A Cautionary Tale

I’ve written about motorbikes before. There are 6,000,000 of them in Saigon. They are everywhere – on the street, on the sidewalk, in the lobbies of buildings, and on the ground floor of most houses. Not just some motorbikes, millions of them. You are conscious, every minute, of their presence. Right now I’m in my apartment but the sound of motorbikes passing is in the room with me. They are noisy, quiet, dirty, clean, sleek, clunky, fast and slow. They are used for personal transport, pizza delivery, FedEx and DHL, taxi service, family transport (up to 5 on one bike), furniture delivery (I’ve seen 10 twin bed mattresses weaving down the street at 6am), livestock delivery (trussed inverted pigs or 30 dead chickens hanging by their scrawny necks), police patrols, mail, grocery, fast-food, flower, and window glass delivery. Almost any function is and can be performed by motorbike – including larceny and battery.

Traffic is chaotic. Bikes drive on both sides of the road and on the sidewalk wherever there is an opening. They swerve between cars and turn in front of them. I’ve seen them run red lights at full speed across blind corners early in the morning. There is some order to it, but it’s difficult to discern exactly how it works. Sometimes it doesn’t and sometimes there are tragic consequences. Last week a friend of a friend’s 6 year old daughter was killed in Hanoi when a taxi rear-ended the mother and two daughters on their way home from school. The mother may lose her foot. The taxi driver made a run for it but was stopped by a couple of other cars at the next traffic light. More often than not they get away and leave the motorbike driver lying in the street. It’s the law of the jungle.

The more common crime, on the increase in Saigon, is purse or computer snatching. It’s not new. When we moved here we were warned to be careful and always carry a purse or computer on the building side when walking or with the strap across your body on a motorbike. I don’t know if it is the global recession or something else but purse snatching is on the rise now and sometimes it too has awful consequences. It usually works this way: two men on a bike spot a woman walking or riding with a purse hanging from her shoulder. They will pass slowly to case the job and then do a U-turn and make their run. The second guy on the bike grabs the purse or in some cases cuts the strap and they’re off. It doesn’t take much imagination to see the consequences. The best outcome is a clean snatch and run. The worst is that the victim is pulled off the bike and dragged down the street.

Our friend, Kaci (many Vietnamese working with foreigners take Western names to make it easier for us to remember) had her purse snatched a couple of years ago. She was riding on the back of a xe-om, a motorbike taxi, when it happened. Her bag was strapped across her body and the thieves didn’t make a clean job of it. Kaci was thrown off the bike and dragged a ways until the thieves could free the bag. She was knocked unconscious and bleeding from a head injury. The xe-om driver stopped and went back to help. Eventually, he got her into a taxi, left his own bike and took her to the hospital – still unconscious. She had no ID because her purse was gone and no one knew who she was or who to call. She might have died because her brain was swelling, but doctors administered drugs immediately that kept the swelling down. The xe-om driver stayed with her until 8am the following morning when she recovered consciousness. By some miracle she was able to remember her mother’s phone number although most of her short term memory was gone. She doesn’t remember anything about the accident. She ended up with 8 stiches in her scalp and was kept in the hospital for a month until she recovered her memory. In the end she had to quit her job as a sales rep for Remy Martin because it was unsafe for her to drink alcohol (part of her job) following the accident. She’s fine now and has a new job, but it might have ended like the 6 year old girl in Hanoi.

We have another friend who was walking and whose handbag strap was cut. This time the thieves didn’t get it because she was holding on tight. A Vietnamese-American friend of mine lost his MacBook Pro the second day he was in town. Same modus – two guys on a bike, quick turnaround, snatch and run. My friend speaks fluent Vietnamese and went to the police station to file a report. He didn’t imagine that they would get the computer back for him but he needed the report for his insurance company. They asked him to fill out the report and come back the next day to pick up a copy. He did, but the next day they “couldn’t remember” him filling out the report. They asked him to fill out another one. In the end their message was “You’re a rich American. You deserved to lose it. You should have known better.” He never got the report he needed from them, but one of the guys in his office has a friend in the police department who happily provided one.

Holidays are the worst time for petty crime. At Tet, lunar new year, Vietnamese need to take a gifts to their families. If they don’t have the means they might just snatch a purse. Be cautious. Be aware. And, don’t expect the police to help. But for the right price you can get almost anything even help from the police…

The Lure of the Exotic

ex·ot·ic   [ig-zot-ik] adjective

1. of foreign origin or character; not native; introduced from abroad, but not fully naturalized or acclimatized: exotic foods; exotic plants.

2. strikingly unusual or strange in effect or appearance: an exotic hairstyle.

3. of a uniquely new or experimental nature: exotic weapons.

4. of, pertaining to, or involving stripteasing: the exotic clubs where strippers are featured.

Webster is too clinical for me. Exotic has danger implicit. It has romance. The air is heavy and moist. There is a little mold forming under things. You feel different. The air is charged. The mind is altered. And, yes, it is not native.

I feel alive in Saigon. The danger here is not the danger of the past. No more war. No more malaria. Now the danger is more about motorbikes than mortars. But, grown men find it difficult to leave the curb. It becomes an act of faith. Step off the curb. Walk slowly and steadily – no quick or jerky movements. Watch the traffic but don’t fixate on any one motorbike. Step up on the opposite curb and Voila…

The romance is palpable too. Think Catherine Deneuve in Indochine, Jane March in The Lover (above), or Do Thi Ha Yen, the girl who plays Phuong to Michael Caine’s Fowler in the film adaptation of The Quiet American. It’s hot. It’s tropical. It’s juicy. It’s sensual. The Vietnamese women are among the most beautiful and stylish in the world.

The tropics are steamy. A drop of sweat on the upper lip. Dark patches under your arms. Orchids growing in vacant lots. Buildings mottled with mold and peeling paint. In a year or two underbrush becomes a canopy. Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to breath underwater.

Why would anyone find this alluring? It’s hot, noisy, smelly, uncomfortable, disease ridden and occasionally dangerous. But… it’s truly exotic.

The Wall


In the 1970’s and 80’s I was living and working in Berlin. And occasionally in those years I would make a wrong turn while looking for an unfamiliar address and end up facing The Wall. It was always disarming. I was living an ordinary life – except that I couldn’t walk, bike, or drive out of the city without running the East German gauntlet of checkpoints, blockades, and restricted rest stops. Life seemed normal enough – get the kids to school, go to work, shop at the local supermarket, hang out in trendy bars and cafes, and run in the Grunewald with the wild boars. That part was a little sketchy sometimes, but for the most part it seemed like a normal life. Then there was The Wall.

Right now, I’m sitting in an American espresso bar across the street from the US Consulate in Saigon watching the traffic ebb and flow as 6 million motorbikes move people around in some sort of system that I still don’t understand though I’ve been observing it for 2 1/2 years. Things look normal but, like The Wall in Berlin, the Consulate is a reminder that everything here is not entirely normal. The Consulate sits where the US Embassy did on April 30, 1975. That date marked the fall of Saigon and the chaos as thousands of Americans and South Vietnamese struggled to exit the city as the NVA was entering. I’m about a block from the site where the last helicopter lifted off a building with people hanging onto the skids (taken just after the one above).

The NVA stormed the Embassy grounds and destroyed most of what was there. By then the Americans and some of our loyal friends were safely aboard ships of the Seventh Fleet lying off the coast. I have friends here who have never seen family members since that day. I have one friend whose mother left him to go back and get another relative. The people at the airport put him on an airplane for Guam and the mother never made it. 17 years later, he got a call, routed through Canada (there was no contact between Vietnam and the US). It was his mother. Neither he nor his mother had any idea if the other was still alive until then. He was in college at San Jose State and his mother was running a tour business for the government. They are reunited now and he runs his mother’s successful private tour business. Good story. But, not all of the stories are that good.

The Embassy grounds were repatriated in 1995 when Vietnam re-deeded the property to the US. The Consulate was rebuilt and diplomatic relations between the Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the United States resumed. I attended a ceremony celebrating 15 years of those relations last year and listened to speeches by diplomats of both countries extoll the virtues and successes of this relationship. As someone in the State Department recently said of Iraq “mistakes were made.” The diplomats here didn’t say that. I did.

I feel privileged to be part of the reconciliation process, but I keep running into The Wall, whether it’s in Berlin, Saigon or Jerusalem. Maybe someday I’ll make a wrong turn in Baghdad and see The Wall.

Evil, Evil; Man Was Not Meant to Fly…

One of the low points of my Marine Corps years was a week of Winter Survival/Escape and Evasion Training in a gruesome place called Pickle Meadows. For half of the week we were in the wilderness hunting for food (mice and porcupines mostly, after the rabbits teased us to near madness) and trying to evade “aggressors” whose mission was to capture and place us in a simulated POW camp. It didn’t matter if we managed to evade the dread aggressors – and my team did. In the end everyone was thrown into the POW camp.

In the camp the enemy couldn’t really torture us, but it was hard to tell the difference at the time. The temperature was near zero degrees and we were forced to remain awake and on our feet for two days. The whole thing was supposed to give us an idea of what it would be like to be captured and endure extreme discomfort while refusing to answer an interrogators questions. The worst part was being jammed into a pine box about the size of a large golf bag for refusing to give the interrogator anything but name, rank, and serial number. At first it seemed bearable but that lasted about 5 minutes. Then it became the incredible shrinking box – a real-life Edgar Allen Poe torture device. Every bone pressed hard against the ever shrinking wooden box – forehead, elbows, knees, ankles, hips, knuckles, you name it, it hurt.

The current equivalent of the incredible shrinking box is an economy seat on a full airplane crossing the Pacific Ocean. It may not kill you but there are times it feels like it will. Sixteen hours in that seat is an eternity. The air is as dry as a popcorn fart and the seats are designed for dwarfs. The food is rarely edible, and service is never on the Nordstrom model. Asian airlines have seats designed for Asians. My last trip on Japan Airlines I sat side-saddle for six hours because with my butt against the back of the seat my knees still penetrated four inches into the seat in front of me. American carriers give a little more legroom and a lot less service. Forget Social Security and Medicare, if there is one entitlement program that needs adjustment it is the salary and benefits package for fat old flight attendants who snarl when asked for water and won’t get out of their rest seats mid-flight because their contract ensures them a “rest period.”

I may be sexist in this regard, but Asian airlines do know how to do it. On the flights from Seattle to Seoul and on to Saigon last week the Asiana flight attendants were young, alert, attentive, solicitous, and genuinely interested in satisfying needs. They weren’t gorgeous but they were attractive and so similar in body type, hairstyle, makeup,and uniform accessories that it was difficult to tell them apart. And – they never ever stopped patrolling the aisles. I was squirming in my seat for fourteen of those hours and they never stopped smiling or asking if they could bring me something. They weren’t serving Ambien or I would have opted in. During the ordeal I read the NY Times until it disintegrated in my hands, watched four movies, read parts of three books on my iPad, ate four meals, drank 6 glasses of wine, slept for several hours and we were still 800 miles from Saigon.

Until I learn to astrally project myself from one side of the Pacific to the other I’m pretty much stuck with air travel. I have no personal experience birthing a child, but I’m told that there is a sort of amnesia that takes over and the pain of childbirth fades so that the race can continue to reproduce. It must be similar for Pacific air travel. I have crossed the ocean 14 times in two and half years. I’ll do it again in December but sometimes I think the great outdoors at Pickle Meadows was a lot more fun than I remember.

Why is America Looking East?

After 2+ years in Vietnam I’m convinced that America needs to stop looking east and start looking west. The world has changed but America’s international orientation has not. We live in a global world where multinational companies control much of the world’s wealth and where their tentacles extend out to all continents and regions. Vietnam is a good example. From the rooftop bar of the Rex Hotel the skyline is ablaze with international neon – Dai-ichi (Japan), Mercedes (Germany), Sunwah (China), Prudential (UK, yes UK), Sheraton (US), Samsung (Korea), Gucci (Italy), Shell (Dutch?) and others. 35 years after the “American War” it is difficult to tell who the victor was – if any.

I read the International Herald Tribune to get my news when I’m in Saigon and it does a fair job of covering the globe. It’s when I come home to the US that I am stunned by the “old world” orientation. Every morning I comb the NY Times looking for articles on what’s happening in Asia. There is some coverage, but overwhelmingly the news is Euro-centric. Greece, France, Portugal, Italy, Spain, even Russia. They are all in trouble along with the US. Maybe it’s our preoccupation with bad news, but I’m convinced it’s more about history and heritage than what is happening in the world today.

Our founders came from Europe and we have never stopped looking in that direction. It’s where the great migration that settled the continent came from but Asia is where the world’s future is developing. The colonial world is history. The US is history as the only political and economic superpower. The new world is all about China, India, and SE Asia. China currently owns 16% of our $14.1 trillion national debt, more than any other country, and up from 6% in 2000. The UK is the only European country that holds a significant amount amount of US treasuries and that amount is $333 billion – less than a quarter of China’s holdings. If we don’t have a good global strategy they will simply own us in a few years.

China and India are major players on the world’s economic stage, and Indonesia, Vietnam, and Thailand are coming on fast. It’s time to shift our focus and develop strategies for a global world. Rick Perry may think that Texas is the center of the universe, but I hope he knows where China is on the map because that’s the direction they’ll be coming from.