Historic Truths

Day two, Saigon. After day one was spent being a tourist, paying through the nose for things like only a tourist does, I spent today lying low. Practicing my tasteful declinations, taking short walks, learning the streets, and learning to trust. Maybe not trust, but to decipher. Decipher the well-meaning individuals from the ones that are just being nice to you to get your money.

These are some of the things I am here to learn. I can tell already that this venture will hinge on my ability to develop some firm business skills. Everything here is business, and self-advocacy is second to none.

Here are some things I saw yesterday on my motorbike tour of several districts of HCMC:

Stop #1: War Remnants Museum. On my way to Saigon, a young Chinese woman's cell phone rang to Lady Gaga. I almost swelled with pride, feeling somehow connected to this person through the virtue of my own culture. Then I visited the War Remnants Museum, where any burgeoning American patriotism was quickly and ruthlessly crushed.

 "Tiger cages" Not for actual tigers.

Large portions of what is inside the Museum are collections donated by Western wartime correspondents and photographers, or in some cases donated by whoever earned the copyrights to their work after they died (which many correspondents did, in the bush). There is no censorship to what images are on display. You see some very disturbing things.

As I looked through these photographs, the thing that stood out to me the most was not necessarily the atrocities of war. The Vietnam War is well-documented (and well-fictionalized)—what I saw, in effect, I had seen in countless movies. I suppose that's the general problem of the desensitized American public.

The disturbing difference is that what you are looking at here was not simulated. American soldiers using water-torture or posing next to headless VietCong were not acting.

"The above picture shows exactly what the brass want you to do in the Nam. The reasons for printing this picture is not to put down G.I.'s but rather to illustrate the fact that the Army can really fuck over your mind if you let it.  //  It's up to you, you can put in your time just trying to make it back in one piece or you can become a psycho like the Lifer (K-6) in the picture who really digs this kind of shit. It's your choice." // (Only it kinda wasn't)--ab

Someone took that photograph, someone bore actual witness to this event, leaving its image as proof, no commentary. The most chilling photographs were taken of people who were about to be killed at the hands of GI's. If the photographer had survived the war, there would sometimes be captions:“These two boys popped out of a ditch, the GI's shot at them, and the bigger one fell on top of the smaller, as if to protect him. I took the picture and turned away. The GI's moved in to finish them.”

Blunt. Perhaps not without remorse, but you can never tell that from text alone.

I once saw an episode of This American Life that examined the humanistic integrity of candid photography. There was a video confessional of sorts from one photographer who was covering a hurricane off the Southeast coast in the 70's or 80's.  He saw a woman standing on this embankment not far from shore, just watching the storm, a beer in her hand. He was snapping pictures of the surf, trying to get coverage of the wind damage going along the shore. He took a picture of the woman standing there. He then said that in the next moment, a huge wave crashed into the embankment, sucking the land and woman into the sea. There were others along the shore that rushed to help her, she had her hands out, crying for help, trying to grasp the arms reaching out to her. Another enormous wave came up behind her, and her would-be rescuers had no choice but to retreat. She was lost. This man took pictures of the entire sequence. He said then that of all the people that rushed to help, he was the closest, but his mind was centered on taking the pictures. You could tell he was racked with guilt, thinking that if he had put the camera down and went to her aid, he may have been able to save her before the waves took over. But he had become an observer, an historian. He had removed himself from the immediacy of the moment in order to capture it.

I've managed to find a shortened video of his story:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcGZhXAi9M8

I wonder if that's what the wartime photographers did. Of course they had no power to stop it, they were noncombatants. Documentarians. I'm fairly certain they were armed, but they would have most definitely been outnumbered in sentiment. All they could do was what they were there to do.

So their images survive for the unexposed generation to ponder.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Stop #2: Notre Dame Cathedral.

  

Now it was my turn to feel like a disconnected opportunist; it was a beautiful church, it the midst of conducting two or three beautiful weddings. Honestly. There was a couple taking wedding pictures outside, another couple just-wed getting into a vintage European-looking convertible on the other side, and a wedding in-progress inside. My guess is this place is hard to book.

Eh. It's a church. There's one in every town.

Stop #3: Central Post Office. The most interesting thing I saw here was a souvenir Titanic model, filled with colorful blinking lights for some reason. 

The architecture there was nice. And now I know where the Post Office is.

Stop #4: The History of Revolution Museum. Most of the placards were not translated into English. Except this one:

Then we were on a wild dash through the Central ward of District 1, past all the Embassies and Consulates. I saw the American Embassy, where it all went down in 1975. I saw the Chinese Embassy, heavily barricaded and with graffiti on the outside walls.

Then we got down to business: Pagodas. I saw four Pagodas. What the names of them are, I couldn't tell you. I have the hardest time remembering names of people, streets, and places, because they are all so named in a fashion that's utterly incomprehensible to me at this point. My system of recognition has not yet shifted to the written. Here are some pictures of the unguessable.

These are probably the most well-treated turtles in Vietnam.

And the Educatedly-guessable Chua Quan Am, thanks to a picture investigation:

Incense coils

 These girls followed me all around Chua Quan Am. They liked my camera.

Cholon (Chinatown), street.

After this, I found myself in Cholon, Chinatown. I also found myself a little apprehensive of my guide, who was taking me farther and farther away from the familiar. And also, seemingly taking the long route, this coming from someone who still doesn't know north from south (I'm getting better, to the point where I can give pointy directions to major landmarks). After a brief stop at Cholon's Binh Tay Market, where I discovered my lousy negotiating skills, I told my driver it was time to head back.  

An intense discussion ensued, wherein I discovered that his idea and my idea of our agreed-upon  fee were two entirely different things.

I was left to basically bluff my way back to someplace familiar-looking, throw him about three times more than what the tour was worth, and walk briskly towards a busy-looking restaurant. Not the best end to an otherwise lovely day.

Today I had a completed pleasant interaction with a different Cyclo driver, who insisted the room I wanted to rent was too expensive ($300mo. 4^th floor with balcony, private bathroom and service), and took me to several other places he knew of for no charge.

Gotta get back on the horse.

PS I will upload more photos to an online account as soon as I can. I'll thank you in advance for your patience. The internet is mercifully moving at a decent speed today; I'm sure the ladies that run my guest-house think that all I do is sit on the computer and drink beer, which is only somewhat accurate.