Written by:
Vanessa Barrington
Photographer:
Simon Gurney
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this Issue of Curve:
Vol. 16#2
Here's how you cross the street in Saigon: Slowly and deliberately, step out into the traffic and begin walking. Swivel your head in both directions and make eye contact. Stay steady. Do not speed up or slow down, hesitate or change direction. In fact, saunter. Try not to show fear, or people may be tempted to play with you. Pretend you are hiking in bear country, and puff yourself up so as to look larger. Get into a groove, and the motorbikes and bicycles will swirl past you like eddies around a branch in the river.
At some point, before you reach the other side, a Zen-like calm that can only be described as pedestrian Nirvana will enter your body. It begins in your chest and radiates out into your tingling limbs. Your synapses slow as if in meditation and the experience becomes pure sensation. The bleating motorbikes and wheezing trucks blend together into one ear-splitting silence. In the midst of this inconceivable calm, you will feel yourself become a part of the universe’s human fabric, and small, intimate details will begin to emerge from the chaotic scene and demand your attention.
Out of the hundreds of bicycles coming toward me from every direction, I find myself fixated on a girl wearing a pink bandanna tied around her mouth and nose. From the tide of motorbikes zipping between the slower bicycle and pedestrian traffic, I pick one on which a toddler with blue shoes stands precariously between his parents. Looking down to my left, I see the gnarled toes of an old man pushing a three-wheeled cart loaded high with cinder blocks. Then, I make eye contact with a young man driving a rumbling white truck as he manages to squeeze by me.
As I reach the other side of the street, a bony and nearly toothless old man in loose pants and sandals perches on his three-wheeled cyclo and yells, “Cyclo, lady, cyclo.”
I catch a glimpse of a young woman just inside a darkened doorway holding a naked baby who wails as an older woman shaves the baby’s head.
That first day, as I stepped out into the noisy, churning mass of motors and humanity in Vietnam’s busiest city, I had no idea that I was about to commit the most intimate act of my life. I didn’t know that the sights and sounds and smells and tastes would weave their way into my bloodstream and continue circulating within me long after I returned home.
I was prepared for crowded streets and poverty. I was ready to experience a culture unlike any I was familiar with. I knew that the effects of generations of war, turmoil and economic deprivation would be evident. But I wasn’t ready for the intense intimacy of private lives lived on sidewalks and in open doorways, for the experience of moving through a country where every space is public space.
Coming from a culture that is almost pathological in its devotion to privacy, that places little value on public space, that divides each day into discrete blocks of time, the astonishing thing about visiting Vietnam was experiencing the richness of life lived in the open. There are no backyards in which to hide, no high walls or fences. Homes double as family businesses, and the workday and family life blend together seamlessly.
In the midst of this openness, the subject of sex and sexuality is off-limits, which served us well as lesbian travelers. People often asked us if we were married, but the query was not a tricky way of discerning our sexual preference. In a country where marriage and children are often delayed by economic necessity, people were really asking a more universal question of whether or not we’d attained happiness and prosperity.
One does not see displays of sexual affection between men and women, women and women, or men and men. It just isn’t considered appropriate. One does see affectionate touching and holding hands, an intimacy of a friendlier sort. For my girlfriend and I to brush together as we walked or to sleep in the same bed meant nothing to the Vietnamese people we met. Negotiating for a room at the front desk of one hotel, we were having trouble getting the woman to understand we only wanted one bed. Once it was clear, she just smiled and laughed, telling us that Westerners don’t like to sleep together in one bed, not like the Vietnamese, who do it all the time. We were given a room with one bed without any sort of judgment or discomfort.
We had every intention of seeking out the handful of gay bars in Hanoi and Saigon that we’d read about in guidebooks. But our days were filled with cyclo rides through Cho Lon, Saigon’s Chinatown; tours of Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum in Hanoi, where his actual body lies embalmed under glass; strolls through ancient Buddhist temples; boat tours of the floating markets on the Mekong Delta; and treks through the steep, terraced farmland in the North. It felt like quite enough to be human and American, and we didn’t feel the need for our sexuality to become part of the point of our journey through Vietnam.
Despite the lack of formal gay diversions, we did meet other homosexual travelers nearly daily, and it was always exciting to experience a quick flash of recognition. However, about halfway through the trip, my gaydar completely deserted me.
One morning, at 6 a.m., we climbed sleepily into a van in downtown Hoi An for a sunrise tour of the ancient Hindu ruins at My Son. There were already two women in the seat behind the guide and driver, so we settled into the bench seat behind them. Too sleepy for more than polite hellos, I couldn’t even place their accents on a map of Europe. Over breakfast of sweet, strong Vietnamese coffee and cold baguettes, we chatted about our travels and our homes. They turned out to be young, attractive and German. As the day continued, I began to notice how the women sat with their bodies inclined ever so slightly toward each other, their shoulders brushing, and how their conversation in German had a slight teasing note. At the ruins, only one woman was taking pictures and I wondered if perhaps they shared more than a photo album and, before I could even play the “German woman or lesbian” game, they began to talk of their joint home and business.
The ride back in an open boat on the river was intimate and even a little sexy as the four of us lounged in the sun, chatted and snapped pictures. Back in town, we had lunch together. We parted and exchanged e-mail addresses. And though we may never see them again, I’ll always remember the day.
On our way to the airport, we rode through Saigon’s deserted, predawn streets. Enclosed in our private cab, it seemed as if we were completely alone in the sleeping city. As we glided past a park on the outskirts of town, the darkness was vibrating with movement. Once my eyes adjusted, the shapes of dozens of figures jogging, walking, doing pushups on benches and performing the slow, graceful dance of tai chi emerged from the smoky darkness.
IF YOU GO:
A few key things will help you in your visit of Vietnam, a country of 83 million where the monthly income is around $30 for schoolteachers and government officials.
Language: The main language is Vietnamese, but English is a second language for many.
Worship: The main religion is Buddhism with a healthy dose of ancestor worship.
Money: Vietnamese dong and American dollars are accepted interchangeably.
Weather: It’s tropical and hot year round in the South. In the North, it gets cold and misty in the winter and moderately hot in the summer.
Getting Around: Foreigners cannot drive in Vietnam, but it’s easy to hop taxis, motorbikes or cyclos for short trips. Cars and drivers can be hired for longer trips. The Reunification Express train runs the length of the country, as do several tourist bus companies.
Dangers: The traffic really is a serious danger. There are something like 30 traffic deaths a day in Vietnam. Violent crime is almost completely unheard of, but overcharging and swindling tourists happens.
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