It’s hot in Saigon. At 10 o’clock in the morning it’s already thirty degrees with a mounting noon day sun. Rivers of sweat stream down my chest and my t-shirt is wet against my skin. We’re in the market area of old Cholon, the Chinese quarter of Ho Chi Minh City. I avoid a passing motorcycle and hug a shade on the sidewalk.
Up ahead Arnaud our photo guide, is telling us to use f3.5 for close-up portrait shots.
“You muss go in cloze,” he says.
Arnaud is a Frenchman living in Vietnam and enjoying the life of full time street photography. His enthusiasm is passionate and relentless. We’ve spent three hours walking and he hasn’t stopped talking once. Lucky for me, he latches on to my Paris born husband and lapses into French.
Two street vendors set-up stalls across a narrow pathway; one selling food, the other selling flowers. I take a quick shot of the flower vendor. She seems familiar. The set of her mouth, the curve of her nose, the slant of her eyes. She reminds me of my grandmother.
Her friend across the street calls out, laughing and a little jealous of her attention. I take her picture too. I’m rewarded with a bright mischievous grin
Up ahead Luc and Arnaud are circling a bemused old man. He’s been caught waiting for his wife. Arnaud’s behemoth Nikon hovers near the man’s face. He catches my eye and I shake my head apologetically. After they’ve moved on, I take my shot from a respectable f5.6 and 35mm distance.
“Are you Japanese?” he says in perfect English.
I shake my head and un-mindfuly say “Chinese.”
“Wo shi hua ren,” he says. He holds his hand three feet off the ground. “Wo li kai zhong guo shi, hai shi ge xiao nan hai.”
I catch the words ‘zhong guo’ for China. I gather that he’s originally from China and that he left for Vietnam when he was very small.
Later when I look at the map of Vietnam, I realize how close it is to China. It shares a border with Guangxi, the southern most province and homeland of my great great grandfather. Looking closer at the old man’s photo, I see the familiar Han nose and hooded almond shaped eyes. Clumps of stiff white hair bristle from his cheek.
It reminds me of my father, who at eighty three years doesn’t see or shave as well as he used to. In fact this man has an uncanny resemblance to my father’s friend, Uncle Louie. I call him uncle not because he’s a relative but because it’s the traditional term of respect for Chinese elders. When I was little I used to think that I had the biggest family in the world. Maybe I wasn’t half wrong.
Photos taken in HCMC, Vietnam. 2015