation.
"You come us, we take good care you," the driver said. She really seemed to be enjoying this.
"How much?" I asked, out of curiosity I hoped.
"Twenty dollars."
Shit, I thought, what do I say now. What did I want? I was certainly enjoying this conversation. And suddenly the somewhat fragile feeling I had had all evening disappeared.
Inspiration!
"I give you ten dollars. Just massage."
Her smile disappeared. I could see that she was sizing up this new suggestion and that she didn't believe me.
"Twenty dollars, massage, make love, two hours."
Suddenly, I didn't want this to end here.
"Listen, I give fifteen dollars, but just massage, no make love."
I could see that this offer was tempting from a monetary point of view but that somehow it didn't feel right to her. I believe she thought I was being cheap. There was no smile. Suddenly the motor bike veered off and turned around and was gone. I sighed. Welcome to Saigon.