Life is good in Hanoi

Travel Story by Betsy Campo

Hanoi, Vietnam

One of the many pleasures of being an ex-pat in Hong Kong is the myriad travel opportunities within the region. Just get out the atlas and see the proximity of all those exotic places! Vietnam is high on the list of desirable destinations for many Hong Kong ex-pats. As an American who grew up with graphic footage of the Vietnam War every night on the evening news, I was dying to go, albeit with a sense of ambivalence and guilt about my homeland's ill-advised presence in Southeast Asia.

I checked out the South China Morning Post for the latest promotional fare, booked some seats on Vietnam Airlines, and off we went! No wait. First, we needed to get a visa... at the Vietnam Consulate General, in the aptly-named 'Great Smart Tower' on Wan Chai Rd. It took about three working days.

On my first visit to Hanoi, though, I was filled with trepidation. Wouldn't the locals hate us? A bunch of round-eyed western tourists, from the land of their former tormentor, the napalm dropping, defoliant-spraying USA. Vivid recollection of My Lai and other horrific war imagery had me debating whether or not to feign a foreign accent to prevent a hostile reception.

Riding in from Hanoi's Noi Bai airport, (a US$12 ride), the landscape is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Lush green rice fields tended by farmers and their loyal water buffalo as far as the eye can see. Ancestral shrines here and there - and every now and then a gigantic billboard, touting the latest in mobile phone technology.

Closer to town, the roads are abuzz with countless scooters, bicycles and motorcycles - each carrying cargo stranger than the previous: a load of propane tanks, a colossal bundle of baskets, a million empty water bottles, a bundle of fragrant flowers; a flock of ducks, a couple of squealing pigs. What fate awaits our fellow travelers? Probably not a petting zoo, alas.

Other vehicles carry their animal cargo post-mortem: drooping wrung necks and rigor mortis trotters dangling and jostling with the flow of traffic. The women, slender and graceful, ride with impeccable posture - often with long gloves to protect their dainty hands, and a surgical mask and hat to avoid the dust and fumes of the roadway.

Once in the city limits, a huge array of roadside vignettes to behold... barbers and ear-cleaners, miniature shrines - a bundle of tangerines festooned with burning joss sticks. Children on their way to school - the girls in white ao dai.

Peek inside the narrow houses – there are televisions blaring and computers blinking while the frenetic morning unfolds outside. Why did I worry? The people of Hanoi were delighted to receive us, and especially our American dollars. The 'American War' is long over - and much of the population is too young to remember anyway.

The image of the 1975 embassy rooftop evacuation, for so long emblematic of our shamed retreat, was fading fast. An aura of energy and optimism was everywhere. Bustling, industrious and noisy; the happy cacophony of scooters, cyclos and street vendors obliterated all notion of war-torn despair. This city had moved on. Phew.

We stayed at the Sofitel Metropole, the Grande Dame of Hanoi. Built in the early 1900s, the elegant french colonial architecture evokes an era of... French colonialism! As oppressive as the French occupation of Indochina was, its legacy is pleasing to the eye.

The staff was friendly and gracious and eager to help us discover their city. They presented us with a detailed map, which they embellished with circles and arrows. So much to see! Equipped with numerous word-of-mouth recommendations from our seasoned Hong Kong friends, and with our indispensable Lonely Planet guidebook, we set out to make a dent in our tourist agenda.

There's the Temple of Literature, the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, and the Hanoi Hilton (Hoa Lo Prison, where US Senator John McCain was famously imprisoned after being shot down during the 'American War'). There are botanical gardens, and Ho Chi Minh's 'Stilt House', where the great leader chose to live and work, scorning the opulence of the Presidential Palace, where the French governor resided prior to being kicked out in 1954.

In the center of it all is Hoan Kiem Lake, the 'Lake of the Restored Sword'. To find out the story behind that, one must go to a performance of the Thang Long Water Puppet Troupe. Getting around was a conundrum. Exiting the not-inconspicuous Metropole, we were sitting ducks. Round one: we opted for a cyclo - actually two cyclos. My daughters in one, me in another. We negotiated a price of US $12.00 each for the round-trip to the 'Uncle Ho' complex of buildings.

Our drivers were charming, and very curious. How old was I? I was rich, wasn't I? Of course I must be. My husband must be a very successful man! How lucky I am to have two such beautiful daughters... But do I have a son? That would be much better! Ha Ha! (We both know he was serious, though... the son is back in Hong Kong, at primary school, where little boys belong!) I smiled through the awkwardness of it all - here I am, a spoiled western tourist reclining lazily while her skinny cyclo driver negotiated the hot squalor of the streets. But they were cheerful. "Ha Ha! You easy! Not too fat!"

Later, they wanted to sign on to serve us for the remainder of our stay. "We ride for you tonight, tomorrow, OK?" Oh no! What had we gotten ourselves into? We wanted to stay flexible - to walk around, or take a car, to take another cyclo. We ended up sneaking out the back of the hotel to avoid our devoted cyclo drivers, discovering Cafe Au Lac. A little gem, with the shade of trees and a few oscillating fans strung up in their branches, it's just the place for a light snack or sandwich. Or, if you're curious, have a vietnamese coffee, a cloyingly sweet rocket fuel that will make you feel invincible. Blissfully, not a Starbucks in sight. At least, not yet...

The next day our fellows are waiting for us out front. Stalkers! So this is how celebrities feel about the paparazzi. (It was funny, but it did get old - and a subsequent ride to the old quarter in a taxi cost us less. We savored our anonymity in the air-conditioned privacy of the car - and didn't miss the quaintness of the cyclo-ride that much, either.)

Breakfast in the dining room at the Metropole: lots of suits, male and female, engaged in purposeful discussion. There is money to be made in Vietnam, and the business world has caught on. Japanese, Chinese and European tourists, like us, flipping through the pages of their Lonely Planets and Fodor's guides. I know what I want. 'More coffee, please.' The perfect accompaniment to the exotic fruits before us: jack fruit, mango, papaya, lychees, and mangosteen. Plus the incongruous array of French pastries, croissants and baguettes. Merci, French invaders! It is said that Vietnam has assimilated many elements of its oppressors' customs into its culture. There's the guillotine at Hoa Lo prison, too. But the baguette is the more appealing leftover, non?

Feeling thus energized, we were ready to see the more mercantile aspect of the city. The '36 Streets' awaited in the city's Old Quarter. In the old days, each of these streets was named for a commodity (silk, paper, tin, hemp) manufactured and sold on that street. Our favorite: Hang Gai (silk street): for crafts, silk clothing, lacquer-ware, water-puppets and various other cool, one-of-a-kind paraphernalia, including a custom-tailored ao dai.

On nearby Hang Bong multiple galleries provided a glimpse into the contemporary Vietnamese art scene - from lush, impressionist images of rural life to uber-abstract, stark, modern painting. Strolling along the shaded streets, we invited a few stares - despite the abundance of westerners there now - and unwittingly encouraged more than a few hawkers to trail us. They had multiple temptations on offer: dvds, and more dvds, pencils & pens, chewing gum, maps, conical hats, 'real' Zippo lighters... or bootleg copies of "The Quiet American" and "The Sorrow of War". They were very persistent. Buying would make us lucky! Or maybe it would make them lucky. Of course we needed a conical hat and a lighter!

We slipped into shops to hide and take a deep breath of air-conditioned air. Often, we bought something in exchange for sanctuary. A Tin-Tin t-shirt, or a set of embroidered napkins; a jade bracelet, or a hand-painted Tet mask. My favorites were water puppets: a flute-playing boy on the back of a water buffalo, and a shiny, lacquered turtle with a sword in its mouth. We accomplished many transactions with frantic gesticulation, awkward laughter and the universal 'thumbs up' when we agreed on a price. The prices were ridiculously low, and it's easy to end up with a huge amount of stuff.

Lots of the elders speak french; but the rising generation speak english and relish the opportunity to flaunt it with their american peers. 'Missy! How is America like?... is everyone very lucky?' Boys offered proposals of marriage to my dumbfounded daughters: 'marry me! hey you, blondie, marry me!' - then zoomed off on their scooters, laughing. One of my daughters was Helen of Troy, she was told.

We donned our conical hats and tried to maneuver through the dusty chaos of the streets. The sidewalks were increasingly difficult to navigate, especially with our entourage of map/book/gum-sellers and love-struck young boys. As the day wore on, little braziers appeared on the sidewalk: juicy chunks of various animals and fowl popped and sizzled away ( our former quacking and oinking companions of the highway - the horror! the horror!). Next to them, pots of burbling soups and 'pho' noodles, intoxicatingly delicious-smelling. The tiny women tending the foods chortled away at our grimaces. Hmm - perhaps not the most hygienic of eateries - but so tempting. Do we pull up one of those tiny plastic chairs and sit? Or is this a family's sidewalk meal, a private affair? It's easy to trip, watch out for the dishes- it's snack-time in Hanoi! Time to shelve the revulsion and indulge the instinct to devour fire-charred meat!

Bicycles and scooters are parked everywhere. The noise is deafening. Time to cross the street - the sidewalk is clear over there. 'One, two, three - Go!' It takes courage to do this - not unlike hurling oneself into a round of high-speed double-dutch jump rope. There's a rhythm to the flow of traffic - no one will hit you... at least that was our mantra when we crossed. We wound around and around until we dead-reckoned ourselves back to the Lake - always a good point for orienting oneself. Time to go back with our loot... and lucky for us our cyclo drivers have found us, slumped at the lakeside in a stupor. "Missy! Missy! There you are! Where you go? We always, always looking for you!!!" ... and just as well. "Cam On! (thank you!) - we so glad to see YOU TOO!!!"

Read more about the author of this story:
Betsy Campo