Bill Murray's Blog, page 135

Saigon Street, Evening Edition

Just another Monday night.

World Breakfast, Pho Ga Edition

The Street

World Breakfast, Congee Edition

You just can’t beat chillies in the morning. Today, congee, tomorrow, pho ga.

Rex Redux

Either the normally deadly traffic is enjoying a mellow holiday respite or it’s beginning to get a little more tolerable with time. Yes, a moped warrior executed (not a bad word for it) a deft left turn inches in front of the taxi from the far right lane steering with one hand and talking on his phone with the other, but nowadays there are even occasional men in little green outfits to help foot traffic across streets. And I could hardly hear the horns from bed at dawn.

The air hangs languid and damp, just the tonic for 22 hours of dry airplane air, but it’s hardly as hot as it might be, scarcely 30, and up around Sa Pa on the Chinese border, snow has fallen. It smells like Vietnam, straight from the arrivals hall. I put it down to cheap coal burned for power.

Walked over to the Rex Hotel. It’s at a far remove from the days of the Five O’clock Follies. It’s state owned nowadays and the rooftop bar is still here, see for yourself, but today shopping arcades of Ermenegildo Zegna, Hugo Boss, Burberry and Givenchy outnumber hard bitten journalists in safari vests. See those three framed photos hung on poles around the bar? They’re framed enlargements of John Kerry’s visit one week ago today.

The Vietnamese Dong continues out of hand, 265,650 for two Saigon brand local beers. On the other hand, where else do you leave 14,000 for a tip?

Eight Million People, They Say

Last time we were here was 2005. This is the best photo I can muster of the skyline then:

Saigon’s grown. Here’s the Notre Dame’s twin spires, Saturday night:

It just goes on and on….

Here are a bunch more Vietnam photos.

Have Yourself a Merry Little (Officially Communist) Festive Season

Officially Communist, but this sternly nationalist propaganda brought to you by Popeyes.

Transit Time is Good for You. Builds Character.

Snowy in Chicago. Rainy at Narita. Foggy in my head.

Here in Tokyo they have those only-in-Japan self-serve beer machines in the JAL lounge that tilt back on the push of a button then straighten at the proper time to provide the proper foamy head. Need one of these at home.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Asia

At this very moment we’re en route from Chicago O’Hare to Tokyo Narita, from which we’ll continue to Saigon for several days, spend one night in Bangkok and head for the Indian Himalayas. My next report should be from Vietnam.

Vignette: Mekong Delta

Summer 2005:

Now I love this – hurtling down to the mouth of the Mekong aboard a Mercruiser with seats for 16, just Mirja and me and our staff of two. M is napping in front of me, our crew heads back on their seats, mouths open, sleeping in the wet air and just the driver and me watching the river go by. Sleeping is the preferred activity because it’s 1-1/2 hours into a 5 or 6 hour trip and the rains have come, forcing the windows closed and our attention more inside. We mean to make 240 K today from Chau Doc up near Cambodia.

Just now we’re flying, fairly gliding above a 100 K straight-as-the-captain-of-the-debate-club man-made canal. Commerce drops away between villages but there are stilt houses almost everywhere, fish traps and giant bamboo I guess even 18 – 20 meters out of the water and, they say, catfish under it. Before the rains, when we were running with the windows open, grey nimbus rolling over us pregnant with wet, the air felt exhilarating. The northeast monsoon has returned and river water has flooded fields for hundreds of meters outside the canals.

It should heal the brownish tinge on some of the trees, and in particular the banana leaves.

When one of the big transports passes, the ones with the big red eyes painted on the bow, their wake slaps the bottom of our boat hard. The crew sleeps through it – they only wake if we slow, fearing there may be something wrong. There never is. We might slow to avoid capsizing a small longtail with fishermen and their nets, or to pass through a village turned to face the water.

Twice, then three times, we stop to reverse the engine to get rid of debris collected around the blades, but there’s less water hyacinth in the canal than the main branches of the river, and the water is much more still.

I’ve cracked the window open so I can see how the rain affects river life (and anyway the forward movement of the boat largely pushes the rain away). Life goes on.

Those iconic conical hats (‘non la,’ or ‘leaf hat’) appear to provide good shelter from the rain for the pilots of the smaller boats, standing in the downpour and steering with their foot on the rudder. Timber waits to be loaded for a trip up river.

The man at the brick warehouse eats a bowl of lunch, and there a man stands alone by the water’s edge – not near any houses or anything else, in what we’d call work dress – white shirt and black slacks – just standing alone in the rain. Mama washes dishes under thatch at the back of the house, facing the river. Kids gather in a doorway. I look at them while they all sit and look back at our speedboat, as we speed past on our way to Saigon.