Chilling with my pal Theano outside of Uncle Ho’s tomb

The Vietnamese do not fuck around when it comes to their beloved Ho Chi Minh. The line to see the Dear Leader’s body lying in state in a glass coffin inside his tomb is almost always a mile long, but it moves at a pretty good clip despite the many checkpoints. As I waited, a woman in a long navy blue uniform and a severe bob observed visitors through a glinty, eagle eye. I passed muster. The French woman behind me wearing a skirt that fell just above her knee did not.

“Skirt too short!” the guard screamed at Frenchie.

Frenchie – who look like she’d dropped out of society several decades ago, with long dreadlocks and brown rotting teeth – protested, “I have zee scarf in zee bag to make zee skirt long.”

“You make long now!”

“But-“

“You make long now!” the guard screeched. There was a scuffle, I moved forward in line and when I looked back, Frenchie was gone. I didn’t see her again.

Frenchie clearly hadn’t been let in on the tomb rules which may or may not include – depending on the day and the presence of supervisors – no shorts, no short skirts, no shoulder baring tops, no hats, hands must be in full view at all times and not in pockets, no talking past the steps of the mausoleum – absolutely no giggling and smiling is frowned upon – no cameras, no phones, no tweezers, no nail files, no fast walking or running, no slow walking and probably a few more rules, arbitrarily put into place depending on whomever is on duty that day. Officers are placed all along the line to bark out instructions to potential viewers (“No pocket!” “Hat off now!”), and there is even entertainment, with a troupe of four guards strutting back and forth in standard Communist military high step on the side of the tomb.

I love a man in uniform

As you enter the tomb, the guards pair you up into twos as you file up the stairs and around Uncle Ho’s body – which is tenderly lit in Barbra Steisand-esque lighting. Not that you can see it as it’s on an eight-foot high platform surrounded by guards. If you slow down to try and get a semi-decent look, one of the guards on the outer wall will grab your arm and “encourage” you forward.

Ho Chi Minh’s actual house – so chic!

The Presidential Palace

Outside, some visitors started crying – either in awe or fear – before moving on to the next stop: the “Presidential Palace,” which brochures like to point out was built by the French, but Ho Chi Minh never actually lived in. He had a more modest, chic Danish designed abode built in back. “Uncle Ho preferred a simple two room wood house on stilts – just like his people,” one government guide explained to his tour group. The people must not have gotten the memo – while Uncle Ho shunned the Palace, all the (living) high-ranking Communist officials occupy the French built mansions lining the streets around the sovereign building. (which, why not? They were empty after all…