-^-for posterity-^-

i decided to go back to the scene of the tragedy. i went in the heat of the afternoon because i knew it would be a popular place. there’s no one out at that time of day. just too hot.

sweat was pouring down my back when i arrived. my shirt clung to my sides and it was hard to breath. the air was thick with grief. a crowd had gathered across the street from the building that had burned. they all were mounted on their motorcycles and their engines were, for the most part, still running. it was as if they were prepared to speed away quickly if the building decided to fall on them. the exhaust fumes from the motorcycles were trapped. they hung about 8 feet from the ground engulfing all of us.

the top of the building was charred like a burnt cardboard box. the sides of the building were stone and unaffected for the most part. soot covered the ground and everything was very still. the chorus of humming motorcycles was eerie. like a prayer. so many people lost their lives. burnt, trampled, suffocating. each one had a story. they all could smile and laugh and cry and now only memories are left. memories and ashes.

police officers stood silently looking into the crowd from across the way. they still carried large riot sticks and helmets as if we were all about to rush the building. no one noticed them

i walked all around the building. it was a small city block. the other sides of the building were similar except for the side that faced the ben thanh market. that side was charred black and brown. even the blue paint was burned off of the stone and everything looked scarred. another crowd was gathered blocking the road. their motorcycles all hummed softly. the alley was thin and everyone craned their necks upward to take it all in. one policeman was trying to move everyone along. he didn’t have a stick and no one paid him any attention.

i walked into the ben thanh market. finally, after three days i had arrived. it is nothing more than a glorified flea market. people have small booths everywhere that are piled high with the widest variety of goods imaginable. the aisle-ways are small and you have to sidestep through them. the roof of the building is high and arching like a squat barn. it is made out of tin and supported by colorful, stone beams. the air doesn’t seem to move.

there seem to be two types of stands. one is for the regular customer. these stands would sell fruits and meats and plain clothing. they would be manned by a small couple that would sit quietly in the back of their stall waiting for a customer. the other stand was for tourists. these stands all carried jeans, trinkets, coffee, maps, books, pottery, chopsticks, and the same assortment of t-shirts (one that has a yellow star on it, another says, “333 saigon bia” on it, and the last one has a picture of ho chi minh on it). they would be manned by younger people that would sit on stools and yell things. “hello! hello! you buy this cheap! you need t-shirt! you are handsome and need pants!”

there was too much consumerism for my taste. i felt too much like a tourist to really feel comfortable. i walked out the door and down the crowded streets. nothing seemed to be happening. each step seemed to have a life of its own.

i saw a wonderfully interesting shirt. one boy with a sad face was wearing it. i almost asked if i could buy it. it had a picture of george w bush on it and a picture of osama bin laden. they were both looking at each other. staring deeply into each others eyes. they looked, for a moment, like they were in love. it only had their pictures on it with their names under it. that was all. what was it trying to say? the two men that have the world in their hands duking it out? something like that? maybe it was making the point that they were both spoiled sons of oil tycoons. their lives are incredibly parallel.

well, i’ve stopped sweating and i feel at home in my room. everything is settled except my lungs. everything was too thick and i still can feel the soot and the ash that i breathed in. my lungs feel like they are grieving the dead.