FROM MY DIARY:

SAIGON (Ho Chi Minh City): 24th June 1994: Monsoonal torrents drenching the city; rain pounding for hours; damage confined to flooding streets, slower scooters, scattered commuters. Unconfirmed reports indicate that the siege has lifted, that Saigon has been relieved by the sun.

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It’s great to be back in Saigon. Am staying in the same hotel. The view from my (4th floor) window shows worn-out urban Asia: shabby, decayed concrete blocks jumbled, half-finished, and continuing to grow, roof-tops with low brick walls and bamboo-scaffolding, balconies sprouting gardens, or boarded-up for extra room. And above this crusted, hap-hazard skyline looms mist and drizzle.
 
All day – splattering.
  Rain and iron.
  Rain and wood.
  Rain and concrete.
  Been rainin’ since I woke … since I woke in this room with a vibe: like G.I Joe has been here before me: bonking with a Vietnamese gal to sound of a storm.
 
Nothin’ seems changed since the Yanks left. Military radar, and row upon row of concrete hangars and miles of old tarmac at Saigon airport. The streets crowded by cyclos (cycle-rickshaws), scooters, bicycles, conical hats … but clearly lacking cars. On the hotel wall the SAIGON TOURIST agency rules state:  

1. Show your passport with valid entry / exit visa at the reception …
2. Do not bring into the hotel: weapons, toxics, explosives …
5. Prostitutes are not allowed in the hotel …
 
Maybe something has changed during the 20 years since the Communist North seized South Vietnam. Once, Saigon was famous for it’s sex.

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At a cafe I met a woman selling postcards. She wanted to talk. I bought her a bowl of noodles and a Coke for lunch, and during our conversation – in broken English – came her offer of sex. The idea attracted me. (An unexpected mid-day romp … why not?) The problem was being busted by the police – she was afraid. So instead of going back to my hotel she took me to a discreet, family-run place; up some stairs, behind locked doors then into a room overlooking the street; the noise entering thru the shuttered windows as she showered, as I lay on the bed drinking beer, fan-blades swishing at the humidity. I paid for the room. I paid for the beers. I paid her price – 10 American dollars. But I forget her name.
 
She looked younger than her 23 years. Her body tiny, skinny, weakened by the birth of a baby (a year ago). Since then her boyfriend had left; she now lived with her mother. And that afternoon I was drawn into her world, lured by her beautiful but sad gaze, by those eyes of despair.
 
But our encounter brought me more. Whenever we met in the street, she demanded gifts or soft drinks or food. My (lust-induced) goodwill became an unexpected sponsorship. A contract I’d not foreseen. An English-speaking cyclo driver, who I’d befriended and who knew this woman said, “She says, you belong to her”.
 
But I, like G.I Joe, left Saigon to fend for herself.