My ticket says Ho Chi Minh City but my suitcase is going straight to Saigon: the IATA call sign for Tan Son Nhat airport is still SGN. It’s a pleasing felicity. I’m going to Vietnam for the first time but my baggage is mostly a peculiar kind of nostalgia. And as the plane drops from the clouds to circle over the extravagant bends and loops of the Saigon River, glittering in the bright light of noon, I know that I will be constantly reminded that in this city, the past really is another country.
Yes, I’m old enough to remember the collapse of the Republic of Vietnam and the dramatic fall of its capital. And not just from Hollywood’s cinematic reprise. I followed these events in real time, in print. Which is why my temporal lobe keeps up its insistent jingle: “Khe Sanh, Da Nang, Cam Ranh, Napalm,” it goes. “Viet Nam Cong Hoa.” And why it copy-edits with such cracked insistence: the airport should be Tan Son Nhut. Not Nhat! It used to be an American airbase.
It doesn’t help that I’m arriving in early February, in the last days before Tet, the Vietnamese ‘Chinese New Year’. The Year of the Pig is ending, the Rat approaches. But 40 years ago, in February 1968, at the dawn of the Year of the Monkey, the Viet Cong launched a massive offensive across the length and breadth (in this serpentine country it’s mostly length) of South Vietnam. It would be crushed with tremendous bloodshed. But it was a defeat that laid the spores of the Communist victory, seven years later, in April 1975, the Year of the Rabbit.
I’m a Rabbit myself, in case you’re wondering, from 1963. When you’ve been hopping around as long as I have, History gets personal. And so does geography. Visiting Calcutta for the first time, in the early 1980s, I can remember savouring the sense that I was on the edge of another subcontinent, one that stretched from the Ganges Delta to the Mekong Delta. India Extra Gangem. All geography is fantasy, but my own construction of Indochina has an appealingly romantic aesthetic, of post-colonial torpor, peeling paint and creaky louvered shutters. The tropical verdure, the Graham greenery. He is baggage too, of course. Lurking in my knapsack is a 1955 first edition of The Quiet American (with the grey, chatai patterned dust jacket). A time bomb I procured long ago on Free School Street. Still unread.
A bumpy landing brings me back to 2008, and I disembark to the global trill of reactivated Nokias. Half an hour later, I’m sweeping through the streets of Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC) in a Japanese van, fighting the panicky apprehension that unlike me, the city may have moved on. I wind up in the heart of Bui Vien street, the city’s backpacker alley, a disconcerting facsimile of Paharganj — not my favourite neighbourhood back home. The hotel itself is cheap, clean and cheerful. It’s also about 15 feet wide and 11 — yes, 11 — storeys high. Trying not to think about it, I hit the streets to get my bearings. The temperature is reassuringly tropical, particularly after the intemperate chill of New Delhi this year. There is a Calcuttan languor to lanes but as I wander on to the thoroughfares, the city seems to rise from its siesta and soon I’m facing HCMC’s legendary torrents of two-wheelers (“four million motorcycle!” a xe om or motorcycle-taxi man tells me proudly). There is a technique to crossing the roads, which I will soon master: 10 percent courage and 90 percent trust.
That said, HCMC is a delightfully easy city to roam. The downtown District 1 where I am staying is entirely walkable, and xe om pillion rides are immediately and cheaply available. But I prefer the iconic cyclo trishaws. They may have lapsed into a tourist novelty, with corresponding prices, but I am happy to be taken for a ride.
I settle into a pleasant rhythm, rising early, walking out to have a hot glass of the dark, buttery Ca phe sua nong (filter coffee with condensed milk), at a pavement stall. Then, a morning round of sightseeing, back for a siesta, and out again on foot in the sociable cool of the evening, in search of a scenic perch for dinner or a drink. At this civilised pace the city reveals itself with an endearing formality. It’s like getting to know a charming and slightly disreputable aunt — the one they all talk about.
And everything they said was true. God knows, this fallen capital has a past, and she flaunts it with roguish flamboyance. The town is encrusted with Belle Epoque townhouses, Third Empire mansions and Palladian galleons, whose custard-washed façades flake and crack like bad makeup. The avenues are fraying seams of colonial elegance, lined with stately, aging trees, festooned with scarlet banners. Flags of convenience, they survive because they are so easily ignored by everyone — including the Communists themselves.
In a city that has seen so many pants-down surrenders — the French, the Americans, the Southern republic — it’s plain that Saigon is still her own mistress. The broader boulevards, remorselessly commercial, are emblazoned with all the gigantic slogans of globalisation. It’s really only in the former Presidential Palace that I feel the presence of that Old Time Socialism. Now called the Reunification Palace, the building is a coolly accomplished piece of architectural modernism: the suave cold war capitalism of the 60s and 70s, and its flirtation with praetorian regimes. But some genius apparatchik deserves the Order of Lenin for the brainwave of preserving the palace — its throne rooms and banquet halls, casinos and war rooms — frozen in that moment of triumph and emasculation, on the 30th of April, 1975. Apparently they still use it for state banquets.
The palace really gives me the chills but I storm all five floors and the labyrinthine basement bunkers in 10 minutes flat. I’m even quicker at the nearby War Remnants Museum, and at the now innocuous Pho Binh noodle shop — a secret Viet Cong HQ in the Tet Offensive. Here I interrupt the proprietor at his lunch but he graciously shows me pictures of his father, Ngo Toai, who died three years ago, a decorated Hero of the Revolution, and I inscribe my hasty gratitude in the Visitors Book. Outside, I interrupt my cyclo driver’s cigarette break again. It’s a widespread nugget of tourist apocrypha that HCMC’s cyclo men are mostly South Vietnamese ARVN veterans, reduced to this profession by the justice of the victors. I know I’m not doing the old pedal pusher any favours, but he’s the reason for my hurry.
One night, on the roof of the Rex hotel (once a favourite of US officers, I’m told) I watch the incredible tableau of joyriding crowds pouring down the Boulevard of Nguyen Hue, their headlamps a twinkling river of light. There’s an utterly intoxicating air of optimism, freedom, independence and, well, shopping. The low-testosterone putter of all those small engines is transformed into the confident throb of the swarm. It’s a cliché of Vietnamese resilience, this collective mojo. But it’s also the roar of peace.
Of course I can’t join it, I can only watch. The perfumes of Tet are tinged with the lingering poignance of that book. The Quiet American is a slender novel, with a thrillerish plot, but this is not one of Greene’s ‘Entertainments’. The story of the ageing English journalist Fowler and his fatal rivalry with the American, Alden Pyle for possession of the young courtesan Phuong, is charged with a presentiment of the worthlessly prolonged end of imperialism. And for me at least, by Fowler’s voice, thick with the quiet panic of masculine middle-age. It begins on a February evening just after Tet. “Inside my room the tree I had set up weeks ago for the Chinese New Year had shed most of its blossoms. They had fallen between the keys of my typewriter. I picked them out.”
I spent a lot of time picking blossoms in his footsteps. “One is not jealous of the dead,” Fowler says, but visiting Greene’s room (# 214) on the second floor of the Continental Hotel on Dong Khoi, the old Rue Catinat, I’m...emerald with envy. Still, I can afford a beer and a riverfront vista at his chosen bar on top of the gleaming Hotel Majestic. Here, the ceiling fans still croak above a ruinously restored façade. A wedding cake today, in Greene’s time it was fluid with balconies, still poised at the tipping point between Art Nouveau and just plain Gaudi.
Roaming the Chinatown district of Cholon, my cyclo guide Hai promised to show me the location of the ‘House of 500 Women’ where the Quiet American himself had reacted with the same naïve horror as I had on the kerb of Le Lai, when a young woman on a scooter tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear. Her girlfriend, riding pillion, nodded encouragingly. “No, thanks, I already have a room,” I blustered, prompting her to bellow: “YOU PHAC ME HOTEL ONE HOUR!” ‘“It’s terrible. I wouldn’t have believed...”’ Alden Pyle said ‘with sad awe’. ‘“They were so pretty.”’ They really were. But when we reached Cholon’s central bazaar, Hai gave up the chase. And then he proffered another frisson, in consolation, I suppose. It was a laminated picture of his younger self in uniform. “1969,” he said. “American army.”
Even travel writers get the blues.
On the crossing at the end of Bui Vien, there is a modest tower crowned with the ultimate brand of my generation: “Perfect USA” it says. Down on the street the old cyclo men murmur “Marywanna?” But for me, in this city, Time is the drug, whispered at every corner.
Returning to my room, I sit by the second floor window, watching wandering troupes of lion-dancers chase the Year of the Pig back home. And I finish reading The Quiet American. But at 2am my dreams of 1950s Saigon are shattered by a blast of karaoke singalong from the bistro down the street. “Byee byee”. Don McLean’s raucous wake for the 1960s, the decade that will not shut up. “Noisy Americans!” I want to shout, only, they sound like Aussies. Burying my head in a pillow, I summon a gentler lullaby. The soft-spoken Michael Stipe hums another American elegy in my ear. “Twentieth Century, go to sleep.”
First the bad news: There are no direct flights from India to HCMC. Then some more bad news: I flew Thai Airways, Bangalore-Bangkok-HCMC-Delhi for Rs 41,894, including taxes. But the latest fare on that airline was just Rs 32,500. And it gets better still. As we go to press we are informed by the GSA of Vietnam Airlines that the carrier has new partnerships with Indian, Thai and other airlines, promising fares to HCMC (and Hanoi) of as little as Rs 22,500. Yes, return! Yes, yes, after taxes! Call your travel agent...tomorrow.
Vietnam offers visas on arrival but seems to require a prior letter of authorisation from the immigration authorities in the country. Countless websites offer to facilitate this paperwork at a variety of prices. We suggest you simply apply for your visa before you leave, either through your travel agent (as I did) or directly at the Embassy of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam (17 Kautilya Marg, Chanakyapuri, New Delhi 110021; 011-23018059/23012133).
Where to stay
It is best to stay in District 1, and cheapest in ‘Backpacker Central’, the Pham Ngu Lao area. I stayed here at the An An hotel on Bui Vien Street (+84-8-8378087, www.anan.vn), which was fine and reasonable at $32 a night. There is no shortage of rooms in this area, and it is lively and very tourist-friendly. But if you want a little distance from the mass of your fellow tourists there are many similarly-priced options nearby, including the Le Duy ($33; ++9252090, www.leduyhotel.com.vn), or the downtown area, which is close to everywhere and has tariffs to suit every budget. Among the high-end options there’s a clutch of nostalgic favourites in the colonial centre of town, including the Continental (from $129; www.continental-saigon.com) and the Majestic (from $189; www.majesticsaigon.com.vn). The list of charmers in this area (and price range) goes on: the Grand (www.grandhotel.vn), the Riverside (www.riversidehotelsaigon.com). Late-colonial glamour options include the Rex ($140; www.rexhotelvietnam.com) and the Caravelle ($270; www.caravellehotel.com). My tip: try the modest Mondial, which shares the neighbourhood but not the prices (just $35) of all these grand dames. And Greene stayed here too! (++8296291, firstname.lastname@example.org)
What to see and do
I managed to cover parts of four of HCMC’s 12 numbered districts or Quans (from Quartier), namely 1, 3, 4 and 5. In the island of Quan 4 I saw nothing but wonderful food thanks to Cathy Danh who will tell you more on that topic on the next page. District 1 is packed with shops and sights including the Reunification Palace (Hoi Truong Thung Nhat; entry 15,000 dong; open 7.30-11am and 1-4pm daily), the War Remnants Museum (Bao Tang Chung Tich Chien Tranh; entry 10,000 dong; open 7.30-11.45am and 1.30 pm-5.15pm daily), the Museum of Ho Chi Minh City, History Museum, Ho Chi Minh Museum and the Fine Arts Museum. Drive yourself to museum exhaustion if you want, but many of these edifices are just as much fun from the outside. You must wander the streets of central District 1 to enjoy the many splendours of the city’s civic architecture, notably the Town Hall (on Nguyen Hue, you can’t miss it), the Notre Dame Cathedral (D Han Thuyen) and the spectacular interior of the General Post Office nearby. The Ben Thanh market is a lively version of what Calcutta’s New Market could have been, but the Cho Binh Tay market in District 5 (Cholon) seemed more authentic to me. District 3 is as leafy as the colonial heart of District 1, but more fancily residential, certainly worth a short ride by xe om.
If places of worship interest you, HCMC is studded with a variety of Vietnamese and Chinese Buddhist pagodas. The oldest pagoda (c. 1744) is the Giac Lam (118, D Lac Long Quan, open 6am-9pm), on the outskirts of the city. The Giac Vien pagoda is only slightly less antique. The Jade Emperor Pagoda (73, Mai Thi Luu) is a popular favourite for its animated Cantonese style. Cholon has several beautiful pagodas built by Chinese congregations. I was delighted to stumble on two very South Indian temples in the streets behind Ben Tanh Market, Mariamman Hindu Temple (Chua Ba Mariamman, 45, D Truong Dinh) and the Subramaniam Swamy Temple (98 Nam Ky Khoi Nghia). Both had active Buddhist congregations! My favourite serendipity was stumbling on the quiet canteen behind Saigon Central Mosque (66, D Dong Du) where a family of fading Indian descent still serve delicious ‘Ca Ri’ and parottas.
All my xe om rides cost around about $1 (or 15,000 dong — that’s what it’s called), while the cyclo drivers charged me between 50,000 and 150,000 dong for 1-2 hour rides (they offer handy printed itineraries). My only taxi ride was to the airport, a reasonable $6. The major companies have reliably metered cabs. For city tours by bus, you could try Opentour Sinhcafe (www.sinhcafe.com.vn) for $18 but you will find countless operators along Bui Vien street. This is also a good place to book yourself on the ever-popular day-trips to the Cu Chi Tunnels, the underground redoubt of the Viet Minh and Viet Cong in the interminable struggle for independence and reunification. Tours cost $4 and upward; the entry into the tunnels costs 65,000 dong. Most tours include a visit to the Holy See of the Caodaist sect, a syncretic cult that has absorbed the Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad, Moses and Confucius as well as Descartes, Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, Louis Pasteur and Lenin in its pantheon. You can do the trip by xe om as well (negotiations begin at $20), which promises to be long, bumpy (4 hours travel) but potentially more rewarding.
Another enticing day-trip (or more sensibly two-day) option are the $10 hydrofoil rides down the river to the beach resort of Vung Tau, an hour (sometimes two) away.