Onward Ho!

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THREE a.M. There he is again, a small child spinning a hoop on the promenade across deserted Ton duc Thang Street. From the window of my hotel room overlooking the Saigon river, I recognise him instantly, the oldest of a barefoot brood trailing a young mother who takes refuge every night on the steps of the abandoned building next door, a scar on the upscale district 1.

Across the street lies a war zone, but the battles begin after dark. brilliantly lit floating restaurants glide up the riverbank, sending forth their troops in pairs to stake out territory on the jetty and capture their share of clientèle. Graceful as water nymphs in their ao dai, the alluringly feminine Vietnamese national costume of loose trousers and deep-slit tunic, these nubile young women are delectable bait. but with similar battalions to fend off, luring customers on board for dinner doesn’t get any easier despite the pretty-please smiles and the pert thrust of underwired padding beneath the flash of pretendbrocade; despite the live band on board to entertain passengers during an hour-long cruise past the twinkling lights of Chinese junks.

In the clamour of frenzied fun balanced on the razor’s edge of competition, the silent presence of the vagrants across the street is easy to miss. Just as well, for they’re part of a Saigon—Ho Chi Minh City to outsiders alone, for reasons i discover slowly—not many would care to know. no wonder they’re gone before sunrise, like vampires in flight, vanishing noiselessly below the radar of a metropolis that seems to abhor silence, even as the day yawns itself awake to a lone tourist like me, snatching a private moment on the riverfront before elderly couples appear for their tai chi sessions.

Meanwhile, the first ferry has docked. People spew out from its bowels and vroom off on mopeds like missiles, leaving me cowering and the fragile early-morning calm in tatters. So overwhelming is the chaos of sound and movement, the nameless family of four might never have been. inevitable in this intricate puzzle of a city, where the pieces that don’t quite fit must make way for the ones that do, ensuring that nothing disturbs the picture’s carefully composed symmetry. even a hint of the unsavoury would be bad for business—unless the unsavoury has to do with business itself: while the homeless make themselves scarce, painted ladies flaunt cleavage in hotel lobbies. Their less conspicuous counterparts—heartbreakingly young girls in threadbare jeans—stroll around chic dong Khoi, entwined with wizened strangers from overseas.

Every sweeping boulevard i trawl, each murky alley i peer into lies littered with clues about the deity worshipped today in Vietnam’s commercial hub: business—in any manifestation. With doi moi (economic reconstruction) firmly in place for the last 30 odd years and generous foreign direct investment pledges in hand, this is a country bent on making the most of its free market economy and retrieving its lost ‘face’ from the years of subjugation. if the winds of change whisper warnings of old hazards in new guises—much-invaded Vietnam’s rapid ‘re-colonisation’through the influx of global corporate giants and the reckless capitalism it has spawned—they seem lost in the scramble to seize every business opportunity that presents itself.

With the lessons of history apparently locked away, wallowing in bitter memories of the nearly three million citizens sacrificed to the decade-long “american War” is an unaffordable indulgence for a country on the go. i can’t help thinking, though, how tough it must be to put the past where it belongs, as a man, half his face ripped off in some unspeakable disaster, staggers around the corner, hat outstretched for alms. rural victims of agent orange, my hotel manager explains nonchalantly, congregating in Saigon where “the money is”.

Caught between pity and revulsion, i wonder if the resilience to absorb such gut-wrenching sights and not lose focus comes from years of practice, toiling under a foreign yoke. The Chinese called the shots for over a millennium, stamping their presence in Cholon, Saigon’s giant Chinatown, that naughtily juggles the otherworldly with the worldly—the mystique of its incense-shrouded temples and the swelling roar of transactions at binh Tay, the area’s brash monster of a market with its shrill women hawkers in typical Mekong-delta-style black pajamas and conical hats.

It’s a self-contained world, seemingly impervious to the invasion of its turf by casual strangers like me and those from far-flung lands who arrived with more serious intent, dug in their heels and left only under duress. among them were Vietnam’s former French masters who prevailed for nearly a century, marking Saigon with their colonial imprint: splendidly ornate edifices like the peach pink Central Post office and the magnificently lit-up H?tel de Ville (now the People’s Committee building), a sprinkling of Gallic street names and a curiously hybrid script for the local language—roman, if you please, tarted up with bold accents, the epitome of imported insouciance.

Missing are the seductive cadences of the French, that other legacy of colonial rule, now driven into near oblivion by the american twang—a telling reminder of Gi Joe’s contribution to the next chapter in the country’s history, meticulously chronicled, from the Vietnamese perspective, at the reunification Palace. rebuilt on the foundations of the mercilessly bombed original, the former President’s Palace served as the uS-backed South Vietnamese régime’s final bastion of defence before the first enemy tank stormed the gates in april 1975, officially marking the fall of Saigon. yet, the edifice’s unremarkable exterior makes it hard for me to visualise it as the centre stage of high drama.

Far more compelling are the photographs of death and desperation displayed inside, their impact strangely heightened by our guide’s chirpy americanese as she leads us to the intriguingly antiquated basement War room. if the irony of the situation strikes her, she gives no hint of it. The past, freshly packaged, is now a steady source of income, as busloads of polyglot tourists line up at the ticket counter.

The city’s Chinatown, Cholon, is the place to sample a variety of food or, simply, to pass time people-watching

Profit-oriented pragmatism is at its height at the Cu Chi tunnels, 70 km northwest of Saigon. drawn to them by an eerie fascination, i join the hordes, exploring the area where history lies buried within an elaborate network of multi-tiered subterranean pathways and bunkers that stretched over 250 km in its heyday and served as homes, medical clinics, schools and even movie theatres for Viet Cong guerillas during their years of combat against two militarily superior foes: France, followed by the uS.“Thousands of the war wounded died in the underground clinics,” our guide binh informs us quietly and i marvel at the spirit of resilience that sustained such a system against all odds. Still intact, it is busy transforming its relics into a money-spinning tourist attraction. nothing, however, can prepare me for the chilling farewell surprise near the exit: a musical performance by an orchestra of local war veterans—amputees all.

Business is booming in the Mekong delta as well, judging by the volume of river traffic at My Tho, the boarding point from where i go island-hopping. it merely reinforces my impression that the canny locals are doing no less splendidly than their counterparts in Saigon, a couple of hours’ drive away. Surprisingly, tourism in this region that witnessed some of the worst war-related devastation doesn’t piggyback on the country’s battle- scarred history, but on local exotica that covers everything from sampan rides through the Mekong’s serpentine canals to snake wine, a much-touted aphrodisiac. it’s evident that the present, along with the future it promises, is no less a priority than the past, in generating income.

Matrimony, for instance, and the perpetuation of the coming generations it symbolises are integral to the country’s forward-looking perspective. There’s yet more money to be made during the wedding season, after all, especially in Saigon, a city anyway caught up in perennial celebration—of commerce. infected by its spirit, i stop to gawk unashamedly at bridesmaids in strawberry dresses and glittering hair ornaments lined up opposite whitesuited young dandies outside the august rex Hotel on nyugen Hue boulevard to welcome guests. even in a shabbier part of town, i catch wistful gazes following young girls in gold-spangled lace gowns caught up in the hoopla surrounding someone’s nuptials. Cash is flowing with a vengeance and business, apparently, couldn’t be better.

Nowhere is this truer than in ben Thanh Market, where minuscule stalls flanking impossibly narrow aisles seem to close in as salesgirls trap my wrist between nimble fingers to prevent me from moving on to a rival’s more attractive display and vociferously extol the virtues of their own wares. i flee for relief to Phuong Giang, a boutique storecum-dressmaker on nam Ky Khoi nghia Street standing neck to neck with others of its kind. Here, the future looks just as radiant. a prospective bride discusses the details of her trousseau with a poker-faced senior saleslady—in english—while i submit to being sized up for a customised jacket by an underling and marvel at the precision of local tailoring that demands four separate bust measurements: upper incline, peak, lower incline and ribcage. Considering how off-hand the staff here seem, you almost pine for the aggressive overtures of ben Thanh’s shopkeepers. but in all fairness to the boutique personnel, they’re neck-deep in orders for the wedding season and struggling to cope. it shows in the hint of exasperation as i repeat a detail. “you to’ me awrready!” complains the salesgirl until i let slip that in Hanoi, a tailor had misinterpreted an instruction. “oh, Hanoi!” she smiles, her tone dripping disdain.

It reminds me of the aloofness with which the front-office staff at our hotel had referred to their capital as though it were a distant planet. but the truth really sinks in when the compulsively witty binh startles us with his bitter account of the ‘VC’ rapaciously usurping the city’s most coveted apartments and mansions, even as their owners fled the country after the fall of Saigon.

For all the zeal with which the Saigoner uses his chequered history to bolster tourism, it appears that deep down, the past is alive for him and not just for the financial dividends it yields. His views on the country’s reunification are, however, his own and he isn’t about to display them on banners. In the Socialist republic of Vietnam, it would be, yes, bad for business. Whether Profit is being worshipped with near-feverish devotion at the city’s markets or targeted in the corridors of political power up north in Hanoi, one vital survival lesson seems wired into the Saigoner’s brain: use the past, enrich the present and safeguard the immediate future; never forget, but keep smiling and everything else will take care of itself.

I can’t help wonder, though, if the amputees of Cu Chi would agree. Or the faceless beggar with his hatful of small-denomination dong and the nowhere people who curl up for the night on the steps of the darkened building next door. Curious, I look out for them on my last evening there. The space is empty.

Back in my hotel room, I gaze at the floating restaurants anchored along the riverbank. With their lights now extinguished, they could well be the phantoms of long-capsised vessels resurfacing in the dark to haunt the waterfront. Shattering the silence that hangs over the deserted street, a truck suddenly roars past, making the floorboards of my room vibrate alarmingly. less than a week ago, I had mistaken the tremors for an earthquake.

Poised uncertainly on the fault line between illusion and reality, I find myself questioning appearances, overturning assumptions, holding my breath for the next surprise this city will spring. Wondering too, if the urchin with the hoop will repeat his performance, haloed by the glow of street lamps. Near midnight, I give up, telling myself that he’s better off invisible, reclaimed by the darkness of a Saigon that is ever elusive to the outsider.