I’m willing to forgive nearly everything about Saigon. It’s a sign of a sustainable relationship, as I still wish to coexist in peace with this city. To me, Saigon’s midday, even when the searing sun flares the strongest, is when the trees are the most glorious. The sudden bouts of torrential rain are indeed a nuisance, but I tell myself that at least the streets can get a wash after a dusty day. But there’s one thing that never goes away and that I can never write off; something I can’t, for the life of me, find reasons to romanticize or defend. Those are the infuriating floods that submerge Saigon streets every time the tide is high.

I used to think that I’m seasoned enough to deal with Saigon’s flooding. I come from the Mekong Delta, where the flood cycle is a way of life, and the year is divided into seasons of high and low water levels. Yet, the first day of my Intro to Saigon Floods course completely dampened my confidence.

I still remember it was an evening. I was riding my bike back home on the usual route when what appeared in front of my eyes startled me. A huge pond of murky black water inundated the road surface. It wasn’t the nourishing alluvium-rich swirls of my hometown, but a watery sludge of dirt and rubbish. My scooter’s weary wheels slowed to a crawl, struggling to escape the water that rushed in from every direction.

“The tide is high today,” during that moment, I remember this caution from my housemate, sent just an hour ago. At the time, I entirely ignored the text, partly because I was preoccupied with something, but also because I naively believed that tides are just something for the rivers and the sea. From where I live to the nearest body of water is about 2 kilometers, so I wasn’t concerned. Saigon’s high tide decided to punish me for underestimating it by sending the clearest wake-up call possible.

The dim street lamps made me even more impatient to get out. Not knowing when the water would go down, I brashly sped up and steered ahead right into the middle of the flooded street. I was greeted with the rancid stench of sewage mixed in with the acrid fume from the exhaust pipes of waterlogged bikes around me. I held my breath, gripped the handlebars tight, and glued my eyes to the divider in the middle of the road. At times, a few motorcycles passed me and slowed down until they stopped completely, evoking barrages of expletives from their owners. I was a mess inside, quietly praying to the deities above to bless my engine so it could safely overcome this seemingly endless stretch of water.

Only after I parked the bike in the lot did I realize that I was wet from the calf down. From my balcony up high, I saw tiny flecks of human wearily wading across the water surface. On both sides of the street, the doors of shops and houses stayed emotionlessly shut. Rideshare drivers took shelter under their canopies, shaking their heads in resignation. Occasionally, a truck careened by, forming massive waves that whipped into walls and traffic and dragging floating debris and plastic chairs of nearby homes into the water.

Since that night, flooding has climbed to the top position of my most feared events during the rainy season. Seemingly peaceful water had the power to cause the fast-paced rhythm of Saigon to come to a halt. What remains are the phlegmy coughs of waterlogged bike engines, in between bursts of gray exhaust as commuters try in vain to restart them; and the wet squishes of rubber flip-flops. In my neighborhood, living and preparing for high-tide days are a well-honed skill of the people, and I was a clumsy novice.

I still remember the feeling of irritation every time I accidentally drove past a huge pothole that the mucky water obscured. The kids sitting behind their mothers on the way home after school weren’t that upset, because they were too busy cheering their parents on as the bikes pierced into the thickness of the water. The college student over there wasn’t that annoyed despite his dead bike, because the local uncles helped him push the vehicle to a dry pavement to wait for the mechanic to arrive. The residents bailing out water from their homes were handling the situation just fine, because the whole family was laughing and joking around amid piles of buckets, basins, and containers.

Over time, I realize that living with flooding isn’t just keeping up with tidal reports, figuring out which routes are high enough to evade floods, or honing my driving skills to navigate inundated streets. It is also understanding an important life philosophy: just accept the divine workings of nature. I won’t stop hating flooded days in Saigon, but I will accept their presence in my life, and, for now, choose to warm my heart with thoughts of the kindness everyone living here has shared with me and one another. Keeping one’s head above water is important, but here, people try to support and care for others in the water, too.