Tuesday was my day off. I had big plans for Tuesday. Tuesday was going to be great. Then I woke up and everything went to hell.
I got out of bed and looked around for my iPod. Nowhere to be found. Then I looked for my laptop, which I kept on a stand next to my bed. Also gone. Ditto for my backpack and wallet. Huh. This was all very confusing, until I opened the bedroom door and found my wallet on the stairs with small bills scattered around. Things began to get clearer. Finally I walked downstairs and saw the front doors wide open. Aha.
This was the worst surprise since Omar caught one at the Korean joint on the East Side.
~
Saigon expats have a curious sense of pride regarding their city. Sure, it might rank #124 out of 140 on the Global Liveability Survey behind such legendary utopias as Damascus (war-torn Syria), Bogota (the capital of Colombia's cocaine cartels and, to a lesser extent, government), and Almaty (which is in Kazakhstan). But that's only because its traffic is lethally horrendous, its rivers are open sewers, and its crime rate is astronomical.
Saigonophiles will counter by extolling the city's vibrant energy, eccentric inhabitants, and low cost of living. There's certainly some validity to their arguments. Impromptu alley cockfights are definitely entertaining (if neither humane nor hygienic), and commissioning a tailored suit for less than $100 is one of life's small victories.
There's a certain grittiness to Saigon that strikes many young Westerners as exciting and romantic. In many ways it is the Williamsburg or Mission District of Asia - a hip, edgy place to live and work. Neighborhood markets! Street food! Cyclos! Dilapidated colonial-era buildings! Let the squares have Hong Kong and Tokyo. If you got balls, Saigon is the place to be.
On March 25th, I would've been firmly in this camp. Saigon was James Dean, and I was...whatever hitchhiker James Dean befriends and whisks off to Mexico for tequila and bullfights. The city seemed dangerous in the same way that skateboard punks seem dangerous. It was fun to chuckle at the uptight luxury travelers clutching their expensive cameras and peering suspiciously out the windows of their air-conditioned tour buses. I felt comfortable in those streets, and the fact that they didn't made me feel special.
On March 26th, I wouldn't have been disappointed if Kim Jong Un nuked the whole damn city.
~
The robber came sometime between 1:00 and 6:00am. He walked in through the front door, which had been left open by one of my roommates. He proceeded upstairs to my room, where he stole my hiking backpack, iPod, external hard drive, laptop, and cash. All of this happened while I was sleeping. The laptop was less than a foot from my head. He didn't bother to take the power cord.
I called my landlady, who was sincerely distraught and offered the most consoling broken English I've ever heard. I called the police, because that's what you're supposed to do when someone robs you. I called my parents, to start the process of canceling accounts and changing passcodes and jumping through all the annoying little hoops that pop up when you get cleaned out. The last call was useful. The first two were not. Lessons learned.
As I sat on the couch trying to process everything that had happened, I felt legitimately angry for the first time in years. Not the garden-variety type of anger you might feel at a late deliveryman or a slow internet connection. Real, powerful, visceral anger at the little weasel bastard who decided he'd help himself to my things. Anger at that shameless asshole who felt no guilt at walking into a stranger's house, stealing years of memories and hard work, and pawning it off for a few lousy dong. Anger at the helpless feeling of knowing he'd never be caught and never face justice for what he did.
Anger took me to some disturbing places that day. Places I didn't know I was capable of going. I legitimately hoped that the son of a bitch got cancer, AIDS, and the Ebola virus all at the same time. I hoped that his kids were hit by cars, that his house burned down, and that every awful thing which can happen in this world happened to him. I spent most of the afternoon fantasizing about catching the motherfucker and beating him to a bloody pulp in the middle of a crowded street.
Two weeks later the anger has faded, thankfully. Like the Buddha said, a man who holds on to a hot stone does nothing but burn his own hand. Holding on to anger in this city is a dangerous proposition; there are a million ways to lose but none to win. There are no prizes for 'Longest Grudge Held', or 'Most Suspicious of Vietnamese', or 'Angriest Tirade at Traffic Cop'. Life simply goes on, whether you approve or not.
~
When I first moved here, many of my Vietnamese friends warned me about the 'bad people' of Saigon. My foreign friends also had plenty of stories about thieving taxi drivers, dishonest cleaning ladies, and brazen machete-wielding gangsters . I now have my own stories to add to the mix. It's not a particularly great feeling.
I don't feel qualified to make any sweeping judgments about the nature of Vietnamese society or the Vietnamese people in general, but I've learned that depending on the kindness of strangers is a sure way to get burned here. Actually, forget 'kindness' - depending on the non-scumbaggery of strangers is naive at best and dangerous at worst. The margin of error is 0%; let your guard down (or your door open) for a moment and there will be consequences.
I first fell in love with Saigon because it felt wilder than any place I'd lived before. I still think that is true, but those words seem darker now. Wildness cuts both ways - more freedom, more risk.
It's all in the game, but how badly do you want to play?
