the rain in Hué

The dismally wet weather in Hué, Vietnam, was not what I had in mind for the month of February. The late winter season, quickly encroaching on spring, should have been relatively dry. But it wasn’t. Not for one day.

I wasn’t exactly raining. The air was heavy with mist, more than enough to drench you to the core but not enough to warrant an umbrella. It was annoying and demoralizing. I had expected to spend all day out of doors getting lost in the Citadel, exploring old pagodas, stopping in an eatery for a ca phe sua dac here, a new tasty treat to discover over there. I wanted the perfect balance of history and gastronomy that leaves me sated on several levels. It wasn’t like that at all. It was wet. Even my bones were wet.

Inside the Citadel, Hué, Vietnam

I bought a $1 poncho and headed out, pursued by a couple of cyclo drivers who chatted me up and wouldn’t take “no way, Jose” for an answer. I wanted to walk. I wanted to get lost. I wanted to discover something outside the tourist trail. We played the game for at least 20 minutes, maybe longer: me walking in widening circles inside the Citadel and going nowhere, my sneakers brown with mud, the insoles so saturated they squeaked like a sponge; they following slowly on their pedicabs, making small chitchat and offering me a one-hour ride for $4. They had one advantage: I was miserable; they were used to this. I hopped into the one with the man who spoke fairly good English, and we rode around the north and east side of the Citadel. He pointed out brand new pagodas and decaying French Colonial houses, streaked with green moss like every building in Hué. He took me to a hidden garden with carp ponds, with a clean bathroom and a respite from the rain. Nearby, a busy locals-only market, all covered in blue tarps, was abuzz with activity and bursting with fruits, vegetables, plastic ware, and live poultry. There was the ramshackle old palace that was now being lived in, though it was in disrepair. In a distant window, a woman and her baby looked my way, and we smiled and waved at each other. The pavilion where the emperor wrote poetry was destroyed in the American War, but the platform, accessible by a small bridge, was still there. He pointed out spirit houses and shrines, some small enough to rest between the roots of a banyan tree. In the end, my shoes were still wet, but my perception of the rain–and Hué–had softened.

When I got back to my room, to my damp bed and mildewed balcony, I took off my shoes and never put them back on. I rolled up my pants above my ankles and lived in flipflops. I wore a poncho over a tshirt, and studied how the women maneuvered their way on the broken sidewalks and slick slate walkways without slipping. I upgraded to a better $3 poncho with a built-in visor and extra strong plastic snaps. It had a clear plastic window in the front for draping over a moto’s handlebars while leaving the speedometer visible. It was the color of baby shit and hid mud splats marvelously. I was ready for Hué.

The next day, it stopped raining.

unforgettable saigon

Ho Chi Minh City, the largest city in south Vietnam, is impossible to dismiss. The locals still refer to it as Saigon, but officially it’s HCMC. It is not everyone’s cup of cha, but I found it unforgettable. My first impression was of hundreds of motorbikes, all traveling within inches from each other. Crossing the street takes skill and courage, for the motos never stop for pedestrians. They simply slow down and swerve around you. The only way to cross the street is to walk with purpose and conviction, not making eye contact, but keeping eyes lowered and always on the lookout for the front wheel, if only to ensure your toes won’t get run over. It is exhilarating. In the more heavily touristed areas of District 1, uniformed tourist police will help escort the faint of heart across the street.

Being in HCMC requires alertness, not just to keep from getting mowed down by motos, but the frenetic pace demands your full attention. The stimuli can be overwhelming, unless you enjoy experiencing a city full-bore as many do. A walk down any given city block is a play of dichotomies. Even in the more upscale streets you can find a high-end European boutique, guarded by starched security; an old woman in the ubiquitous conical hat selling coconuts from baskets hanging from her yoke; a casualty of Agent Orange, walking on his hands, his legs too disfigured and distorted to be of much use; uniformed schoolchildren, buying snacks from a street vendor; xe om drivers awaiting their next fare; a streetside barber who’s hung his mirror on the side of a wall and is always busy cutting hair; a pho vendor with their small stacks of diminutive stools, almost too small for the average westerner.

The people in HCMC are warm and friendly and quick to smile. I hear that things are quite different up north, in the capital of Hanoi: the north Vietnamese are more reserved, they dislike having their photo taken, they are likely to rip you off. This useful bit of info came from several south Vietnamese I met, which is not unusual to hear. Most countries have a north-south rivalry, which is likely caused by the climate. Warm climes make for warm, easy-going people. It takes too much effort to be uptight when it is hot and humid.

Motorbikes in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam