|How have we ever lived without these? Bit of condensed milk does the trick|
|p p p p poser!!|
|That’s some God-damned tasty beer!!|
Previously known as the Museum of American War Crimes, the War Remnants Museum is one such place that you need to be prepared for emotionally. As Gareth had visited it back in the day, I knew what I was getting myself into, but for those with a delicate disposition I can imagine it is extremely hard to stomach. Filled with images of the atrocities during the Vietnam War, the museum holds nothing back in its attempt to voice the stories of the victims of US military action. Most of the images were actually documented by US sources and were even broadcast in the West. Photographs of massacres and the after effects of Agent Orange, a herbicide used as chemical warfare, not to mention Napalm, fill the walls. There is even an exhibit showing a deformed foetus. I found myself feeling moved, angry and ashamed but I got the impression at times that language was used throughout the museum in order to influence the reader to hold a certain point of view. Still, it stirred us both to be people who won’t accept just what we are told but instead to question everything and weigh it up. Who wants to live their lives hypnotised?
|War Remnants Museum|
|A big gun thing|
Next was the Reunification Palace. Built in 1966, the building’s design is homage to sophisticated 1960’s architecture and has been used as a presidential palace, the American Embassy for South Vietnam and a telecommunications centre during the war. The rooms are stuck in a time warp yet the décor throughout oozes grandeur; a merge of the oriental and art deco.
|So, this is the living room|
A couple of days later, when the weather was right, we rented ourselves the obligatory scooter and visited the Cu Chi Tunnels, a system of tunnels up to seven storeys deep in places. Guerrillas fighting the Americans used the network of tunnels (at one point reaching an area spanning 250km) during the Vietnam War. Now only a very small part of the tunnels are open to the public.
For an hour or so we were treated to a guided tour of the Ben Dinh tunnel site along with an Asian family and a few other Europeans. One of the first things the visitor can do is to lower themselves through an opening into one of the tunnels. Both Gareth and I were twice the size of all of the Asians so we merrily watched them slide their petite frames into the hole and pop their heads up to a gaggle of laughter. When the 6ft European also managed to do it, it really put Gareth and me to shame. We made up for this by being the first to climb on top of a disabled American tank. We were allowed to crawl through one of the tunnels and exit at either 20 metres, 50 metres or 100 metres, most people only managed to get to 50 metres and even that was a sweaty affair.
|Bit of a squeeze|
|Can I just say… PHWOAR!|
The last stop of the tour had us sat at a long wooden table where we were served hot jasmine tea and boiled tapioca, the diet of the guerrillas. When the tour was over, we made our way to the scooter, hoping that the journey back to our hotel would not be our last. These roads are just outright deadly bearing in mind that in a city of 9 million most people get around by motorbike and a good number of them don’t look to see if there is anything coming when they turn into a road and there’s no such thing as personal space, if there is a space then someone is going to fill it.
We were 12 hours away from booking our flights, having decided that this was the most sensible course. Sat at a roadside drinking beer for 6000 dong (20p), feeling like we’d failed and had to succumb to the truth of the matter, that we were skint, we unexpectedly overheard a bloke asking a table of Swedes next to us if they were interested in teaching English. As soon as Gareth heard this he beckoned the man over. He was a short, middle aged Kiwi and he introduced himself as Neil, handed us his business card, told us he owned a hotel in a district about 30 minutes away, could help us find teaching work, and the clincher, it was real Vietnam. No tourists.
|Plastic children’s chairs and 20p draught beer = somewhat uncomfortable heaven|
We gave ourselves a few days to weigh it up; our main concern was whether we could afford to invest in an idea that might ultimately not work out. We knew that we had enough cash to live in Vietnam for a month and on top of that enough cash to fly home if we needed to. We decided to just go for it. Teaching English was one thing we’d both wanted to do originally, in fact, on our first date Gareth had told me he wanted to go back to Vietnam and teach English (this made me fancy him even more). We had our TEFL certificates with us and I’d been carting two heavy English books with me across Southeast Asia so it was a bit of a no-brainer in the end.
We moved into a small bright room with white walls and an interestingly positioned mirror that ran alongside the bed. We have our own TV, a pokey fridge, an en-suite bathroom that leaves nothing to the imagination when one of us has to use the loo, and a communal kitchen that we share with around 10 other lodgers. Home sweet home.
When backpacking and moving from location to location every few days the need to be still can become overwhelming. So we gave ourselves a few days to find our feet, did some shopping in a real supermarket, and even cleaning and cooking felt so thrilling.
Within a few days we were out with Neil who took us to 15 schools in the district where we would hand in our CV’s then move on before they asked us any difficult questions such as ‘Have you ever taught before?’ Three days later we got our first job, teaching nursery school.
Now, you might think that’s truly awful, or you might think that’s the easiest job going. At times it can be both. Teaching 3 year olds to count to 5 takes weeks. Taking 5 minutes to line up 4 year olds to play a numbers game that involves them writing on a whiteboard then realising they can’t actually write yet, and some can’t even reach the board, is quite embarrassing. Teaching 5 year olds words for colours then being smacked by one kid when your back’s turned and that 5 year old telling you that the stick they have just hit you with is ‘Red!’ is just a mixed bag of emotions. Dancing and singing is fun but coming home and singing that one song ‘Clap, clap, clap your hands, clap your hands together…’ over and over in your head could make some people really quite ill.
So, now you know, we’re still alive and kicking in Saigon. Got our hands full a bit with the wee ones but we also teach 16 year olds so it’s not all singing and dancing. I started teaching adults last Monday, which is probably the most relaxing part of my week, unless I’ve got a glass of Dalat red wine in my hand that is.
Before I end, let me leave you with this from The Quiet American:
I can’t say what made me fall in love with Vietnam. That a woman’s voice can drug you? That everything is so intense – the colours, the taste, even the rain? Nothing like the filthy rain in London.
They say whatever you’re looking for you will find here.
They say you come to Vietnam and you understand a lot in a few minutes. But the rest has got to be lived.
The smell, that’s the first thing that hits you – promising everything in exchange for your soul. And the heat. Your shirt is straight away a rag. You can hardly remember your name, or what you came to escape from. But at night, there’s a breeze.
The river is beautiful. You could be forgiven for thinking there was no war, that the gunshots were fireworks, that only pleasure matters. A pipe of opium, or the touch of a girl who might tell you she loves you.
And then something happens, as you knew it would, and nothing can ever be the same again.