The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 12-1

Chapter 12Not long after the Trave tied up at the quay,

I packed my valises and walked out of my cabin. As I did, I ran

into Dr. Son, who was also preparing to leave the ship.

“Is somebody meeting you?” he asked.

I explained that I was going to try to find

an old friend who, at one time, lived in the Hotel Continental.

“Yes, that hotel is at the other end of Rue

Catinat… If you wish, I can take you there.”

“That’s very kind, Dr. Son… but I don’t want

to impose…”

“My dear, Mr. Battles, you are new to my

country, so the least I can do is to make sure you don’t get lost

or robbed or both.”

I thanked him, and as we reached the

gangway, we met Major Friant and Maurice De Cotte, who were huddled

with several other passengers preparing to leave the ship. They all

seemed surprised that I was leaving the Trave with Dr.

Son.

Major Friant looked at me and then at Dr.

Son. “Are you giving Mr. Battles the grand tour?”

“Hardly, Captain. I am merely making sure he

gets to his hotel in one piece.”

“I see… Where are you staying?”

“The Continental, if they have a room.”

“A fine establishment… one of the best

hotels in Saigon,” DDe Cotte said. His left arm was bandaged from

the knife wound. He produced one of his cards, wrote a short

message in French on the reverse of it, and handed to me.

“If you have a problem getting a room, give

this to Monsieur Grosstephan. He is the owner and a good friend of

mine.”

I thanked him and put the card in my

pocket.

“Look, because we are all brothers in arms

after our recent adventure on the Trave, I would like to

invite you all to dinner this evening at my favorite restaurant, De

Cotte said.”

Then, looking at Dr. Son, he added, “That is

if you don’t already have plans.”

Dr. Son spoke up first. “Thank you very

much, Monsieur De Cotte, but I am afraid I will have to decline. I

have been away a long time, and my family will be disappointed if I

don’t spend my first evening in Saigon with them.”

De Cotte nodded. “How about you,

Captain?”

“Given the choice of your invitation or

eating barracks food, I am happy to join you. How about you, Mr.

Battles?”

“Thanks, I am always amenable to fine

victuals.”

We agreed to meet at the Continental at

eight o’clock that night. Dr. Son and I left the ship and boarded

one of the countless sampans that ferried new arrivals to the other

side of the Arroyo Chinois, a small tributary of the Saigon River

that divided the Messageries Maritimes from the city. A few minutes

later, we landed at a pier called Pointe des Blagueurs or Jokers’

Point. A sixty-foot flagpole topped with the French flag flapped in

the hot sticky air.

It was then that I noticed how hot and humid

Saigon was. I could feel the perspiration forming on my forehead

and under my arms.

“Is it always this hot?” I said, looking at

Dr. Son. He had just hailed one of the ubiquitous Malabar taxi

carriages that plied the rock hard dirt streets of Saigon. These

were rectangular boxlike vehicles driven by a native Saigonnais and

pulled by a single scrawny horse.

“I’m afraid we are in the hot season, so

yes, it is quite often this hot or even more humid,” he said. “You

might want to have some tropical clothing made. There are many

excellent tailors, and the prices are very reasonable.”

“And I thought summers in Kansas were hot

and humid.”

It was then that I noticed how most of the

European colonial population was dressed as they walked along the

city’s sidewalks. The men wore lightweight white flannel jackets

and pants along with wide-brimmed white French pith helmets. The

women wore white cotton or linen dresses and wide-brimmed hats.

Most carried wispy silk parasols.

However, the dress of the native Saigonnais

was quite different. Men and women wore what looked like black

pajamas. Many sported white and cream-colored chemise tops, and

some covered their heads with white handkerchiefs. Others wore

conical straw hats secured with chin straps. They squatted on their

haunches in animated conversation. When many of the older women

smiled, their lips and teeth were dark crimson from betel nut.

Our Malabar carriage moved away from the

Pointe des Blagueurs, along the Quai du Commerce, and eventually,

we came to the Rue Catinat. The Rue Catinat was a shady tree-lined

road that led to the Place Francis Garnier in the heart of the

city.

As the carriage drove along the Rue Catinat,

we passed countless pousse-pousse (Saigon’s version of the

Chinese and Japanese rickshaw). Many carried two European

passengers. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, the wiry men

pulling these heavily laden pousse-pousse jogged along at a quick

clip, perspiration dripping off their faces, arms, and backs, their

feet protected only by flimsy sandals. It seemed to me like the

worst kind of exploitation.

“Poor buggers,” I muttered to myself.

Dr. Son noticed my unease. “I know it must

look cruel to a new foreign visitor, but in Cochinchina, people

must earn a living any way they can. While it is hard work,

pousse-pousse men earn a good wage, and we do not view this work as

being incompatible with human dignity.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to judge…”

“Do not worry, Mr. Battles. As you will

learn, it takes a while for Western visitors to become acclimated

to the ways of the East.”

I couldn’t help but think of Kipling’s “The

Ballad of East and West” after Dr. Son’s comment:

OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the

twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great

Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border nor Breed

nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face-to-face, tho’ they

come from the ends of the earth!

Our carriage continued up Rue Catinat,

passing shops, cafes, sidewalk food stalls, and mostly white-clad

European pedestrians walking lethargically along the tree-lined

sidewalks.

In a few minutes, Dr. Son turned to me.

“Mr. Battles, may I ask what you plan to do

in Saigon? I mean, are you here simply as a tourist, or do you have

some business?”

“I hope to find an old friend whom I knew

back in the United States—actually, an old friend and another man,

a native of Cochinchina I met in New Mexico.

“Please let me know if I can be of help to

you in your search for the Annamese man…Do you have his name?”

I dug into my jacket pocket for my wallet

and the piece of paper that Ba had written his name on so many

years ago in New Mexico. I handed him the paper, which contained

the words Giang Văn n Ba, along with what was

apparently an address.

“This won’t be difficult at all,” Dr. Son

said. “Actually, the address is not far from here. If you wish, I

will take you there.”

We agreed to meet the next day at the

Continental just as our carriage pulled up to the hotel. I prepared

to give the driver a dollar, but Dr. Son shook his head and held up

his hand.

“Don’t worry… American dollars are no good

here. I will take care of it.”

I thanked Dr. Son and watched as his

carriage moved on up Rue Catinat toward the massive brick

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Saïgon. Its twin 190-foot bell towers were

still under construction at the time. I walked into the hotel lobby

and handed the desk clerk the card DDe Cotte had given me.

The clerk looked at it and nodded.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je serai de Retour à Droite.”

With that he disappeared through a doorway.

A few minutes later, a heavy-set balding man appeared carrying the

card.

“Monsieur Battles… vous êtes un ami de

Monsieur De Cotte?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak much French.”

“I am sorry… I am Charles Grosstephan, the

owner of the hotel. It will be my pleasure to have you stay with

us.” Then turning to the desk clerk, he said, “Se il Vous plaît

mettre Messieurs Battles dans la salle 210.”

“How long will you be staying with us, Mr.

Battles?” Grosstephan asked.

I explained my reason for visiting Saigon

and my plans to find two friends. “I guess it depends on how long

it takes me to find my friends.”

I decided

to pay for two weeks in advance, a decision that Grosstephan said

was not necessary. But I insisted. The rate was 40 francs per

day—about $5.75 dollars.[4]

“Eh bien,” Grosstephan began. “But do not

worry. You may stay as long as you like. We have special monthly

rates for long-staying guests.”

Grosstephan cut the daily rate in half, and I agreed

to pay about 600 francs per month for my room and one meal a

day—about $80.[5]

I had to fill out a French colonial

government form before I could go to my room. It asked a plethora

of meddling questions including citizenship, marital status, age,

employment or occupation, the reason for visiting Saigon, my

ultimate destination, what persons or companies I would be

visiting, etc.

“Je suis tellement désolé… Il est requis par

les autorités,” the Saïgonnais desk clerk said. I looked at him

quizzically.

Grosstephan interceded, “We are sorry, but

this information is required by the authorities.”

I nodded and filled out the form as best I

could.

Then the concierge led me to my room. It was

on the second floor, and it was enormous—probably close to four

hundred square feet. Its floors were made of smooth foot square

dark crimson tiles. It had a twelve-foot ceiling and

floor-to-ceiling double glass doors that opened onto a small

balcony overlooking the recently built opera house in the middle of

Place Francis Garnier.

I had my own bathroom with a tub and shower

as well as electric lights that were turned on by brass light

switches, labeled OUVERT and FERMÉ. Green lizards crawled on the

walls and ceiling in search of insects. Occasionally, they would

chirp at me, and sometimes they would fall onto my bed in the

middle of the night. That took some getting used to.

After unpacking, I took a tour around the

hotel. Outside the door to my room, a long airy corridor ran above

a central open-air courtyard restaurant below. Frangipani trees and

cascades of bougainvillea surrounded tables with white linen

tablecloths.

On the ground floor, I found a billiards

room, a large restaurant, and two or three other smaller dining

rooms set aside for long-staying residents. Large slow-moving

punkah fans suspended above the heads of diners kept the hot,

sticky air moving. A veranda surrounded the building on the two

sides of the hotel facing Rue Catinat and the Place Garnier. The

hotel was not as grand as one I had occupied in San Francisco, but

for this part of the world, it was magnificent.

I still had a couple of hours before I was

to be picked up for dinner by Monsieur De Cotte, so I decided to

take a stroll around Saigon.

I walked up Rue Catinat in the opposite

direction from the river and toward two of Saigon’s major colonial

buildings—the Notre Dame Cathedral and the Postal and Telephone

Service. These structures could just as easily have been in the

heart of Paris as in hot and humid Saigon surrounded by jungle.

The streets of Saigon were broad and

straight, often parallel to one another. Some connected with the

quays that line both the Saigon River and the Arroyo Chinois. Many

intersected at right angles to other streets, forming spacious

squares or roundabouts.

Most streets and boulevards were shaded by

double rows of leafy tamarind, almond, and teak trees. As I walked,

I found myself thinking that someone had been astute by planting so

many shade trees in a country where the sun is so hot and

dangerous.

The many unfamiliar and pungent aromas that

drifted through the thick sultry air assailed my senses. Street

vendors cooked pots of what I later learned was bún thịt nướng (rice noodles with pork)

and Nước mắm pha

(dipping sauce made from coconut juice, fish sauce, lime juice,

rice vinegar, chilies, and garlic).

Saigon was awash in activity. Pousse-pousse

and Malabar carriages clogged the streets. The sounds of the

multi-tonal language of Nam Kỳ was everywhere as street vendors

hawked flowers, fruit, vegetables, rice cakes, soup, coconut water,

and conical leaf hats called nón lá.

I thought back to my first couple of days in

Dodge City, Kansas, years before. There the primary scent in the

air was from the thousands of Texas longhorn cattle and drying

buffalo hides on the outskirts of town.