A Year In Indochina: Weekenders

I was happy to see Jessica return on Friday evening- for the first time in a week I had a proper companion! On Saturday morning we had breakfast together and and planned our weekend.

Around midday we called a taxi to take us to the Saigon Pony Club in district two. The journey took almost an hour. This was partly due to the driver taking us on an extortionately long route to district two, and the because he didn't know how to get to the pony club. You don't need many qualifications to become a taxi driver in Saigon, besides being able to drive a car, and so I have often found that drivers have poor knowledge of the city. This can be very frustrating as the driver will not admit that they don't know where you want to go until the very end, after they have already worked up a large enough fare from driving around and around. We later learned that the journey should only have taken fifteen minutes. There was further inconvenience when we finally found the pony club. The place was deserted besides a cleaner, security guard, and mother and son looking at the horses. It transpired that it was still closed over lunchtime, and the owner was not there. We couldn't have known any of this as the website had no information about opening times, and the only contact number given didn't work. We had decided to turn up anyway to see what was available on the day. After another hour waiting around, the director, Amaury, turned up. He was a large, red Frenchman who welcomed used by bellowing "Everything is going WRONG!", complaining that his phone wasn't working and so he hadn't picked up our messages, with no apology for us having had to wait around for so long.

Eventually we got our riding lesson, along with another girl who was a little older than me and had more experience than Jessica and I, both beginners. I was given a well-behaved pony called Caramel. I mounted the horse and sat watching Jessica struggling with her pony Flame, who looked as though he didn't want to be there. He wouldn't stay still as he was bothered by the flies, and twisted his neck and backside so he could chew his knee, throwing Jessica off-balance. He spent much of the lesson stomping his foot like an angry child. Of course, this was hilarious for me. When my sister and I were small and we spent our holidays in Asia, our Aunty Jessica was the most fun person we knew to play with and irritate. Funny things would always happen to her by chance, such as falling into a ditch filled with cow poo, which I remember vividly. Mostly because we had led her blindfolded to the edge of the ditch. So seeing her screaming on this horse brought back happy memories from my childhood.

The lesson began with warm-up stretches while sat on the horses. I found this very hard because I very rarely do anything to stretch my body, being such a lazy, slouchy person. The warm-up was also hard because of one particular move, named 'torture', in which the director and teacher Amaury would throw us over one side of the horse and make us stretch for our toes, with only one leg hooked over the horse's body to stop us falling off. Amaury didn't appreciate the trouble I had getting back on the horse from this uncomfortable position.

After the warm-up, we practised walking, and then trotting, around the yard. "Amy, sit up straight!", Amaury shouted at me, and once I heard, "trot or I will whip you!".
"What, me or the horse?", I joked.
"You!", he replied.
Meanwhile, Jessica was being told-off for not kicking the horse enough. We were told that riding a horse is like riding a bike; you have to keep pedalling or you will stop. "People think you just stick your arse in the saddle and go", Amaury shouted, "But NO! This is the hardest sport in the world!". In fact, it was more physically demanding than I'd expected, and since then Jessica and I have suffered with strained inner thighs that make it difficult to walk properly!

After the lesson we went for a swim to cool down and to cleanse ourselves from the sweat and muck of pony-riding. Jessica has access to a set of apartments in district two that has a pool, so we had a quick dip before going to have our hair washed. We dined at Bahdja, an Algerian restaurant in the city. It was quiet when we arrived, and owner gently and carefully explained the menu through to us. The food was lovely and the service was brilliant. I enjoyed the conversation Jessica and I had over dinner; on the topic of love, marriage, and the qualities to look for in a man. She explained the 'three Ps' that she would look for in a potential suitor- provision, to be financially independent and able to support her, protection, to be strong and courageous, and pride, in that she can be proud of him. I protested that these three qualities would not guarantee love, and that she could fall in love with somebody who doesn't meet her requirements. She told me, "But if somebody doesn't have these three qualities, I couldn't even like them! How am I meant to love them?!" It was a fun day, which we ended at the Saigon Saigon rooftop bar in the Caravelle hotel, watching the in-house Latin-American band perform and eating ice-cream.

This morning I was woken by a text from Jessica. It read, "Today we Taiwanese have the national day celebration in Taipei school, if you are up, ride your bike and come join us!". The Taipei school is one of several international schools in our neighbourhood, a short journey on a bicycle. I got out of bed to go join Jessica and "we Taiwanese", to see what was happening. At the Taipei school nationalist music was playing from loudspeakers as a parade marched around the playing fields. Children in red shirts waved the national flag amongst the on-lookers. I later learned that the national celebration was being held at a school, and not a public place, because Taiwan is not officially recognised by the Vietnamese government. There is no Taiwanese embassy in Ho Chi Minh City, and celebrations such as this one have to be kept low-key.

As I looked for Jessica a man approached me and asked if I'd like to have a healthy breakfast with Herbalife. I had no idea what he meant, but found myself agreeing and being led off to a stall. Instead of being presented with my breakfast, however, I had my height, weight and age noted down, from which a series of measurements were taken. Another man sat down next to me and explained that I needed to lose 7.3kg, that I have the body of somebody three years older than me, that my fat ratio is that of a thirty-year old, or a woman who had had several children, that I need to drink more water, and numerous other complaints. At first I was bemused, but as he continued I got very irritated by his diagnosis, and became very defensive. He told me that the scales I was weighed on were 'very scientific', and able to measure body fat and water content. I was still cynical about this as the measurements were probably twisted in favour of a marketing campaign. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling hurt about how fat and old I supposedly am. To add insult to injury, there was no complimentary breakfast, and I refused their ugly-looking soy shake, as I would not give them any money now they had offended me. I soon found Jessica, and she was very amused by my story. She bought me a sausage on a stick and two lollipops to cheer me up.

In the afternoon we joined a rowdy bunch of ex-patriot running enthusiasts for the weekly Saigon Hash House Harriers. Described as the world's most eccentric running group, or the running group with a drinking problem, the Hash now attracts people all over the world and there are groups in 185 countries, according to the official world website. The premise is a chase, whereby runners and walkers follow a trail of shredded paper laid by the 'hares', often with dead-ends and false paths to add to the fun. At the end of the run, beer is drunk and songs are sung copiously. In all, it is a whole day's activity. In Vietnam the Hash works particularly well because there are large areas of undisturbed countryside to utilise, and of course there are no countryside codes limiting access to certain places or enforcing certain pathways. We arrived by bus from the Caravelle, and found ourselves in a quarry area, being watched by workmen.

Today happened to be a special event- the red dress run, so men and women alike were dressed in red, ideally red dresses. Jessica found me a red Chinese-style cotton shirt to wear as my red dress. We had decided to walk the route as our legs were still aching from the pony-riding. Besides, I was happy to take it easy as I could fully appreciate the beautiful countryside scenery and the smell of Jasmine from the woods. At the end of the 7km route, the group re-convened for cheese sandwiches and beer. Next were the obligatory 'down-downs' of beer, for 'virgins' such as myself, (although I could have contested this, having participated in the Saigon Hash once before, at the age of seven), and 'returners', which included Jessica. Finally there was a special competition to crown Miss Saigon, from the assortment of tarted-up men in their red dresses. It was good fun, although the drunken silliness dragged on a bit, and with this, and the long bus journey to and from the site, it was a lot of time to sacrifice for a relatively short walk. Even so, it seemed to me to be an easy and accessible way to go for a walk in the Vietnamese countryside, something that would be practically impossible for me to do by myself.

It has been fun having Jessica back again, and it's certainly been an entertaining weekend.