The Comical Hat @the-comical-hat - Tumblr Blog

48 Hours in any Southeast Asian city, other than the one you (an expat) live in.

~ An insider’s guide to a male expatriate’s conscious and subconscious thoughts as he explores [insert the name of any Southeast Asian city that you don’t live in but might visit] ~

12pm: I'm buzzing to be here in [insert name of city the expat is visiting]. I don't even mind that the taxi driver is speeding. Why he’ll only get me into town more quickly! I’m going to tip this fine fellow.

2pm: Oh man, I’m loving the look of these buildings (whatever era they are) and the look of the people (whomever they are). There’s just something about this place. The sights, sounds, smells. Hmmm, well, maybe not that smell.

2.45pm: I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly I like so much about this place…

Yes, thanks, I will have a beer.

Four minutes later: Oh that did go down fast. Yes, please. One more.

30 seconds later: God, I am happy.

3.45pm: I’ve just had some amazing street food dish, and now I am wondering why did I ever stop eating street food back in [insert name of city expat lives in]? Damn that dish (whatever it was) was good — and like, compared to the cost of my highly gentrified tastes back in [insert name of city the expat lives in] ridiculously cheap.

Moments later: You know, I could probably come here for a short trip and save money!! Why don’t I do that? Just come here all the time?

4.45pm: Well, I’ve been trading banter with pretty much every local I’ve brushed shoulders with — even if they don’t seem keen to have a conversation with me, and even if they have a job to do... — and I’ve told them all that I live in [insert name of city that the expat lives in] because they need to know that. I’m not like all these other tourists, you see…

5.15pm: Funny thing. Even the bad service here has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’. Ah, you know it takes me back… it’s almost as if walking around all wide-eyed and open-minded and tipsy reminds me of the time I was first walking around [insert name of city the expat lives in] and so immeasurably happy that grumpy locals as well as noise pollution, constant heat, etc etc, were all part the charming tapestry …

5.35pm: Yes to beer.

6.25pm: Hey person-who-is-sober-and-serving-me-beer, did I tell you that I live in [Insert name of city the expat is living in]? I really need you to know that … because, that means I am not like all those other tourists. That’s right. It’s my way of saying: “Don’t worry [Taps nose, tips wink, nods head] — I get Southeast Asia... ”

6.45pm: [After making a lot of comparisons about where the expat lives and where the expat is right now to someone who isn’t all that interested] Oh, you haven’t been to [Insert name of city the expat is living in]? Oh you should go there, even though I just spent 20 minutes criticising the place.

7pm: Even the foot massages here are better...

7.45pm: [Insert name of city the expat is visiting]… you make me want to be a better expat! I’m smiling, the way I used to smile when I first moved to [name of city where the expat lives]. I don’t even care that I’m drenched in my own sweat. I am intoxicated! I mean literally. I am drunk.

7.55pm: Buying a colourful shirt, even if I have a nagging suspicion that I might never wear it again as long as I live.

9.55pm: Just chatted with an actual backpacker, LOL. And you know what? He was alright. I schooled him a bit on the ‘reality’ of the [name of city where expat lives]. But nice to be reminded that backpackers are human beings. Just badly dressed ones.

11.30pm: Jesus, even the house Filipino band here is great. And you’re great — what did you say your name was? Olaf! Yes you’re great Olaf and … you .. Olaf’s girlfriend … what’s your name, and what’s Norwegian for “let’s get the hell out of here when Olaf isn’t looking?”

No idea o’clock: What a night! I walked all the way back to the hotel. I’m tired. But good tired. Holy crap, I have 17 new Tinder matches — I mean they are probably mostly fake profiles peddling cryptocurrency scams, but still. What a town!

6.30am: Pity about all the noises outside the bedroom that I am not used to. It’s not a great start to day two, but I’m still on a high.

8.30am: This coffee isn’t as good as my favourite coffee in [insert name of city the expat live in] — it’s almost like I haven’t figured out where the best cafes are in a town I am unfamiliar with…

10.30am: Another home run with the street food — holy crap!! We’re back on track.

11am: Just read three and a half paragraphs about the history of [insert name of city the expat is visiting] on a restaurant’s website, and I am now feeling like quite the expert on this place, let me tell you…

12.30 to 2pm: Another delicious bowl of something. Another beer. Cool locals chatting politely to me, and sure, maybe they feel obligated to as it’s their job, but I think they get me, you know?

2.30pm: There are for sale and for rent signs everywhere. Maybe I should just move here.... forever.

3pm: This young woman who just served me coffee, oh man, she’s so cute. I am going to sit here all day and I know fools rush in but I’m pretty sure we’re perfect for each other. I don’t even care she insists on calling herself Penelope.

5pm: You know, I really could live here. None of the things that annoy me or that I am sick of in [name of city where expat lives] affect me here. It’s like a magic spell has been cast over me. I imagine it’d be that way forever, even if I moved here...

5pm: Testing the waters with Penelope by telling her I would happily live here in [insert name of city the expat is visiting]. She seems open to the idea. At least she didn’t say it’s a bad idea. Ergo she is possibly falling for me.

6.30pm: [Three beers deep into happy hour, leaning across the bar to accost three locals] Actually I live in [insert name of city the expat live in] which means I’m basically Southeast Asian, too, so don’t worry, we can have a proper conversation... I’ve read a lot about the history of your city. Yes. Quite the expert.

7.30pm: Now I am on a date with Penelope (well maybe it’s not a date. She's just agreed to have a bowl of noodles with me right next door to her cafe) I realise her English isn’t great. She seems a bit naive and less worldly, if judged entirely on her ability to speak my language. I’m beginning to get cold feet about our future together. To be honest I don’t think we have anything in common, other than us both being on this awkward date.

9pm: Penelope said she has to go to a family event. I tell her I’m not ready to meet her parents. She smiles nervously. Probably didn't get the joke because she doesn’t speak great English. I think we’re through. We’ll always have [insert name of city the expat is visiting].

10pm: Hard to find a decent bar here, to be honest.

11pm: Honestly, I’m willing to drink with anyone but in this cocktail place the locals are all having fun at their own tables or staring at their phones, and the expats are either obnoxious or aloof and/ or overly protective of their very attractive local girlfriends.

11.15pm: If I moved here that expat’s smoking hot girlfriend would be presented with a once-in-a-life opportunity to realise the error of her ways and be my girlfriend instead….

11.30pm: Just been chatting to one expat briefly. I think he mistook me for a backpacker so I explained, so as to clear up this misunderstanding, I’m actually an expat, too — just one who lives in [insert name of city where the expat lives]. He doesn’t seem keen on [insert name of city where the expat lives], said its okay for a weekend. Pfft. Well, okay. It’s not for everyone. Especially not a tosser like you.

1am: I am tired. But, like, proper tired. I just found Penelope on Facebook and sent her a message, which is more of an invitation. Now she thinks all I wanted to do was hook up. I try to rally and suggest I want to be a friend and she could come and visit me in [insert name of city where the expat lives]. Jesus, I hope she doesn’t take me up on that — I mean imagine having to show someone around like a tour guide…

10.30am: To be honest, I’m happy to be flying back to [insert name of city where the expat lives] today. [Insert name of city the expat is visiting] is just not for me. It’s too noisy. It’s too hot to walk around. I mean, it’s fine for a weekend. But I could never live here. To be honest, I feel a bit sorry for the expats that do. Actually scratch that. They’re all tossers.

12pm: This taxi driver is going way too fast. Definitely not getting a tip.

"Look to the west...”

I am pretty sure I told you about my James Connolly t-shirt before, more than once knowing me. Yeah, it is still going actually, thanks for asking, and Mr Connolly is still being mistaken for Vladimir Lenin and David Crosby, you’d be happy to know, but it’s getting a wee bit shabby, which is why when I just returned to Dublin, I thought, maybe I could find a replacement and keep the private running-joke I have with Irish politicians visiting Vietnam going for another 10 years. My mother had bought it in a shop called Connolly Books, which has strong connections with the Irish Communist Party, so I am told. No, god no, she wasn’t a member. She had strong beliefs about social equality sure, but she also liked supporting small businesses — and she had an eye for a cool, kitschy t-shirt. Anyway, I managed to find the shop easily enough, located as it is in the most touristy area in all of Dublin, and after a cluster of tourists snapped up Che Guevara badges and posters, I spoke to the owner (without explaining my ironic attachment for the t-shirt) but alas, he told me they’d only ever had the one batch made and they were long gone. I told him, jokingly, though he was looking at me quite seriously, I’d travelled all the way from Vietnam to get one.

“Oh, you live in Vietnam,” he said, easing his demeanour by a smidge. One of us, he may have thought. Perhaps. “Are you in Hanoi or ...?” “Well, I used to live In Hanoi (he nodded approvingly) but moved to Ho Chi Minh a few years back (he stopped nodding). “I went to Hanoi once, but... I usually head to the west myself,” he said maintaining eye contact as if waiting for me to tip a wink and say no more. West? I wondered. My mind briefly drifted, and my eyes too. Behind the owner of Connolly Books was an enormous Cuban flag. “Ah, yes — right. The West,” I nodded with approval, unsure of what to say, so I opined that it was probably a “more authentic experience out there nowadays.” He conceded this might be true with a slow raise of his eyebrows then shuffled away without another word. Some tourists were looking to buy badges and posters and mugs and other merchandise and paraphernalia he had to sell. I mean, fair enough. These communism party junkets don’t pay for themselves, do they?

The Comical Hat’s sporadically updated Expaticionary/ Expatipedia

Expathropology (noun) /ĕks′pət′THrə′päləjē/

The pseudo-anthropological theorising of local societies, cultures, behavioural patterns, made by expats when among other expats, most commonly when all drinking and when ‘expatsperated', and based on their own beer-addled or hungover observations.

“Did you ever notice how Vietnamese don’t know how to walk through doors properly?” said Ryan, while drinking cider.

#Expathropology #/ĕks′pət′THrə′päləjē/

On the Rise: Thao Dien — Cross The Bridge

#issuu

“Phan Xích Long la ai?”

Here’s a picture of Phan Xich Long I found on the internet:

Born as Phan Phát Sanh, he died just over 100 years ago, aged 23. In short, for attempting to overthrow the French Colonial Administration, he was executed by the French Colonial Administration, which is why he’s a National Hero and has a street named after him.

But there’s more to the story than that.

Maybe if I were talented and smart and hard-working and ambitious enough, I’d try to write a book called the Brief and Fantastical Life of Phan Xich Long but instead, all I can do for you is boil it all down and put it into the opening paragraph for a short essay called Kafka in Saigon, written for the latest issue of Mekong Review. So consider this is a a teaser for the article/ Kafka in Saigon/ the latest issue of MR/ every issue of the MR/ the life and times of Phan Xich Long/ brief and fantastical lives.

#READALLABOUTIT #KINDA #NOTREALLY

The Chef Who Wasn’t There or the Night Haute Cuisine Died On My Lap in Thao Dien

When my father was last visiting Saigon/ Ho Chi Minh City, we got wind of a new restaurant opening. It was called L'Escale, which translates as a ‘place where one might pause while on a journey’.

Situated in the Thao Dien part of District 2, L’Escale was, we read, to showcase the cuisine of a chef by the name of Thierry Drapeau, who had a pretty sparkling resume, including several Michelin stars being associated with his name back in France. We floated the idea of giving it a lash. My father, a fan of French gastronomy and wine, was as keen as Dijon; I, no stranger to free-loading at fine-dining establishments on his dime, made the booking (and, hey, I paid for the taxi, ok?).

We were greeted by a manager, a bespectacled, shaven headed Frenchman, who had the look of a quirky scientist, but had clearly decided to dress in the style of a corporate banker. I first suspected Thierry was the Chef Who Wasn’t There when the manager introduced the butter, as if reassuring us Thierry May Not Be Here Yet He Is Ever Present (you know like Yoda), by saying with a touch of gravitas "homemade paprika butter created by Thierry Drapeau™”.

Of course, my father and I would have liked to see Thierry Drapeau™ emerge in his chef’s hat and tell us about the minutiae of culinary details we were savouring, but we both understand restaurants get opened by famous chefs who live somewhere else entirely all the time. So the meal began, much of it served by a duo of staff (one male, one female), who both occasionally slipped on a single glove (probably not a tribute to Michael Jackson) and donned grey-blue suits. Think: Clockwork Orange meets androgynous boy-girl band.

As for the food. Well, some of it was good. Some of it maybe very good. Some of it perhaps even exquisite. Very... um traditional modern French. We even met the Chef Who Was There at some stage. A young, attractive French woman, who was paraded around the room by the manager, who spoke on The Chef Who Was There’s behalf (even though she seemed to speak English) for she is not Thierry Drapeau™. But Thierry Drapeau™'s understudy and the manager clearly wanted to control the situation lest she fluff her lines (He encouraged us to offer some feedback to the Chef Who Was There and my father politely stated the wine was too cold. They retreated, the manager to the cheese and wine room, The Chef Who Was There to an unseen kitchen, stage left....

If anything as I ate, I wondered if the food (which was good, maybe very good, perhaps even exquisite) was being let down because of the peculiar atmosphere (or lack thereof). We were seated in a villa, one presumably designed pour Les Nouveaux riches Vietnamien. The odd pop music song had oddly ended up on the play list. Volume of said music varied. The ambience as a whole was .... unsettling somehow. Every customer (there were four occupied tables) was sitting in a room (yes, not unusual for a restaurant, granted) in such a way (both my father and I were on the same side of a round table, and faced into the room, me to the northeast, my father to the southeast) that you were locked into observing the other customers, who were more often than not seemingly observing us observing them observing us... None of the other customers appeared to be enjoying themselves even if they were enjoying the food (which was good, maybe very good, perhaps at times even exquisite).

So there we all were — sort of trapped, all looking at each other quietly eating food as created by Theirry Drapeau™ (The Chef Who Wasn’t There) but prepared by his understudy (The Chef Who Was There), and trying to remind ourselves not to look at each other.

And over the course of this degustation (which comprised of ‘sept actes'), I had a growing suspicion develop in my mind -- were we part of an installation or an experimental theatre performance? I started to fantasise that an artist had elaborately planned the whole spectacle (to make a point of some sort). It had begun with the creation of a biography for a two-star Michelin chef from France, who had apparently made the surprising move to HCMC, except he hasn't really made the move; the artist then rented a villa, created a website, a FaceBook page, he hired actors (the duo of singe-gloved waiters, the bespectacled manager, the Chef Who Was There...) and prepared them to enact this strange piece of satirical theatre...(to make a point of some sort). Then he just waited for the phone to ring and the unwitting participants cum performers ("the customers”) to arrive in pairs and take our places.

The menu, I realised, was surely a clue promising to take us through the evening in sept actes. By the end of the ‘show’, as we nibbled on our complimentary macaroons, and petits desserts, and declared our relative satisfaction to the male waiter, who broke character briefly to whisper that he wanted to move to Australia, I imagined the artist would now finally reveal himself -- would it be the bespectacled manager, the Chef Who Was There, or one of the one-gloved waiters, or both of them in cahoots, or one of the customers who kept staring at us staring at them, who would step forward with a smile and say, "Bon soir. Thanks for taking part in tonight's performance. But we would like to inform you that there is no Thierry Drapeau™. He is just a fabrication. A fantasy. In fact, we just learned how to make traditional modern French food (and paprika butter) from watching YouTube clips. This was merely ... how can we say, a proposition of pretension to see if anyone would come. And you did! Isn't life weird? And don't you feel a bit stupid? And amn't I very clever for underscoring that point and making you realise high-end dining is dead. Don’t worry your presence tonight is our pleasure and dinner is on the house. Merci bien and au revoir..."

Of course, of course, of course, L’escale really is a restaurant, and we know because we paid, well my father paid close to 250 euros for the experience (hey, I paid for the taxi home, too), and Thierry Drapeau™ really does exist (probably), and yet, wandering away from L'Escale down Quoc Huong street, smelling, and hearing, the crackling pork chops on a grill at a beer joint, where garrulous men knocked back chilled beers with glee, and then seeing half a dozen Quy Nhon style banh xeo sizzling in their pans, I inevitably wondered if we really had been playing a role in a strange performance, dining in a manner that's completely out of touch, or at least eating in a way that doesn't really deserve too much interest or curiosity in this part of the world anymore, if it ever did. Maybe high-end dining is dead. At least, maybe it is for me. Maybe that was the whole point... or at least my takeaway.

But hey, look -- the food was good. At times very good. Perhaps even exquisite. Very um... traditional modern French.

Graham Greene’s Unpublished Trip Advisor Reviews

La Croix du Sud, Rue Catinat, Saigon ⬤◯◯◯◯ Reviewed 67 years, 2 weeks, 3 days ago

Mafia-run Tourist Trap, Avoid!

Suddenly famished, but feeling like a lazy sod (note to self, one pipe of Cholon’s finest is never enough, but five… steady on old chap), I popped downstairs from the Majestic and ducked into La Croix du Sud next door.

It’s an establishment that has something of a reputation, courtesy of the Corsican mobster, or rather, the legitimate businessman and owner, who goes by the name of Monsieur Andréani.

When not holding court with the fellow members of the Corsican Chamber of Commerce, the corpulent, clammy Monsieur Andréani has been known to boast about how he came from a family of ‘Corsican shepherds’ (a classic euphemism, no doubt, for being a member of the Unione Corse). According to his own autobiographical accounts, on something of a whim (due to slitting someone’s throat and having to go into hiding, per chance?) he took a job as a skivvy for the French navy and then jumped ship in Saigon, where he found remunerated work in the “entertainment industry” along with some other Corsican émigrés who just happened to be ensconced in the tropics. What a remarkable tale of happenstance and plucky entrepreneurialism…

However, I digress from the matter at hand. Let’s ignore Monsieur Andréani's dubious personal history, for I only came to La Croix du Sud for sustenance, yes, partly out of convenience, but I had also been led to understand that the entire Andréani clan had now absconded, I mean, migrated to Cochinchina under the behest of Monsieur Andréani. For that reason, I had been imagining I might find a menu offering some classic Corsican fare to bolster the constitution and set my pulses going again. Zuppa corsa made with a ham-bone stock that’s just-so? Chestnut fritters and veal sausages? Perhaps, a heart-warming civet de sanglier — must be a wild boar or two thrashing around the vicinities of Saigon, surely?

Alas no. Instead, I found myself staring at the sort of generic menu that may very well taint the legacy of French colonialism the world over for decades to come never mind the ham-fisted and inhumane governance of local hoi polloi. With a niggling sense of doubt (not relieved by an anxious waiter who appeared to have wandered into this particular scene without rehearsing a single line), I settled for the bouillabaisse rather than the minestrone, côte du porc rather than escalope de veau with haricots verts fraise avec beurre rather than petit pois, and yes, pommels de terre a l’anglaise over frites. If I played it safe, what could possibly wrong?

Everything, as it turned out. Unfortunately for yours truly, the cocksure French grenadiers — all knowing smirks and bawdy gestures – arrived as soon as I ordered, hogging the attention of the utterly hopeless, hapless and helpless staff for the duration of my visit. Naturally, my drink order — a bottle of Hermitage Blanc — sat visibly on a bar, warming in the soupy heat until I fired up a flare to alert the staff of its destination. The French manager, who must have been tailored in the dark, seemed only to orbit (in different directions) the Corsican Chamber of Commerce, who were becoming steadily more boisterous (undoubtedly having been sipping steadily on pastis since aperitif o’clock). Far from the kitchen, alas, but very close to the cash register, the Andréani women did nothing but count piastres and gossip. I had already begin to despair over the wooden baguette placed on my table when my bouillabaisse finally arrived containing ‘the catch o’ the day before yesterday’ and an insipid broth that must have been made with a recipe straight from Ba Son Shipyard’s canteen. The ‘orchestra’ — all leggy females, surprise-surprise, and all garnished in an elaborate confusion of jackets with “frogs and loops” and half-strangled with plumes (the legs, at least, remained bare) — took to the ‘stage’ and began butchering hackneyed cabaret tunes under the dull florescent lights. Predictably, the grenadiers began with the wolf whistles and cat calls. When my pork chop arrived it was as tender as a veteran legionnaire’s boot after a mission in Algiers (and I’ve had more nutritious beans served by the evil eyed-matriarchs of Berkhamsted School). The whole time, I had been draining one glass of wine after the other. Of course, no one was on hand to refill it, yet when the pompous French bureaucrats arrived with their Vietnamese maîtresses they were treated like visiting royalty. Quelle débâcle.

Eventually I received some attention from the French manager, who haughtily listed the entremets de maison— meringue Chantilly, crêpes Chantilly, mille-feuille chantilly… (what I’d do for a Bakewell tart here in the tropics). “Non merci, l'addition sans Chantilly, s'il vous plait,” I half-begged him (but rather pleased at my quick wit after a bottle of hermitage). After dumping a pile of piastres on the table, I stormed up Rue Catinat to the Palais Cafe for a much-appreciated spam sandwich and a sympathetic ear (my apologies to Inspector Vigot for my protracted rant and interrupting his game of quatre-vingt-cinq).

As for returning to La Croix du Sud, someone would have to drive over me and drag my dead body inside (not entirely impossible that Monsieur Andréani could arrange this in his Citroën Traction. Note to self: don’t post this review until I head back to Malaya).

The Comical Hat’s Social Media Detox Pep Talk Part 1: Instagram

Oh you and your Instagram. Surely you’ve had enough! I mean, come on man/woman, take a look at yourself! Scrolling down through this gallery of perpetual repetition.  It’s nothing but an infinite parade of vanity, I tell you, and what's more, one that marches to an algorithm entirely of your making. YOU ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME YOU KNOW!

  If you think about it, you’re basically spoon-feeding an application designed to force-feed you. You’re like a dog chasing its own tail! A moth orbiting an artificial light! And ....other analogous things doing repetitive things that are entirely pointless!

  Need I go on? Well, you constantly checking your Instagram feed is… is….. is…. it’s like being at a buffet eating a plate of dozens and dozens of incongruous things that YOU handpicked for yourself, but nothing much goes together (sushi followed by blue cheese anyone?).   Every time you look the plate is full again, and even though you’re not even hungry, you just keep eating, because, well, this application is pretty much designed to make you think you have nothing else to do with your life right now. Oh you and your bottomless feed.  You're simply incorrigible!

Okay, in a way, we don’t blame you. Our finite beauty, our fleeting pleasures, our treasured moments, our shared transience, all meshed together into a seamless, rotating feed that goes on for ever, and ever, and ever. Who couldn’t be mesmerised?

  Instagram is quite clever.

Until you realise using Instagram is basically you free-falling through an ever-shallowing universe of diminishing returns. And you feel completely pathetic about being hooked.  

At times, Instagram is also you looking into a mirror facing a mirror (and asking everyone to look at you looking at you on a regular basis, too, and basically, let’s face it, you’re expecting us to like looking at you looking at yourself, too).     At other times, Instagram is lifestyle oneupmanship. It’s you bragging you're having a more wonderful moment in time than the one everyone else is probably having, which, fair enough, is definitely true if we’re all staring at a 5x2.5 inch screen wishing we were doing what all of these other people were doing...

But, like, there’s no need to rub our face in it.

And if you think your pictures are better than everyone else’s, Instagram is you, standing on your tippy-toes in a crowd and getting smug about individualising generic images better than anyone else. It's like thinking that you say "We are all individuals!" better than anyone else. 

Because Instagram is pretty much mass competitive mimicry. Everyone is mimicking someone else. Some just mimic more originally than others.

Because Instagram is an instrument that reveals our longing for sameness.

Because on Instagram I am he (or she) as you are he (or she!) as you are me and we are all together. Forever and ever, #amen. But... maybe this is the year, you figure fuck it, I have had enough of all that and I would like to read a book (rather than take a picture of a book you’d like us to think that you’re reading) (and just generally not feel like Instagram has turned you into a vacuous dolt who can’t focus on anything other than....well, Instagram, I guess). #THEEND #LIFEISBEAUTIFUL

#ILOVEMYSELFMORETHANYOULOVEYOURSELF 

Next week for the Comical Hat's Social Media Detox Pep Talk: I'll be on Instagram posting stories to underscore the uselessness of Facebook.

Following Week: I'll be on FaceBook dissing Twitter

By Week Four we'll all have read at least half a (short) novel OR YOUR MONEY BACK!

Love in the time of highly infectious respiratory diseases

Your father has sent an email. It begins: “You probably saw this but I see the World Health Organisation has issued a global alert warning health authorities about a severe form of pneumonia following outbreaks of a highly infectious respiratory disease in Hong Kong, southern China and Vietnam…” You hadn’t seen this. You reply to say that you had. You tell him there’s nothing to worry about in Hanoi (He tends to worry for no reason. Like when he emailed after hearing there was an earthquake in India, just to be sure). But the next day you start to cough. A coincidence, surely, you think, you hope, you pray. The next day the cough worsens. It couldn’t be, could it? Just to be sure you – rather than drive yourself to a clinic or hospital – walk to the nearest chemist and buy your own antibiotics, cough syrup and vitamins before returning to your house to await your fate, vowing to be a better man, if you survive. The good news is you don't die. Your chest clears over the course of a few days. The not so good news is Hanoi is officially on the frontline for this disease. You are told by your reliably pessimistic roommate from Australia that nurses and doctors are apparently avoiding the hospitals. “Yeah mate. It’s that bad.” He’s panicked enough to be considering evacuation (read: calling his mum and asking her to book him a flight). But you instinctively know that the hard-drinking expatriate community will still be fearlessly braving the city’s finest watering holes and that’s where you need to be. Like the band on the Titanic, you’d rather go down with the crew, valiantly so, doing what you love: drinking booze, talking shit, telling the staff to change the music ("Manu Chao, again?”). You kick start your bike and ride directly to Le Maquis, where the beers go down oh-so swiftly and oh-so sweetly. When some 20-a-day smoker (yes, a Frenchman) coughs up half a lung everyone laughs. “Barkeep, how about a free whisky for anyone with SARS?” you roar. Camaraderie blossoms in the bar. Anecdotes are shared. Rumours spread. What would happen if this disease can’t be contained? “From what I hear it’s no longer an ‘if’ but a ‘when’,” says one humourless fear-monger. “Look, pandemics sporadically ravage civilisation,” you declare with glee. “This thing could wipe out thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, maybe millions within weeks.” A slightly manic Swiss German expat with a hairdo worthy of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is with you all the way. You couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect accomplice to successfully put the fear of God into everyone. The man backs you up with an encyclopaedic knowledge of pandemics: “In 1918 the Spanish flu killed approximately 5 per cent of the world’s population,” he informs the bar. “But that was nothing compared to the Black Death which wiped out about half of Europe’s total population in the 14th century. Today with air travel shrinking the globe to unprecedented levels, who knows how quickly this thing can spread around the world…” You tag back in to add the finishing touches to the apocalyptic scenery everyone is picturing: "People will be literally dropping like flies all over the city. It’ll be like the Monty Python bubonic plague scene: street cleaners will be clanking their shovels against their dumpsters as they trundle down each and every alleyway, only they’ll be shouting in Vietnamese 'bring out your dead!’” The Swiss-German translates instantly: “Mang ra người chết đi!”, “Chinhxacly right!” you shout. You suggest that everyone switches to whisky and everyone agrees. It ends up being a very late night. By the end, you must have smoked a pack and a half of Vinataba – the local’s preferred lung-shredding-cigarette-brand – and drunk the guts of a bottle of Jameson on top of who-knows-how-many-beers. Sometime between sunrise and midday, you wake up feeling like … well, probably how someone who is dying from SARS feels. You walk out the front door in the hope of some health-emitting sunshine falling on your face and somehow vaporising the horror that lies within. You see where there was an indicator on the side of your motorbike, there is now no indicator on the side of your motorbike, which means, yes, you did ride home – no helmet, hardly any brakes, howling at the moon drunk – dropping and/or crashing the bike somewhere along the way. You return inside, turn on your computer and dial up the internet. There’s another email from your father. It begins: “Just checking in to see if everything is okay…” He tends to worry for no reason. You wish he wouldn’t.

Sartorial Obituaries: My SOCIALISM t-shirt

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Polly, put the kettle on, and prepare to tell me you’re sorry for my loss: Late last night my dear old Socialism t-shirt passed away. It put up one hell of a fight. It had a good innings. For a t-shirt anyway. Toward the end, to be honest, it hadn’t been pretty. The neck, you see, was frayed and peppered with holes. All the kings darners and all the king’s seamstresses couldn’t have put it back together again and people around town (especially in banks) were beginning to look like they were feeling sorry for me when I wore it ("well, he is a freelance writer I suppose...”).

After nearly fifteen years of service, I could have asked for no more from this tattered stalwart. It soaked up more sweat than any t-shirt on this earth deserves to have done. Highs, lows, creamy middles. I am sure we ran the gamut together. As many of you know, I am very circumspect about what t-shirts I let come so deeply into my life. Often, a less cherished t-shirt and I will inevitably grow apart over the years and start to avoid each other around the house. When it’s time to throw it aside, there’s no hard feelings. We’ll always have Paris, etc. But this one hurts more than most as it was a gift from my late mother -- along with my rather famous (relatively speaking, like) James Connolly t-shirt (which is ‘my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest’) I think she bought it in Connolly Books of Dublin. Here’s a picture of it.

Continuing: I am not a socialist. I don’t believe in political tags. They’re mostly misunderstood and therefore frequently divisive (a brief summary of politics today in many parts of the world: I’m left! You’re right! I’m This! You’re That! Fuck off! No, you fuck off!). But like my mother, or perhaps thanks to my mother, I do believe -- as the t-shirt outlines as a definition -- in the values of ‘equality and justice for all and the equal worth of each citizen, equality of opportunity and community’, and things like that, even if, unlike my mother, I do absolutely nothing to highlight the wisdom of such simple humanistic philosophies among others. To be honest, when I first wore the t-shirt I paid no attention to what it said. Along with my brief but intense love affair with a ‘CCCP t-shirt’ (I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong) in Hanoi circa 2004 there may have been some irony involved (not as much for my ultra retro Status Quo t-shirt wore in my peak-pretentious, proto-hipster years of university, but still, some). Through the years, I also mainly wore my socialism t-shirt regularly as it’s black (so sweat is less visible, you see). Often, when people who saw me wearing the t-shrt, they appeared confused or amused or maybe even disappointed. Sometimes if they seemed very curious, I would ask them to read the definition underneath the word socialism. Some seemed surprised. One person read it (in fact, I made them read it to see if there was anything they could and would disagree with) and that person laughed and that person said, “well, that sounds all very well, but who’s going to pay for it?” And yes, that person was a Tory.

Anyway, those days of mild to subliminal politicising are now done and the designer of the t-shirt will likely never know how far this one travelled, how many people actually read the definition of the word ‘socialism’, and whether or not it helped anyone to reframe their notions of equality and justice for all, which along with liberty, form the basis of the most proudly capitalist country in the world’s Pledge of Allegiance that incidentally was first penned by a man by the name of Francis Bellamy, who was an “outspoken supporter of workingmen’s rights” (and um, “the vice president of Boston’s Society of Christian Socialists”) and “an avid participant in the social gospel movement: a late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century crusade against social, political, and economic injustice." Which makes me think as long as he didn’t get too evangelical about his Christianity, if he were kicking around today, my mother would have gladly poured the man a cup of tea and discussed the current state of affairs at home and abroad with a heartfelt wish, nay, belief, that everything can and will be better if enough of us care enough to try.

The view from your apartment in Tomorrowland...

“Old Saigon? If we’re to believe the hype — promulgated across hoardings that line the streets — she will be no more. Whoever sticks around, will soon be sealed in a sanitised vertical suburbia. The view from their high-rise apartment block? Another high-rise apartment block.”

Look out for the new Mekong Review which hit the ‘stands’ already. I have an essay in it on the development of Saigon/ TpHCM. You can find the latest issue in all the usual places in HCMC and Hanoi.

The ascending dragon...

Staring at the 81-storey Landmark in TpHCM, I remembered the time skyscrapers came to Hanoi (and PetroVietnam threatened to build a 102-storey building): “According to the art critic Natalia Kraevshaia, the celebrated Hanoi-based artist Ha Manh Thang’s recently exhibited installation piece "Dream of a Skyscraper" reflects man’s “eternal obsession for ascension” incarnated by the Tower of Babel, or in Thang’s case the Vietnamese myth, "Nu Oa Mends the Sky."

In that story a giant Nu Oa uses a large pole to fix a hole in the sky caused in a ruction by two unruly gods. Realizing that even ancient people dreamed of creating something that could “scrape the sky,” Thang set out to compare the dreams of the past with today’s reality. For him, “the architecture of tall buildings in Vietnam today carries many influences of history.”

When Hanoi was first established as the capital in the year 1010 it was named Thang Long -- The Ascending Dragon -- after the newly crowned Ly Thai To saw a dragon rise auspiciously above the mire. In a royal edict he made a cocksure proclamation that the city would last 10,000 generations. Hanoi has had its fair share of dark days since then but it has endured, so far for 1,000 years, and is now prospering like never before. The dragon’s ascent continues.”

The Original Saigon Expat Bubble

Norman Lewis writes of 1950 Saigon in Dragon Apparent: “20,000 Europeans keep as much as possible to themselves in a few tamarind-shaded central streets, surrounded by millions of Vietnamese and Chinese.”

Postscript: This post was written from a cafe in Thao Dien.

“The Good Old Days of Saigon are Gone Forever (1971 edition).”

In the grand old tradition of jaded expats calling time on this city due to liveability or lifestyle issues, here’s the illustrator Dick Adair, who lived here for five years, back in 1971.

“The good old days of Saigon are gone forever. The famous tree-lined boulevards of Saigon have been widened to provide maneuvering room for the trucks, jeeps and Hondas that are crowding out the cyclos these days. . . . The good old days of Saigon are gone forever. One of the greatest pleasures of old-time Saigon was the numerous sidewalk cafes, but the lure of air-conditioning and the danger of war brought people inside. Gone is the simple pleasure of sitting quietly and gazing at the passing scene while sipping a refreshing drink."

Brainstorming an alternative itinerary for travelling through Vietnam without Vietnamese food.

A friend of a friend arrives in Thanh Pho Bac Ho and you give him the tour of the town. The best banh mi, the best banh xeo, the best bo kho, the best bun thit nuong, the best goi cuon, and while you break bread, or slurp noodles or dunk rolls together, you evangelise about the wonder and brilliance of Vietnamese food, assuming he is a convert in the making, and you tell the friend of a friend he SIMPLY HAS TO eat con ghe in Phan Thiet, cao lau in Hoi An, banh beo Hue, and bun cha in Hanoi, and then the friend of a friend breaks it to you: “You know I am not really much of a foodie, I could survive on nothing but peanut butter for weeks...”

It’s like a needle abruptly scratching across your most beloved vinyl record. In the awkward silence that follows you realise in an instant that your whole map of Vietnam is made up with a constellation of local culinary stars in each city/town. Now the friend of a friend is expecting you to come up with other recommendations and tips and things-to-do. I mean you should have a few having lived since [insert a year from a long time ago].

So whatcha got?

It’s a hypothetical (but loosely based on REAL LIFE EVENTS -- the friend of a friend is the friend of a friend’s friend) but I realise how some of us depend so much on Vietnamese cuisine. It helps us feel connected to the country and a culture very unlike our own. Makes us feel like we get it (even if, or when, we don’t). But even though we, or at least I, promote it, we/I also hide behind this street-food savvy and knowledge. I mean I never wrote the following, not exactly; I probably quoted someone else saying something like

“They say pho is Vietnam in a bowl...”

Like, never mind reading up on the history, learning the language, following current events, talking to Vietnamese people from a variety of backgrounds, or even having Vietnamese friends — a comprehensive and insightful understanding of Vietnam is only a bowl of pho away.

Of course, of course, of course, of course, I do think everyone should be encouraged to explore the local cuisine (because its delicious) and eating local food amongst locals really is a great way to get a feel for the place. But the non-foodie friend of a friend’s friend made me realise how I, for one, need to come up with a non-food-dominated itinerary, if only for myself.

So, seriously, whatcha got?

Besides getting drunk, like...

For here, in all his glory, is the American homesteader.

“At Mimi’s: florid, bull-necked, checkered shirt hanging loose over the barrel gut, he hardly looks the part, but Lord he is, for here, in all his glory, is the American homesteader. The former truck driver or factory foreman, who hangs on from year to year, bossing Vietnamese road gangs, or construction teams on behalf of American firms, contracted out to pick up after every skirmish. Master to a cringing Vietnamese wife, or mistress, keeper of the American superiority complex, the last of us they will see when the Americans go home.”

From Frank Snepp's Decent Interval: An Insider's Account of Saigon's Indecent End (1977).

A literary tour of Graham Greene’s Saigon expat bubble...

“It was strange, this first return to Saigon with nobody to welcome me. At the airport, I wished there were somewhere else to which I could direct my taxi than the rue de Catinat...” ~ pg. 146, The Quiet American

Okay sure “he” (Thomas Fowler/ Graham Greene) must have made some half-hearted efforts at playing sport and sipped on tonic at the “Cercle Sportif Saïgonnais” on rue Chasseloup-Laubat, now the Labour Culture Palace at 55B Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai, don’t you know, and sure, sure, sure, he must have had the odd foray into Cho Lon to visit “Parc au buffles" and Mr Chou’s godown for some who-knows-whattery, and yeah, okay, he must have visited the Cao Đài Holy See in Tây Ninh at least once, but let the revisionists take note of my opinion that these days a speculative tour of Alden Pyle’s Saigon (he lived on rue Duranton, Bùi Thị Xuân street to you or I in 2017) would be much more rewarding (and by that I mostly mean the food would be cheaper and there’d less “glimmering modernities” and infinitely more Saigonesiness ) as here is what we really need to wake up to: while living in Saigon, Graham Greene lived in a pathetic expat bubble. There. I said it. Bon weekend à tous!

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

The Comical Hat