Annette Densham On A Fire-Breathing Child in Saigon: The Story Tourists Don’t Want to See

On my last night in the city formerly known as Saigon, I leaned over the balcony of the Michelin-starred Mexican restaurant I was trying and saw a little girl standing in the middle of the road with a bottle in one hand and what looked like a fire-eater’s torch in the other. She took a mouthful from the bottle, blew into the flame, and the smell of petrol hit me from two floors up.

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For a moment, I thought it was a street show. One of those “look at that” moments you capture for Instagram. Then it hit me: she was a child. Maybe twelve. Maybe younger. When a boy joined her — no older than ten — and tried to do the same thing, only to burn himself, the illusion of entertainment cracked completely.

The bruises on her legs told a story. His bare feet told another. People walked past them as if they were invisible. I felt sick.

Later, I wandered down Bui Vien Street — that loud, flashing artery of bars and chaos — trying to make sense of it. Girls in tiny outfits and boys with empty eyes danced half-heartedly on pedestals, luring tourists into bars for $1.50 beers and promises of who knows what. Next door, a hotel offered two hours for a room for eight bucks. I’m sure nobody’s napping in there.

I ducked into a bar with live music and a singer who clearly deserved a better gig. Every few minutes, someone tried to sell me something: a lighter, a fan, a hat, a bracelet, a vape. “No thank you, no thank you, no thank you.” Each refusal felt heavier than the last.

Here’s the thing: I’m not rich. But compared to the woman selling trinkets at midnight to feed her kids, I’m practically Bill Gates. That kind of imbalance makes it hard to enjoy your $6 cocktail.

You see it everywhere in Asia — Bali, Thailand, Vietnam — kids working the streets long after they should be in bed. I’ve bought more bracelets, fans, and sarongs than any one person could possibly need, because sometimes buying feels like the only way to ease the guilt. But you can’t say yes to everyone, and saying no feels cruel.

Who’s responsible for the bruised little girl blowing fire for strangers who won’t look at her? I don’t know. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone.

All I know is that while we tourists moan about being hassled and haggled, there are people out there just trying to survive the night. Buy the fan, or if you can’t, at least be kind when you say no. They’re not trying to annoy you — they’re just trying to eat.

It’s easy to romanticise a holiday in Vietnam — the lanterns, the laughter, the amazing egg coffee and food. But sometimes, the beauty and heartbreak stand shoulder to shoulder, and pretending not to see one of them is its own kind of privilege