Jason Devitt

You will be pleased to know that as part of their efforts to contain the spread of avian flu, the Vietnamese authorities have banned the sale of raw duck’s blood pudding.

Saigon; Ho Chi Minh City.

The first thing we notice are the motorbikes, thousands of them. The widest streets look like salmon runs, so thick and fast are the bikes darting in and out and slapping against each other.

Most bikes carry two people: young couples, friends, sometimes paying passengers. An elderly couple balances a grandchild between them. There’s a family of four on one scooter, Dad driving, Mom riding side saddle at the back, daughter tucked between them, son perched between Dad and the handlebars. A woman sails by wearing a sparkling white ao dai, long skirt, and white heels. Her girlfriend hangs on, in black head-to-toe. The taxi banks left and it seems like a hundred bikes are bearing down on our flank, their headlights blinding us; they all come to a stop, some with their front tires resting against the side of the car, waiting for us to complete our turn.

The bikes are backlit by storefronts so open and inviting, the goods thrust into the streets, that the low buildings that contain them are barely visible, as if a great bazaar of wooden stalls had turned to steel and concrete without losing any of its informality or urgency. And on every corner, brightly lit restaurants open to the street, filled with locals.

The larger buildings are a wild mix of styles from neo-gothic churches to Miami art deco to Soviet brutalism to Art Nouveau, as well as bland poured concrete, and most of them are painted orange, purple, lemon yellow, or pastel green.

The gold star of Vietnam and the hammer and sickle fly proudly alongside the billboards for Pepsi and Samsung and the neon crucifixes.

I see a catholic church in a classic modern style I remember from growing up in Dublin, all pointy rooves and stained glass, surrounded by a vast car park. But the car park is full of riderless scooters. And all the way around the church the roof is trimmed with green neon. The young Brandos must come here to worship the older Vegas Jesus, plump in his white jumpsuit and golden sandals.

A motorbike dealership. Kids prop their beat-up scooters against the wall and stare at the red and silver dream machines.

Geckos on every surface. From the car we see them silhouetted against the electric store signs.

Everywhere the staccato cry of horns, not angry and threatening as in New York, just turn signals, as in I am turning, watch and see whether it’s left or right.

The bikers crowd and jostle each other, swerve in and out, cut across, stop suddenly, and turn as if they were pedestrians. People who actually are on foot and want to cross the road just step off the curb anywhere and into the traffic, but slowly, respectfully, as if the motorbikes were big, mean pedestrians not inclined to give way.

It feels like the street life of Paris or New Orleans, the clamor of New York or Tokyo, the faded beauty of Havana. I haven’t felt this excited about arriving in a city since I first came to New York 10 years ago.

And that was just the ride in from the airport. We haven’t left our hotel yet.

Posted at N 10 deg 46.099 min E 106 deg 41.643 min

Taxi No. 1

Outside our hotel the porter wants to know where we’re going and whether we need a taxi. Center World Plaza, we tell him, the largest shopping mall in Bangkok - at least until the 500,000 square meter Siam Paragon Center opens next door to it on December 9th.

"No problem, the hotel car can take you there. 300 baht."

That’s about $7.50. Now we happen to know that the Plaza is less than half a mile from here, a 10 minute walk. (Neither of us is feeling well today, so we are treating ourselves to a cab. And to a hotel for that matter.)

$7.50 would be crazy in New York. Here in Bangkok it should cost about 500 baht for the 40 minute drive to the airport. No thanks.

Taxi No. 2

We walk down the exit ramp of the hotel, planning to hail one of the cheap and so far reliable metered cabs. A man runs out of the crowd calling to us: "Sir, lady, where you go? You want cab?" We tell him.

"No problem sir, 30 baht."

75 cents. Walk 15 feet and the price drops by a factor of 10. We agree and get into his car.

"OK, I take you to Center World Plaza, but first I have favor to ask. I take you to import/export…"
"No, thank you."
"… company, it’s very…"
"No"
"… good, they have one-day…"
"No"
"… sale, I have coupons for you."
"No, no, no, no."
"Why not?"

Summer and I jump out of the car at the same time.

Taxi No. 3

Still within sight of drivers 1 and 2, we flag down a metered cab and glide off. He starts the clock for what turns out to be a 45 baht ride - about a buck.

Unfortunately this one doesn’t speak any English and can’t read the map we hand him. He just takes us to the wrong place and drives off.

We give up and walk the rest of the way.

Taxi No. 4

On our way back, we ignore the hustlers, the suicidal motorbike taxis, and the homicidal tuk-tuks, and wait patiently for one of the metered cabs that boasts an English-speaking driver. (These bear a sticker with the somewhat disconcerting slogan "I <heart> foreigners" - disconcerting because it reminds me of phrases like "Now I’m not a racist, but…")

One pulls up, we get in, and we tell the driver the name of our hotel.

"Oh no, very bad. One-way system. 200 baht."

I admire his mastery of the expression ‘one-way system’, and notice that his meter is covered up. Summer and I sigh and reach for the door handles.

"No, no, wait. What do you want to pay?"

I <heart> Bangkok.