Acupuncture – A “Haunting” Experience in Saigon

During my initial residence in Saigon, my body underwent a transformation that could only be described as alarmingly expansive. Within merely twenty-four months of Vietnamese living, my frame had accumulated an additional twenty kilograms of flesh, transforming me from a reasonably portly Australian into something resembling a sumo wrestler on vacation. The culinary landscape of Vietnam presented itself as a minefield of temptations, utterly dissimilar to the restrained eating habits I’d cultivated back home.

In Australia, restaurant outings were ceremonial affairs, typically reserved for celebrating paydays or commemorating birthdays. Even McDonald’s received only occasional visits, and alcohol consumption was carefully scheduled for weekends or sporting events. The Vietnamese approach to dining, however, blindsided me with its glorious regularity and social significance.

As a foreigner with an expanding circle of Vietnamese companions, I found myself swept into a nightly ritual of communal feasting and libation consumption. My calendar transformed into an endless parade of dinner engagements and beer gardens, each adding another layer to my increasingly robust physique. The scale’s needle swung dramatically from ninety-four kilograms to a concerning one hundred and twelve.

The Mysterious Affliction

The morning that altered my healthcare philosophy arrived during Tet celebrations. I awoke to discover my body had seemingly been replaced during the night with one constructed entirely of pain. Every movement, from blinking to breathing, transmitted waves of agony through my frame. My spine felt as though it had been removed, pulverized, and reinserted backward by a vengeful orthopedic demon.

Lying motionless on my sweat-soaked sheets, I managed to extend one trembling arm toward my phone. My girlfriend, Phuong, answered with the cheerful tone of someone whose vertebrae remained in their factory settings. After listening to my guttural descriptions of pain, she confidently proclaimed she knew exactly how to fix my predicament.

The minutes that followed her promise to call back stretched into small eternities. The phone’s eventual ring nearly caused me to levitate from shock, despite my body’s vehement protests against movement of any kind.

The Prescription of Dubious Origin

Phuong’s solution arrived in the form of a phone number and address for a traditional medicine practitioner who supposedly possessed mystical powers of healing through herbs and ancient practices. My skepticism was overwhelming, but my options were limited to either accepting this suggestion or continuing my new career as a professional pain enthusiast. With remarkable reluctance, I agreed to visit this mysterious healer.

This marked perhaps the most profound moment of cultural dissonance I’d experienced in Vietnam. The sensation of complete alienation washed over me—hospitals seemed uninterested unless I arrived with a limb completely detached; massage establishments presented insurmountable language barriers. Isolation enveloped me like a scratchy wool blanket in summer—uncomfortable, unnecessary, and impossible to ignore.

The traditional doctor, I later discovered, specialized in acupuncture—a practice involving the strategic insertion of needles into one’s flesh. My medical preferences typically leaned toward treatments that removed things from the body rather than added to it, yet desperation makes converts of us all.

The Journey to Medieval Medicine

February in Saigon presents itself as a masterclass in heat management. That particular morning, the temperature had soared past thirty-four degrees Celsius, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of breathing through a hot, wet towel. My motorbike journey to the clinic in Go Vap District resembled a special kind of torture—each bump in the road sending fresh volleys of pain through my rebellious spine.

The clinic itself demolished any lingering hopes I harbored about professionalism or modern standards. The structure before me appeared to have been constructed sometime during the French colonial period and neglected ever since. Bare concrete walls displayed random patches of paint in varied states of surrender to gravity and humidity. Electrical wiring clung to the exterior like desperate vines, connected to a rusted box that occasionally emitted concerning sparks.

My confidence, already hovering near rock bottom, plummeted further as I surveyed what might generously be called the “waiting area”—three plastic chairs of different heights arranged around a table adorned with what appeared to be medical journals from approximately 1978. A ceiling fan rotated with the enthusiasm of an exhausted sloth, merely rearranging the hot air rather than providing any actual relief.

The Consultation of Confusion

Inside, I encountered an elderly man with wispy white hair and hands gnarled like ancient tree roots, accompanied by a woman whose expression suggested she’d seen every possible human ailment and remained thoroughly unimpressed by all of them. Through a combination of pointing, wincing, and occasional whimpering, I conveyed that my back and neck had apparently decided to secede from the rest of my body’s cooperative union.

The old man nodded with the serene confidence of someone who either completely understood or hadn’t comprehended a single syllable but refused to admit it. He motioned for me to follow him up a narrow staircase that creaked ominously with each step, as though providing a running commentary on my poor life choices.

The treatment room resembled a bizarre hybrid between a 1950s doctor’s office and someone’s forgotten storage area. A metal desk dominated one corner, supporting an ancient computer that appeared to predate the internet itself. Adjacent to this technological antique stood a treatment bed covered in cracked vinyl, its stuffing escaping from several locations like small, puffy surrender flags.

The Electric Acupuncture Nightmare

Following the doctor’s pantomimed instructions, I removed my sweat-soaked shirt and positioned myself in a chair that might have been comfortable during the French occupation. The elderly practitioner examined my neck and shoulders with gnarled fingers that seemed to identify pain points with uncanny accuracy. Without explanation, he abruptly exited the room, leaving me marinating in my own anxiety and perspiration.

The doctor returned pushing a cart that appeared to have been constructed during the last dynasty. Atop this wheeled anachronism sat a machine resembling a prop from a low-budget science fiction film, festooned with approximately twenty thin wires terminating in metallic clips. From a weathered box beneath the contraption, he extracted several needles encased in packaging yellowed with age. Without ceremony, he began inserting these needles into various points across my neck and back.

After completing the needle constellation across my tormented flesh, the doctor methodically attached the wires to each protruding needle. Without warning, preamble, or anything resembling informed consent, the doctor flipped a switch on the machine, which responded with an ominous hum that sounded suspiciously like a mechanical chuckle.

The Involuntary Dance of Agony

Zap!

My body convulsed with such vigor that, had I been standing, I might have qualified for Olympic gymnastics. The shock wasn’t painful so much as completely disorienting, like being briefly possessed by a spirit with poor motor control. I attempted to communicate that perhaps the electrical setting was calibrated for someone twice my size, but my linguistic capabilities had abandoned me entirely.

The doctor, misinterpreting my wide-eyed horror as an expression of treatment satisfaction, smiled benevolently and repeated his entire English vocabulary: “Ok… Ok… Ok!”

Zap!

Another jolt transformed me into an unwilling marionette controlled by a sadistic puppeteer. Five minutes into this electrical symphony, my will to live had diminished to concerning levels, yet I remained powerless to request cessation of the treatment.

Zap!

Each new surge rendered me incapable of even reaching for my phone to text an SOS. My arms jerked rhythmically as though conducting an invisible and particularly enthusiastic orchestra. Sweat poured from my body in quantities sufficient to combat regional drought conditions.

Zap!

Through vision blurred by either tears or sweat—possibly both—I noticed the doctor standing by the doorway, his attention focused not on my medical welfare but on the brand-new iPhone in his hands, which was pointed directly at my involuntary performance.

The Unexpected Fame

The horrifying realization dawned that my treatment had transcended medical intervention and entered the realm of entertainment. Unable to protest or even maintain control of my facial expressions, I watched helplessly as he settled behind his ancient desk and navigated to Facebook on his prehistoric computer.

The screen, visible from my position of ongoing torment, displayed a live stream of my treatment, complete with a growing number of viewers and rapidly scrolling comments. My medical misfortune was being broadcast to an audience of thousands, who were presumably enjoying the spectacle of a foreigner being systematically electrocuted in the name of traditional medicine.

After what seemed like several lifetimes compressed into thirty minutes, the electrical assault finally ceased. I gathered the scattered remnants of my dignity, along with my shirt, and prepared to compensate the doctor for his unique approach to healthcare and entertainment.

To my surprise, when I reached for my wallet, the elderly practitioner waved dismissively and repeatedly stated: “Free. Free. Free.” His generosity, I suspected, had less to do with professional courtesy and more to do with the valuable content I had unwittingly provided for his social media presence.

The Bewildering Aftermath

That afternoon, still twitching occasionally from phantom electrical memories, I visited Phuong to recount my medical adventure. As I described the treatment in vivid detail, her expression transformed from mild interest to absolute bewilderment. With innocent confusion clouding her features, Phuong confessed she had never heard of such a treatment in her entire life.

The explanation, when it finally emerged, defied all rational thought. Phuong, having never experienced back problems herself, had consulted a friend who had suffered a bicycle accident the previous year. This friend—whom she now casually described as “a bit crazy”—had recommended the clinic based on his own visits there, despite the treatment proving ineffective for his injuries, which had resulted in persistent bruises.

I gaped at her, speechless, attempting to process the absurdity of the situation. She had sent me, a man in considerable pain, to receive treatment from an unorthodox practitioner on the recommendation of a self-described “crazy” friend for whom the treatment had demonstrably failed.

In the days that followed, I remained uncertain whether the acupuncture had actually provided any benefit. The pain had marginally subsided, allowing slightly improved mobility, but whether this resulted from the treatment or simply the natural healing process remained a mystery. What had become abundantly clear, however, was the distinction between traditional acupuncture—a respected practice with thousands of years of history—and whatever electrically enhanced version I had experienced in that dingy room.

While I cannot definitively judge the efficacy of acupuncture based on my single, traumatic experience, I have reached one irrefutable conclusion: maintaining good health eliminates the need for such treatments altogether. And for that wisdom, I remain eternally grateful.

Oh My God, thank God indeed!