Good Bye, Vietnam

Oh, Vietnam. So close to Thailand, yet so far away. Cambodia was closer, to be sure, but no one thinks about Thailand when they're in Cambodia—Cambodia is enough. But Vietnam, Saigon, with your unruly Ben Thanh market and Pho 2000, Pho 24, All Pho All Pho-king Day, why couldn't you have been Pad Thai and Chatuchak on the river?

But no matter, you were Vietnam, a good place for pearls, for tailored suits and gowns, for Frogger: 4D, for water puppets, for avocado smoothies, noodles and raw eggs. You were fun, Vietnam, but that's all you were. And for only two days, that's okay.

Given my lack of ability to collect memories in anything resembling a linear narrative, I am left with no choice but to summarize—and sloppily, I anticipate—my stay in Vietnam.

I do recall a day at the market with a good group of us, though I can't say exactly who or how many; I can't accept all the blame for having forgotten as it was impossible to hold on to every member in a group from one place to the next, from one market alley to another, and I cannot be expected to remember who was missing, who had strayed, who had been stolen away, etc. And to take from (another) something I wrote for school:

"In Viet Nam, oh boy, you should see, it's just a mess of people, like an emptied can of creamed corn covering the whole city that pops and boils over into markets and alleyways. It snatches up squirming pedestrians, sinks leaden cars and butters the road for swerving motorbikes that will eventually meet and have no choice but to go and hope they don't become cream."

We had pho that day, that I remember, (though even if we didn't, it would be a pretty good guess to say we did), and Kristin and I got caught in the rain as we searched for a shopping strip we'd spotted from a bus the day before (or was it that day?). At a point, Kristin and I were Frogger-ing in the pouring rain under one umbrella from one flooded street to the next and we ended up under a lifted building where a Japanese man stood, possibly waiting for something, and he eventually let us in on a little place called "Zen" which sounded like a nice escape from the rain so we went and were very pleased, to say the least, with what we found there: shops galore! Unfortunately, the store was fashioned after Japan, meaning everything but the tag was the same (to borrow from a Vietnam-inspired proverb: "same same, but different"). That also means that the entire building could be judged as soon as the first floor has been covered, as everything from then on would have frills in the same places, of the same color, etc. So we left, back into the rain, and headed to a tailor shop where Kristin's custom dress was waiting. And in case you're curious, that thing is still floating around somewhere in Vietnam, orphaned and hideous.

As it was my first (and last) night in Vietnam, we all (Drew, Kristin, Chris and I) went out on the back of motor bikes to Volcano, (how I remember the name of that, I will never know) outside of which a (very drunk) set of Vietnamese Americans from Seattle happened to be loitering until they dragged us inside. The ground shook with the music, louder than music should ever be, so loud that the bartender couldn't hear my order, so loud that another bartender couldn't hear me complaining about my drink being served without alcohol, so loud that we left after fifteen minutes, frustrated, deaf, and ten dollars poorer. We took a cab to an American/SAS-friendly bar called Apocalypse Now which was apparently emptier than the night before, (according to Kristin) meaning the SAS kids had found a better place to hang out. But we headed upstairs and danced for a good hour, met Edward Scissorhands' doppelganger, then went home and fell happily asleep.

Next morning was for Saigon Water Puppets under Cheri Vasek, Semester at Sea's theatre aficionado.

The following is a rather inane essay I wrote about the show for a theatre class, (again, the cheesiness factor is inflated "for class"):

Twirling metallic dragons and harlequin gentlemen stole the show at the Saigon Water Puppet Performance, a depiction of daily life and cultural rituals particular to ancient Vietnam. Capering through the water of a humble, flooded stage, these puppets displayed the country's buoyant spirit and tenacity, embodying elements of Vietnamese heritage still connecting modern Saigon to its primeval counterpart—farmers harvesting grain, a grazier rearing his cattle, a peasant boring for water. And of course, the sacred four—dragon, unicorn, phoenix and turtle—who shared the stage for an animated dance manifest four vital life forces: health, longevity, peace and happiness. Add a few fireworks, and here we have a real spectacle.
As my first introduction to the art of water puppets, I could not have imagined a more enlightening experience. The small scale of everything, from the compactness of the room to the modest box stage in the center below, made the entire event much more intimate. I could even make out faint shadows and muted splashes of the performers maneuvering behind the curtain, and though that may have appeared tacky to some, I appreciated the glance at the private goings-on, like the puppeteers were sharing the secrets of the technical operation with me, in a way, as opposed to me just watching puppets gliding autonomously on the water. Not that self-governing puppets wouldn't make a fantastically magical show on their own, but the point seemed to be, at least to me, the puppets' actions and their physical embodiment of traditions and history shared by the Vietnamese people controlling them. And this connection, in water puppetry, could be found not only in the stories, but in the sturdy metal scepter attaching puppeteer, the sovereign controller, to his puppet.
As for the puppets themselves, though my first instinct told me to say they were tawdry and altogether indistinguishable, I can see the advantage of this aesthetic. First, the basic appearance of each puppet can be ascribed to the form in which they were first made: of wood with an unavoidably shiny water-resistant varnish. The homogeneity corresponded to the unity of Vietnam and its people, dressing every puppet in red, green and gold to represent the country's vitality. Then, by demanding little attention to makeup and costume, the audience was forced to study the role of each person based on his physical movement and interactions with other puppets. After all, what separates puppetry from other conventional theater forms (by which I mean an actor on a stage) is the control and detail that must go into body language and gesticulation. It is much more impressive to find the personality in three identical puppets through their movement alone than to distinguish them only by their features. It is also important to note that, culturally, Eastern countries value family and group identity more than the individual; thus, it seems suitable for the puppets to appear synonymous with one another.
So far I have done nothing but praise the performance; not that it wasn't worthy of hearty applause, but I do recall being slightly irked by the distorted, pre-recorded music. As a vital component of any show, music is capable of securing a Tony or, in this case, disturbing the whole production like a clanking metal cloak weighing everything down. The wind instruments blew everything out of order like a steaming hurricane; the drums were so shocking and muddled that it was impossible to distinguish a beat on the snare from a scratch on the CD; and everything else was simply unidentifiable rumpus. If I had the power to change anything, I would have replaced that cacophonous clamor with a live orchestra, seated on both sides of the pool, and playing to enliven the audience rather than just fulfill the traditional aesthetic.
But besides the music, I found the performance wholly entertaining, a wonderful mix of history and theater. And of course, the highlight of the show occurred afterward, after the puppeteers took their bows and demonstrated how to flip and spin the sheeny unicorn, when Cheri V. took the stage and exhibited her natural agility for everyone to see. (Cheri V., I have trouble believing you had never twirled a unicorn puppet before). The puppeteer's post-performance interaction with us showed how invested they were, how skillful and passionate about this centuries-long tradition a person can be even in today's Saigon.

To be truthful, I nearly fell asleep during the performance and spent a good while resting on Kristin's shoulder, but I do really believe that I would have enjoyed it with at least a fair percentage of the enthusiasm displayed above had I not been so fatigued.

As usually happens, I felt revitalized right about the moment I exited the theater, felt comfortable erasing "nap" from my itinerary, and went out to explore the city on my own. (Kristin stuck to the schedule and slept on the ship).

Not knowing where anything was, I walked blocks in the wrong direction until I finally found the post office, and that was only after stopping in every store within a two block radius of the post office asking "where's the post office?" or "stamps?" or "Notre Dame?" (which was right next to the post office) or "cathedral?" or "church?" and even the English speakers didn't quite understand Notre Dame, though their name for it is the same. Baffling. I found it on my own, luckily, struggled to buy some stamps (I still don't know if the postage was correct), then drifted into a shopping mall where I simply looked around with no intention of buying anything (which I didn't, and boy, am I proud). After I left, I walked across the street to a popular chain café (though the name escapes me at the moment—was it Highlands? I don't know). I sat there for an hour or so watching everyone walk by, guessing who was visiting, who wasn't, what people were saying in their foreign tongue, what they were drinking, what the loners were thinking and so on. I can't say I was particularly appreciating the country and culture of Vietnam, but it was surely one of the best travel days. Reminded me of being in France after my Dad deserted me there, when I wandered aimlessly around, over bridges, around churches, lay in parks, drank coffee, watched people. That is how I like to travel.

It quickly became night and when it did I was walking along the main street, kind of lost, knowing Kristin would be trying out a new dress at a different tailor at 5, and though I had been there the day before, I couldn't quite place it in the strip with jewelry store after tailor after underwear stand, and repeat; it all looked the same to me. So I gave up looking and opted to head back to the ship for dinner, and wouldn't you know it, as soon as I had resolved to do so in my head, I passed Kristin, Scott and Eilis on the street. I stuck with them and had frozen yogurt at a place designed like Pink Berry in LA and Swirl (or Cultivé, if you're new to the trend) in Davis, enjoyed it immensely, then went back to the ship to write and send postcards.

All in all, well, I can't say I'll be heading back to Vietnam. It is for people who like big crowds, big, big crowds, and stuffy markets, and noodle soup. Or for those who want to relive their war days—though I can't see how anyone would—as U.S. Army paraphernalia is really a hit in Saigon's capital market these days. Robin Williams may not be there, but the Good Morning, Vietnam t-shirts can be found everywhere. Odd.