They love their mannekins in Vietnam. They’re a must-have accessory for every clothing outlet of any kind, no matter how small, how hidden, or how execrable the pirated Chinese-made reproductions they’re pushing. And for reasons known perhaps only to the world’s mannekin-makers, every single one of them presents a prototypical Western physique to the world. There are no Asian features of any kind to be seen in the mannekins of Vietnam. For me this begs the question: are there no Asian mannekins anywhere in Asia? In all my travels in this fair land, I’ve yet to see one. They’re all white, caucasian, often blue-eyed, tall and seemingly caught in mid-speech, articulating something in what’s clearly a non-tonal language: “Real? Real?? What do you mean by ‘real’?”

One of the strangest things about living as near to the equator as I do is that the length of the days never really changes. No matter whether it’s January, August, or December, the sun rises around 5:30am and sets around 6:30pm. Winter solstice, summer solstice, whatever, there’s no difference to speak of. That means that on Fridays, once I’ve finished my last class and have established that the mess on my desk can probably wait until Monday, when I’m finally ready to pack it in for the weekend, this is the scene I’m handed by the universe as I head out the third-floor north exit at RMIT and make for the motorcycle parking lot (which you can see down there, mostly empty at 6:30pm on a Friday). That’s not Saigon per se in the background — not downtown Saigon anyway — but the section of District 7 known as Phu My Hung. Otherwise known as home.