I spent three nights in Saigon, visiting a few museums and doing some shopping. But I wasn’t impatient to scrutinize its few attractions. Mainly I just wanted to get my laundry done.
I did go out a bit for food and some sightseeing. There was the Reunification Palace, the former Presidential Palace, where the North Vietnamese Army tanks roared through the wrought iron gates to complete the “liberation” of South Vietnam.
It has been preserved as it was on that day in April 1975, and the 60’s era furniture and design brought to mind the shabby lobby of a battered, old hotel. I spent an hour there amidst a screaming horde of school kids on a Sunday morning field trip. The most interesting part of the building was the basement, with its ancient communication equipment in a grey, bunker-like warren of rooms. In any case, it looked all wrong. It, and the rest of the places I recognized from old Life magazine articles, is supposed to be in black and white.
I spent the good part of an afternoon visiting the War Remnants Museum, formerly the American War Crimes Museum. They renamed it a few years ago to spare the sensibilities of American tourists. Everyone I talked to who had seen it recommended it, so I was motivated to go there. But I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a rollicking good time.
It was not. Of all the showcases of the tragic mistakes my country committed in South East Asia, this was the most compelling. There are rooms filled with pictures of the effects of Agent Orange (as well as deformed human fetuses in jars of formaldehyde), graphic depictions of the civilian victims of anti-personnel weapons, the aftermath of indiscriminate bombings of schools and hospitals, and all the other insanities that accompany war.
In one building there’s a full-scale mock-up of the infamous “Tiger cages” of Con Son prison, where Viet Cong prisoners were kept for years. Most of the people held there (the lucky ones) died. Those few who survived came out with crippling physical injuries or worse.
One room was devoted to pictures taken by the 134 press photographers who died in the war, including some that were labeled: “Last frame taken by…”
And of course there were the same photos I had seen at My Lai.
I walked out of there feeling pretty shitty about us. I know, I know, it’s not as if we Americans were the only savages in that war. And Lord knows that there isn’t a country on this planet that can claim a pristine human rights record. But still, there’s no getting around the fact that we have more than our share of blood on our hands. I wish it were otherwise.
So I booked my tour to the Mekong Delta and got out of Saigon.
One of our Mekong Delta Boats
The tour was a three-day affair, mostly by boat, but some bus travel was on the itinerary as well. I was hoping for the same kind of lively, friendly group that had accompanied me to Ha Long Bay. But this was a different sort of tour.
There were a lot more of us, for one thing. And aside from a couple of Aussies (one of whom was an old Dead Head with whom I spent a beery dinner reliving memories), the rest were non- or poor English speakers from Canada, Germany, Israel, the Netherlands, Poland, and Korea. With my inadequate German I spent a fair amount of time trying to interpret to the Germans and Dutch what the heavily accented guide was telling us (when I could understand him).
The boat rides were pleasant enough, especially the second morning when we explored the floating market of Can Tho. But the bus rides were fairly torturous episodes, and the guest houses we stayed at weren’t high on the creature comfort scale. So it was a mixed treat.
Can Tho Floating Market
Can Tho Floating Market
But the Mekong is big river. And its delta covers a vast area. Chugging upriver made it easy to imagine myself as Joseph Conrad heading into the Heart of Darkness. That was cool.
Heading Upriver
Or rather, hot. Hot and humid, which is why I sprang for a very nice hotel when I finally reached Phnom Penh in Cambodia last night. I’ve got a swank room overlooking the confluence of the Mekong and Tonle Sap rivers, and the Foreign Correspondent’s Club with its rooftop bar is just a few steps from my hotel. And I think I hear a Bombay Sapphire and tonic (or two) calling me.