Saigon: Shit.
Hahaha! A little of the old Apocalypse Now humor there for you guys.
“Were you in the shit? Yeah, I was in the shit.”
That one’s from Rushmore.
Hey, did you know that Vietnam is the world’s 13th most populous country? I sure didn’t! But it’s true: Vietnam has more than 81,000,000 inhabitants. Now try to think of the twelve other countries with more people. (Hint: None of them are in Europe. The answers are here.)
Coming from Cambodia, immediately you notice that there a lot more people here. A lot more. Plus, a lot of actual concrete buildings. And churches. And a lot more motorbikes! Rumor has it that the motorbike-to-person ratio in Saigon is 1:2. Apparently there are 8 million residents here, and 4 million registered motos! Craziness.
Saigon’s cool. A big city. (“I’m still only in Saigon.”) But the food here is awesome, and there some cool cafes and nice parts of town. I went to the CuChi tunnels — a network of underground tunnels used by the VietCong to live in, avoid bombardment and spring surprise attacks from — and the War History Museum, to see some of the really terrible things that went on here. The effects of Agent Orange, as evidenced by photographs and two gnarly fetuses preserved in jars, were especially sad and horrific.
And my thought about this is that the people of this whole region are amazingly resilient, to have gone through such a difficult and horrible period in their history, and to come out and be as lovely and kind and pleasant as so many of them are. Still, more than 50% of the population of Vietnam is less than 30 years old. There is a two-child maximum law, similar to China. It is a communist country — though as a foreigner, it’s really hard to tell.
I’m going to work my way up the coast. The next town, Mui Ne, is supposed to have some stark sand dunes overlooking the beach. Neat-o!
A quick anecdote before I’m out:
When I was back in Cambodia, in a small town in the south called Kampot, I met these two British expats, Richard and Terry, spending their twilight years ostensibly setting up a pub there on the riverside, but it sure looked like they were just drinking themselves to death. They were mid-fifties, and had been high-powered executives in “big fuck-off companies” — they told me they were each earning millions of pounds per year, and Richard even owned a Leer jet. They had both been married before, with kids who never talk to them anymore.
And there they were, ordering two-dollar scotch-and-waters and vodka-and-cokes at the one (really excellent) Indian restaurant in town — and they struck up a conversation with me, immediately after I sat down for lunch. Told me their life stories, slurring their words with no shame. How wonderful, just wonderful it was that I was travelling, they said, since the corporate world is such a load of bollocks.
What brought them to Cambodia, I asked. Why here?
Because “it’s nowhere where anyone would ever want to find us,” was what Richard said.
And I’ve thought about that answer ever since. Such a strange turn of phrase, and I understand what he meant by it, I think. But the fact is, it doesn’t make much sense. So I hung out with them for the afternoon, sipping my beer and talking with them, as it rained outside. And they kept throwing back scotch-and-water and vodka-and-cokes (“Order us another round, love”) and they would say really crafty, odd, funny things like that. I can’t remember all of them, but another one was when they asked me if I had a girlfriend. I said that I didn’t.
Terry then said, “Well, that’s alright, Matt. Love just messes with your life.”
And Richard, right next to her, nodded in agreement.
Love just messes with your life. Not that it messes up your life, or anything defeatist like that. No, love messes with your life.
So I’ve thought about that, too. And the funny thing is, I think it’s true. Not that it’s a bad thing to have your life messed with — indeed, it’s a wonderful and fun thing. And that’s why I asked them, “But is it so bad to have your life messed with?”
“Folly of youth!” Richard shouted. His voice sounded somewhat like Gandalf’s.
“No, it’s not so bad,” Terry said, as if she was completing his thought. “Not so bad at all.”
I mean, right? I guess that’s how conversations with drunks often go — circular and almost incomprehensible. But funny. I liked these guys. Just some kooky old geezers, a great way to spend a rainy afternoon in Cambodia. Later on, I found out from the manager at my guesthouse, Marie, that the two of them had been banned from most of the restaurants and bars in town, for running up bar bills and being too drunk too often. And that in Marie’s estimation, it’s a fifty-fifty chance they’ll ever open their bar before they die.
Jeez, I thought. People really don’t pull punches around here. But Marie did equivocate, saying that it’s because you never really know how long it will take to get something done in Cambodia. You can wait months to get internet service hooked up at your guesthouse, for instance.
But still.
Oh, here’s another anecdote, because why not? (“Why not”, by the way, being the unofficial motto of Southeast Asia.)
There was a really crazy Brit at this guesthouse I was staying at, back in Sihanoukville — and late one night there, everyone was hanging around, and he was just completely obliterated. Totally smashed. It was that kind of night, rainy, random, everyone drunk. So at the end of the night he was stumbling around the bar area, and he starts shouting, “WHOEVER WANTS TO!!!!!! CAN TOUCH MY COCK!!!!!!” And whipping it out, and offering it around. Yep. Really. I mean, ewww.
No one did. That I know of.
So I don’t know what it is about Brits. Maybe it’s just the Brits in Cambodia. Or maybe it’s just Cambodia itself — yeah, that must be it. Because it really is a mad, mad country. Maybe being there causes the madness to spread, to infect you.
It’s hard for me to say. Do I seem any crazier to you?!?!?!?!?!??!
Mwuauahahahahaha…..
Tags: Cambodia, drunk, Kampot, Saigon, Vietnam
ismateo
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