Memoirs of the Socialist Republic
Vietnam….A country so burned into the American psyche, that generations of us who were not alive to remember it, seem not to be able to forget it. We are taught to think of it as a war and not a country, and while it is a defining moment in American history, The American War as it is called there, was but the final act in the struggle for independence that lasted over thirty years, culminating in the Communist victory in late April, 1975. Skip forty years ahead and again, you’ll find the Americans there, and looking closer, you’ll see two more wandering across the border at Moc Bai. For the Pchum Ben holiday here in Cambodia, Maggie and I figuring that we didn’t have any Buddhist ancestors to pray to, decided to skip out all together and headed east to the Land of Ho. And while it was a noble effort, the Vietnamese border’s impressive display of bureaucracy was still not quite up to Chinese immigration standards. To go 25 feet through the crossing, we only had to show our passports to three individuals and get recorded in a handwritten ledger, which is no doubt the most inefficient way to record things as possible. On first glance, the Vietnamese countryside seemed awfully similar to the Cambodian….rice paddies and buffaloes. But we didn’t have long to ponder as we hopped in a taxi for Ho Chi Minh City, and after a quick stop there, were bound for Hanoi via Pacific Airlines. Despite being a thin, elongated country, it is quite large and the flight from HCMC to Hanoi takes just under two hours. Maybe not much by American standards, but longer than I had expected. We arrived after sunset, so didn’t get to see much in the way of Hanoi that night as we made our way into the Old Quarter, where we could call home for the next few days. Hanoi is a city of lakes, with maybe twenty scattered around the city, measuring from small ponds, to sizable bodies of water. The Old Quarter is just as its name implies and is situated just north of one of the larger lakes in Hanoi. Long ago, the ancient trade guilds divvied up the quarter amongst themselves, meaning if you wanted silk you went to Hang Gai, those shopping for wooden bowls went to Bat Dan, Hang Bac traded in silver work, you get the point. And while this roughly holds true today, some of the commodities have changed. Perhaps armor has been replaced with rip off North Face backpacks, and plastic Tupperware has taken the place of the goldsmiths, though many of the old things remain. Spices so colorful and aromatic, and so exotic that we’ve no knowledge of saturate the streets, woodworkers hand carving intricate stamps and metal workers inlaying gems into gold jewelry. The Old Quarter is comprised of narrow, winding, tree lined streets that were definitely laid out before the advent of motorized transport. Everyone in Hanoi owns at least a motorcycle and a cell phone, and are no doubt often using them at the same time. When not dodging the motorcycles, the Old Quarter is the perfect place to wander and get lost, and get lost you shall. Standing at any given four way intersection, you’ll be faced with four different street names, and following one, will find it to changes its name at the next intersection. Maggie says that Hanoi reminds her of Paris, and never having been there, I’ll have to take her word for it. Despite being a poverty-stricken country, Hanoi is very nice and very clean. Getting out of the Old Quarter, the streets widen into bigger avenues, but are no less tree lined, and you get the sense that its more like a large park with a city in it, instead of vice versa. And so began our adventure – Day One – Ho. Ho Chi Minh, despite his wishes is embalmed and on display in Hanoi, not unlike Lenin in Moscow. His mausoleum is only open in the mornings, so we ate breakfast and headed over. The line was absurdly long, but moved quickly, as there is no stopping and you only get to file past. Guards in crisp white uniforms are stationed throughout the mausoleum, randomly checking bags, and ensuring that people are sufficiently reverent within. Maggie gave the ultimate insult to Uncle Ho by daring to enter his mausoleum with her arms crossed, and speaking as well. Actions which got her an arm slap, and me a manhandling from the guards. I feel like the guard gave me a look like “control your woman,” and I just shrugged and gave him back the look like, “Her? Yea Right, Why don’t you try.” The inner room where Ho Chi Minh is placed is a small rectangular room with four motionless guards at each corner of his coffin/case/glass tomb. So strange to see him, like the past come alive almost. To see him as he once was, he looked like he was sleeping. I wonder what thoughts were going through the heads of the Vietnamese filing past, as he is like their George Washington. And whether you think him an evil communist lackey of the Soviet Union or a good nationalist who threw off the colonial yoke, it was impressive to see. The entire grounds is park with the old Presidential Palace, Ho Chi Minh’s house, a museum, and a lake full of carp which he was famous for and we wandered around for the rest of the morning. The afternoon was spent in town checking out some of the random temples and pagodas throughout the city, of which there are probably thousands. One of the temples is called Ngoc Son, and it sits on an island in Hoan Kiem Lake (near the Old Quarter). Legend has it that long ago, Heaven sent down a mythical sword to the then Emperor, who used it to drive the Chinese out of Vietnam. The following day, a giant golden tortoise in Hoan Kiem Lake grabbed the sword back and returned it to its divine owners. A wonderfully bright red bridge connects the island to the shore, and they had on display a tortoise from the lake which reputedly weighted over 500lbs. I also want to mention that night I ate the best hamburger I’d eaten in months. Granted, it was also the first burger I’d eaten in months, but it was legitimately tasty. Day Two was spent on our own, Maggie shopping and getting her nails done, and I off on more manly pursuits. Random temples and pagodas were the goal, but it was the journey which made things interesting. The Vietnamese smoke a kind of waterpipe made of a large piece of bamboo, which is best described as a bong. Sitting in a little pagoda in a tiny alleyway, far away from anything most tourists are interested in, I feel prey to it. I thought it was laced with some kind drug, alas, it was merely tobacco. You only put a little tobacco in a little tube that sticks out the side, light that baby and heave on it as much as you can, before blowing a little gust of air back into the pipe that blows the tobacco out, and then take a big drag again, which in my case was followed by a fit of coughing, choking, burning chest, extreme thirst, teary eyes, stumbling to escape, and echoing laughter at my back. It felt as if I had smoked ten cigarettes at one time, with a can full of Skoal under my lip. I walked the walk of a man who knows he’s drunk, but tries not to show it, which in turn only makes him look drunker to those who are sober. On my way out, I wanted to do a good deed and give to the women who were begging near the pagoda gates. Fishing around for some coinage, and dropping it in, and though I did not recognize it at the time, the looks I got were of scorn and disgust and not that of thanks. I guess I would be disgusted as well if I was begging and someone gave me 3 cents, which is the equivalent that I parted with. Hey, at least I gave 3 cents to both of them. As soon as I got into the alleyway, I began to feel much better and decided it was tobacco after all, and only made it so far before I was invited to sit and drink tea. The fact that I didn’t speak a word of Vietnamese didn’t seem to matter to my host one bit, who preceded to talk at me at length. Meanwhile the best I could come up with is to make “Uuummm” noises as I drink his tea and eat his peanut brittle. I found, without exception, that the Vietnamese were very hospitable and seem more likely to engage you than Cambodians. The fact that I was American mattered not, and no one seems to harbor any ill feelings. In fact, I think they are happy to see us return, as if fences, to some degree, have been mended, and that there is no reason to let our collective pasts get in the way of a future relationship. That, and I am sure they are more than happy to help us part with our Yankee Dollars. I found myself thinking, in forty years, will we be able to travel in Baghdad or Kabul like this? I think not, but I would have said the same thing about Hanoi in 1975. One man, trying to sell us books, when learning that we lived in Cambodia, told us that he had spent some time there and lifted his shirt to show a bullet wound. How far the country has come, but unfortunately not all the people have come with it. A soldier, who most likely had the ill fortune to have fought for the losing side is reduced to selling books to tourists on the street. Day Three took us to the Temple of Literature, which is roughly the first university in Vietnam, its founding dating back to approximately 1070, and existing as a university until 1802, when the capital was moved to Hue. And while not an impressive structure in height or size, it has a certain aura to it. Ringing one of the courtyards are 82 stelae, which look like large tombstones set atop a large stone tortoise. These stelae record the tales of students who passed their examinations and were awarded doctorates, some of them dating back to 1442. Exams were held only once every three years, until 1778, when the practice was discontinued. Following the Temple of Literature, much ice-coffee drinking, walking, shopping, and gnashing of teeth ensued. We were beat down, tired, and took a much needed rest in the afternoon to gain strength for the excitement that the Vietnamese know as “Water Puppets.” We decided to splurge for the $3 first class seats to the show, and I will admit was mighty impressed. The water puppets are puppets that are not controlled by strings from above, but float on the water and are manipulated by tubes and strings running beneath the water by puppeteers behind a screen who must wear waders, since they are in the water as well. The control and motions of the puppets was quite spectacular, and not knowing, one would be forgiven to think some of the animals were actually there. It is a national troupe that performs all over the world, and the performances seemed to be sold out often (we had to buy our tickets one day in advance). The following day was our much unanticipated return back to Svay Rieng, as neither of us were terribly excited about the prospect after such a good time in Hanoi, but I’ll save the debate of the merits of Svay Rieng for another day (pending identification of said merits of Svay Rieng.)
posted by Life in Cambodia @ 3:15 PM
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