Slices of Life in Saigon, Huế, Ha noi in 1989.

Tuesday, 02 August 2022. Written by Saigoneer. Photos courtesy of Stefan Hajdu.

What is it about coming across old photos that tugs on our heartstrings so much, even when they depict a time when some of us weren’t alive yet?

It’s no secret that we’re huge fans of nostalgia at Saigoneer — so much so that we created this whole category of articles for it — and we have seen and featured a myriad of vintage images. This collection of Vietnam shots by Stefan Hajdu, a German traveler who visited the country in 1989, is one of the most outstanding sets of old Vietnam photos we have come across in recent memory.

Hajdu has kindly allowed us to share his album of travel photos, which he scanned from slides. In these captures, some fascinating scenes emerge, like passengers sleeping on hammocks inside the North-South train, or Hanoi’s rickety red tram chugging its last service days — 1989 was also the last year that Hanoians could ride on these vehicles.

Have a closer look at these scenes of Vietnam in 1989 below:

An impromptu Honda Cub (and Vespa) “race” in front of Bến Thành.

Bicycles were still a crucial part of personal transportation.

The Bạch Đằng promenade from the Hotel Majestic. In the distance on the water is the Saigon Floating Hotel — an Australian hotel that was repurposed by a Japanese company for use in Saigon. 1989 was the first year that this luxurious behemoth was docked in Saigon.

A picnic in front of City Hall.

Đoàn Văn Bơ Street in District 4 was still a dirt road.

A collection of portraits of Saigoneers.

An interprovince bus stops on the Hải Vân Pass.

The scenic view from the North-South Train.

Sleeping inside the train is not for everyone.

A misty vista on the train tracks.

The Hiển Nhơn Gate on the eastern side of the Imperial City.

Floating homes in Huế.

A chicken vendor in Huế.

Another entrance to the Imperial City.

Riding a bike with a poncho is a great way to relish the local scenery.

The coolest bike gang in Huế.

Fancy a chicken?

The badassery of Huế residents.

A family on the way to Quảng Trị.

Standout fashion from a Hanoian man and two young boys near Quảng Trị.

Young children with their female guardians on the way to Quảng Trị.

The essence of old Hanoi in one shot.

Inside Hanoi’s now-defunct tram.

A tram car on its way in Hanoi. In the 1980s, the capital’s tramway network had deteriorated to the point that the government had to start shutting it down. In 1989, the only route remaining was Line 2, which eventually went out of commission by 1990.

[Photos courtesy of Stefan Hajdu.

“Don’t you remember, you told me you loved me, baby?
You said you’d be coming back this way again, baby.“

Seems we’re all time travellers, (whatever time is?) It’s just that at the moment we can only travel forward!

Love and peace John.

Exploring Chợ Quán Asylum, Saigon’s Oldest Prisoner-of-War Camp

Monday, 01 August 2022. Written by Tuyết Nhi. Photos by Tuyết Nhi.

In a secluded corner of Saigon’s Bệnh viện Nhiệt đới, or Hospital for Tropical Diseases, a prison continues its century-long existence hidden from public memory and discours

It is uncommon knowledge to most people that the present-day Hospital for Tropical Disease (formerly Nhà Thương Chợ Quán) was once home to a 150-year-old detention camp where revolutionaries such as Trần Phú, Hà Huy Tập, and Nguyễn Văn Trỗi were held captive. According to historical records, the cells were originally built by French colonialists in 1875 as a specialized ward to treat psychiatric patients at Chợ Quán Hospital.

The institution later took on a darker purpose as the regime turned it into a base to confine political prisoners that were being treated at the ward to extract intel on anti-colonial efforts. The encampment went on to be responsible for detaining prisoners of war throughout Vietnam’s decades of conflict with French and American forces.

Chợ Quán Hospital was established in 1982 with donations and support from the local Vietnamese community. Long before the hospital’s founding, its plot was occupied by a French-run first-aid clinic. In 1864, the clinic operation was handed over to the succeeding government. A specialized wing was created to isolate and treat its psychiatric patients.

Despite the changes in the political and cultural landscapes that surround it, the structure retains its colonially inspired architecture. The design of the prison is in a cowbell shape. The front entrance directly overlooks the women’s cell, while the men’s cell is on its right. The pitched roofs are covered in double lap tiles supported by fixed iron frames and the floor still has its original terracotta tiles. Under French rule, bunks used to shackle inmates were made of wood, but under American control, they were replaced by cement blocks that were common in the Phú Quốc and Côn Đảo prisons.

A communal cell with double lap tiling where male inmates were held.

Though seemingly cramped, the women’s cell was actually the space that got the most sunlight thanks to the large windows that run along the wall.

The prison’s long and narrow corridors sent a chill down my spine, as the deeper I ventured into these halls, the colder and gloomier the atmosphere became, even though it was midday. Taproots from trees outside were seeping in through cracks in the wall, and in a few cells, shackles remained where they had been for decades. The innermost chambers were impenetrable by sunlight, further adding an air of mystery to the building.

Apart from the regular cells, the French also built solitary confinement quarters to quarantine patients that had infectious diseases that could spread to the rest of the inmates.

Well I know I had it coming, I know I can’t be free
But those people keep a movin’
And that’s what tortures me.

The inside of a cell for patients with infectious diseases.

A communal restroom that prisoners shared. 

The stairs in these dimly lit rooms lead to buckets placed underneath that were used as toilet bowls.

Iron shackles are kept intact for display

One of the most historically significant parts of the structure is the cell that held Trần Phú, the first General Secretary of the Indochinese Communist Party, who was still in captivity when he died of tuberculosis on September 6, 1931. His last words to fellow comrades were:

Keep your will to fight.

Trần Phú’s portrait and headstone, as well as information plaques detailing his capture and death, are still shown at the cell where he passed away. Here, flowers and wreaths are sometimes placed by visitors to remind current and future generations that this was the final resting place of a nation’s leader and patriot.

On special occasions such as Trần Phú’s death anniversary or public holidays, bouquets are often placed by his headstone to commemorate his sacrifice.

In stark contrast to the bleakness that the prison bears within, a lush garden surrounding it has sprouted up to provide shade and comfort to patients receiving treatment at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, who are most likely unaware of the fact that every brick, tile, and frame around them bore witness to a painful scar in the nation’s history.

Well if they freed me from this prison
If that railroad train was mine
I bet I’d move it on a little farther down the line
Far from Folsom prison, that’s where I want to stay
And I’d let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away

Documents about Trần Phú’s life and revolutionary contributions are preserved and exhibited for visitors.

Readers keen on exploring more of the prison in person may easily do so since the site is accessible to the public and located to the right of the hospital’s dining hall, which is only 100 meters away from the main gate. But as the prison is under the supervision of the District 5 Cultural Center, be sure to contact them for permission before planning a day trip!

Visit ttvhq5.com.vn or call 028 3855 6161 to learn more about the site or to schedule a visit.

When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry!

So! Is war legal?

Is shooting and killing one man in a ‘Special Military Operation’ – not a war – a murder or a justifiable homicide?

Is the man that pressed the button to release the Atomic Bomb over Hiroshima, killing over 10,000 people, more culpable than one killing in Ukraine?

Does killing anyone matter at all?

Love and peace John.