There was once an arguably great British band called
Athlete. They once had an arguably good little single that went something like
this: “You got wires, going in. You got wires, coming out of your skin”. Wires?
In skin? What the deuce?
Lead singer Joel Pott must have been to Saigon or something,
because that’s some crazily stupid lyrics right there. All one can imagine is
that he moseyed on down to De Pham, scored some beer with his trusty US Dollars
and sat jolly-eyed staring at the glittering moonlight. Only to find, however,
that obstructing his view like the overbearingly long pinky talon of a xe-om
driver, was a cascading fountain of electrical wires. Now, one may be
disgruntled at the fact that such a picturesque scene be spoiled by some garish
black electrical equipment, but on closer inspection isn’t that the source for
your crucial little internet, or your crucial little HBO comedy on your crucial
little TV? Joel Pott knew this, and for that I will forever deem him a wise,
wise young man.
Alas, the cables that swamp the lower canopy of Saigon’s
effervescent sky are indeed both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in their provision of the
necessaries of a developing world, but a bitter curse in their severance and
droopy downfall to the ground below. Oh
ground below! Garbage bin of the city, heavy cumbersome filthy body that is
thou Oh holy ground! Thou shalt forever be dumped upon with noodles, vomit,
oil, rat faeces, mud, sewage and wire. Thou shalt forever be largely unavoided,
only to be explored by way of wheel and sound of horn. Oh mighty ground! How I
mourn for you and count my blessings.
