yellow flower stem

The first thing I do in Vietnam is pee. It isn’t very glamorous, isn’t something that would end up on my Facebook timeline, but here it is. The mundane, inane realities of traveling is oftentimes obscured by the prescribed highlights, but in order to get to them, there are necessary steps to be taken. Most of the time, these are the things we don’t bring out our camera phones for. Technically, the first thing I did after Dylan and I looked through the airplane window, to marvel at the city lights of what presumably was Ho Chi Minh, was to wince in pain. My ears were throbbing and in a matter of seconds became temporarily deaf. Change in altitude. It figures. I think I even cried. Minutes later, no longer deaf and wincing, backpack strapped securely on, two feet back on land, I am peeing.

17 December 2018

The first morning in Ho Chi Minh is dedicated to phở. Dylan and I learned from our many local travels prior that it is vital to watch where the locals eat. We are in Vietnam, hungry. We want the best of their food. And what is about to be proven, yet again, is this: the best referrals aren’t always found online. From our hostel, we randomly choose to turn left and walk the length of the street. We log only a few meters and find a crowded corner restaurant. It isn’t fancy. In fact, it looks like a lot of the eateries in the grittier parts of Manila. Stainless steel tables. No air conditioning. Staff in different clothes. Men and women crowd its tables as soon as they get off their motorcycles, which they park close by. It is almost as if the place is part of their routine for the day, an automatic stop. There’s no way of knowing of course except to ask them. Dylan and I are too hungry to attempt that so we order instead. We continue to wonder, briefly as we begin munching on the generous greens that come with the large soup bowls. I forget what I was just thinking. I forget what day it is. I forget that we’ve committed to veganism for more than a quarter of a year. For a fleeting moment, I forget all the other delicious meals I’ve ever had up until that point.

We walk to the City Hall and gaze at its European architecture. Dozens of other tourists are taking a picture of it, with it. Dylan and I do the same under the shade of a small tree. We walk afterwards to a group of pigeons pecking at whatever we couldn’t see on the pavement. I run to them and Dylan takes a snap as they scatter away, flying for their lives. This is the better-looking part of the city. Our feet, moments later, brings us then to the Notre Dame church, where the crowd is thicker, even though the church is closed. We take more photos of ourselves and the structure, and I couldn’t help but dismiss it. Sure, I’ve seen in it before, blown-up on a wall in a Vietnamese café, a block from where I worked in Makati. It isn’t at all impressive next to the churches, basilicas, and cathedrals I’ve been to back home—but this is Vietnam, it’s part of their history, so we take a couple more photos, even a video. We catch on camera pigeons flying right behind us and get a charge out of our luck.

After checking out the large and interesting post office, we find our way into a charming street left of the church. Bookstores, cafés, and kiosks are lined up the length of the road. I browse through the books on sale and see everything is in Vietnamese, including the fifth installation of the Harry Potter series. Dylan lines up at the prettiest café and orders us cream puffs, which we instantly decide we love. The coffee is too bitter for him, though, and we leave for the Imperial Palace with his cup still half full.

The line for entry at the Imperial Palace is long. Patiently holding our spot in the line, we gaze at the structure through the wrought iron fences. It takes us quite a while, but we get in in the end. At the vehicle ramp, we’re greeted by these bonsais in gorgeous pots. I recognise the plant as kamuning. I push Dylan to smell the flowers, to notice it, to believe I identified it correctly, and to take a photo of me, naturally. The palace interiors is as could be expected. Grand, intricate, Asian, and dated. The palace reminds me of the Marcoses’ Malacañan of the North. The thing I like most are the bunkers, and the maze-like layout of the basement. The garden at the back of the palace is home to a beautiful giant tree, its roots visible on the surface of the ground, the pattern revealing an intricate and altogether interesting display. Dylan and I marvel at the sight before deciding it is time for the War Remnants Museum.

We walk a long way and, in the middle of our search for the museum, even get lost. We tap, tap, tap on our phone screens and wonder what offline Google Maps has that could help. When we finally find it, we’re hungry again and a bit impatient, but the war is such a part of Vietnam’s history and identity that our resolve is renewed. We are certain we want to be here, of all the places we could be going at this hour. Honestly, there has been considerable anticipation for this part of our visit here, at least on my part. To say that I was inconsolable at the end of Miss Saigon would be an understatement. This museum visit is about to give me the cold, hard facts of how the war was for Vietnam and its people. But of course we had formed manageable expectations, and in the first few galleries, our low expectations are met. But gallery after gallery, room after room, we begin to understand the story from the Vietnamese side of that story. We arrive at the top floor, where they show the effects of the chemical warfare not only on the forests and crops, but also on the people who have been disfigured and debilitated by these chemicals. We examine the photographs and read the writings on the wall. My lips part partially. I turn to Dylan and find tears rolling down his cheeks. I look at what he’s eyeing—a disfigured man, a second generation victim and survivor, trying to carve wood using his feet. I scan the room and take in these testaments. Outside, when we exit, a soft wind arrives, rustling the leaves of a towering ficus, and we leave the museum compound knowing well what evil looks like.

On the way to Ben Thanh Market, we pass by a Jollibee. We’d be absurd not to try, so of course we do. And of course the food tastes similar but different, even the drink options are exotic-looking. We spend the rest of our time there watching a skilled staff arrange balloons for a kiddie party.

At Ben Than, Mika lures us with her prowess in Tagalog. The small Vietnamese woman has been selling here a long time and so has worked and is actually friends with a Filipina, who presumably has been teaching her. We compliment her repeatedly for her mastery of our language, her sheer interest and charm while using it. “Mura lang, bigyan kitang tawad.” She could easily pass as one of us, albeit very business-minded one. We buy embroidered wallets and trinkets of all sorts. We leave unsure if we really got the promised discounts.

The first night in Ho Chih Minh is also dedicated to phở. This time we try to be a just a tad bit fancy and walk in Phở 2000 for dinner, above a swanky looking Seattle’s Best. We feast on vegetarian options until our tummies hurt, enough to call it a day, enough to know that it’s a perfect first day.

18 December 2018

Of course the tour guide chose a Hollywood star’s name, the original Tomb Raider. Equipped with a microphone, Jolie is a small lady with brown-orange hair and red spots on either cheeks. She spews out a joke, which half of the van’s passengers laugh at, including me. I laugh purely to show courtesy. Jolie’s English deliciously betrays Angelina’s, and I love her for it. I stare at her for a few seconds and wonder what her actual name is. Could it be Nguyen, as what’s on every other signage we pass by on our way to the Mekong River? I would ask her, except Dylan and I are way at the back. Right across the isle is an Australian-but-Asian-looking dad with his two sons. I look at the passengers and feel a sense of pride that most of us have some Asian features about us. I don’t know why I’m saying this, but I think the whites win in the end, because we all understand English.

We booked this tour shortly after our encounter with Mika at the market, for a ridiculously discounted rate. Dylan is a pro at haggling—and math—and I have therefore advised myself never to leave without him. Even this time, I can say, he out-haggled himself. Prideful people like me find it hard to ask other people for discounts. It could easily be mistaken for begging. What I learned from Dylan is that it’s not bad to try, and the savvy entrepreneur would never say yes to a breakeven setup.

When I finally get the hang of balancing myself in the boat, I get this thought: Mekong River is okay. I mean, it is historic and has given a lot to the people around it. That’s all good. That’s all well. It is an honour and a privilege to be gallivanting on its waters, a dream even. The tour, as it turns out, though, is as basic as it can get. Back to how mundane, uneventful things are and can be necessary, too? That’s what I am beginning to feel. We’ve been navigating through narrow ducts into wider ducts and back into narrow ones. The boats are plenty, enough to obscure the brown waters where they float on. Water palms encroach the space above us, on either side. It’s wonderful and certainly interesting in photos, but that’s about it. (Either this or we didn’t get the best tour.)

At lunch, while waiting for our feast, Dylan and I interact with a couple from Brazil, who like us have been on a vegetarian diet for a while, but (still like us) have decided to make exceptions on this trip every now and then, just like we were all about to do with the fried elephant ear fish that has just been served. We also interact with a Polish couple, who recommend highly that we visit northern Vietnam for its milder, more provincial feel. After finishing off what the rest of our table couldn’t, Dylan and I explore the rest of the place (there were snakes and crocodiles and monkeys) with the others and followed the rest of the itinerary.

It is almost dusk when we arrive back in the now familiar Ben Than Market. We look for Mika and buy more items we think we can’t afford to forget, like ref magnets and more of those wallets. For dinner, we decide to continue on our never-ending quest for phở served by the street. We find it, and about an hour later are licking ice cream at the Note Coffee place at Bùi Viên. 

When we arrive back at our hostel, we decide to try the local beer. It is our last night in Ho Chi Minh, and we finally strike a conversation with Túan, who mans our front desk.

Tùan here, we discover after just a bottle of beer, has a different view on the United States and the war. He believes that his government has been tricking people to believe the US forces were bad, that they did them wrong and should be hated. It’s all propaganda and politics, he says. To him, Ho Chi Minh will never be Ho Chi Minh—it has and will always be Saigon. He confesses he loves Americans and dollars, and that he’d love to get to the United States someday. Tùan reminds me of The Engineer character in Miss Saigon, and I climb up the stairs minutes later playing the songs from the musical, all in my head. I feel a bit sad.

19 December 2018

We have our last Vietnamese meal at Veggie Saigon, a vegetarian restaurant we spotted yesterday. The food arrives on our table and we are blown away by how delicious and different everything is. We immediately get sad for not knowing about the place sooner, that we were about to hop on a bus three blocks from where we were, it was just a matter of hours now. We’ve never heard anything about Cambodian food—that made me anxious, a little bit, and then it didn’t. 

As far as Dylan and I are concerned, Vietnam has delivered and given us an unforgettable gastronomic experience, among so many other things. 

When the best meal of our Ho Chi Minh stay is done, we begin our walk to where the bus is supposed to pick us up. I feel my bag pressing against my back and weighing my shoulders down. It has gotten a tad heavier, as I know I have these past days. 

It is late afternoon when reach the border. From the bus window, I look at the building we’re approaching. With the sunlight slanting the way it is, I only make out the roof’s silhouette, but Khmer architecture is unmistakeable. Our conductor instructs of the procedure. We’re about to go down and appear before the immigration officer. I open my bag to check that my documents are ready. After I confirm this, I make a quick run to the bus’s toilet, which I begin to smell two meters away. 

Ho Chi Minh was a nationalist as well as a communist. This is well documented and arguably the more abusive communist policies that harmed the Vietnamese people were not something he ever envisioned. Given the violent history of communism, why would he identify communism as the answer for independence for Vietnam?

Well, what did capitalism ever do for his country? It led to exploitation and colonization by the French.