[Photos] The Maritime Idyll of 1965 Phan Thiet

Tuesday, 22 December 2020. Written by Saigoneer.TRIGGER

Before it became a weekend destination for workweek-weary Saigoneers, Phan Thiet was an austere fishing town.

John Hansen, an American veteran, snapped these shots of the sleepy coastal area during a visit in 1965. The pastel-toned photographs reveal a town and economy focused on fishing. Boats make daily pilgrimages to the sea to gather sea creatures, while a fish sauce factory churns out the golden-hued godsend of a sauce. People’s intimate relationship with the sea is perhaps best exemplified by the stilt homes with special docks for one to arrive via boat. It’s a nice reminder that if humans could fly, we would probably have doors on our roofs.

Take a look at the photos below and try and tell us you can’t smell a briny breeze:

Floating houses on the banks of the Cà Ty River.

Fish sauce factories.

The main road in Phan Thiet.

Beasts of burden bustling along.

Decca Navigator signaling station of an American employee building.

Downtime at the market.

Phan Thiet central square.

Traditional fishing techniques in action.

The Cà Ty River runs through the city.

Fish from the Cà Ty River are tasty — there is no denying that!

Old houses along the banks of the Cà Ty River.

Phan Thiet’s watertower.

Locals going off to somewhere…

A ship with its sail raised, ready for action.

Boats traversing the Cà Ty River.

A coracle boat used to traverse to bigger boats.

Boats on the Cà Ty River.

Service shop on the sand.

Tuesday, 22 December 2020. Written by Saigoneer.TRIGGER

The Gun – Serial.

Chapter 2.

Reg was standing at the front window watching the rain drops collide with the glass, trickle into each other and form downward rivulets that distorted the view. He wondered if the trickling drops had any capacity to change or affect the world. Today he was wearing dark blue corduroy trousers, concealing purple and black boxer shorts; black socks separated his feet from dark blue and white pumps. No vest, just a cream checked shirt and a thick comfortable beige cardigan with large dark brown leather covered buttons.

The white hire van pulled up at the bottom of the drive. Pete didn’t get out. He sat there occasionally tooting until he saw a response.  Slinging his coat over his head Reg pulled the front door to and headed down the wet drive. Weeds were starting to grow again at the edge of the drive. It looked a mess. He decided tomorrow he would de-weed the drive and wiz over the lawn with the mower. It didn’t really need it but it looked so much better when it was cut. 

Quickly clambering into the passenger’s seat he folded his damp coat onto his lap and buckled up.

“Go! Go! Go!”

“You been watching your boxed set of ‘The Sweeney’ then Reg?” Pete exclaimed.

“Yeh! Been thinking of chopping in the old Civic for a Three Litre Consul GT!” 

“Reg I hate to tell you this but they stopped making them twenty five years ago.”

“Well I never! Nobody told me that!” Pete turned the van in the narrow road and pointed it in the direction of the M50. 

The house was atypical council. Semi-detached, concrete steps led down to a dark red front door with a brass Yale lock that at some time in its life had been brightly polished. The paintwork around it ingrained with white dry polish. Now it was mottled with corrosive dried staining rain. The letter box the same, once cared for, but now neglected brass. The side of the house blocked off with a wooden garage. The unpainted wooden doors shut but not locked led to an empty space. The old gold Rover long gone after Syd had died.

“What was her name?” Reg asked. 

“Edith but we kids always called her Aunty Edie. Aunty Edie and Uncle Syd. He worked at the sauce factory all his life, she was just a happy housewife and contented mother, no ambition just a happy family. This happiness thing’s got to do with expectations Reg. Nowadays you’re a failure unless you’ve got a ten inch dick, have sex at least once a day with your beautiful, slightly younger, slightly shorter wife with perfect thirty six inch tits, are rich, holiday abroad, work in IT and have a thrusting BMW. Cooking the Sunday roast for the family has gone out of the window as it were, along with women’s bras. The old respectable society that lived in these houses has gone. Now it’s low life and druggies who’d rather do anything than work. Even as low as stuffing themselves with chemicals and claiming it’s not their fault. ‘Sorry I’m a drug addict I can’t do any work but will you give me some of your money?’ They really piss me off. This country’s just too liberal. It’ll all end in tears, you mark my words.” 

“What if there is no work Pete?”

“Rubbish. There’s always work. Look at the Poles grafting in our fields in all weathers. Look at those Estonians washing cars by hand at the side of the road. Our lot are just too fucking idle to do the work. You’ve got to hand it to those commies they will at least get off their arses”

The door led into a small hall. The stairs started only a yard into the hall, the banister rail now yellowing fading cream. The cream and gold embossed wallpaper now starting to lift and curl as it yielded to cold and damp. A thin wood paneled painted door on the right led into the lounge. It was a trip back to the nineteen fifties. The wood veneered television had buttons to change the four channels. The mahogany HMV stereogram stood in the corner. Never used, except as a table. The flex had a round pin plug. The house had square pin sockets. Reg looked through the long playing records leaning in a slot. The Best of Perry Como, Kathleen Ferrier, Alma Cogan, Bing Crosby, Englebert Humperdinck. Frankie Vaughan. Lena Horne. 

“What have we got to collect?” Reg nonchalantly asked.

“Everything that’s not furniture or big.” Pete yelled through from the kitchen.

“Have you got anything to put things in?”

“Yep! There’s some heavy duty cardboard boxes in the back of the van. Can you get them in whilst I start sorting stuff?” Pete asked. 

“It’s like ripping the life out of a home.” Reg commented to Pete. “What you going to do with it?” 

“Keep what’s good or anything I like then sell the rest at a car boot.”

“Will you check the loft Reg.? I’ve pulled my back a bit, lifting the last box. It should be empty. As far as I know they never used it. There’s a pull down ladder and a light on your right.”

“OK.”

Reg clumped up the small stairs and went into the bathroom. The loo hadn’t been flushed for months. He finished and flushed it.

Standing on a chair he removed the wooden hatch and eased down the hinged ladder. It was dusty. Clambering up each creaking aluminium rung he felt for the light switch and flicked it on. The loft lit up. A sea of orange fiberglass insulation floated between the joists. A pine timber walkway led to the water tank and the central heating tank. He looked around and saw nothing. Easing himself down the ladder he stopped to turn off the switch. He noticed that the insulation to the right of the tank rose about six inches higher. He could only see it because his eyes were at that level. Curious, Reg clambered into the loft and carefully navigated the thin creaking planks. Pulling aside the insulation revealed a dark burr walnut wooden box, dusty and festooned in orange fibres. An old simple key sprouted out of the single central lock. He lifted the box. It was heavy. He shook it and something thudded about inside. Placing it on the pine planks he turned the key to the left and unlocked it. Lifting the lid revealed an aged thick cardboard box bearing a picture of a revolver and the insignia of Smith and Wesson. Squashed in the corner was another plain square cardboard box. With trepidation he lifted the lid of the large faded blue box. A parchment stiff oiled rag lay on top. The rag was stiff to touch; the oil had dried and congealed making the cloth almost wax like. ‘How many years?’ Reg thought.

He lifted and removed the cloth. There it lay. Deep blue black metal, smooth as silk, hard as rock. Harder than rock! The checkering on the wooden grips sharp and unworn. No rust. Not a blemish. Like new but old. Reg went to pick it up out of the box but stopped. What about the sweat and dirt on his hands. Would it rot away in a second if he touched it? A rude destructive awakening from its years of safe hibernation. He wiped his hands on his trousers, reached and picked it up. Such weight, such power, such beauty, such craftsmanship. A tag attached with string to the trigger guard revealed its owner. The ink fading but readable read ‘Capt. James Alexander’. No date. Nothing more.  Reg moved it about. It felt so comfortable, so good! An extension of his arm that gave him the power of life or death. He felt like a god. He had never felt that way before. He wrapped his forefinger around the smooth receptive trigger and watched the hammer begin its journey backwards. Sensibility kicked in. What if it were loaded? He hadn’t checked. He eased the trigger back and the hammer dutifully followed. He could see four of the six chambers were empty. Looking carefully he found a button under the barrel. It moved easily and efficiently causing the chamber to spill open. The gun was empty. Reg inspected the mechanisms, the fluteing, the design. It had all been done with such care. Such precision. Such – dare he say it – love. It was a thing of almost artistic perfection. The symmetry, the balance. The power! 

The sound of Pete moving about downstairs ripped him back into reality. Quickly he put it back into its cradle of shaped cardboard, replaced the rag and the lid. A shake of the small box confirmed what he suspected. Ammunition. The side of the box printed “50 Rounds Round Head .375 Calibre. The small box was heavy. Reg assumed it was full but he didn’t open it and check.  

“You coming Reg?” Pete shouted up from the lounge.

“Yep be down in a sec.” What to do now? He wanted to keep it. It fascinated him. Should he up front it with Pete and ask to have it? No Pete was a Policeman. A dear friend but a Police Officer nevertheless. It would be unfair to ask him to choose between right, wrong and Reg. He was in the loft of a Worcester council house having to make a choice which could give him immense satisfaction. He would cherish the gun. His secret. His darkness. His excitement. If he messed up he would certainly lose his friend, possibly his job, certainly his pension and maybe his liberty. If that happened he suspected he would lose his family as well.

Reg pulled open the box of ammunition. Fifty rounds pointed and glinted at him. Quickly he emptied the rounds into his hands and shoved some in his right trouser pocket. Some in his left trouser pocket. Some in his right trouser back pocket and the remainder in the left back pocket. The Gun. Where would be best to conceal it? He shoved it in his belt on his back. It felt acutely uncomfortable lodged between his trouser waistband and his kidneys. No that would be really uncomfortable on the way back. Reg transferred it to the front. Wedging it down in front of his right groin. He felt like Butch Cassidy. The fat on his expanding girth cushioned the weapon. He buttoned up the two bottom buttons of the chunky loose knit cardigan concealing the wooden pistol grip from view

Reg turned the empty cardboard boxes upside down and locked the wooden box with the key leaving it in the lock  

Clambering carefully down the ladder and flicking off the light he spoke to Pete.

“I found this old box in the loft Pete, There’s nothing in it, just a couple of cardboard boxes.” Reg purposely held and shook the box with one hand to indicate its emptiness.

“It’s a lovely bit of Burr walnut though. I’d like to have it cleaned up and give it to Rosamund as a birthday present. It’s her birthday in a fortnight and I know she’d really appreciate something like this to put her jewelry in.” 

Pete never gave the box a second glance.

“Sure Reg. Take whatever you want. It’s really good of you to help me. Next stop ‘The Travelers’, yes? I could murder steak, chips, peas, mushrooms tomatoes and a couple of pints of bitter how about you?”

“Sounds good to me.” Reg responded trying to hide the absolute fear in his voice. ‘What if the gun dropped out in the van, or in the car park, or in the Travelers Rest as they were walking in or out? What if Pete noticed the bulges in his pockets? It was very old ammunition. Would his body heat make it go off? The thought of bullets blasting his dick off in public flashed through his mind. You’re Reg Moorcroft. Respected crime’s analyst. What the fuck are you doing!’  Reg pulled his coat over his uncomfortable lap and struggled with the seat belt as Pete drove away.

The grey wet evening quickly changed into a dark wet night. The wipers swishing continuously at the precipitous rain. The sound of the tyres changed with the different levels of water they cut through. Pete concentrated on getting them safely to the Travelers Rest Inn at the end of the M50 motorway. Conversation was limited by the noise.  

 The car park was half empty. Reg eased himself gingerly out of the van Leaving the box on the seat. He quickly got into his coat. The loose fit a godsend in covering up his secret. They hurried through the rain into the soft warmth of the restaurant come pub. Pints of dark brown Marston’s Pedigree in hand they meandered over to an empty table near a window.

It was too hot to sit in his coat. It would be odd to do so. Reg stood up and took off his coat. The weight of the bullets was pulling his trousers down. He couldn’t hitch them up. The gun might fall out. Folding his coat on the seat beside him he sat down and took a deep swig of his beer. He knew that the beer would soon relax him. Two pints would normally be enough to make the conversation light, humourous and truthful. He had to be on his guard. The steak was badly cooked and tough but neither himself nor Pete could be bothered with the hassle of a complaint. Reg could see Pete looked tired.

“Come on Pete. Drop me off home and get yourself off to bed. You look knackered.”

“I am. Had to get up at five this morning for a job. Tomorrow I’ve got an early start taking Jessie and the kids to Alton Towers. That’s not going to be a cheap day either. I tell you Reg I do loads of overtime but no matter how much money I make it’s never enough. Jessie spends money like water, clothes, shoes, make up, hair and if I’m really honest I can’t be bothered with the conflict of constantly challenging her about it. I just shut up and pay up. It’s the weak man’s quiet way out.” The beer had turned on Pete’s truthful tap.  

“Wives and partners are pure luck Pete. Whether you get a good one or a bad one is pure luck. Sex, looks and kudos have a part to play at the start, but we never value prudence, thrift or pragmatism at the start. We never say “WOW look at her clothes they’re old but carefully looked after, do we? We never say ‘she’s so careful with electricity’ do we? No! We say ‘lovely tits’ or ‘great arse’. I tell you it’s just luck. I got lucky with Rosamund.” 

Reg’s house was in darkness as Pete dropped him off at the bottom of his drive. Rosamund wasn’t home.

“Thanks for the help Reg. I do appreciate it.” Pete spoke as Reg leaned back into the van to scoop up his box.

“Think nothing of it. That’s what friends are for.” Reg closed the door and headed up his drive. The bullets swayed and strained in his pockets. The box protected from the rain under his coat. The gun! The gun was stuffed in his waistband. Tight and pressing. An incompressible entity that demanded attention by its presence. 

Reg unlocked the front door. As he entered he flicked on the lights. Sophia the cat rubbed and purred against his legs, following him quickly with tail erect into the kitchen hoping for some meat and milk.

He opened the wooden box and removed the two cardboard boxes. He felt in his pocket for the bullets. No it was too dangerous. Rosamund may come home at any time. He couldn’t risk it.

Picking up the wooden box he unlocked the back door and walked to his garden shed, come workshop, come sanctuary. The fluorescent tube flicked and blinked light into the large shed. Reg emptied out the fifty rounds of ammunition onto his workbench. Some of the lead bullets were showing signs of being polished as they had moved against the fabric of his pocket. They glinted and shone in a muted fashion. Reg packed them carefully into the cardboard box, some pointing upwards some nestling downwards in a perfect symmetrical fit.

Ammunition put to one side Reg reached into his cardigan and his belt. He felt the pistol grip slide so so easily into the palm of his hand. He slowly pulled it out. Even in the harsh white bright glare of the artificial light it looked perfect. Polished, honed, exquisite in its deadly form. Such control, such power. He couldn’t get away from that word. It felt so powerful. He pulled the trigger and watched as his action rotated the chamber. The hammer flew forward with a hard unforgiving click as he caressed the trigger. Reg was surprised at how little effort it took to make it work. He pulled the hammer back by hand until it clicked and settled into the cocked position. A tiny pressure on the trigger released the hammer to fly forward. 

Reg wiped it with the waxy stiff cloth and put it carefully back in its cardboard box. In the corner was a sack of old clothes Reg kept for rags. He positioned the two boxes half way down making sure they were well covered up.

He left the wooden box in clear view on top of the workbench. Turned off the light, locked up the shed and returned back to the kitchen to feed the cat.  

Rosamund was in the kitchen. Engrossed in his thoughts and inner world he had neither heard nor noticed her return home.

“What you doing out in the shed?” She asked.

“Mind your own business. It’s a secret. I’m allowed some secrets aren’t I?”

“No.” She pecked him on the cheek and gave him a cup of hot strong tea.

“OK! OK! You’ve caught me out. I’ve got a new woman in there.”

“Who?”

“Nicole Kidman.” 

“Where’s she going to sleep?”

“I’ve bought a camp bed from the Army and Navy.”

“What about food?”

“She only eats one lettuce leaf a day.”

“What about going to the toilet?”

“She doesn’t go.”

“Well that’s very convenient for you dear. Do you want any tea or have you eaten?”

“Had half a tough old cow with Pete in the Travelers so a cup of tea will do nicely. How’s the kids?”

“Margaret had croup last week. Sarah and Eric took her to the hospital, but she’s OK now.”

“Have they had any interest in selling the house yet? They’ll have to move soon. The girls are growing up fast and that house is far too small plus it’s only got that tiny backyard garden.” 

“I know but they seem happy enough and it’s such hard work moving.”

“Did you set the box to record X-factor?” 

“Yes. I’ve told you before Reg it records the whole series.” Rosamund cast a resigned look at her husband sat on the end of the long blue settee. Mug of hot tea in one hand trying to decide whether it was the TV or the newspaper that warranted his attention.

And finally – ‘Somewhere in Saigon’ – a secret place surrounded and hidden by modernity!

Happy ‘vaccinate’ New Year – Love and peace – John