Sydney to Ho Chi Minh City
I got a cab around the tarmac to the check in counter. The Fijian-Indian driver tried to trick me out of a few dollars but I didn’t mind as I had expected it and planned to tip him anyway. He helped me with my suitcases and I was into the terminal.
The queue for check in was long and busy. Everyone seemed to have mountains of luggage and they were nearly all Asian, presumably Vietnamese. As usual, customs was thorough and meticulous. I had to retrieve a box of matches from my suitcase, lest they catch fire through friction on a turbulent flight, and the lithium batteries on my various devices were treated with suspicion, but were allowed, after consultation. Next there were scanners and biometric devices with shoes off and belts out and after that we stumbled into the secure area, from which we would depart by air.
Sydney airport is large, of course, and expensive. In an alcohol and smokes store, sin central, I acquired a carton of American cigarettes for the price of one packet in Australia. There were the shops with costly designer brand products, confectionery, souvenirs and jewellery, a long corridor past a couple of over-priced tuck-shops to the plush waiting room with a clear view of the runways.
Watching the many planes taking off and landing was soothing. It looked mundane. It happened, not just every day, but every minute. There was nothing to worry about. Safe as houses, almost boring. That opulent international airport feel was everywhere. The impersonal female voice over the public address system, the snatches of calming musical sounds that preceded the announcements, the decor, the products on offer, the officious behaviour of the staff, it was all part of it, and it was soothing.
Departure proceeded smothly. For some reason proper cameras were not allowed in the secure area but people were shooting videos and pictures on their mobile phones.
The flight was one of the best I have ever had, with the happily expectant mood of the Vietnamese passengers, the modernity of the plane and a great fortune which befell me before take-off. My seat was faulty and could not, in conformity with the regulations, be restored to a fully upright position, so the charming hostess asked me if I would like to move to another.
“Does it have more leg-room?” I queried hopefully. I am tall and haven’t been comfortable in a plane seat since they became smaller and tighter in the modern pursuit of micro-economic efficiency. “Undoubtedly” she replied, which sounded a little too good to be true so I asked her the same question again, just in case she had misunderstood. Receiving the exact same reply I rose expectantly and she took me to the front of the section where the leg room was endless and the seats had been left empty because of some obscure regulation.
I was joined by a middle-aged Vietnamese woman who sat next to me She had a problem with her knees and she was great company, chatting fondly about her homeland. She gave me a cursory introduction to the culture and curiosities of life in this country to which I had never before travelled.
She thanked me for using the name ‘Saigon’, which I had done only out of confusion, as I had begun to notice people were using the name ‘Saigon’ while documents referred to ‘Ho Chi Minh City’. It became apparent that many in Saigon in the old days preferred the American influence to that of the Communists and regretted the withdrawal and the conclusion of the conflict. It seems the name ‘Ho Chi Minh City’ had been imposed by the central government in Hanoi as a reminder of who had won the war, and the use of ‘Saigon’ was a small show of rebellion against the establishment. Official sources always referred to Ho Chi Minh City, a cumbersome title compared to Hanoi, for instance, while the locals called it Saigon.
I had some feelings about Vietnam as I was only one year off military conscription in 1972, supposedly destined to fight in the jungle against a people with whom I had no quarrel. On the contrary, I respected their staunch pursuit of independence against some of the great military powers of the twentieth century. There was no way I was going into the army, or even participating in the ballot. Luckily for me, Gough Whitlam was elected Prime Minister of Australia that year and immediately ended conscription and Australia’s role in that disastrous, cruel war. I had protested against that war and on many other issues but it all came to nothing and war, from the same source, was still plaguing humanity.
The flight, however, was a dream. There was no turbulence, the food was edible and I had a book to read; Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’ which was as tragic and dispiriting as the other twentieth century American classics I had read. After reading it through I regretted ever bothering with it, but it was a useful distraction during the nine hour journey.
My friend’s conversation and her naturally gregarious presence were pleasant and I was deeply happy with the way everything was suddenly going, after a month of worrying about all the loose ends which had accompanied the painful and laborious task of disposing of everything I couldn’t carry, cleaning my house up and timing it all so I had a bed to sleep in every night and a ticket, a passport, visas, cash and cards and digital ID all up to date and valid and the hundreds of other minor considerations that were essential elements of this whole trip, this mad idea of relocating across the planet with my entire music studio (as much as I could carry), essential documents and so on without discarding dozens of small items that I had carried for years; gifts, icons, and personal treasures that were deeply familiar.
I had booked a car to take me from the airport to my hotel in Quan 7. This was an option offered by the Vietnamese Tourist Bureau for thirty five dollars, just the thing to take the pressure off the newly-arrived, disoriented and tired traveller and get him quickly to his hotel to recuperate from the journey and the momentous upheaval of arriving in a new country with all its challenges and interest.
The flight was almost on time but the process of getting through customs and the inevitable form-filling and identity checks took an hour. I was heartened to see a local smoking a cigarette inside the airport, by the luggage carousel, and I removed my under-shirt and followed suit. The air was thick and muggy, the first beads of sweat were forming and I was absorbing this strange new ambience from every direction.
Finally I found my bags and ventured to the exit gates to search for my driver. There were crowds of people everywhere. It was hot, although the sun had set, and humid. I passed a group of people holding up name cards for their passengers but my name wasn’t there. After walking up a down a couple of times I started to realise that my comfortable pre-arranged commute wasn’t going to happen. I was at the mercy, once again, of the sharks who gather around international airports trawling for windfalls from naive travellers.
I was approached by some touts who offered to deliver me for fifty dollars. They looked like they’d done a hard day’s grift, sweatily impatient, poorly dressed and eager to close the deal. I acquiesced reluctantly, eventually, perspiring profusely by this time and getting desperate for some respite from the sudden tropical onslaught. I agreed to give up an Australian fifty dollar note for the fare and we were almost ready to go.
However there was another problem. Because I had expected a driver who knew the way I hadn’t recorded the exact address of my apartment. I had a description of the place on my phone and a name which read something like ‘Hong’s Serviced Apartments, Road Twenty Three, Quan Seven’.
My new driver spent a few minutes poring through the maps on his phone before he found a place which seemed to be the one. He showed it to me, waving his phone in my face, but I couldn’t see a thing. The map was moving around, in and out, changing perspective with alarming elasticity and I nodded and said “Yes, lets go”, impatient just to get out of this teeming morass and into a comfortable, quiet car.
I resolved on the way to get a refund from the Vietnamese Tourist Bureau. It was disappointing but a small inconvenience, really. After driving for an hour through endless busy streets alive with scooters we arrived at a lane, within metres of my destination, but we still couldn’t be sure it was the right address until two young men dashed out of the dark to welcome us and grab the suitcases.
They were Hong’s sons who had been waiting for hours to hear of my progress, but I hadn’t received their messages because I had closed my Australian phone account. I was numberless, but we had found the place and within minutes I would finally put my feet up.
Travels to Nepal 