Chasing Amy-Lou

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam:

Breakfast in the hostel was interesting. The noodle soup, I chose not to opt for, as that was just too weird, and I had spent enough time chomping noodles for breakfast as a broke student back in the early noughties, so I decided to choose the eggs and lots of water instead. Turns out though that ‘Free Breakfast’ actually has a limit, and the gallons of mineral water in the tanks sitting in the kitchen were not for general consumption but for staff only, and if we wanted extra H2O then we had to purchase it from reception. Considering the sweltering humidity in the basement kitchen, and the fact that I was dripping just by sitting, the need for water had never been greater. So when the little Vietnamese ‘chef’ (and I use inverted commas as I really don’t think he was a chef) almost shouted in my face for trying to fill my water bottle up from said tank, save from being alarmed and taken aback, I knew I should probably purchase provisions for the future. I was also dying for a coffee or tea that hadn’t been made with condensed milk or fifty grams of sugar and tasted like candy floss, but no such luck in today.

Deciding caffeine probably wasn’t that necessary this morning (the rebuffing from the chef had woken me up enough), I hopped into a little coffee shop for a camomile tea instead, and left pleasantly pleased and full of warmth for human nature, as when I went to sip my drink a few minutes later I found that the smiley, upbeat vendors had left a note on my cup: “Thank you for visiting us. Have a great time in Ho Chi Minh City.” It’s the little things.

Walking down Duong Bui Vien, the traffic was as busy and hectic as ever and beginning to rattle my head a little and cause me some unease. Not that I didn’t feel safe but I was craving calm and serenity, so I took to the back streets and meandered down hutongs and alleys, coming across hostels with outdoor pools, spa retreats, massage shops, and cheaper places to dine and drink than I’d been the previous night.

Making a mental note to check these places out at a later date, I found myself walking through 23/9 Park on my way to the War Remnants Museum. As I stopped to take stock of my quiet suroundings and breathe in the relative silence I was approached by such a smiley mild-mannered Vietnamese boy who wanted five minutes of my time to practice English. Being the super-cautious, streetwise, paranoid westerner that I am, I gently declined his request, not wanting to be tricked into following him to a tea party or some other sordid tourist trap, and continued on. Immediately I felt pangs of guilt, for all I know the poor young fellow might’ve been genuine in his questioning. The thought that he could’ve failed his next English exam and been excommunicated from his family because I had selfishly refused to help him practice conversation played on my mind, and his shy, nervous, gentle face will probably haunt me in my dreams forever. But hey ho, I had shit to do and so on I trundled, trying not to look lost.

Passing by Ben Thanh market again I wandered up the busy streets until I reached the grounds of the Reunification Palace. A strange little man with very bad teeth collared me over to his scooter as I was peering through the Palace fences:

“Palace closed. Open 1pm. You want Angel Pagoda? I take there. See. Me tour guide. My name is (and for the life of me I couldn’t recall his name so we’ll call him Longmai), I take many English people. They write good review. See see. Manchester. London”.

And he continued on like this for a while, showing me a book he had which included pictures of himself with foreign travellers, and reviews of his little Ho Chi Minh scooter tours. Now, it wasn’t that I didn’t trust little Longmai, far from it, I believed him to be a genuine soul with a knack for making money from travellers so they didn’t have to walk anywhere and could see the sights from the back of his scooter; but me being me – an awkward, stubborn woman who can’t really handle spontaneous plan disruption – I had my heart set on walking (a pastime I rather enjoy), so I politely refused a second Vietnamese man that day and on I went.

By this time it was 12:30 and Reunification Palace was in fact closed (turns out old Longmai knew his shit). So I made my way to the War Remnants Museum instead, which in theory, would’ve made more sense to visit first anyhow.

And then it began to rain. Luckily for me, being sans-raincoat, it was only droplets, and as I was sweating buckets from the humidity anyway, my clothes drenched in my own sweat and my thighs beginning to chafe it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if the heavens had opened. I paid my entrance fee and began the task of finding my way logically through the cool, air conditioned museum.

I could continue on by writing and telling you about the artefacts in the museum, and about all its exhibitions and the information it provided in trying to give context to the war in Vietnam. But I won’t. What I internalised and what I took away from the museum is my own, and it had its own affects on me. To say it was horrific, grotesque and repulsive are only three adjectives of many I could use to describe how I felt after spending almost two hours there. It was very informative and very anti-American (naturally), and hugely emotive. I’d urge anyone visiting Ho Chi Minh City to go there. It will not only provide you with some perspective on an atrocious and highly unnecessary massacre but might just educate you too.

The Reunification Palace was next on my list and after paying the 40,000 VND entrance fee and having a quick wander round, I deduced that I probably could’ve given it a miss and saved the money for food. Not that it wasn’t interesting, I’d just rather have spent money on filling my belly than walking round an old palace. I did get a good selfie in the presidents old bedroom though.

I’d encountered some interesting characters on my second day in Ho Chi Minh and I was sure I’d be encountering more as my trip continued, but one thing I will say about SE Asia, is the people’s fascination with foreigners; especially short, pasty-white English girls with huge shoulders and sizeable breasts. On my meander round the palace gardens I was stopped by a family of maybe Koreans or Japanese asking if they could take a photo with me. This had happened to me once before while in China back in 2013 so I wasn’t phased by their fascination. I gave them what they wanted, albeit with a big cheesy grin, and carried on my way, listening to their chortles and sniggers as they reviewed the pictures behind me.