Yuletide Greetings From Viet Nam

Ping Pong

And so we have travelled to raise our own awareness, to see sights not seen and to embrace a reconstituted sense of home in a foreign place. And we needed things we thought we missed. Consumables and desirables. Products unknown in Saigon.

You learn things so they say by travel, it broadens the mind while it saddens the heart. You learn things about yourself thinking about how on earth you can possibly be in such a place and if you tavel far enough, long enough, how you can possibly be. A crazy westerner, a souped-up, sexed-up farang investing in hitherto obscure sports like table tennis. It is everywhere on the Bangkok street after dark, a sport so promoted no wonder it is so well attended.

We have to weave through throngs of men who have had too much; in sarongs lifted laughingly to reveal too little as eyes bleary yet somehow alive look for songs of the night, like sirens wailing, snared by their own thong. There is pattern and rhyme. This is why they are here and this is why they are here. There is no chicken and egg; no desire and satisfaction; only a continuum of the expected, a flirtation with the exotic, a taste of some stranger's bitter fruit. Yes, we have no bananas.

And then later. We miss Elvis but catch an Easy Rider soundtrack. A different show, a different city, now back in the rush of Saigon. There is less cool and more kitsch, there is less freedom and more control. But self control ? There are no bananas nor ping-pong, but there are transactions in the corner, there are the glammed-up with the paunched-out and all listen in to falsetto, soundtracking so many different moods in the small cabaret where middle-aged couples sup gently next to business men who roar loudly next to hostesses who smile by the Dong while all are next to a few foreigners agog, grinning ironically hopefully knowing they know best. And the old man, speaking in French, comes on with an acoustic guitar and strums his way into ' Born to be Wild.

Another One Bites

We took a walk that started in daylight. We weren't sure how far it was. We hadn't bought a map of the island. This tear shaped island in the Gulf of Thailand didn't really seem big enough to worry about having a map for its 45km length. Stepping off the surprisingly smooth ride on the prop plane we already knew there was some jungle to greet us as it felt like the wheels had clipped and chipped the mangos hanging on to the tops of the trees. Anyway, our taxi shied away from the main drag of resorts and took us up into the hills, a red clay track with potholes that could claim cattle.

A bumpy half an hour later we were at our eco resort. This was the kind of advertising that was designed to pull liberal-minded schmucks like me in, who don't mind flying over some beautiful aquamarine sea to get to paradise as long as we don't see the damage that our in flight service is doing. Offset that.
Except no one cared. The owner seemed more interested in drinking from mid-morning onwards and then going off with his mates to snorkel while the staff were left to fend off a slew of criticisms from the rooms to the beach; from the food to the over-charging. The place seemed like a tropical building site but in the end it wasn't the noise that we couldn't cope with but the wrong atmosphere, the wrong people and the wrong place. Our eco haven was built on top of the remains of dead prisoners, transported here from the mainland. Poltergeist that.
So we walked to a place we thought was close by. It was another world. Whereas EcoLipService Resort conjured up images of gangstars in bermudas, this place had a simple elegance to it. A tropical Shaker feel to the rooms, coloured-up woods minimally spaced in the large huts and where the bathrooms had saplings growing from between the tiles reaching up through the opened ceiling. A Franco- Vietnamese couple greeted us without surprise as though they were used to seeing
refugees from a marketing ploy.

So we returned in the dark to our eco resort, resolved and ready to transfer the next day. In the company of one of Ridgeback dogs who befrfiended us and padded alongside us we ascended the hill away from the resort. Darkness fell as it always does here like a stone; a rock fall that denies dusk and soon we were left flicking at our half dead torch cursing our eyes for their city focus. We passed by what we knew were homesteads with their mixture of scrapheaps and Buddhist shrines; their howling Ridgeback dogs and the flicker of VN soap opera in homes opened up without protection to the mosquitos we could both feel biting our faces.

Then a human howl, a raucous refrain lurching into harmony some ways off in the dark as we held on for balance and for reassurance. For the first time since I have arrived I felt insecure; a little edgy in the way that I had got used to feeling back home. That's the way you had to be if you were walking along the streets of Glasgow, say after the pubs closed in a lot of places and even then, it was at any time in some places. You didn't have to be scared you just had to be aware of your surroundings and be prepared for something to happen. It's the same thing, I know.

Nothing did happen. No. Something did. Our friendly dog stopped suddenly, its ears bending back. Never a good sign. Out of the black and into the road came a song that had a slurred tonality to it and my head torch picked out a startled figure of a half naked man who froze where he was, empty rice wine bottle in hand, his bare chest heaving with the fuss of adrenalin in his body. He didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the United Nations. This hadn't been rehearsed. He rushed out some words and I whispered a particuarly weak Hi and we moved on, a little ruffled but reassured.
Later, under the mosquito net, it was hard to sleep. The throb of Saigon motos had been replaced by a wall of sound, the crazy, scary, plain what the hell was thatness of it all was great. Here we were under the canopy next to the sea listening and a part of nature's tinnitus.

Dizzying Sights

Woke up and the world revolved. Not evolved. Should have. Could have. If mud-slides hadn't taken away mudhuts; if the ground hadn't been taken away from under them just before they were typhooned, old and ancient Hue battered with fresh and natural violence. Could have. If we had eyes to see as the smoke from Malaysia heads for Singapore's clean streets and then. And then. The apocalyptic forecasts keep the fire stoked for the Britishers' love and fear of the weather,a pre-Discovery channel fascination with all things that can't be controlled.
If anything had changed overnight it couldn't be seen. Not by me at least. The room was swirling and my eyes lied to me; bare face cheek in the mirror. They should have been rolling in their sockets, the pupils taking the curve of the eye, hugging it like a cue ball, but no, they remained fixed on the mirror while my head danced on a merry-go-round which had been placed on the poop deck of a galleon ploughing through some terrible storm. Of course there is exaggeration. This is illness. It should not be downplayed. It was surprising however to find myself so dizzy and staggered; like a raging hangover mixed with sea-sickness.
Dear Kate held me as we taxi'd our way to our ( not so free) healthcare.Of course it's a virus. Dear Doctor. Dear Diary. We are all a virus. Some apocalyptic swipe with mud or air or water or fire will sweep us away and who the xxxx cares. Trust me I'm a doctor they didn't say but they should have. I could barely see them. The room was spinning. This was some tropical Tarantella that was bringing some screwed up syncopation to my brain. You've got riddim, you've got style, that sweaty and pasty face is lighting up this world and do you mind if we cash in. An ear virus. $50 Consultation Fee. $21 for Prescription. Drugs for Vertigo ( I loved the movie thanks), for the cold ( think Lemsip) and STREPSILS ( think what the !@?k. If I could have stormed out I would have but I managed a dramatic stagger instead and a whispered certainty that the Hippocratic oath is silenced by such private care.
I'm better now and I can watch threatening mud and clouds of smoke from the safety of my living room.
PLEASE CLICK ON THE QUICKTIME SLOWLY LINK (to the right) TO SEE THE LATEST RUDIMENTARY VIDEO THING.

Okay, lets get a possible cliche out of the way first. The journey from paradise to hell can be a long one. Another weekend at the beach. ( 2 in a row, for christsakes' and I complain that the work is v. stressful ? Yes and eh, yes. Anyway, Mui Ne was its sublimely peaceful self. From the hub of humanity to the lull of waves, I am here again. In the morning there is talk ( but not mine) of dawn swims in the briefly cool air. At seven, I am told that the water is cold as Kate dives in and I walk the beach looking for shells and a state of wakefulness that usually eludes at such time(s). By the time, I walk back along the beach the air is hot and the Vietnamese who have been up since before first light have slowed to an amble along the sand.

At night, a new horizon is created. We thought we had discovered new land in the South China Sea, that we were Columbuses pretending to find a country not lost nor waiting to be found. But the horizon in daytime is unobstructed, unremarkable in its greyish blue lineage. By night we are told that the lights, blinking amber and red are the banana boats and coracles out for their catch of snapper and shell. Like in Maude Hutchins story where a child shivers itself to the core with imagination; where the links of a snapped anchor chain become the entwined torsos of dead sailors washed up on the sandy shore and the net floats, in their bleached colours, become the deadened swell of human heads finding home like sand crabs by digging into the sand.

Forgive the sombre tone but what is common place has sooner rather than later happened to me. Brief witness to RTA; passing safely recorder of carnage soon behind but lingering all the same. Bodies can twitch beside the road, so I am told, and no one will stop and care; a driver can be propelled into the air or squashed beneath tyre and people will certainly stop and stare. So I am told. If you stop and look no one will listen; if you hit and stop there will be trouble ahead. So, you can't get involved. When the moto driver hits the side of our minibus, I see his body jump briefly into the air, his bike skidding under him. There is a bump as the minibus goes over something. Something. It could be anything. So I am told. It was the bike, we went over the bike. Someone shouts STOP because roadside care might be needed, rudimentary resucitation must surely be there, on hand, in our hearts the hope that it was just his bike.

The further we get, our mutual words and recounts soothe our minds, a collective effort to shift the image of the flying body from our memory. I recall what I really wanted to write this blog about, the incredible but silent storm that took place miles from the road, in the peaks of mountains some distance away. The lightning scattering across the sky, back lighting the clouds in the night sky and so briefly illuminating the cowering life below. A scene that was incredibly evocative and somehow both gothic and tropical. A hybrid worth exploring. An image worth saving. Not everything we see, I guess, should be remembered. Given the choice.

Actually the first movie didn't work too well and apparently a password is needed. I'm gonna post this new movie, of a brief visit to Mui Ne beach last weekend, and see what happens.

Quicktime Slowly

Eh, this is just a brief blog. It's been a quiet day here in Saigon, the day after a red flagged National Day and the celebrating of independence has seen the mopeds off the streets for once and it was possible to cross looking left and right only a couple of times ! There's a link to the right of this text which I intend... no not the Google news one...which I intend to direct visitors to a bunch of little movies, maybe a minute or so long and which will give a little slice of HCMC life. Epic, pedestrian, surreal... Who knows but they will get better. I'll be surprised if this one even works. We were on our way back from Mui Ne and what you see is what you get for however long it streams for... the ADSL here hiccups the playback. Oh well. I'll be sticking to writing anyhow. The trouble with a camera is that you always think you should be taking photographs.

Saigon Storm

We're here,there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

Jeanette Winterson from 'Lighthousekeeping'

Paradise File No.32A

So, you reach a new place, a life trailing behind you and for a moment there is a sense of perspective. A confident, seemingly fulsome knowledge hiccups its way through possible tales of eclectic experience to eccentric bars; from the needy tug on a sleeve by a street kid to declaring pride in the importance of cultural exchange. Here we have the congratulation of something already celebrated. And then there is always later, the tipsy exit from such a cheap bar, the needy tug on the sleeve by a street kid, the nod of understanding and then the sliding along alleyways like they belonged to you, to cafes like you were crowned imperial surrounded by courtesans of the dollar.

This country should say to me, an upstart lyricist in a land rich in narrative, abundant in the force of talk, it should and it will say in its best Samuel L Jackson dub“ You don’t know me, you just think you. do.”

Condoleeza Rice is comin to see us; George Bush is coming to see us. When I arrived in Hungary in 1989 , Margaret Thatcher became the first Western leader to visit since the fall of their communism. The streets were lined with soldiers leaving, going back to Russia and a great white hairdo hope was coming to help those brittle and freezing Magyars who needed to be told to get off their Trebants and on their bikes.

Anyway, the photos say enough. Don’t wanna wax about palm trees, sultry evenings and dawn swims. C’mon. I came all this way to do that ? I guess this blog could be about being postcard; heightening the experience with consummate descriptions of travel in paradise, a vain and pedestrian emulation of Denton Welch. Please. Let me try not to do that. But it was pretty, sorry, it was peaceful and significantly a long way from the throb 0f scooters. Mui Ne, a less crowded, less resourced, less overdeveloped resort. Here endeth the advertisement for paradise. Finding it,holding on to it, losing it. It’s all pretty well documented. But for me the trick is always going to be recognising it.

Okay, here are some photos.

Archetypal Tropical Beach Photo #23A
Kate being noticed by visiting children

Ooops. I guess we have arrived. Through the looping films of the long flight over, the whooping of Big Mommas House 2 merging somehow with the squeak of the hostess trolleys; into the thick, embalming heat of the airport with its bewildering layers of red tape and the anxious moments as customs question our motives for entering the country. They are of course good questions.

And on, rushed through like couriered parcels of damp white sweat, our meeters and greeters do their best to make themselves understood through the smog of language and we are all polluted by our trust in our own language. The throng that heaved around the aiport arrivals hall was not interested in our confusion, in our cultured shock. They were looking for loved ones and missing ones or wailing children and then heaving huge boxes held together somehow by dirty string and making sense of finally arriving.

And then the contrast of the hotel, the sounds of the crazy traffic dampened by the hush of luxury; the sound of silk rubbing against silk. No friction, no spark nor life. Just a lull in commotion; an oasis of soothing ointment applied with smiles and bows. Truly this is for wounds not even opened. There is nothing sore here. But of course who argues with the embrace, the ritualistic, economic hug that gathers around us. Not me. For some hard currency we are given soft furnishings and a potent view over the thriving city; we find ourselves in a rooftop pool swimming with what energy we can muster as exotic fronds hang loosely over the water. And with this tickling, delicate touch, we can pause for a moment and consider the journey, the move, the change and I can duck my head under the water with the noise of a thousand mopeds just a hundred metres down, and believe that we have arrived.

Ardnamurchan

Having just been to a favourite spot on the Ardnamurchan penninsula with the knowledge that I am soon to leave Scotland for a new life in Vietnam made the trip all the more poignant. It has always been a much-loved place, a perfect setting for wild camping on Achateny beach facing the rising peaks of Rhum; a swim in the cold and clear water, getting close to seals with a snow-capped Ben Nevis in the distance. It's full of memories of silly fire-lit nights with friends as I tumbled on the sand then later catching moments of peace and grace in the flicker of campfire flame.

We lit candles sometimes impossibly against the stiff breeze rushing in from the sea but with time and patience these tiny sentinels would create pockets of light spreading out across the sand as far as my inebriated focus would allow. Then, of course , waking up with fuzzy head to the chatter of oyster catchers and the strangely muffled sound of familiar voices translated, relocated from the city setting.

So when I leave there will be fondness for place but - and it is difficult to anticipate such things - I imagine more than the sights and sounds of the city, I will miss the shore, its sights and sounds and will seek as soon as I can, a new ocean to be beside.

Premier Blog

Using these two photos of the gig I did with the lovely Frances McKee at the Crossing Border Festival in The Hague, November 2005 is a good place to start this premier blog.The Barry Lopez quotation at the top says it all.
I Photos courtesy of Michel Faber