Tropical Depression (And I Ain't Talking Weather Charts)

Being back in Ho Chi Minh City (AKA Saigon), may not be quite the right place for a post-menopausal Empress. Are those hot flushes (read: Chernobyl-like, nuclear thermal melt downs) and night sweats am enduring, or simply Southeast Asian dengue fever? Not sure which is worse. Menopausal women are similar to global warming – we are experiencing rising temperatures. Thankfully, here in the tropics, we don’t have to contend with northern hemisphere-induced duvets or central heating. But in Ho Chi Minh City, we do have to contend with year-round temperatures hotter than a Korean barbecue. Although up north in Hanoi, it's seasonal weather, with temperatures decidely chilly in the winter months, but counter-acting with off-the-charts humidity in the summer months. How those colonial-era ladies managed, I cannot imagine. Short of strapping an air-conditioning unit to your person, or opening the ‘fridge door for a rush of icy air, how does one cope? Never mind all the Gucci goodies in the city’s now swanky malls; I’m far more interested in the sub-zero temperatures they are blasting out.

And Vietnam may not be quite the right place for any pre, current, or post-menopausal woman, not only battling the heat and body parts swelling up in places that shouldn't be swelling up, but with rampant hormones and mood swings like a pendulum on steroids.
Any whipper-snapper expat would have their patience and good nature stretched to the limit on all the 'lost in translation'dialogue, chasm-wide cultural differences and infernal din here, let alone a women of a certain age with her minuscule patience fuse and “not suffering fools gladly” mentality tested on an hourly basis.

Thank the Gods, I don’t have to deal with all that dreary sanitary paraphernalia anymore, especially tampons (one of the greatest inventions known to (wo)men). That’s if you can find any – a difficult task in Southeast Asia as these must-haves are not so mainstream with the locals and then are scant on the ground in foreigner-focused stores. (Once, after a fruitless search looking for tampons in an expat supermarket in Bali, I curiously found several boxes stacked in the car maintenance section, next to the car polish. But of course!) And if and where you do find them, you’re liable to pay an Emperor’s ransom.

 

Spot the...........

Years ago, living in Hanoi, which, back then was pretty much traditional in its daily life, I found it extremely challenging to track down tampons and especially, the legendary Tampax brand, even at the poshest international stores. Invariably, supply availability boiled down to stock control – er, not one of Hanoi’s strongest points. If a shop did sell them, they’d run out quick, but supplies weren’t replenished: either “stock control person” wasn’t doing their job properly, or the ship hadn’t come in, literally. I spent many tedious afternoons in Hanoi hunting down essential international grooming supplies. Strangely, there’d be stacks of them, then they would mysteriously disappear for lengthy periods. Worst was the tampon scenario; back in those early days, invariably as elusive as the Javanese Rhino and near-on approaching black-market status.

One year, in the mad-house build-up to Lunar New Year (“Tet”), I cycled from store to store in search of those iconic blue boxes, but to no avail. For weeks, they hadn’t been spotted, not helped by the tiresome “nothing-gets-done” pre-Tet syndrome. Finally, I arrived at a well-known expat store and espied one solitary blue box on the shelf.
“Is that your last one?” I enquired. Hysterically.
“Yes, we have no more until after Tet,” the nonplussed sales staff replied.
 
So, I grabbed the last box of Tampax in Hanoi – I should have been awarded a certificate. I felt a tad guilty that it was me that grabbed it. But then I thought of all those ladies zipping off to far-flung islands in Southeast Asia, while I was stuck in Hanoi for the Tet holidays – so that feeling quickly passed.

 

During my time in Hanoi, this Empress actually worked: I helped set-up, launch and then jointly-edit a state-run, tourist magazine with an all-Vietnamese team. This new English-language publication was widely read by expats, but especially, my wildly popular monthly column, where unusually, I was given free rein by the publishers to regale readers about my mad life in Hanoi. In one such column, I recounted my tampon tale.
 

In this pioneering publishing role, I was invited out to – and attended – practically every social event in town, including grand diplomatic affairs. Thus, I had become well-acquainted with the British Ambassador and his wife, the social conduit of Hanoi’s British community.
One Christmas, they exclusively invited me and three other hand-picked expats to join them for a Christmas day lunch at the resplendent Ambassador’s residence (well, I am an Empress after all). During the exchanging of Christmas presents, I received a beautifully wrapped box of ……Tampax… from the Ambassador’s wife. The accompanying hand-written note explained that she had read my magazine column and wanted to help. Obviously, it pays to have friends in high places.