Saigon is schizophrenic, crazy, diverse, full of contrasts. The Americans have driven out the Vietnamese. Now they count in dollars. Vietnam is communist. Everyone fights for themselves on the streets. I walk the streets of the neighbourhood early in the morning. Endless poverty next to glittering shops. My millionaire status awakens the greed in many eyes that are narrowed with dust.
Many of the cyclo-rickshaw drivers are said to have been in the service of the Americans and, 40 years later, outlaws with no right of residence. I don’t know if the story is true. What I do see is that a striking number of them are quite old. But hardly anyone speaks English. A grey-haired, half-blind Vietnamese man with half my body weight drives me through Saigon for four hours.
Vietnam has one of the highest road death rates in the world. One Vietnamese dies every day. This is incomprehensible to me, as all road traffic can be described by one simple rule: forget all the rules! The traffic lights are red? Drive across the three-lane junction, whoever honks louder goes first. Changing lanes? Gently push your neighbour to the side. One-way street in the wrong direction? At least you won’t get rammed from behind. And I’m not used to driving on the “right” side of the road again after six months.
A policeman draws the outline of a cyclist on the junction with white chalk. I’m glad that my driver is half blind. Otherwise he would surely be scared too. He takes me dozens of kilometres through the worst haphazard hustle and bustle. First stop: war museum. The Vietnamese have a sense of humour. It’s housed in the former CIA headquarters. You can see one-sided views of terrible crimes.
Then it’s on to the inconspicuous little Binh Soup Shop. While the boss, who is still there today, was serving noodle soup to American diplomats and soldiers downstairs, the Tet Offensive of 1968 was being ordered upstairs. I slurp a hot noodle soup with my driver, then he takes me on even faster.
It’s hard to believe: the American Embassy is back in exactly the same place as it was 30 years ago. This is where the last American helicopter fled in 1975, leaving thousands of helpers to entertaining re-education camps. Once again, you’re not allowed to take any photos, but at least there are plenty of petitioners to create a subtle déja vu.
The last stop on the tour is the presidential palace. History drips from every corner of the concrete brutalism. Generals have been executed, history revised, parts of buildings bombed, systems cancelled, wars debated. Oh yes, and at the very top is a teasing dance hall from which you can see the marked impact points of an angry pilot’s bombs from 1975 – 24 hours later the Vietcong arrived. Some people are just always too late.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.