55 f Searching Saigon
A recent Vietnamese trip was a voyage of discovery for Christopher Conder, ending at the home of 95 year old dan tranh master Nguyen Vinh Bao.
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aigon. It’s crushingly hot and intensely hectic. I’m not the only one in my hostel who isn’t feel- ing in the finest of health, but whilst others are taking a day
off in the shade or catching the tourist bus to the Củ Chi tunnels, I have an excit- ing appointment to attend to. The won- derfully helpful hostel staff are looking over the address I’ve thrust into their hands and marking its location on the far edge of my map. I’ll definitely need to take a taxi as my destination is in Binh Thanh District, a good distance beyond the tourist zone on the east side of Ho Chi Minh City (as Saigon is officially called).
I’ve been invited to the home of Pro- fessor Nguyen Vinh Bao, a 95-year-old master musician and luthier. We made contact online whilst I was still in England and immersing myself in the country’s musical traditions in preparation for this trip. His emails were short and to the point, but the English language essays on his website revealed a man of great con- sideration and knowledge with an author- itative passion for his craft.
But first I have to get there. While things begin well on the main roads, the taxi then starts winding through progres- sively narrower streets and the driver looks increasingly lost. He stops several times to ask locals directions as they look on at us bemusedly. It’s clearly not often that a taxi gets to this part of town, let alone one con- taining a foreigner. I had feared that away from the guidebook-sanctioned areas in the centre, Saigon would prove to be a grey, monolithic, lacking in any distinct identity or just heartbreakingly impoverished. Instead the streets are alive with colourfully dressed Vietnamese, many wearing the nón lá (coni- cal hats) that I had suspected were only worn for the benefit of tourists. Dogs slump in the heat outside concrete doorways and couples on motorbikes whizz through. The street food stall holders and fresh fruit sales- people serve their community, rather than shouting “hello” at passing Caucasian faces. I don’t deny that these people are broke by first world standards, but the impression given is of people making the most of hard but simple lives.
Eventually the taxi squeezes down a tiny street, causing the residents to pull their possessions off the road and into their houses to make room, only to find that the next street is even narrower and the only option is to reverse. At this stage, the taxi driver points me in the vague direction in which he was trying to head and we ami- cably part ways. Continuing on foot, I
engage as best I can with some of the curi- ous residents chatting outside of their homes, and a kind lady walks me to Vinh Bao’s house.
One of his daughters, who must be at least 60 herself, welcomes me in and calls for her father, who comes downstairs to meet me. He is diminutive with an impres- sive bob of white hair and an expressive face that shows his irritation at my lateness as quickly as it will give an endearing grin later. He takes me upstairs to his office/
music room, loaded with lever arch folders, books, cassettes, a computer and a won- derful display of instruments along one wall. He offers me a chair but I decide to sit with him, crossed-legged on the floor.
He starts by handing me a number of papers that he has written in English on Vietnamese music. One is a photocopy of a typed report dated 1965. I ask if these have ever been published. “No. I wrote these for myself, and I don’t want to make myself a name,” he tells me.
Photo: Christopher Conder
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