A Man Called Hung

It was already past nine but the air was fairly sweltering at the night market around Co Ben Thanh in downtown Saigon.

Now known as Ho Chi Minh city, of course.

Ho's City, if you're a Yank ... I guess.

Under my rucksack, my shirt was getting sticky but I was enjoying myself immensely.

It has been a while since I went abroad (Shanghai was the last one, I think), or had a proper holiday actually, and the break couldn't have come at a better time for me.

After a fortnight of crisis calls plus a project that took off unexpectedly like a runaway rocket, I was stressed-out, fagged out and almost brain dead on my feet by the time I boarded the Airbus at half past seven in the morning at the LCCT.

Was that sentence too long? Deal with it - it's a fair reflection of my working life since November.

Anyway, back in Saigon (I still prefer this old name, I grew up with it being on the headlines and on TV almost every day in the late 60s) I was taking in the sights and sounds (and smells) contentedly while cowering behind two female colleagues for protection from the many pretty ladies manning the various stalls.

Protection?

Yes, protection. Seriously.

You see, Vietnamese ladies are mostly pretty, have good skin, look and sound demure but are also very persistent in making their sales pitch.

Very much self-aware of their effects on men visitors, they would think nothing of grabbing you by the arm and crying out,

"A-baaaaang, come and see my things, I give you good price,"

and pretty soon a soft female hand will be stroking your manly chest to add persuasive punctuation to it all, while the sales pitch changes to,

"I like your smile, where you from."

And if you got a pot-belly, the stroking moves south and they'll cackle, "Little Buddha!" delightedly.

The outdoor night market is infinitely more preferable than the daytime version - which is more congested and, since it's indoors, definitely stuffier than muff-diving.

I mean, once I entered I had to go out again after the first five minutes cos I couldn't breathe.

Whereas I can muff-dive longer than that even with one nostril shut.

Anyways after my nipples had gotten overly sensitive with all that stroking, I spotted something on top of my shopping list.

A stall displaying original oil paintings by local artists.

For some time, I've been told that you can get art pieces at bargain prices, especially oil paintings, in Saigon.

Mostly I was told they got good fakes there but I was thinking, if they're so good technically, then the originals should be better buys.

So, having spent a good part of the evening watching over the ladies, and getting molested for my troubles, I got stimulation of the cerebral kind at last.

At first I was struck by the stall-minder's demeanour.

Unlike the typical pasar malam hustling, he had a quiet, pleasant manner.

Such a welcome contrast.

I tested him by leaving after just a minute of browsing but he remained coolly polite and even thanked me for my time.

So after a bit, I came back, sat down on a stool, rolled me a fag and struck up a conversation with the guy.

It turns out that the stall houses the paintings of Hung, my new friend, and three of his friends, and they take turns minding it.

Taking a close look at the wares on display (even an untutored eye like mine could discern the four different styles), I found that I really liked this quietly pleasant chap.

So I was pleased to find out that a series of abstracts that I really liked was Hung's handiwork.

Taking the conversation further I found out he's actually a Hanoi boy - thus the very different personality compared to his neighbours - and that four years of art college in Hanoi was followed by eight years in Saigon peddling his stuff.

The boy got grit.

And he was so humble.

I had decided to buy two of his paintings when I noticed that they didn't have any signature.

"Hey Hung, how come these paintings don't have your signatures?"

"You want me to sign them?" he asked.

"Did you paint these paintings or not? Or are they your friend's paintings?" I asked again, making sure we understood each other.

"Yes, I painted them," he replied.

"Then sign the damn things lah," I said, lapsing into Manglish momentarily.

He wasn't so sure he understood me.

"You really want me to sign them?" the fella went again.

"Of course I want you to, you're the painter, right?"

"Yes, I am,"

"Then you must sign it. Otherwise how would people know you're the painter?" I berleter again.

I swear the man looked stunned.

"Oh, okay. Can you wait for five minutes?" he asked.

"No problem, why?"

"I call my friend to bring a tube for the painting, then I have to get my brush and ink," he said.

When his friend turned out to be a pretty girl, I was kinda worried my nipples might get tweaked again. But she was a decent sort - his girlfriend actually (I asked) - and she came from the same village as Hung.

So sweet.

All in all I spent about two hours there, and they were pleasant hours, I must say.

And I ended up paying just USD90 for two oil paintings that I liked very much.









Originals by a man called Hung.