Bound for Vietnam

by Lydia Laube

  Angela, the Australian I had met in Kym’s, had told me about the guest-house where she was staying. It sounded much better than my hotel and it was half the price –with breakfast. I went to check it out, got lost, but found it eventually. It was hidden away in a maze of alleys that I would never have thought to look in if the local people had not directed me there. To reach it I had to turn off a small street into an alleyway between two buildings, then pass into another even tinier alley which was so narrow the houses almost touched overhead – you could step across from one balcony to another. The guest-house was one of those delightful, Lilliputian, but attenuated wedding cake affairs.

  The room I was offered was brand new; I would be its first tenant. I could hardly believe that its price was a ridiculous five dollars. The only drawback was that the balcony around my room was still in production and several workmen were madly busy with noisy power tools. Vien, the young woman who was the dominant family member, said that the work would be finished today. It wasn’t, of course. It was the Asian way to promise you something that never eventuated but kept you happy at the time. The members of the extended family who lived in the house and took care of the guests were extraordinarily kind and generous, and practised true Asian hospitality. As soon as I arrived, Vien put a cold drink in front of me, and every time she got the chance she did the same again. The minute I sat down in the living room something appeared in front of me – fruit juice, Coke or sweet lady-finger bananas. It was almost an embarrassment that I was never charged for any of this extra generosity.

  Vien insisted on giving me a ride back to my hotel on her motorbike. I leaped onto the back of her small machine and this young, slim girl, whom I later discovered to be thirty-eight and the mother of a whacking big teenager, zipped me adroitly in and out of the heavy traffic.

  The news that I was leaving her was not received with delight by my present landlady. Madame looked peevish and told me that my new hotel was situated in a very bad place, that the people who lived there were an evil lot, and that I would come to no good end with them. I replied that although I liked Madame and her establishment very much, I liked the other place more.

  Still, I had a few misgivings as I was cycloed through the close packed alleys to reach my new digs. I thought life could be rough and tough here. But as soon as I was installed in my big airy room my fears were allayed. I was to find in these alleys a view of the real life of Saigon. Here I was treated as a member of the family and I lived local life as opposed to being sequestered in a tourist or traveller’s ghetto.

  My room was cool, thanks to its smooth tiled floor, high ceilings and overhead fan. But a long window that ran across the top of one wall was uncurtained and I soon realised that it afforded a terrific view into my room from the balcony upstairs. When I mentioned it to Vien, she said, ‘Yes yes yes, it will be fixed straight away.’ Remarkably, when I returned the next afternoon, a green curtain had been added.

  Tiles and terrazzo abounded in Vietnamese houses and all the work was done by hand. Eight men worked flat out for two days to create a terrazzo floor on the balcony outside my room. On the morning I moved in they were making such a deafening din that I took off for the rest of the day and did not return until after five, when I thought they would be finished. But they worked on until it was completely dark.

  My room fronted the alley. Across the balcony behind it there was an uncompleted room used for storage. In its midst was a carved wooden bed and on its bare boards an old man with only one arm was fast asleep. In Vietnam I saw many people who were missing an arm, a leg, or bits thereof. On the wall above the bed was a shrine on which a red light shone constantly. I decided that this man, who was one of the uncles, was a mystic. Every night at dusk he would light incense and sit cross-legged on the bed under a mosquito net contemplating his altar.

  My complimentary breakfast was served whenever I decided to appear in the downstairs rooms. Grandmother waited on me like an honoured guest, bringing me the eggs, bread and wonderful coffee I had requested, as well as a bonus of two bananas. The eggs were fried in coconut oil and were great and the warm bread rolls were divine. As I sat enjoying a leisurely second cup of coffee, Vien walked past carrying a posy of white daisies in a blue and white reproduction Ming vase. They were for my room, and in passing she told me that there would be a party tonight at seven o’clock and asked if I would come.

  After breakfast Vien asked me where I was going and when I said, ‘Downtown to the post office’ she insisted on ferrying me there. I never thought I’d see the day (or the next one either, for that matter) that I would be riding, or rather, roaring, across downtown Saigon in peak-hour traffic on the back of a motorbike. I closed my eyes, hoped for the best, and arrived at the post office with my hair standing on end – and not just from the breeze.

  Clinging on the pillion for grim death, I had watched motorbikes and cars coming at me from all angles. They followed no road rules. If people drove like that in Australia there would be constant prangs. Crossing the street was the same death-defying deed as it had been in China and I was once again advised that it was better not to stand still. You kept moving, but very slowly, so that bikes and motorbikes could avoid you. And, surprisingly, it worked – it’s harder to hit a moving target. But it was hair-raising and in Saigon my hair stood up permanently.

  The post office contained crowds of people, but it was so spacious that it didn’t matter. A magnificent French building that had been built in 1883, with a towering domed ceiling and iron framework, its exterior was painted a mellow shade of ochre. The colour scheme inside the building was also pleasing: dark green with touches of a lighter green and dabs of old gold. Long rows of small, dark-green and old gold-edged windows lined the walls and graceful supporting columns rose from floor to ceiling or stood against the walls. Wrought-iron friezes were looped between the columns and from them hung decorative antique lights. A gigantic portrait of Uncle Ho gazed benevolently down from one wall onto the people below who rested on the comfortable wooden benches, or wrote at the desks. Envelopes, postcards and stamps were sold over wooden counters and there was even a special counter for posting foreign mail. It was such a serene place and so beautifully reminiscent of bygone days that I spent hours there. I could have taken up permanent residence quite happily.

  A large open square dominated by an enormous white statue of the Virgin Mary stood in front of the post office. On one side of the square was St Mary’s Cathedral, a massive edifice built in 1877 in the style of Notre Dame. On the other was a little park that provided seats under tall tamarand trees. In many Asian cities there are no small parks, but in Saigon I frequently found grassy places to rest under trees. As this day was Sunday I decided to visit the cathedral. It did not have the ambience of Hanoi’s cathedral but, apart from the odd bit of tacky coloured neon light, reminiscent of a nightclub entrance, over the altars, it was impressive. One side altar held a graceful statue of the virgin Mary that was made fantastically beautiful by the light of numerous softly glowing candles. Deciding to stay for a while in the cool gloom to listen to the choir singing, I did what I presumed to be the right thing and dropped to my knees. I got a terrific shock when I crashed onto the wooden floor. There was no kneeling board. Watching others coming in, I saw that they merely bowed to the altar and then sat down. I hoped that those who had witnessed my fall from grace would make allowances for my being a foreigner and dismiss me as merely half-witted, not sacrilegious.

  At seven that evening Vien’s aunt tapped on my door and said, ‘Come down, party.’ Wonderful words I always respond to. Downstairs the two French and two American men who were the long-term boarders, were seated at the table that had been set up in the middle of the living room. I asked them what the shindig was in aid of – I presumed that one of them must be leaving, or having some kind of celebration. But they said, ‘It’s just because it’s Sunday.’ Apparently my wonderful family gave a free feed to their guests each Sunday. The family did not join in. They
lined up on the couch and got their pleasure from watching us eat. I was totally floored. A marvellous spread of food and unlimited amounts of beer appeared up as the family made us welcome, waited on us and fussed over us, constantly re-filling our plates and glasses and even adding the luxury of ice to our drinks. I closed my mind to the visions of typhoid that arose with the sight of great lumps of cracked ice being dumped in my beer. Earlier I had seen the ice-man delivering a mini iceberg. It had arrived wrapped in an old sack on the back of his bike and had then been smashed into smaller bits on the ground. It’s not just on the basis of hygiene that I object to big lumps of ice in my beer – it severely interferes with its taste and potency.

  The windows of my room had no flyscreens. I watched the mozzies come pouring in that night and worried about not having any anti-malarial tablets left. The next day I bought some incense coils and decided to try for some tablets at one of the hospitals. It was also a way of satisfying my curiosity. When Vien asked me where I wanted to go I replied, ‘The Hospital in Chinatown, Cholon.’ I had read in my guide book that it had a special clinic for foreigners. Uncle found me a cyclo, ‘My brother,’ he said.

  It was a long but pleasant ride to Cholon. Being pedalled along and fanned by a slight breeze under the trees by the side of the road was not hard to bear. I was happily reclining in my cyclo at some stop lights, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something bright slide up beside me. I turned my head to behold a coffin! And a bicycle mounted coffin at that. Almost touching my shoulder, it was painted a brilliant red and was much gilded and decorated. I wondered if it was occupied.

  Inside the hospital there were acres of empty, sterile-looking tiled floors. I asked directions of a nurse wearing a white cotton pant suit and an old-fashioned waitress’s hat that had a turned up front and a gathered elastic back to constrain her hair. She took me to an office where someone wrote down the name of the clinic. I sallied forth and waved this piece of paper at everyone I encountered until I landed at the right spot.

  The clinic was on the tenth floor. The lift lady waited until the elevator was full before she took off. A very commendable conservation of energy, it also gave the passengers plenty of time to examine each other. ‘Place for Treatment for Persons from Other Countries’ (not foreigners, I noted), the sign declared. The waiting room was a row of chairs on an open balcony that was only enclosed by a waist high railing. I hoped none of the customers was in need of psychiatric help. I felt ill just looking at the city-scape far below under my feet.

  I was soon attended by a cordial male doctor who wrote me a script for the tablets I requested after much consultation backwards and forwards between me and the pharmacopoeia. When I asked how much I should pay him, he said, ‘No charge. You were not sick and I have not treated you.’

  Downstairs in the hospital grounds I located the pharmacy. They did not have the tablets, but directed me to the opposition, a private chemist shop across the road. I went to a side entrance gate. It was padlocked and the guard stationed there had to produce a key to let me through. The chemist did not have the pills either. He said they were not available in Vietnam. I returned to the doctor. He altered the script and I went through the process again. The hospital pharmacy did not have the tablets, so I crossed the road again. The guard looked at me askance as he unlocked the gate once more. I don’t know what he thought I was playing at. The private chemist didn’t have the pills either, but he said, ‘Wait, I will go and get them.’ I was given a tall, rickety stool to perch on and the chemist thundered off on his motorbike. While I waited, the assistant told me about her brother who now lives in Adelaide. It seemed everyone in Saigon had a relative in Australia. Soon the chemist returned with the goods. Hooray! Then I got the bill.

  On the way back from the hospital I stopped at the Cholon Chinatown market. Former home of opium dens, Cholon is big and alive and had gold galore, as well as mountains of jade jewellery. Hopping into another cyclo I went to eat at the Sinh Sin café, another travellers’ hangout which is close to Kym’s. In Saigon some one-way streets are forbidden to cyclos and pushbikes. My cyclo took a short cut down one of these because laws, as we all know, were meant to be broken. I had the novel, but unappealing experience of being pushed feet first into the opening of a one-way street and finding myself at a stop sign at the other end facing a solid, massed phalanx of motorbikes all intent on killing me. I shut my eyes and prayed.

  By the time I had finished dinner it was dark and no cyclo was in sight, so I set off for my guest-house on foot. With my handbag clutched tightly under my arm and my umbrella furled, I was ready to defend myself. Muggers were not going to get my goodies easily or without a struggle. They would have to take me with the handbag. At the first corner I went off in the wrong direction and got lost. I found myself stumbling over rough, broken ground and rubbish in an unlit street that I did not know. Then I felt old vegetables under foot and I remembered that the extreme end of my street ended in a produce market. I had unwittingly entered the right street the wrong way. No traffic came through here. The market, a simple place where people spread their wares on the ground on sacks or in baskets and squatted by them against a wall, was spread over the entire street. I floundered on to where a few sellers still operated by the glow of kerosene lamps. I was pleased to find any light. I ploughed through the market and, although I felt very much out of place, I did not feel threatened.

  I became aware of an unusual noise ahead of me. Nearing its source, I discovered that it was a brass band playing dance music. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating. A brass band seemed a highly unlikely commodity to find in a place like this. But soon I was marching along behind the band among the big mob of people it gathered as it slowly progressed up the street. Close up I could see that the band was the full catastrophe! It comprised a gigantic, shining tuba as well as trombones, trumpets, drums and musicians in smart caps and uniforms, who looked like the Salvation Army on parade.

  Leaving this grand celebration, which was possibly a funeral, I continued on until I finally found the entrance to my alley. It was a warm night and all along this end of the street people had made themselves comfortable outdoors, cooking, eating, drinking or just sitting. As I walked into the alley, I could hear at least six different televisions and radios playing. The alleys were always full of noise and life, especially at night. And everyone’s life here was an open book. In the evening, men sat smoking on rattan couches, little children ran around playing and women nursed babies while cats, dogs and chooks foraged for food among their feet.

  During the day and evening the house I lived in was never quiet. It was open to all and sundry and there was always music, laughter, singing and talking. And day or night the echoing bells of hawkers on bicycles, or with two baskets suspended on shoulder poles, rang up and down the alleys. All day I could hear the bird on the balcony next door, who lived his entire life in a small cage. Whenever he saw me he would call louder and I would talk to him. Bored out of his brain, poor little bird, he would then chirp happily back to me.

  The entire façade of the house was completely uncovered to the alley by day. From its four metre frontage you stepped directly into a foyer that housed the family’s bikes and motorbikes. At night the house was enclosed by pulling a latticed wire grill across the alley front. Most of the surrounding houses were of the same design and in almost all of them the glow of a red lamp shining in front of an altar where incense burned before offerings could be seen. In the cool front rooms or the alley outside was where families lived – in public.

  The living area of my house was a long, narrow space that had three large glassless windows covered by metal grilles in each side wall. A big 1960s vinyl couch and two matching armchairs with marvellous wooden arms stood on the tiled floor and wonderful wooden furniture was crammed shoulder to shoulder against all the walls. It was like living in an antique shop. At any time of the day I would be likely to find various members of the family asleep on the large wooden bed with on
ly a sheet covering its board base. The feeling of being in a shop was further enhanced by the dishes, plates and vases that were packed solid, layer upon layer, on every level surface of the furniture. The most spectacular ornaments the room boasted were two stupendous Ching dynasty vases that loomed from the top of a carved chest. They shared their perch with two ponderous brass vases and three censors which were flanked by a pair of massive brass candle sticks. Stationed beside the phone in one corner was a lovely old wardrobe that was used as a notice board; numbers and messages were chalked on its front. A beautiful antique wooden-cased sessions clock hung on the wall. It was always an hour slow and it struck eleven for eight, but it was still going after 200 years. Several gaudily framed paintings decorated the walls, but the position of honour was given to a large picture of Uncle Ho. The altar with its red lamp, incense and offerings of fruit and flowers, reposed in a prominent corner facing the doorway.

  The kitchen was a small, tiled space behind the living room where the family sat cross-legged on the floor to prepare and eat food. And well you might eat off their floor! It was continually being washed and no shoes came inside the house. The windows and doors of the living room and kitchen opened into a narrow passageway whose wall was the side of the neighbour’s house. Cooking was done against the wall in the open air on a coal burning brazier and a tap over a shallow trough in the tiled floor constituted the wash house. Here dishes, clothes, children – and probably big people too –were sluiced down and cleaned up.

  The family was extended and elastic. There were children, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles and parents. A nephew, who was a university student, was the only member of the family with enough English for a conversation. One uncle was deaf and he had a deaf wife with a lovely, middle-aged face. The deaf uncle, although he spoke only with his hands, was very chatty. He talked more than the rest of the family put together and managed to communicate better with me than the non-English speakers. There was also a deaf mute child, a smiling girl with a constantly questioning look. The matriarch, Grandma, saved her false teeth for best. She never wore them in the mornings, only putting them in after lunch.