Coming Home in Saigon

"Did you find the answers to your questions?"

It was rush hour in Saigon. We had just left the War Remnants Museum, where photos and artifacts on display silently watched the gradual shift in our facial expressions. Raw with grief and disbelief, the faces of patrons seemed to shuffle through the museum like a moving exhibition, dancing faster and madder with every revelation.

One day. One day, I must go back to document those faces.

I had meant for the museum to fulfill my pursuit of truth. Yet, my questions seemed to follow me back onto the streets of Saigon, where children in white shirts and red ribbons nibbled on skewers and kicked Jianzi after school in the humid evening heat, oblivious to the busy traffic edging by.

The central business district was easy to maneuver by feet once we mustered the courage to cross the streets like cogs in a machine. Despite its grid system, vehicles at crossroads moved simultaneously from all directions, yet seamlessly with the flow of an aerobic choreography.

My friend called it "organised chaos".

But today, we took a cab to the other side of Saigon. District 7 was only 3 miles away, but a different world. Our host had promised us "the authentic Vietnamese domestic life". We got off at a narrow bridge. Beside it, wooden houses loomed over muddy riverbanks, and docked canoes slapped lazily against the low tide out of rhythm.

We walked through alleys between tall, narrow buildings, illuminated orange by the setting sun. On our left, a rooster crowed under an overturned rattan basket; on our right, women with hair rollers and fresh manicures chattered in a beauty salon; up ahead, a man sipped drip-coffee on a small stool in his garage; opposite him, colorful LED bulbs lit a noodle stall where gentle whiffs of lemongrass, mint and coconut milk amalgamated. In and out, bikes and scooters honked.

So this is what it feels like to come home in Saigon.

Around the corner, children crowded a shop with four arcade machines on one side, and a table and fridge on the other. An old lady selling tokens gestured the price of our trade. As I pointed at "Street Fighter”, curious children vacated the seat next to a chubby boy who, unlike his peers, was not in his uniform. At the end of my short-lived apprenticeship, I gave my tutors six tokens of thanks (pun intended) before joining our host four doors away.

"Nope, no answers yet." I said.

But coming home in Saigon, I now knew my questions were frivolous.