Commie Kitsch and Wounded in Action.

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Commie Kitsch and Wounded in Action.


It was nice to be back in Saigon, with my health restored, and a bit of a tan (I was puke green color the first time). I went back to the same guesthouse that took care of me during the sick period. They were happy to have me back, especially with the smile and tan.

The next day I hired a motorbike driver to see the few sights that Saigon had to offer. The first and most important on the list was the War Museum. Before the embargo was lifted it was called the US War Crimes museum, but they opted for something a little more PC in the mid 90’s. I kind of had an idea of what to expect. Gruesome photos, some propaganda, and the “tools” of both sides. They had various US tanks, cannons, and fighter Jets, as well as an assortment of bombs and shells used in the war. To actually see these machines of death up close and personal was….interesting, and shocking. Seeing them on the news or in movies is one thing, standing next to a tank, and its large guns, are another. They had an entire section devoted to the after effects of Agent Orange, and even a deformed Siamese fetus in a jar.

The one part that I was surpirsed with was the section that showed how unpopular the war was through out the world, especially in the US. They had pictures from Kent State, protests in DC, and even medals (Purple hearts given back) and letters from US soldiers apologizing to the people of Vietnam.

The Museum is very one sided, and rightfully so, but the one thing I didn’t see anything about was the “re-education” period that followed the war, the period that left many southerns (Vietnamese) dead from starvation, mines, and malaria. Needless to say, I felt an inquiry would be out of line

From there we headed to the Museum of Ho Chi Man City. I have no idea why was here. If I wanted to see old clay pots, and various things carved into eating utensils, then this was the place to be. But you know my take on this stuff; it just doesn’t float my boat to say the least. I wandered around a bit, and made a quick exit.

Next on the list was the Grand Palace. If it was anything close to the one in Bangkok, then this was to be a real treat. Not to knock communist/socialists, but they really lack aesthetically pleasing architecture. The “palace,” if you want to call it that was nothing more then a building that resembles a hotel from the 60’s. It had that very tacky and kitschy 1960’s feel to it. Not the cool and hip one; one that was about 30 years behind on a revamp. Inside the “Palace” you had various rooms that were all roped off with commie Red tape. Inside the various rooms you had chairs and dinning rooms, and of course the royal family in manikin form. I only made it through two levels (out of 4), and said to myself, “what the fuck am I doing here?” so I went outside, to a small café and ordered a bowl of Pho Bo, a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup with beef (Bo). As I ate the soup I thought about what I had seen, and what I was eating, and came to the conclusion that there was more Vietnam in that bowl, then in the “palace.” The dish certainly outdates all of the furniture in the “palace.”

Later on in the evening I headed to the Rex Hotel, which is a famous 5 star hotel that housed many US officers during the war. I wanted to get a few beers, do a Saduko puzzle, and shoot a sunset time lapse of the city from its roof top garden. I am not sure if you’ve seen the pictures (in the blog) from the sand dunes, but I have one called travel buddies - my flip flop sandals, the only thing my feet have seen in months. As I’m walking to the bathroom, my left sandal (which has already been wounded in action) took a direct hit. The piece that goes in between the big toe snapped; kind of like a spinal cord injury for flip flops. It was hopeless, there was no way to save them, as much as I tried and pleaded with myself, god, and the shoe repair man.

Walking with one broken flip fop isn’t easy, and it doesn’t give you any sort of coolness. You look kind of like a handicapped person that stumbles and trips over ones self. I wrapped a rubber band around the end of it, and tripped my way into a store, where I was lucky enough to find something that fit me (Asians are small!). I showed the wounded sandal, and they laughed - how dare they - my travel buddy, wounded and left for dead. They put the old sandals (which part of me wanted to keep) in a bag, and made way for a trash can burial. Bag ‘em and Tag. In the distance I swear I could hears taps, and the M16s firing in honor of my lose.

-d.

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