I had to rise a couple of meters. My body barely fit into a tiny passageway several kilometers long. Darkness was blunt like blindness, Black like panic, meager space. I got distressed, Full of dust. The guide smiled abroad. I was in the old Net of Vietnamese tunnels of Cu Chi.
Survival was excavated in a labyrinth of underground roads. I have not known a town as bold as Vietnam's, who have won all wars to all intruders, Because they don't know how to surrender. They are friendly in the treatment but they have a look that hides an extraordinary tenacity.
In Cu Chi there are entire cities underground. The tunnels were just a way of communicating stays, Salas where women and children dodged war.
I have not known a town as bold as Vietnam's, who have won all wars to all intruders, Because they don't know how to surrender
Near there, Men have stopped hiding, To such an extent that there is no corner, nor truce to flee from the crowd on the asphalt of Ho Chi Minh.
Again the feeling of being in the Lobby. Motorcycles make the city a circuit without capacity of capacity. I felt a repeated feeling before in Hanoi, But when touring the old Saigon, I stumbled upon the nuances of a country that has been divided, faced.
In Saigon -this name is more evocative to me- They have succumbed to Coca Cola a long time ago, Buildings have grown up in part by colonial architecture. Tourism runs into discos and terraces are full of Europeans. There is no street chaos here for the northern capital, There are no positions roasting dogs.
The waiters smile, The motorcycles park in the bars. Saigon aspires to be a party, A cheerful night.
Women are beautiful as in Hanoi, But they stop being clandestine loves, Well, this city points to globalization and it doesn't matter if the heart is robbed by a foreigner. The war here is the memory of an American zippo that sell you in all corners and churches look at Notre Dame, Without temples that reservoir revolutionary leaders. The waiters smile, The motorcycles park in the bars. Saigon aspires to be a party, A cheerful night.
We try to evade traffic and change roads by channels where men fill their fruit and fish boats. Next to the city of Can Tho, The Mekong becomes a floating market. And I hoped to cross the river jumping from boat in boat, I discovered with some disappointment, that there were almost as many barqueros carrying pineapples as tourists and there were not too many tourists.
Interesting places, If they thrive, They are usually sold in postcards. One hopes to see the scars of war, coffees where the old men tell stories of bombers, But it turns out that all the peoples of the world, what things, tend to heal wounds, turn pages and open restaurants.
No one uses a bicycle in Saigon. The hum of motorcycles has been extinguishing the magic of another time, The noise of street markets… and the thunderous memory of war.
