"WELCOME"

“WELCOME,” he says. Rafat Hussein Mohamed Osman, a middle aged Egyptian Bakala(corner store) owner living in Hawalli, Kuwait. He sips his morning shai(tea) and smacks his hands together clearing away the crumbs to shake your hands. Two kisses to the cheeks of his better friends. His eyes still sag from fatigue, but every day, with a smile, he greets each customer. It’s 5:30 a.m. on Tuesday. It has been over four months since I first met Rafat in August. He used the only word he knew in English, “welcome,” which he used and still uses in place of “hello”. I was new to this neighborhood, this country, the 135 degree heat, and he made me feel welcome. “WELCOME!”

Months have passed and I have come to know this man only a little so I sat down with a translator and inquired about his life, his childhood, his daily routine, memories of his homeland, and a war televised for all the world to see; Desert Storm.

Shoes off, we sat on a Persian carpet, drank hot tea, smoked sheesha, and talked. In the background an old Egyptian movie was playing about their national hero to the likes of “che,” he said. His tiny kitchenette is tucked away behind a corner in the back and two twin beds sit at either end of his living room. The apartment is small but the company welcoming. His front iron door always remains open when he is home screaming, yes, screaming, “Salam” to his neighbors passing by. He spreads his life’s contentment to everyone that he comes within contact with.

Rafat is a humble man of simple beginnings; he grew up outside Luxor, Egypt with his family on a farm in a small village. On October 4, 1967 he was born to Hussein, his father and mother Fawzeya. Corn, wheat, onions, beans, tomatoes, and sugar cane were and are still grown on premise. His mother cooked bread in their clay ovens as Rafat brought hay to feed the livestock with his donkey after school in the afternoons. I asked about his family and the land that they own, answering, “My parents will never leave their land, the family must stay together.” A house built by the family with their own hands. .The first level was used to keep their livestock and feed, the second level is used for sleeping. At six every morning the whole family; one brother Mohamed and two sisters, Baderia being the oldest and Sanaa the youngest, would wake and prepare breakfast, together. Everything was made at home from their land and from their animals. The romance of this and the simplicity of such an extremely hard life.

As an Egyptian young man a two year military duty is mandatory. Rafat trained as paratrooper Special Forces commando for six months. This was at the time when Saddam Hussein and the Iraqi forces invaded the small country of Kuwait. With 10 percent of the world’s known oil reserve, Kuwait was allied by over a 34 nation coalition force , one being Egypt. Rafat was deployed with his company 666 of 8 thousand to Saudi Arabia to fight along side American forces in Hafr El Baten. Hafr El Baten lays only 100 meters from the southern Kuwaiti border.

It was at this point in the story where the translation paused and was double checked. My commando/ Bakala friend was explaining how he felt during this time. “I had lost everything, I had nothing to live for, for certain, I thought, I was going to die.” He then began to describe the exodus that began to take place where the Kuwaitis and whatever they could gather flocked into Saudi as refugees. These events happened 19 years ago while I ate dinner and watched it on TV in the safety of my own home. This exodus was the super wealthy loosing everything, fleeing for their lives, and becoming refugees.

On February 22 U.S. President George H. Walker Bush issued an ultimatum to Saddam Hussein to withdraw his forces back to Iraq. On the 24th at 3a.m. Rafat with his company, armed with Kalashnikovs entered Kuwait on foot. This was the beginning of the ground war. Rafat told stories of the Egyptian forces heading towards the Egyptian embassy to raise the Egyptian flag. Reminiscent of the famous raising of the U.S. flag at Iwo Jima, the most brutal ground war in all of recent history during World War II. The events are so similar, in that they didn’t mark the end of a war but trumpeted a sense of pride in a nation.

Rafat also spoke of February 26 when Saddam Hussein ordered the withdrawal of all Iraqi forces. The infamous “turkey shoot.” He said on fourth ring road in Kuwait city bodies could be seen as far as the eye could see. I pictured him, smoke and ash, gun in hand, shoulders slouched, absolutely devastated, sad, and weary. His face slicked in oil soaked rain. His lips quivering prayers for his fallen “brothers, muslims.” His uniform patched with the flags of his nation that he longed to return to. I pictured his mother and father standing in the fields he grew up in, wondering if he was alive and praying for their son to return home.

Rafat still sat on the ground speaking deliberately, smoking his sheesha. He looked at me and said “We had a different purpose.. I came to help, they came to kill.” Still throughout some of this difficult story he had this gleam in his eye and that smirk that makes me feel “welcome” everyday in a land so far away from my own. The movie on the television still played as it neared its end. “CHE” he called him, the hero, the freedom fighter, he became him, not the “Che” of a nation but of his own survival. Rafat was soon to return home to his family.

 

BAGHDAD: A Story of Survival from the First Gulf War

It was Friday night and patrons put on their well to-do, Tuxedoes and evening gowns. They stepped into in their automobiles –– their Cadillacs,Mercedes, and Rolls Royces –– high heels and tap-dancing shoes first before driving the short distance to the theatre. Women were dressed in their finely designed dresses that brushed their ankles with each click of step. Their hair was pulled back showcasing long beautiful necks wrapped in white pearls, fished from the gulf of Arabia years prior. Crocodile skin handbags swung from wrists wrapped with beautiful diamond bracelets. Broaches lined with precious jewels glistened from lapels. Men dressed in their black penguin–esque suits wore Lincoln top hats and smoked Cuban cigars as they opened up the passenger doors for their wives. Some stood by, too proud as valet came running to the rescue. The door swung open and the women emerged. Snottily, like cranes they flapped their long thin arms as they evacuated the long vinyl white bucket seats. The clicks of heels moved towards the bright glowing lights of the Art Deco facade. “ Show Tonight” , the glitzy retro sign said , illuminated with large buzzing bulbs of reds, yellows, and classic soft whites. Revving idled engines left alone became still ,giving silence sway over the heat that masked the ground. In the dark the large show lights flickered out when the switch was shut –– for inside the show was about to begin.

Immense cranberry colored wooden doors crowned with gold swung open to a carnival of opulence. Young Philippine boys took tickets and checked hoards of fur coats in deep mahogany shelled closets. Refreshments were carried on circular silver trays and rushed to the rich. Diamonds gleamed as conversations and laughter took over the bustle. The show was about to begin. A show of the times –– televised for the world to see. It was a show with many stories, critics, and political rivals pit against one another. This was to be a masterpiece theatre of war and the story of a young boy struggling to find his way home through death, starvation, and struggle to home, safety, and his beloved mother.

The patrons took to their seats as bulbs crackled and the lights around the stage came to a low dim. The maroon velvet curtains draping the stage slowly swung back away from each other to the sides. The orchestra slowly emerged as black silhouettes behind a figure that walked up to the podium. They all looked like tiny pieces of paper in front of the backdrop. Soon the figures face became illuminated as his person remained black amongst the shadows of construction paper silhouettes. He then took a bow, smacked his baton onto his perch three times and the instruments slowly came alive. First the flutes whistled softly. Then tortuous violins thrust notes with short chaotic cadences in calamity- Tension swept across the audience sitting in silence like a wave of bacteria on a soft breeze .

One single actor came on stage and with musical accompaniment began to speak:

“Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen, I am going to tell you a story. A story that is absolutely true even though it might seem totally unreasonable, irrational, and maybe crazy at times. It is about a young man who had to make a choice to live or to give up and die. Caught in the middle of a war his love gave way to anger. After weeks his growl would surmount any of the sounds from any ill played instrument. All around the music had stopped but what he told me was his symphony-composed not with bars but in harmony with prosodic rules.

Whispers spread over the sands from the north of an invasion of locusts from Iraq –– insects. Rumors reflected from the melted granules of sand––mirrors and glass shattered on the morning of August 2nd,1990. Oil pumped from earthen veins as blood was about to be slashed from the wrists of the innocent like broken strings. Sweat, tears –– families were lost in the next several weeks.

Empty bottomless stomachs screamed from an abyss through clenched mandibles. Mothballs were caught in throats as vocal chords seized to strum. The hearts beating drum came to silence. The esophagus of Kuwait was about to dry out –– strep from the summer heat and an invasion. Locusts, mosquitoes, and ticks swarmed and shoaled. Treads of tanks, engines of jets, and the propellers of ships advanced in locomotion.

In chalets and mansions memories hung on cracked walls –– framed moments of happiness. The birthdays, anniversaries, marriages, and vacations were left behind by the many in retreat –– dressed in white. They succumbed as they shook their heads in disgust to surrender. But some stayed and fought back with vengeance alongside their army, some stayed and hid, and some just got left behind.”

The audience sat in silence...

“A young man; a wolf lost from his pack, walked down a silent corridor looking at pictures of a family he did not know. His thoughts were of his family as his empty stomach screamed for food. With a ravenous exhaustion he approached the kitchen and began to feed his growling stomach. Everyone had left, extirpation of a culture and now like a dog he was scrounging his territory for the necessities of life.

The wolf was a young man named Aladin Afghani in his early teens. He had Afghan roots but was Jordanian by nationality. His mother, a Christian was born in Bethlehem. His father was Muslim. “They were strong believers in God, but there were no issues with the different religions”, he said”. Born and raised in Kuwait he spoke with humility and with the fluency of English and Arabic. Standing almost six feet tall he walked with confidence. Aladin had Square shoulders, a chiseled jaw, olive skin, perfect smile, and hands that had the strength of men. He didn’t have any scars on his epidermis, they were buried deep inside –– So deep he had only told this story twice.

There is an intangible rhythm of momentum in life– –the sun rises and the sun sets, tides rise and fall, the young grow old, and empires conquer and crumble. The wolf was about to embark on a journey to the enemies beat, their movements and rhythm.

Pulses slowed and soon stopped, hearts’ metronomes seized to tick. Carcasses were shoveled into piles like accumulated precipitation–– plows drove what was once beautiful snow into piles, now melted in rigamortis as the dust collected. The smell from the streets was no longer of food but the stench of decay. 

September came and there was no food so for a short period of time the wolf worked with the hospitals burying the bodies of the deceased men, women, some pregnant, babies still-born, and many premature. A curfew was instituted from 7p.m. to 7a.m. Dreams of just walking, just walking–– he stood waiting in lines for bread only to have it snatched away by the Iraqis. The Iraqi children would kill for chocolate.14 years of age –– innocent eyes became poisoned with the images of the faces of cadavers. It was the only way to make money.

As autumn slowly died winter came and bribing the soldiers was another form of survival. A kind man, he would often go to the dungeons of homes to give food to the Kuwaitis living below ground in fear. Aladin was searching –– and what he found was to be his magic carpet home. He saw an 1960s black Mercedes-Benz stocked with electrical appliances. Below the bumper screwed in was a license plate of Jordanian origin. He stopped the owner of the vehicle and bargained with him. “ I have no money, but my family does” , he said. They eventually agreed on 250 American dollars and the migration was to be an ugly and dangerous journey. First destination? Baghdad.”

The audience gasped as a woman’s pearl necklace broke and the jewels rolled down a dark aisle-

“Months had passed and Earth moved farther away in orbit from the sun bringing cold air to the desert. At four in the afternoon Aladin and his guide, covered in soot, began their drive north towards Basra, Iraq. Over the Kuwait–Iraq border they passed burning cars. The smell of burning rubber and the sight of metallic flames of blue, green, and yellow spiraled ascending into smoke. It was then that the wolf –– the strong, began to cry, saying, “Damn you Saddam”. Even though he was Jordanian Kuwait was home to all his memories. He missed the everyday normalcy of school. He spoke of his room, his video games, and how he missed his mother the most.

The desert was bleak––cold and frozen in the absence of life as planes buzzed over-head, wasps with brutal stingers shook the air stuck in a constant note with seamless tempo. With a break in stanza a fighter-MIG was hit by an RPG. It spun over on top of itself over and over as it fell towards the khaki below. Fire broke out like hell from it’s engines. Globs of oil, smoke, and shards of metal were vomited into the air. The pilot ejected as the mechanism of death hit the ground and exploded into a fire ball of steel. The pair sat in their antique looking on as they drove past the chaos. Basra was only a short distance now.

Aladin, as he told his story spoke of the meal he had in Basra. It was his first he had had in a while and his last for a couple days to come. “It was delicious” , he said. But it wasn’t the taste. His palette had gone so long that it was just the movement of his crushing jaw and the fact that he was on his way back home that made the food so incredible.

The following day the driver, a cold man in his late 40s and Aladin had an argument. The wolf had no documentation of his nationality so he had to get to his embassy in Baghdad to procure the correct paperwork. He grabbed the man’s face and shook his head repeatedly saying, “I have to go to BAGHDAD! “

It was their 6th day on the road, January 23rd. They arrived in Baghdad after a slow but smooth ride. They then began looking for a place to stay–– a hotel of some sort in a narrow alley. He walked in and spoke with the attendant at the desk who informed him that they had no vacancies. So they walked seven blocks to another place and checked in. As the wolf opened the door they both slowly entered the room and walked to the window. He slid the curtain to the side and looked out onto hell being unleashed. Hell exploded from the dirt as the Heavens fell from above. A huge bomb exploded shaking the whole building as what seemed to be fireworks crackling in the distance. Rubble, falling, ––knees weak, he jumped back from the window. Artillery fire- clack,clack,boom- blasts from the roof were aimed towards the sky. Anti aircraft guns encircled by sand bags shot strings of bullets and munitions into the dark sky. Whistles came from above as blasts hit the ground. There were thunderclaps and lightning. Shocks of sound –– eardrum pops –– Screams erupted and echoed from the streets and barking dogs clamored in alleys. American forces had broken the stratosphere with an ugly salvo of heavy vengeance. Trumpets of anger and flexed muscles from disturbed psyches. “We are going to die tonight” , he said.

As the two travelers dropped to the carpet they exchanged phone numbers and information about their homes they had dreamed of getting to. The driver began to read the Koran with shaking sweaty palms. The fear was bigger than any. The salvo played through the night and into the early morning. It paused only to follow in encore the night ahead. For two straight nights the days and nights were in flames as then 7 blocks away there was an explosion! A building was lifted off the ground by giants and smashed with angry fists. Ripped from it’s foundation it crumbled inside a cloud of smoke. Glass shot out in all directions sending reflections of the light outwards from the blast within the heart of it’s construction.

The sun rose with slow weeping eyes, scared to see the city’s devastation. The wolf jumped down the stairwell grasping onto the railing acrobatically with a steady quickness. He put his shoulder down and rocked the door open running towards where the closest blast had taken place. It was the hotel that had no rooms two nights before. It laid on the ground in pieces. Bodies smoked, smoldered in flames and the flesh of men was buried in the rubble. Arms and legs stuck out from the pile covered in soot. Bones, skeletons, souls whispered in agony from the crackling fire. Almost 200 people had lost their lives. Some were people in the same situation as he. The wrong place at the wrong time. This was the wrong place and the wrong time. Baghdad was on fire.

By eight a.m. The wolf had made it to the Jordanian Embassy. As he spoke with the man behind the counter he pleaded with him for the paper work. “Who is your father” , the man asked.” I’m Jordanian, Please help me”! The man looked Aladin in the eye and saw the anguish, he knew he was telling the truth. “ I trust you” , the man said and issued the wolf the proper paperwork.

After Aladin exited the embassy he met up with his driver again and they left Baghdad to cross the river Euphrates. All the bridges had been destroyed by the American forces in a planned circuit break of the city. They had to return back to Baghdad and find another route. Upon arrival back into the city Saddam had commanded the launch of 40 missiles into Israel from Palestine deceived by manipulation. He wanted to be the savior of Jerusalem.

On day four in Baghdad the car was stolen. The two men looked at each other in absolute disappointment, broken and said goodbye. They were never to see each other again. But this man, his driver/warrior did later on meet the wolf’s parents. Hitch-hiking was now the only foreseeable option.

He was on foot. Paws stamped the ground as he slowly trudged west towards home. Catching the scent of the Jordanian border –– he followed. Weary and hungry night fell on the desert and the road grew dark. Sparks of light from passing cars moved in streams like fish as the sound was drained as distances grew larger. He laid on the ground flat and tried to sleep in the cold as he hummed songs by Umm Kulthum . The following day angels swooped down and carried the wolf into a car. He had walked over 50 km. Three days, shivering and hitching, it took him to reach the border where tents stood pitched on trampled grounds housing refugees. Like ants among small hills they were, people were bustling about in between the temporaries for food.

At the gate there were U.N. soldiers. He pulled out his paper work that he received in Baghdad and the soldier stamped it, and hugged him. “Well done, son “ ,the soldier said and handed him a blanket. Aladin wrapped the blanket around his torso and had his first meal in days. He said he felt so damn lucky. “ I felt free for the first time” , he said. He was almost home.

After much hardship, quiet, and reflection time had given the wolf an opportunity to call his brother. The phone rang inside his sweaty palm. It rang once more to a crackle, a click, and then a hello. It was his brother Hussein. “I’m alive, I m in Jordan” , he said. His brother ,with surprise and downright unabated happiness responded, “ I’m coming, give me a couple hours!”

The wolf hung up the receiver, walked away a couple feet and sat down on the earth, wrapped in a blanket, filthy, and carrying the odor of the wretchedness from his journey. He was just 14 years old and experienced the journey of a lifetime. Sitting with his head swelling between his knees Aladin dreamed of the reunion with his brother and family that was only a couple hours away.

After several hours his brother arrived. He handed over the blanket back to the soldier and they headed home. He didn’t say anything in the car as it began to snow. Snowflakes grabbed onto the cold windshield as they drove down winding city streets. No one knew he was on his way.

When they arrived to Amman at his parents apartment on the 2nd story flat he opened the door. Grabbed the banister with his head down and closed his eyes. He slowly paced up the steps to the door. He opened it, standing around was his whole family whose faces he had forgotten, un expecting and relieved. The wolf had made it back to his pack, evading swarms of insects to get home to his family and most importantly his mother. Soon he walked down the hallway looking at the pictures on the wall of a family he knew too well. His hands brushed the walls as he slowly walked towards the bathroom to shower. Music began to play while he hummed under warm water that washed the grime and filth from his body. “The scars will remain inside. I only told them the nice things” ,he said. The house smelled of newly cooked food and of warm company. He then walked towards a bedroom and peered out a window where snow blanketed the streets. Aladin turned towards the bed laid down and quickly was sound asleep –– safe, secure, and relieved.








Thank you and goodnight”. The actor then disappeared behind the curtain to a silent audience. The crowd slowly took to their feet and filed towards the back of the theatre. It was late and time for all to go home and walk down lit corridors past pictures framing their cherished memories.

VIETNAM: SAIGON/ HO CHI MINH

Jungles and Rivers, Motorbikes of rusty metals and Sloops made of wood. Bamboo creeks and croaks under smooth breezes, terraced rice fields and rice farmers wear conical hats. Under a red flag in South East Asia is the emerging economy of Communist Vietnam. A country torn in two, torched under napalm rains, fields burnt to ashes atop black soils, she returns in fields of rich green golds, reunited, and flourishing. Vietnam is back.





Having many many names in history, Ho Chi Minh City in the seventeenth century was called Prey Nokor, a sea port, which was annexed to the Vietnamese and renamed Sai Gon. In 1862 after the French colonization, Sai Gon “the pearl of the far east” became one word spelled SaiGon. There are many versions of the correct etymology behind this beautiful modern city. Folklore tells that the city Prey Nokor was part of a dowry in the marriage between a beautiful Vietnamese princess and a Khmer prince to stop the pillaging of villages under the Khmer rule. Even though today its people commonly call it Saigon but in 1975 after “the fall of Saigon”(called by the south) or the “Liberation of Saigon”(called by the Communist Socialist Republic of Vietnam) the city was renamed to Ho Chi Minh City. Today, a lot has changed in Vietnam and Saigon but a lot has stayed the same. The gorgoeus landscapes of terraced rice fields and tall palms in the jungles and under the shadows of grand French architecture and modern high-rises are lush green city parks. Grand boulevards are adorned with posters of children smiling under the deceased iconic image of the north-vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh.


The weather was hot and muggy when I landed in Ho Chi Minh/

Saigon in the early afternoon in mid-December. I had only packed a book bag so I didn’t need to check any luggage or wait by the baggage claim. I headed straight through customs and out the front doors. Two large red flags flew from their staffs across the sky. In the middle of each piece of fabric is the bright communist yellow star. You could hear them blowing in the wind, cracking like leather belts under the winds’ changing direction. It was my first time in South East Asia and Vietnam. 

Many touts waited for unsuspecting tourists ,smoking cigarettes as they sat on the hoods of their cars. “tac-shee, tac-shee”, they said as they jumped in my face. I knew where I needed to go; the backpacker district, so I wasn’t completely over whelmed.

I grabbed a small tout in the parking lot. He seemed trustworthy in the fact that he did not jump in my face, no smile either. He grabbed my large blue travel pack off my back and slung it over his scrawny shoulders and began to march away. I followed behind him towards his tiny automobile.

I jumped in the back seat and prepared my cameras for the drive towards the backpackers district. The car hummed through the thoroughfares and down miniature streets, threading its way round roundabouts spewing smoke from its exhaust. 

The sound of the street sounded like a droning hive of wasps. Swarms of motorbikes careened through the streets like waves of bees on the wind. Intersections became chaos as all directions of roadway spilled into the intersections. Three to four people sat on top of the motorbikes and mopeds like circus freaks performing daredevil acts. Vietnamese Evil Knievals rode their motorcycles on long intersecting tightropes. The crowd gasps in anticipation. So fragile- one wrong move from anyone and the show would have come to an abrupt end! It was like a fuss burning at both ends. Vectors of bees and birds dropped seeds and fruit all over the city. The Roman candle burned down to it’s last ends and there was an explosion. Like dominoes bodies fell off their vehicles and spread outwards from the city towards the jungle. It was as the jungle and city were two great forces struggling for a breathe ,claustrophobic from such close proximity. Pushing against each other the dominoes came to rest only to be picked up and placed in lines again to be knocked over in organized chaos, nature and life at its most vulgar. .

As we drove I snapped away with my camera leaning out the window with curiosity. Dust from the street was whipped and spit into the air from exhaust and tire treads. The air was full of smoke and dust but my heart was full of excitement. My driver looked into his rearview mirror and in shock turned his head back towards me, “NO, NO SIR... Hands in Hands in”! He screamed startling me so much I pulled myself back into the cabin of the back seat as quickly as I could, I felt like i was a little kid being punished. Beginning to laugh, I had memories of long car rides with my parents, fighting in the back seat with my little sister. “I’ll turn this car around so fast your head will spin”, my father would say. “Do you want me to stop this car”. “No”, I would pathetically say. The driver was just warning me of street bandits that would grab my camera as they quickly sped by on motorbikes. And boy did they speed by.

The car jumped over potholes and careened around the street corners. My body shifted with each turn as I held on tight to the handle on the ceiling of the car. I kept looking into his rearview mirror to see my driver’s eyes at work, they twisted and jumped from side to side scanning the roads. He was busy working so I kept my mouth shut and began looking up towards the tops of buildings as we drove into the city and approached my destination.

The streets became more crowded and the power lines more overwhelming. Electrical wire hung like old defunct christmas lights from poles. Twisted in balls- they dangled loosely over the streets crackling from surges entering the transistors. I pictured large crowds walking in a monsoon under conical hats as they pushed their bicycles with baskets topped with fruits. Signs for cafes and bars attached to balconies above began sparking from the torrential rains. Large puddles formed on the streets and grew inch by inch. As hours passed the puddles transformed and morphed as part of the Saigon River. The fruit from the baskets and store fronts began to float freely across the streets. Crocodiles began to lazily slip through the flooded alleyways whipping their long reptilian tails in slow fluid movements. There was a thunderclap from the thick heavy clouds above. Lightning rode its way towards the Earth and struck electric poles snapping the jumbled wires from their perches. The wires in balls sparked and smoked into the air before hitting the water below. All the street lights went out among screams and gasps. Silence rained down on Saigon. As time slowly slipped by small lanterns were dropped onto the streams drifting past the illuminated bodies of the deceased. Seeds dropped by vectors across the city began to pierce the ground taking hold of soil. These seedlings began to grow at accelerated speeds as their branches and vines swiftly reached the edges of the jungle. The jungle was angry and became vicious as it took back the land that had been stolen from her many centuries ago. As days and years passed the tides subsided and civilization was gone, forever. 

As crude and obnoxious my daydreams were I began to like where I was. I had never been to such a wild and strange place. I liked the smell of the place, vietnamese Pho, noodles, and rice. I began to like the feel of it, I loved all the motorbikes-the absolute chaos in each intersection. I felt alive, giddy, and even a bit relaxed that I had grown some balls and finally made it to Saigon, a place I heard so much about when I was young but was too ignorant and stupid to listen. I should have known at that moment that such a wild and amusing place must have an evil side as well. No television special or history lesson could have prepared me for this. All I knew of Vietnam was the war, napalm, Charlie, protests, Apocalypse Now, Forrest Gump, and quotes like “me love you long time” from a prostitute in the Kubrick classic A Full Metal Jacket. I relished the fact that I was going to go home with something other than these preconceived ideas about a place. I truly knew nothing about Vietnam. I was on a great ride with wind in my hair and excitement in my belly, so I buckled up and went along for the adventure.

The driver took me to this alleyway lined with hotels and plants down wet concrete walks. A man laid sleeping on the ground. Using a burlap bag as a pillow, he snored in drunkenness wrapped in torn dirty clothing. A couple meters further I entered the hotel doors and left my driver. He scampered away like a cat back to his car that was double parked a street over. There was a young women at the counter that spoke perfect english. I paid for a one night stay and she walked me upstairs towards my room. It was beautiful with a kingsized bed, crimson walls, a private bath, and balcony over the same street I had walked in on. I dropped my bags and leapt down the steps towards the street. It was my first night in Saigon and I had to see this place’s madness with my own eyes.

As I reached the white marble lobby there stood a young man with a heavy bag strapped to his back. Sweat ran down his face as he spoke to the woman at the counter. He looked towards me and said,”hello, first night here too?” “yes, i replied”. He put down his bag gestured to the women and looked in my direction again. “You have plans tonight”? “No, i said, just going to walk around, find a cafe and have a couple drinks”. “May I join you”, he said. “Sure thing”. I then lit a cig and waited for him to finish booking his room. He dropped his bags into his place and we then hit the streets with ferocity.

As we approached the district next to the hotel I started taking notice of the shops and vendors. Awnings with faded store signage hung pendulously over the cave openings that were fruit stands. I couldn’t see inside but under the coverings were large mesh bags full of coconuts and watermelon. Piles of nuts poured from the tops of wooden baskets onto the ground. I could smell lettuce, cabbage, and onions over the smell of exhaust. The owners sat on small blue plastic stools outside pleading with there eyes for a sale. Young girls peddled around selling cigarettes, toothpicks, q-tips, and cotton swabs on large rusty iron bicycles as they fought to keep balance of the machine. Older women walked around the streets asking for money as babies clung to their shoulders and breasts. There were shops full of artisans copying famous paintings by Monet, Van Gogh, and Cezanne and selling them for small prices. They were exacts- perfect copies but we call these forgeries where I come from. Small cafes lined the walks, their tables full of people covered the sidewalks and balconies above. Tourists from Germany, Britain, France, and Sweden sat smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking.

As day grew older the sun began to set on Saigon. I was hot and sweaty and needed a drink so we stopped walking and sat at a bar a couple streets down from the hotel. We sat outside at a table and perused the menu. There was a young vietnamese waitress that stood at the side of our table surveying the street as mopeds sped by. She crossed her arms over her long black silk dress. Standing at controposto, she twisted her head quickly sweeping her long straight black hair across her shoulder to her back. She tapped her right heel on the concrete. “What would you boys like”? she said with an Australian accent. “Two Saigon beers please”, I said dropping the menu onto the wooden table. I looked up at her and smiled. She smirked back at me, looked at my new friend, Norm with suspicion and swung her hair to the other side of her back and walked towards the kitchen.

“She must get a lot of perverts through here, huh”? Norm said. “old men who like little girls, man, crazy shit”. Our waitress came with our drinks and Norm stopped talking as he sat back in his chair. She put the icy cold bottles on the table and walked to another table to check on the other group of men who looked to be devising strange plans. Norm then began to tell me the problem with Southeast Asia and child prostitution. I knew pieces of this and about human trafficking but not to that level. “Some old western men come here on vacation to fuck little boys and girls, man. Sick stuff, messed up”. “WHAT????”, I replied, “I came here for a stop over before I went Cambodia. I’m heading there next. Making it all the way up to Siem Reap to Angkor. I never thought I would be around that type of stuff”. After that it seemed I had grown a weird suspicion about all that roamed the streets of Saigon. I began giving the evil eye to all older white men, asking myself the question, “why are they here?”

Why were they here? Maybe to see the natural beauty of this place and experience a different raw culture. That’s why I came, so why can’t these people be that way too. I tried to remove my thoughts from such awful places and relax because I was on vacation.

Norm and I sat smoking our cigarettes and drinking beers in quiet for a bit longer as we watched the streets of Saigon. I felt like this place was fake, artificial and made of wax. I felt like I wasn’t even in my own body. I was part of a ridiculous fiasco of a reality T.V. show. What was real and what was show? Is Saigon kind and sincere or devious and sinful? There was this massive dichotomy of good and evil juxtaposed and comfortably united as one. Truth lingered in the air, but many questions had to be asked to find it. I didn’t have time to find the real Saigon. Strange that in one day you can fall in love with the way a place looks and then fall out of love because of something just below the surface. I sat back and finished up another beer and observed the show I had bought a ticket to see. 

Our waitress came back over to us and said, “you boys need anything else”? “no”, I said, but.... “excuse me, miss” “yes,sir”, she said”. “I’m sorry but I’m curious to find out,... how much money do you make working here”? She drew a small smile and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling to think. “60 dolla a month”. Shocked I asked another question, “Well, how much do you work?” “Everyday, sir”. “How many hours a day do you work”? I said. “12 hours a day, sir”. I was blown out of my chair. This poor girl works all those hours for that little money. How wrong, I thought. What is wrong with this world. “I’m saving up to go to Australia, I can’t wait”, she said, then scuffled towards her boss who was calling for her. Norm leaned over to me and said, “at least its honest money and she wasn’t sold off to become a whore”. “Jesus, man”, I responded, shocked. I tried to get that shit out of my mind but Norm felt like it was his job to bring it up again and throw it in my face. Human trafficking was big in the area, so I heard. It was due to the immense poverty. One women told me later on that she sat at an outside cafe on that same street during that same week. A women holding a toddler approached her trying to sell cigarettes or something. The lady handed her the baby to hold and then took off down the street. I can’t believe everything I hear but after only a day in Saigon I could believe that. 

The night was growing more mature so I looked towards Norm and decided it was time for me to turn in. I said my goodbye, paid my bill to the young Vietnamese waitress, and under buzzing electrical wires I headed back to the hotel. Lights out in Saigon 10:30. 

I woke early in the morning to a clamor outside of men repairing a building as they balanced on bamboo shoot scaffolding several stories above the alley. After packing my bag up I showered, dressed, and left the hotel to walk towards the outskirts of the district and catch my coach to Cambodia. It was a five hour trek to the border and a six to seven hour haul over potholed roads and a short bus on ferry ride over the Tonle Sap into the capitol city of Phnom Penh. I was giddy with excitement as I popped along the street with my heavy bag flung over my shoulder. When I arrived at the bus their was a small crowd of ragged vietnamese and cambodians waiting to board the bus. They as a group were well mannered but hygiene lacked as their clothes dangled from their torso like they had been mauled by a small bear.
These people were all happy though, giddy as well, maybe as they smiled under clear skies and a hot morning sun. Time to go and we all boarded.