We are going to land. I look at the paddy fields stretchingright up to the runway: rusty sheds, distant figurestopped with a conical hat. At last, on the other side of the world,far from him.

I emerge from the plane and take in a gulp of hot, damp air.It's like entering into a cocoon which already blissfully isolatesme. I stand in the queue among a batch of tourists. It irritates meto see them in shorts, in bright T-shirts, a holiday smile on theirfaces. I don't want to be part of this jolly mood. How can I whenmy heart is in tatters?

A customs officer in a most revolting bright-green uniformmatched with an intimidating cap stares at me with a suspiciouslook but resigns himself to stamping my passport. I collect mysuitcase and walk towards the exit. Crowds of friends and parentsare waiting outside as visitors are not allowed inside the airport.I feel dizzy; I am not used to this stifling air. I am overwhelmedby the strident voices, the sight of all these bright tunics. Sucha feast for the eyes after the dark clothes in London. I catchsight of arms waving at me. I have been spotted by my three"Vietnamese sisters": Madame Thuy, Tam, and Phuong. All threeon a welcome-committee mission, faithfully gathered with theirsmiles, their cheerful twittering, their bunch of flowers. So Ipretend to be cheerful, and arm in arm, we make our way towardsthe taxis.

This is the second of September, National Day in Vietnam.All the houses, all the buildings are displaying the national flag:red with a yellow star. The streets are swarming with mopedsand bicycles, the pavements entirely occupied by crouchingstreet vendors. I only see young faces, children heaped on thefamily Honda. Father, mother, two or three children are all inperfect balance on these small motorbikes. The youngest children,sometimes babies, are protected from the dust by muslin scarveswrapped around their heads. Sometimes a little old lady in blacktrousers and brown or pink tunic is also clinging on to the back.A lot of women pedlars carrying heavy baskets suspended onyokes waddle along the streets in this peculiar gait of theirs. Asif they wanted to compensate the weight of their load with light,graceful steps.

The sky is heavy with copper clouds. We are in the middle ofthe monsoon season, and suddenly, it starts raining. Not drops,but buckets. The traffic immediately stops as thousands of cyclistsand motorcyclists slip over their heads vast plastic ponchos. Itlooks as if the rain has awakened a multitude of dormant insects ofall kinds of colours: bright pink, green, yellow, orange, turquoise,violet.

I feel dazzled. I am already falling under the magic spell ofSaigon.

We are driving away from the town centre; our taxi is workingits way across a gigantic roundabout amidst the most incredibletraffic jam. Nobody stops; nobody slows down. Lorries, cars,Hondas, bikes, and a few pedestrians brave enough to attemptcrossing perform a breathtaking display. We are now in Dien BienPhu Avenue; this is not exactly a good omen for a French national!Dien Bien Phu, the last desperate battle of the French before theirultimate defeat and departure from Vietnam ... where havethe pretty colonial villas gone, the shaded avenues, the orchids,the bougainvilleas? This is a long, treeless avenue, entirely takenover by thundering lorries and antiquated buses which use theirhorns furiously and let out suffocating, filthy exhaust fumes. Thisdistrict is not exotic! Nothing like I had expected.

The taxi stops outside one of those typical and uglycompartment houses. I must not give a thought to England andmy beautiful house there. Must not think, must not think ...This mini hotel is particularly unattractive and, in fact, gives me ashock. I had not expected a three-star hotel, but this is a little toogloomy. Tam explains that this is a temporary accommodation;she knows the owner, and it is cheap. She would have liked me tostay at her house, but there are difficulties with police regulations,lots of permissions to be obtained when foreigners are concerned.Well, I wanted to forget Europe and its comforts; this is theperfect setting.

My room is dark, quite sinister with its cheap, mismatchedfurniture, its struggling ventilator, and its unique lamp whichdiffuses a meagre, depressing light. But I am too confused, tootired to worry. Tam takes me to one of those numerous streetrestaurants called dust restaurants, as the clients sit on tiny plasticstools on the pavement right on the street level amid the exhaustfumes. I enjoy my first my rau xau, fried noodles, and then Tamtakes me back and promises to call the next day.

This is it. I am on my own, face-to-face with my anguish. Imust not give in to existential self-questioning. Just survive thefirst few days! Then, we'll see. Maybe later I can start thinkingagain, but not now. I look around my room; I don't mind startingmy life here in such spartan conditions. This room is an oven;the fan makes a grinding sound which is most irritating. Howam I ever going to sleep? The communal washroom on my floordoesn't even have a shower. I have to scoop out water from a plastictub and splash myself with a small plastic saucepan. I wash myclothes in the kitchen, right on the cement floor, surrounded bythe servants who prattle words of encouragement. At least that'swhat I am guessing since I don't understand a single word ofVietnamese.

The next day, I venture into the small streets around. I feelembarrassed by the stares which follow my every step, even if theyare meant to be friendly. I would like to melt into the crowds,daydream, absorb quietly the smells, the sounds, the strangesurroundings, forget myself in this humid heat which assaults mybody and makes me sway. But I shall soon discover that solitarywanderings are impossible here in Saigon. My walks don't offerany kind of respite. In any case, the torrential rains force me totake shelter in my bedroom, my sad little bedroom. I have boughta French baguette and some portions of La Vache Qui Rit, `TheLaughing Cow' which is going to be my staple food for the nextfew days. The cheese has been exposed to the sun all day andis probably weeks past its sell-by date; the baguette, due to thehigh level of humidity, is reduced to the texture of rubber, and Imake the effort to chew as slowly as possible to make this solitary,boring meal last as long as possible.

Tam has suggested that I accompany her to her nextmission to Dalat. I accept enthusiastically. Anything toescape from this unexciting routine and start on my discoveryof Vietnam. She has warned me that we would be using publictransport, much cheaper than tourist coaches. I am all for it. I amnot here as a tourist. I want to become a Vietnamese, to integrateinto their way of life. Only a complete change of persona can giveme a temporary breathing space.

We'll have to get up early as the buses are stormed by thelocals. By the time we arrive at the bus station, at 6 a.m., queueshave already formed behind every vehicle. We take our placein one of the queues and I immediately become the focus ofattention. I suppose that a Western woman waiting to get onan antiquated bus is an unusual sight when there are, after all,special and better types of transport available for foreigners. Thegood ladies show no scruples in casting curious looks and makingcomments. I have stirred up a good session of unrestrained gossip!

The driver arrives and starts loading us. I find it quite funnyto see how he manages to push us in: the more passengers hecan squeeze in, the more beneficial! Hilarious in fact to see usall crammed among baskets and packages of all sorts. I amstuck between two solid women and already resigned to a veryuncomfortable journey when suddenly I am propelled forwardand installed next to the driver. Tam explains that this is a gestureof kindness and special treatment towards a foreigner. My feelingof relief doesn't last long as one of the brave ladies deposits a bagfull of durians on my lap. This fruit is notorious for its disgustingsmell, so much so that they are banned in most hotel rooms. Sohere I am: the guest of honour in a rickety bus full of loud peasantwomen, with a huge and heavy pile of smelly fruit on my kneesand one of the drivers who drives like a maniac. I remember thatmy seat is called la place du mort in French! To top it up, the driver,having discovered that I know a little Vietnamese, has decidedto entertain himself with a conversation with the foreigner. Hemocks my pronunciation, forces me to repeat impossible soundsuntil I firmly refuse to carry on with this charade. So now, he canconcentrate on his honking absolutely non-stop. This is the wayto be a respectable, manly driver in Vietnam. Blow the horn andovertake anything in sight.

Things get worse as we reach la Suisse vietnamienne. Vastlandscape of mountains covered with pine trees, twisting roads,deep gorges, and this continuous horn-blowing which makes myheart jump all the time.

But we arrive in Dalat safe and sound; the driver was a skilfulmaniac after all!

Tam has booked us a room in one of these mini hotels favouredby young backpackers. Similar to my room in Saigon. Spartan,reasonably clean (apart from the dubious-looking bedcover),rather dull and depressing with its greenish walls and cheap,faded curtains. But my Vietnamese adventure was never meantto be a Club Med holiday.

Tam is busy all day with her business appointments, butshe has found me a Honda om who can speak a little Frenchand who is supposed to be a safe driver. That's all that mattersafter yesterday's scary experience. By the way, `om' in Vietnamesemeans `to hold on to, to embrace', and this is exactly what wehave to do when we use a Honda porter. In most cases, we holdfor dear life!

So here I am, holding tight to my driver as we zoom off amongthe coffee plantations on narrow roads perched on hillsides, with asplendid panoramic view of valleys scattered with pretty colonial-style chalets. Everything I have read about Dalat in the days of theFrench stretches faithfully under my eyes. The fresh air is bliss.Such a joy to be able to breathe in pure, gentle air.

I am still waiting for my work permit. These are difficultdays. I have nothing to do apart from reading myVietnamese manual for beginners. I don't even know how topronounce all these weird-looking monosyllabic words, but I amsure they are sinking somewhere into my brain and will come inuseful one day. I am such an optimist!

A kind neighbour has lent me a bicycle, so I have startedcycling around, trying to find my bearings. I have not been ableto buy a detailed map, in fact any map at all, of Saigon, so everyouting is a real challenge. I draw up my own map as I go along,but it's not easy with the impatient fellow cyclists who don't allowme to stop at every corner to quietly look around. Of course Ido get lost. A couple of times I had to haul my bike up into arickshaw, squeeze next to it, and trust the rider to deliver me backsafely to my hotel.

Most of them can't decipher the address which I have scribbledon a piece of paper, so it usually takes two or three animatedconversations with other rickshaw colleagues before they canagree on an itinerary. No point in my trying to repeat `Dien BienPhu', the name of my street, in a variety of different ascending,descending, neutral tones of voice. Once they have decided theycan't understand my foreign accent, there is nothing to be done!However, as I gain a little confidence, these chatty cycle-riderswill become my first real teachers with whom I can practise mymumbling Vietnamese without feeling too humiliated. They dolaugh at me, but I laugh at their crazy riding, so we are quits!

I have learnt my way to Phuong's mother. Phuong, of coursehas returned to the UK to start university. So we are two lonelyladies available for friendly chats. Unfortunately, she does notspeak a word of English and I have a smattering of about fiftywords in Vietnamese and an atrocious accent. I wonder whether Ishall ever be able to tackle the six different tones you are supposedto choose from. As I have just mentioned it, each syllable can bepronounced with ascending, descending, neutral, ascending thendescending tone in the same breath, modulating the syllable as ifyou were pronouncing a question mark, or shutting your mouthimmediately after you have uttered the sound! It drives me mad.

Phuong is studying in the UK thanks to a scholarship sheobtained when she entered a very tough competition a couple ofyears ago. This is a real fairy tale as she comes from a very poorfamily. Her mother, Loan, is the only breadwinner. She gets upevery morning at 4 a.m. to cook rice which she goes and sells onthe street.

I can only go and visit her in the evening as I don't want todisturb her afternoon nap.

She welcomes me with joyful embraces and sing-songgreetings that I cannot understand. But I can guess the meaning.I was Phuong's substitute mother when she stayed in our house inLondon during her two-year A-level course. She is naturally verygrateful, but I think she likes me genuinely; there is a closenessbetween us which transcends pure social conventions.

We use a small dictionary to help us along some kind ofconversation, but we communicate mainly with smiles, laughter,gestures; we draw pictures ... The verbal exchange is limited, butthese meetings have a certain therapeutic effect on both of us. Sheunderstands the reason for my unhappiness; she knows I have runaway to Vietnam, and I know all about her difficult life. They livein one tiny, stifling room, the four of them. A single window looksout over a stinking, dark corridor, without any daylight at any time.The electricity is constantly on unless, of course, there is a powercut, which happens practically on a daily basis. This one room servesas kitchen, dining room, living room, and bedroom. No bed (theysleep on thin raffia mats which are rolled down at night), no chair(only a few plastic stools), no sink; the only luxury is an antiquated,Soviet-style old fridge. Shower room and toilets are contained in aminuscule cupboard equipped with a single tap at ground level. Thistap is used for washing up, washing clothes, and washing yourself.This is also used to splash water after you have used the toilet.

How can she manage to keep this dubious cupboard soimmaculately clean?

So every morning, about five o'clock, she goes out, laden withheavy pans of rice, a few plastic stools and a quantity of smallcontainers of soya sauce, fish sauce, and all kinds of fresh herbs.

By lunchtime, when she has sold out, and the heat is becomingoppressive, she makes her way back home, washes up, and returnsto the local market to buy the few herbs and vegetables she needsto cook for the next morning.

An entirely laborious life, in permanent discomfort from thenoise, the smells, the heat, the hard work, yet with a permanentluminous smile on her face.

The next few days, I pursue my discovery of Saigon. I pedalalong and just succumb to the charm of this amazing city.

Saigon with its smells of spices, rot, jasmine.

Saigon so romantic in the evening, under a grandiose, starry sky.

Saigon sordid with its garbage floating along the river.

Saigon with its beggars, its lame people.

Saigon enthralling, dizzying.

Saigon eerie, unnerving.

Saigon magical.

My Saigon.

As soon as I escape from my room, I feel completelytransformed, revived. As I pedal immersed in this continuoushuman flow, I forget all my suffering. I enter into a strangecommunion with everything that surrounds me: the people, thetrees, the pagodas, the heat, the noise. A sensation of euphoria, asif I was drugged, magically saved from myself.

Sometimes, however, the past takes over, insistent and imposesits intolerable images.

The door has closed behind him. Here he is again, shut inhis room with his Internet. He will remain there until one ortwo o'clock in the morning while I agonise with longing for thewarmth of his body. For months now, I have been going to bedon my own; he hardly speaks to me, hardly looks at me. I can'teven be angry with him; he looks so unhappy. I desperately wantto take him in my arms, to comfort him, but he rejects me ...For three years now, I have been witnessing the slow death ofhis love for me. How has it been possible? How can I let you gowhen you are imprinted in my skin, in my heart, in my soul? Ican forgive everything except this glacial indifference, this wickedirony which lacerates our old complicity? Why do you still tortureme with kind words, smiles which give me hope?