Ho Chi Minh War Museum (5/11)

2015 

Scheduling problems meant our cheap flight landed not in Ho Chi Minh City but in Hanoi. I knew we shouldn’t have arranged our flights with the travel agency back in Australia. We should have done it ourselves. Things were usually better when you took matters into your own hands. Women are stubborn like that, making men doubt themselves when we are clearly in the right. 

“How about we visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum as a detour?” Điệp pleaded earnestly.

She proceeded to bring her hands up to her face, drew her chin closer to her chest and batted her eyelashes. 

She looked insane. 

“Absolutely not. I am afraid I cannot encourage such ideologies”.

“You’ve never even met the guy. Perhaps it’s time to.” 

She had a good point, but I knew it was a bad idea. And I knew there was no point in me resisting anyway. It surely wasn’t worth reducing my lifespan over it. 

The tanned, crusty Vietnamese men piled onto buses en route into the city. Lucky for us, we were gestured to be the first few to get onto the bus. I’d like to consider this as Vietnam’s repayment, although old people's privileges probably helped as well. As the bus bustled in a frenzy, we couldn’t help but notice the claustrophobic streets, with dense ropes of telephone wire hanging along the streets. They dragged, slung like dough over hooks, illegal offshoots snaking through the plants and vines that clawed up the houses and covered the blast holes and scars. 

I found it ridiculous that there was a large queue to see a dead body. 

We finally took our first step into the hall. A hall of approximately a hectare only stored one thing. There was an ominous silence that filled the empty space in the air, making me feel bitterly cold, albeit the humidity in the air. The room was filled with an ominous silence. 

Four guards patrolled each corner surrounding his bed. It was eerie to see the dead body of Hồ Chí Minh lying in a perfect state after 40 years. He was the reason why this nation was in the valley of suffering. The man who brought ideas from outside, that were far too heavy for this country’s shoulders. 

He lay there, in his luxurious silk pyjamas. Unadulterated and whole.

What did he do right?