The United Kingdom, Atlantis, Ho Chi Minh City and Robert Maxwell... what do they all have in common? Currently all of the above are lurking below a considerable amount of precipitation with no hint of an end in sight.
So while the UK version might be the cuddly-wuddly, roll it into a ball and stick a carrot in it, sliding down hilltops, pensioner murdering, chillier than Mr. Frostie's handle, frozen kind; here in HCMC we are still labouring under the literal and figurative cloud of a never ending rainy season.
There's real problems with the rains here, most of which are linked to the ZX Spectrum powered, city electricity structure collapsing like a foppish uncle with the vapours every time the sky 'looks a bit Lancashire'. The other problems are to do with the aftermath, as the immediate flooding of the major city streets prevents you getting anywhere (which, if you're somewhere with a cocktail hour, isn't too bad) and even when the streets do clear, walking on them becomes a process about as pleasant as cleaning your toilet with your bare feet while a cackling Ferne Cotton plucks your eyelashes out with her grimy fingers.
In Saigon's constant mission to always be counter intuitive, rain doesn't clear the streets of filth and grime, rather it brings up the cess and cack and detritus to the surface like blood to a beaming child's ruddy cheeks on a cold day. In this way, the personality of Saigon will always remain intrinsically linked to the stench.
My flatmate recently made a diary of the aroma's around Saigon, which basically boiled down to:
Monday: Toilet, rotting flesh, over ripe fruit, beer, poo
Tuesday: Toilets, rotting flesh, fruit, beer, sick and poo.
Wednesday: Toilets, flesh, fruit, beer, sick, poo and just a hint of lavender.
It's quite a thing to autosave a list of disgusting things to your hard drive so you can reproduce them in your blog (just ask Leslie Grantham) but it is absolutely true that Saigon smells like nothing, nor anywhere else that I've been, read smell biographies about, or had some street grime sent to me from.
If, perchance you disagree and wish to send me some filth from your city or town, then please do so. Perhaps we could have a low budget X - Factor where some piles of shite are paraded as entertainment. We can call it "Britain's Got Talent" ('parp').
Wakemeupbeforeyougogocusimnotplanninongoinsolo.
xxx
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