Saigon in the rain soaked craggy streets as the swerving traffic splashes by avoiding deep flooded crevices in the badly run down road. My friend precariously has her luggage on her knee, her helmet is askew on her head and she clings on for dear life. Her driver oblivious to his back seat passenger who bumps along, not knowing if the next one would see her colliding into the street. These are the times here. The edgy, dangerous yet somehow perfectly normal road behaviour. In the centre of this crazy downtown street they have ripped up the road- so behind the tatty, useless barriers there is what seems like a cliff below the road. It defies belief that for months on end the incessant disruption for all who live there seems never to phase these composed, accepting people.
The day spent in a dark, candle lit cafe to some soothing background jazz and the rain thundering down outside. Reminiscent of Ireland, except the flowing pints of the black stuff nowhere to be seen. At one point, my friend noted that a lot of people just sat and nobody spoke. But it seemed as though everyone was collectively listening to the music, absorbed and lost in their worlds.
And a world away, I am. I think of home often and what must people be doing at that precise time. Time extends out and stretches and brings sometimes yearning for that banter, the laughter the slagging that is entirely unique to Ireland. These are the things that I miss the most. The humour that instictively and collectively we Irish seem to connect to.
Must be a day for reminiscing. Guess several thousand miles away from home will do that but all is good.
