Vietnam: First Impressions
As soon as we entered Vietnam, through a somewhat remote border crossing in northern Laos, we noticed some significant differences between it and Laos. The first of these differences was most welcome: the rough dirt track was paved, and was entirely down-hill. The old bus slalomed relatively smoothly and effortlessly around the bends and curves into the broad plateau below. As we passed through the wide valley we noticed the next big difference: the lush semi-tropical jungle was gone. It looked drier, and the entire valley was under cultivation. There were acres of corn, ready or almost ready for harvest, and large plots of various vegetables. It was clear from the orderly and well-tended fields that the Vietnamese are serious and accomplished farmers. People were out in the fields hoeing, planting and watering their crops. Despite the large scale of many of the farms, pretty much everything was being done by hand, with hardly a tractor in sight.
The third thing we noticed was that there were a lot more people – everywhere. Even the rural roads were busy, mostly with people on bicycles or motorcycles, as well as farm carts and trucks. Vietnam's population is much much denser than that of Laos, and the majority is young – under 25 years old, or even younger. We saw flocks of school kids everywhere. Towns and villages looked busier, more crowded and more dynamic. Everywhere we looked there was something going on. This was in marked contrast to Laos, where there seemed to be a lot of sitting around. We heard a little saying when we were in Laos that sums up the differences in work ethic between Laos and Vietnam quite aptly: 'the Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow, and the Laotians listen to it grow.'
It took us about an hour to reach Dien Bien Phu. We jumped off the bus near the market. We'd read in another tourist's guide book (ours had no information about Dien Bien Phu) that there was a good cheap hotel somewhere near the market. We tried to remember where the map had said it was. There were absolutely no street signs and no signs in English. Nothing that looked like a hotel anywhere. We tried asking a few locals, but none of them spoke enough English to be of any help. Fortunately a guy on a motorcycle stopped and said “Binh Long Hotel?” I nodded and said “Yes, Binh Long Hotel!” and he pointed down the road. We started walking, and then another fellow on foot saw us and said: “Binh Long Hotel?” and motioned for us to follow him. He lead us there, opened the door for us, said something to the proprietor, and then was off. This was the fourth big difference we noticed about Vietnam: the friendliness, helpfulness and outgoing nature of the people. It's not that the Laotians weren't friendly and helpful – they were. But they were a lot less outgoing: you had to ask for help.
Dien Bien Phu
Dien Bien Phu is a small town with no real tourist attractions other than relics and reminders of its role in the war against the 'French imperialists.' The few tourists who do come here are usually on their way to or from northern Laos, and don't stay more than one night. But we liked the town, and decided to stay a little longer. Perhaps partly because foreigners are still a novelty, we found the people very friendly. Pretty much everyone who saw us waved and smiled. If someone was holding a baby, they'd get it to wave, and encourage it to say 'hello, hello,' and then 'bye-bye, bye-bye.' Very cute. Little children gave us radiant smiles with their 'hellos;' school kids on bikes almost toppled over as they twisted around to call out their 'hellos.' If they were walking, some of the school kids would stop to conduct little conversations with us, proudly demonstrating the English phrases they've learned in school: 'hello how are you, I am fine, where are you from, what is your name, and bye-bye!' Most adults, if not quite so effervescent, were just as friendly, trying their best to say a word or two. We felt like celebrities. They were particularly fascinated by Doug's height (they are very diminutive, few of them over five feet tall) and my grey hair (even in old age their hair remains black as black). It was a charming introduction to a new country – we were glad we'd landed up here in this friendly little backwater instead of flying, say, into Hanoi, where we expect the reception would have been decidedly different.
Dien Bien Phu is a great city for walking. The streets are broad, many tree-lined, and almost all have sidewalks, a rarity in many parts of Asia. They are also almost free of vehicular traffic: there are almost no private cars here, and very few buses. People walk, generally purposefully: they've got somewhere to go. Towards late afternoon we saw several couples and pairs of women wearing sneakers. They were out for their daily exercise, striding up a hill that overlooks the town. Those who can afford it ride motorcycles, mostly shiny new Hondas in an assortment of gay colours. They particularly like red, but we saw pink, lime green and purple – and almost no black - ones. Most of the drivers wear helmets to match, or in a contrasting colour. Pink helmets are particularly popular, especially for men. And many helmets are decorated with sparkles or floral designs: they're fashion statements as much as head protectors. It was not unusual to see whole families mounted on one motorbike – the littlest one in front of the driver, sometimes strapped into a front-pack, but usually 'loose,' then the driver, then the older kid, sandwiched in between the driver and another adult perched on the back.
Both bicycles and motorcycles are also used to transport all manner of goods. Bicycles are of the sturdy upright variety, with no gears. All of them have big baskets in front of the handlebars, many have plastic baskets hung from both sides, and most have some form of rack on the back for carrying boxes, bags, buckets and briefcases. We've also seen cargo bicycles. These have 'industrial strength' frames, and sturdy oversize wheels and tires. Big metal bars extend out from either side of the frame, just behind the handle bars. Huge woven baskets hang over the bars. They're big and deep enough to hold a couple of people: I watched as one woman unloaded dozens of boxes from one of them, and then climbed into it to retrieve some bags that had settled to the bottom. When she bent over, she almost disappeared. I could only imagine how heavy they must be when they're fully loaded: I had watched her arrive, struggling to push the bike up onto the sidewalk to unload. These women are strong!
Most motorcycles are also equipped with sturdy wooden racks on the back. It's not unusual to see someone transporting several large boxes, or sacks of rice, or a couple of pigs in a wire cage, on the back of their motorbike. We've seen guys holding ladders, lengths of metal pipe and re-bar, and even a bicycle as they ride along. One morning, very early (before dawn) we watched a noisy 'warehouse sale' across the street from our hotel. Dozens of customers arrived on motorcycles, bought cases of Coca-cola, and large weighty boxes with contents unknown, and stacked them all on racks fixed to the back of their bikes. They were piled higher than the driver, and extended well out on either side: heavy and precarious loads for a two-wheeled vehicle: the drivers would start off slowly, weaving drunkenly until they gathered enough speed to keep the whole works moving forward.
'Rush hour' in Dien Bien Phu looks like the Tour de France. When the light at an intersection is red, there may be 20-30 cyclists ranged out along the 'starting line.' When the light turns green, they all surge forward in a pack. The motorcyclists are right behind them, looking for an opening, and then weaving through and zooming ahead. Cars and trucks often don't bother to stop at intersections. They start honking their horns well before they get there, and just keep blasting away as they sail through. It's up to everyone else to stop. Might is right.
Although it's dusty at this time of year, Dien Bien Phu is quite a picturesque place, primarily because of the wonderful French colonial architecture of the buildings. In the residential areas, the houses are very narrow, often only one room wide, and two to three stories tall. Although they're made of cement, they have a light, almost lyrical feel to them. They look a little like dolls, houses, with lots of fenestrated windows, elegant columns, balustraded balconies, and beautiful wooden doors. Many are decorated with ornately carved designs – flowers, animals and geometric patterns – all sculpted out of wet cement. The Vietnamese are master sculptors, and they know how to work cement. The houses are usually painted in subdued pastel colours, and the design features in brighter, often contrasting colours. The houses are built cheek by jowl, the side of one right butting up against its neighbour, so all that's visible is their facades. Each one of them is a pleasure to look at. As a group, they look almost magical, like something out of a child's story book. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Cinderella or Snow White – some fairy princess in a wedding-cake dress – standing in one of the doorways.
Government buildings, of which there are many, tend to be elegant and stately, with formal gardens and topiaried shrubs out front. We saw little evidence of activity in any of them, and no one coming in or going out. As usual in communist countries, government functions occur at considerable remove from the people. There were a few grand old hotels, also mostly empty – were they ever full? But one of my favourite features was the series of street lights on the main boulevard through town. These were clear plexiglass tubes, around two feet in diameter, and fifteen feet tall, spaced around twenty feet apart down the middle of the boulevard. At night the whole tube was lit up with day-glow colours. They each had four or five separate sections, and the colours of each section were not only different, but changed every few seconds, from yellow to blue to purple to green to orange. They didn't give off an awful lot of light, but they were colourful and fun to watch. It was worth going out at night just to see them!
Dining Out in Dien Bien Phu
The only problem we encountered in Dien Bien Phu was finding somewhere to eat. Because there are so few tourists there, and the majority of Vietnamese people are much to poor to eat out, there are very few restaurants. There were a few 'com and pho' (rice and noodle soup) eateries, although inexplicably these tended to be closed at lunch. There were also a good number of 'cafes,' but they served only drinks, no food! So we frequently ended up at the rather grotty local market where we took our chances with bowls of noodle soup and cooked tofu. We found a decent pho place one night, and went back there a couple of days later, after having a particularly dreadful, and ridiculously expensive, meal at a different place. When we got there the second time the pho place was packed: apparently it was an office party. We walked slowly past their tables eying their food carefully, so we'd be able to order something other than pho soup by simply saying; “we'll have some of that,” and pointing to one of their dishes.
Two young Vietnamese fellows were sitting by themselves at a table a little further towards the back of the 'restaurant.' As soon as they saw us one of them called us over and asked if we wanted to eat something. We said we did, and that we'd like to order some dishes like the ones they had infront of them. In formal, but very broken English, he said he would help us to order our food. Then he changed his mind and said: “I would like to invite you to eat with us please. I invite you to sit down please.” And so we did. As it turned out, the two young men, Quang Hu'ng and Anh Tuan, were journalists from Hanoi, in Bien Dien Phu to do some interviews and write some articles for their newspapers. Quang works for a paper that specializes in 'government administration,' and Anh for one that focuses on the culture and development of ethnic minorities.
Like Cuba, Vietnam's press is entirely controlled by the state: journalists are not free to write 'stories' on subjects of their own choosing. The papers are pretty much filled with government propaganda. But their English was too limited for us to discuss their jobs in any kind of depth. We talked instead about Vietnam, Canada, the food, and smoking. The Vietnamese (and also the Laotians) are heavy smokers. Quang pretty much chain smoked throughout his dinner. They were surprised when we told them that few westerners smoke any more. They knew that cigarettes were bad for their health, and pointed to a message on the cigarette package which they said stated as much. “But it is too hard to quit!” Quang said. Given the huge population of Asia, the fact that much of it is under 20 years of age, and that Asians seem to love cigarettes, I feel confident that the cigarette companies will continue to rake in huge profits, no matter how much whining they are doing now about increased regulations and reduced sales in the western world.
Quang and Anh were drinking the local, and rather potent rice wine from a recycled plastic drinking water bottle. They asked the waitress to bring a couple more cups – these were small one-shot cups like the Japanese use for saki – and filled them to the brim, insisting that we 'bottoms up' with them. They thought of endless things we could drink to: that we said we liked Vietnam, that we said we'd look them up in Hanoi, that I said I was also writing stories – any excuse was good enough. Doug taught them the word 'cheers,' and when he explained to Anh that this meant 'happy,' Anh said “I don't know cheers, but I know happy, so happy cheers!” and emptied his glass once again. Then he said what sounded like 'war face.' We looked at him puzzled. “War face,” he repeated. “When I drink wine I get war face,” and he pointed to his very red face. Ah “red face!” we laughed. “Me too!” I said, again occasioning a reason for us all to have another drink and bottoms up.
The food was good: little plates of various things – some sliced potatoes, some small fish that they (not I) ate whole, except for the heads, which remained on the plate as sad reminders of better days for fish, some boiled greens, some tofu, and some slices of cooked pork. And of course a large bowl of steamed rice. We all had our little bowls that we filled with rice, and then added bits of whatever else we fancied. Anh kept teasing me by using his chopsticks to put a fish in my bowl. Quang chopsticked it out: “She not liking fish!” and put it instead in Doug's bowl. Doug put it into Anh's, and on round the table it went. We all had a good time. Despite our protestations, Quang and Anh insisted on paying the bill. They gave us their business cards and we promised we'd look them up in Hanoi, and take them out for dinner.
Bien Dien Phu to Sa Pa: Up, Up, Up
The next day we got up at 5:30 am to catch a 6:00 am mini-van for Sa Pa, a small town, perched high up in the mountains north and east of Dien Bien Phu. The van was right on time, and looked like it was fairly new and in reasonably good condition. We picked up a few more passengers before we left town, and were full by the time we got properly underway. But that didn't stop the driver from picking up several more passengers along the way, and by the time we'd reached the half-way point, around three hours into our journey, the van was well over capacity.
The Vietnamese are famous for getting car-sick, and it wasn't long before the first passenger started throwing up. There was a 'first aid' bag hanging off the back of the driver's seat. As it turned out, the 'first aid' was a bunch of plastic vomit bags. Once one started, others of course joined in. Luckily they're experienced vomitters: they all managed to throw up into the bags, after which they quickly tossed them out the nearest open window. Along the roadside, which was otherwise surprisingly devoid of litter, we could see dozens of used vomit bags. At one point we stopped to pick up two women and two men. One of the women, when she saw the sickest-looking of the passengers, blanched visibly, put a large handkerchief over her mouth and stepped back, not wanting to board. Her friends urged her forward. “Get in, get in!” Still she hesitated. The only available seats were in the very back of the van – the worst place for those who suffer motion sickness. She pointed towards the front, which was full, hoping someone might be willing to squeeze over. No one budged, and the driver, who wanted to get going, motioned impatiently for her to get in the back. She looked queasy in anticipation, desperately clutching her hankie over her mouth and nose, and climbed into a seat directly behind us. Her companions looked almost as stricken as she did – these were people not accustomed to traveling.
The thought of all of these people, sitting right behind me, far away from the 'first aid' bag and vomiting their way to our destination was disgusting in the extreme. But I had the answer: some packets of motion-sickness pills that I carry, just in case (as a kid I was prone to car-sickness – now I'm affected only on boats). I pulled all I had – three packets of two pills each, and one with only one – out of my backpack. I turned to face the woman, and held them up, demonstrating with explicit sign language what they were for. Her face brightened. She let go her hankie and grabbed them quick. With her other hand she picked up a bottle of water, pointing to it and asking in sign language if she was meant to swallow the pills. I nodded yes, and repeated the sign language, this time thinking to add that the pills would also put her to sleep. I held out the rest of the packets towards her companions. They all took one. The one who only got one was clearly disappointed, but I wondered if having given them two a piece was in fact too much: how accustomed were they to taking any medications at all, other than herbal remedies? Sure enough, within half an hour all four of them were fast asleep, and none threw up. Good for them; even better for us!
The road was in a sorry state: mile after mile had been dug up, with great piles of dirt and gravel beside and on the road, making progress rough and very slow. The van's tires and suspension took quite a beating as it crawled through deep mud-holes, over uneven rocks and around big boulders. In some places, backhoes were busy ripping things apart, digging up cavernous ditches on either side of the road, and clawing great bucket-fulls of dirt down from steep slopes on the uphill side. A Scottish guy we met on the road put it well when he said: “These people are fearless. Give them a digger and they'll take off half a mountainside in a morning. It's amazing!” Amazing and scary – they seem to have no idea of the consequences of their actions – and they seem to delight in doing them on such a large scale!
But more frequently we saw small groups of workers, women as well as men, working bare-handed with shovels and hoes. None of them wore gloves. They carried rocks by hand, or used ancient wooden wheel-barrows with metal wheels to ferry them from one place to another. At this rate, and given the massive scale of what had already been started, it was difficult to imagine how the road would ever be finished. Whole towns and villages were badly affected by the road works – everything was coated in dust, a new layer added with each passing vehicle. Not only their main road, but also their sidewalks had been dug up: they had to pick their way over rocks and around mud puddles to get from one place to another. I wondered how long they'd been putting up with the mess, and how much longer they would have to continue putting up with it... .
But perhaps the greatest problem with the road construction is the potential it is creating for truly massive landslides. The slopes were almost all dirt: there were only a few solid-looking rocky areas. When the rains come, they tend to be heavy – monsoon-like – and they can last for weeks. Much of northern Vietnam, including Hanoi, was underwater just weeks ago. The rains will turn this dirt into rivers of mud. Already we could many areas where the raw denuded slopes had subsided, great masses of dirt and boulders sloughed off from the higher part of the slope, now looming threateningly over the newly built road. Some had carried trees, shrubs and large boulders down with them. We had to stop several times as bull-dozers cleared the road ahead. It seems unbelievable that the road planners and builders are constructing these roads with what appears to be no consideration of geotechnical factors. There was plenty of evidence of old slide areas – has nothing been learned? We're glad it's the dry season now. The biggest hazard we have to contend with is the possibility that, as a result of the poor condition of the roads and vehicles, or perhaps the driver himself (they drive for long hours, and think nothing of having a few shots of whisky with their lunch, or breakfast), we might end up in a crash, or tumbling off the unguarded edge of a narrow road, down the mountainside and into sure oblivion. We definitely wouldn't want to have to contend with the additional hazard of wet, slippery, muddy roads.
We got to Lao Chau, a fairly large town, around noon – six hours after we left Dien Bien Phu. We all piled out for lunch. The folks I'd given the pills to woke up happy and proceeded to chow down with gusto, smiling away at me in thanks for having saved them from certain puking hell. Meanwhile I was getting a headache – the ride had been too long and uncomfortable – and we still had to get to Sa Pa, some two to three hours away, and entirely up hill. After he'd had his lunch, our driver let us know that he wasn't going any further. He pointed to a local bus, the usual battered and worn-out old wreck, but tarted up with curtains on the window, and said 'Sa Pa.' We got on, and spent the next half-hour or so circling around the town as the ticket-taker stood in the doorway of the bus calling out “Sa Pa, Sa Pa,” trying to snare a few more passengers. No one volunteered. Then we rolled into the bus station, about a block from where we'd started, and were told that we had to change to another bus. Our 'new' bus was even more decrepit and dubious-looking than the first. And it had no curtains! We sat there waiting for who knows what for another half-hour or so. At one point we watched one bus push another one to get it started. This was not looking promising.
Our bus slowly filled up with passengers and cargo, and off we went. Again we picked up passengers, and their sacks and bundles, as we went, until the bus was pretty much crammed with people and goods. To say that it was overloaded would be putting it mildly. Doug counted almost 30 passengers on a bus meant for 15. And there must have been at least that many sacks of rice, onions, corn, clothes, etc. in the aisles and stacked on the back seats. We were all sandwiched in there, like so many sardines, unable to move, and certainly unable to get out if we wanted – or needed – to.
The road to Sa Pa was possibly the worst road I have ever been on. First it was also under construction, so slow and bumpy and unbelievably dusty. (The people here wisely cover their noses and mouths with masks or scarves. Unfortunately we had neither.) It was also entirely up-hill, which made for a noisy ride as the old engine laboured to lug its cargo up. And it wound back and forth like a snake, one hairpin curve after another, switchbacking its way up the mountainside. The driver went round one curve after another, as fast (and reckless) as possible, and the shockless bus swayed violently with each turn. My headache got progressively worse. Now I was feeling nauseous. I started counting the kilometres left t to go – twenty, nineteen, eighteen... . By the time we reached Sa Pa I was more of a wreck than the bus, hardly able to stand up, let alone walk. A gaggle of touts was there waiting for the arrival of our bus. They accosted us with their cards, thrusting them under our noses, all wanting us to follow them to 'their hotel.' I couldn't stand the din of their loud entreaties, or the smell of their cigarettes, and left Doug to fend for the two of us. He eventually agreed to follow a particularly insistent young woman, who said her hotel was about a kilometre away, and pointed up a dismayingly steep looking hill.
Somehow I managed to drag myself, dragging my suitcase behind me, up the hill. I was moving very slowly, and felt my head pounding with every step. The young woman kept up a constant stream of high-pitched chatter until Doug told her – for the third time - to can it. When we got to the top, she informed us that her hotel was another twenty minutes' walk, and waved towards a street that was at that point level, but who knew where it went from there... . “Too far,” I said. “Too far to walk.” We were in a little square, and there were hotels all round it, so we decided we'd take a look at them. Our girl was disappointed, and sat down on a nearby bench – perhaps hoping that we'd find these hotels too expensive, or not to our liking, and put ourselves in her hands once more. Fat chance. I sat at a little outdoor restaurant and waited as Doug looked for a room. He found one right there with hot water and a soft bed. Good enough. I lay down, covered myself with a quilt, and waited for my head to stop spinning... .
Sa Pa
Every once in a while, when you're on the road, you meet someone with whom, despite the vast differences in your backgrounds, cultures, and lives, and the lack of a shared language, you connect on a level that transcends all of these superficialities: heart to heart. So it was with Son, a wiry little Hmong woman in Sa Pa, northern Vietnam, who I met in the typical way that most foreigners meet the Hmong – she was one of several Hmong women tagging along after us as we walked through the Sa Pa market, trying to sell us handcrafts. The Hmong are excellent business people who have adapted well to foreign tourism. It was Hmong women who were smuggling the Thai rice and Red Bull drinks on our bus ride from Laos into Vietnam. They are everywhere in Sa Pa, the tourist mecca of northern Vietnam. No tourist there walks alone; they are always accompanied by a gaggle of Hmong women, sometimes literally hanging off their coat tails, pleading: “Buy from me! Buy from me!” We always respond in the same way: “Not buying; no buy!” We don't want to increase the bulk or weight of what we're carrying with us and, equally importantly, we don't want them to get their hopes up thinking that, if they persist long enough, we will buy. After all, most of the tourists here, and elsewhere, are here to buy – and they are desperate.
We carried on walking through the market, Son and the others doggedly traipsing after us – “buy this purse, buy from me, very nice, you like...” We didn't really know where we were going; we were just out for a ramble to 'see the sights,' whatever they were. We intended to stop only one night in Sa Pa – it was too cold to stay any longer, and the town was too 'touristy.' Son was holding two little tubes covered in brightly-coloured fabrics. I'd seen several of the women carrying these, trying to sell them to tourists, and I wondered what they were. I threw caution to the wind and asked Son to show me what they were. Her face was bright and her fingers nimble as she unwrapped a string from around one end of the tube, and then tipped it on end to allow a little brass mouth-harp to fall into her hand. She put it to her lips and made an impressive array of sounds – clearly she was an expert at one-minute mouth-harp demonstrations – finishing with “You buy one? Buy two!” By this time all of the other women had their mouth-harps out at well, keen to get in on whatever sale might be about to happen: “By from me, buy from me!” The competition was fierce, but friendly.
I said again, “No buy, no buy; very nice but no buy. Now going for walk; now walking.” Son put the harp back in its little bamboo sheath, carefully re-wrapped the string, and said: “Maybe later you buy, after you walk.” I hesitated just a moment – there was something about her – and the harps were cute, and small – good gifts for children we might meet on our travels... . In that moment's hesitation Son saw her opportunity to get me more securely on the hook: she told me her name, Son, and asked me my name. The Hmong are excellent mimics, and they find the English language particularly easy to learn: she repeated my name perfectly. Since being in Vietnam I have attracted quite a lot of attention because of my white hair. White hair is extremely uncommon here. Many people have pointed to it, and then pointed to their own black hair, shaking their heads and smiling; a few have even reached out and touched it to see if it's real. Now Son looked at it and asked: “How old you?” I showed her five fingers, and then eight: fifty-eight. “How old you?” I asked. “Forty-five,” she answered without any hesitation. “You speak good English” I said. She smiled. “Where you from?” “Canada,” I said, “very cold, like here; here very cold!” She laughed as I hugged myself and shivered. (It really is cold in Sa Pa, which is at very high elevation and now definitely into it's winter weather.)
“You have children?” she asked. I said “yes, two, one girl, one boy, now big. One of our children, our boy, now has children – two small, one just a baby. You have children?” She surprised me a little when she said “three,” as many tribal women have large families – too large. I asked if her children were back at home. “No, in school. All in school.” I said “Good, good they are in school; more chance to make good business. Where is school?” She said one was in school here in Sa Pa, and the other two, presumably the older ones, were in school in a more distant city. As Sa Pa is large enough to have more than one high school, I took that to mean that her older children might actually be at a college or university – at least pursuing some form of higher education.
We were later told, by a young Vietnamese tour and travel agent, that the Vietnamese government has recently made a decision to fund education for ethnic minorities, including paying for their books. Other Vietnamese must pay to go to school, a significant hardship for many families. And despite the fact that Son's family doesn't have to pay to send her kids to school, her family still suffers a significant financial loss: while they're in school, the kids are not available to work to help support the family. I wanted to let Son know that I understood what it meant for her to send her kids to school – not only that she valued education, and wanted to give them that gift, those future opportunities, but that she herself was willing to work and to sacrifice that much more to make it happen. Her children are fortunate. In a country this poor, and among a people who themselves are just barely eking out a living, the concept of education as something of value is rare. I put my hand on Son's arm, and looked into her eyes: “Good for you, Son. Good for you to send your kids to school.” That's when we made the connection. She realized that I understood – if only just a little – how hard it was for her, and that I validated her decision, and honoured her for making it.
In addition to their brightly coloured costumes, I had noticed that many Hmong women wore one or more unusual silver 'necklaces.' The back of the necklace was solid, encircling their neck and ending in a couple of flattened and elongated hooks that were carved with delicate swirling motifs. From these hooks hung a length of simple silver chain, completing the circle. Son wore one such necklace. It looked older and more finely worked than the necklaces the other girls were wearing. I asked her about it. “My mother's,” she said. “It was my mother's.” Seeing my interest, a couple of the other girls offered to sell their necklaces to me. One asked if my little turtle earrings were silver – maybe I would like to trade...? I said no, they weren't silver, just cheap metal, but cute. And no, I didn't want to buy a necklace, but liked the way they looked on them. The young women were particularly beautiful, with even, strong white teeth, lovely smiles that lit up their healthy glowing faces. I could see the round of “Buy from me” was about to start again, so I said “now we walk.” Now Son touched my arm and said, “I wait here. You come back from walk, you remember me.” I turned to face her, looked into her eyes and said: “I remember you. I remember your necklace; I remember your face; I remember the mark upon your forehead; I remember you.” She smiled again. “I see you when you come back.” And I knew, whenever we got back, she would find us.
As it turned out, we were on the road that lead down – way down – to Cat Cat village, one of the many Hmong villages near Sa Pa. It is also the closest one, within an hour's walking distance, so it's one many tourists visit. Although we're not keen on traipsing through ethnic villages – it can feel a little like visiting a zoo to look at all the weird and wonderful animals – “Oh look, there's a little Hmong baby!” - we decided to go anyway, if only just for the exercise. As it turned out, it was a beautiful walk, down a narrow set of stone stairs, through terraced gardens planted with rice and all sorts of different vegetables, past rude houses made of wood, bamboo and palm thatch. There were the usual assortment of bare-footed, bare-bottomed kids with red cheeks and snotty noses, playing in the dirt. A few had plastic sandals, one or two were sporting real rubber boots. At every house there was at least one table set up out front with purses, earrings, little dolls, shirts, shawls and cold drinks for sale. A few of the locals called out to us to “buy from me,” but on the whole it was pretty low key. These people were accustomed to foreigners traipsing through, and paid us little attention. Friendly enough, but busy with their own affairs.
At the bottom of the valley we came to the river and a set of waterfalls where we stopped and had a couple of cold drinks. It was well after noon, and the sun had finally burned off the heavy morning mist, providing just enough warmth that we were able to remove one layer. We started on the long climb back up the other side of the valley, again on a stone path with several sets of stairs. After a while the path leveled out and we came to a suspension bridge, old and worn but newly painted, which at least made it look more reliable. On the other side we were met by a young fellow with a motorbike helmet. He offered to take us back up the hill. We saw only one bike. We decided we'd keep walking. We hadn't gone far when two other motorbikes came down the hill towards us. We recognized them both as fellows we'd seen when we'd started up top – Sonny and Kuhn. They'd offered us rides down, and when we said “no thanks, we'll walk,” they said “o.k., but maybe you ride back up. Remember me,” Sonny had said, pointing to his pink helmet. “My name Sonny!” I said “I'll remember you – pink helmet!” I laughed when I saw him, and said “Pink helmet! How much for ride back up?” After a bit of haggling we agreed on a price.. Knowing my abject fear of motorbikes (a legacy of my accident in Cuba) Doug reminded me to hold on to the bar behind the seat, not to Sonny. Sonny passed me his pink helmet. I put it on, only later thinking of the lice that might be lurking within. I took a deep breath, exhaled my fear, and mounted the bike, gripping the bar behind me with both hands.
Sonny was a good driver. The road was only roughly paved, and very steep, with several switch-backs. He took those slowly. Although I never let go of the bars at the back, and can't say that I relaxed, I did manage to enjoy the ride, and even looked around a little, watching the valley as it sank further and further below us. It was great not to have had to walk all the way back up – worth facing my fears for. We were dropped off at the market, and were hungry by the time we got to the top. I didn't see Son, but that was hardly surprising. She undoubtedly had other fish to hook, and fry. We debated whether we'd have a bowl of soup at the market, or go on up to town and eat in a restaurant. As we were lingering over that decision, Son came up behind us and said “Hello! I find you! I saw you on motorbike. You tired?” I said no, not tired, but hungry, and patted my stomach. “You eat at market?” she asked. “Maybe,” I said. “We see.” She came along with us to the centre of the market, where an orderly collection of wooden tables and benches were permanently assembled. For every four or so tables there's a crude 'kitchen' where a mum and pop, or a couple of sisters or friends, cook up soups, rice, various meats (dog?) and vegetables – the precursor of the modern food court. We looked it over. At this point, a little after one pm, it wasn't too busy. The gal at the first set of tables called for us to come eat at her 'restaurant.' I turned to Son, “This one good?” I asked. She just smiled, but I saw her eyes were focused on another set of tables where several Hmong women were eating. “Over there,” I said. “That one looks good. Many people eating. Food must be good.” Generally speaking, we eat at places where we see the locals eating. They know where the food is good.
We walked over to the line of tables where a half dozen Hmong women were sitting. They looked up at us and smiled. The proprietress motioned for us to sit down, and handed us some menus. She cleared a few dishes away, and wiped the table off. Both it and the various things on it looked pretty clean. The company looked even more inviting. So we sat down. I asked Son if she was hungry, but she said “I finish, you eat.” I showed her the menu, written in Vietnamese and English, and pointed to 'noodle soup with vegetables' and 'noodle soup with chicken.' She put her finger beside mine and said “yes.” Again I said “you hungry? Sit down, eat soup.” She remained standing. One of the young girls across the table said: “She can't read. None of us can read. Only her,” and she nodded in the direction of the Vietnamese proprietress. “She hungry, but she shy.” I asked the young girl if she thought that Son would like to have a bowl of soup. “Yes, she like, but she too shy.” So I turned to Son and said “Son, sit down. We buy you soup. You like chicken soup? Sit down!” She sat down beside me. Our shoulders were touching; I could feel her happiness.
Over noodle soups we chatted with the Hmong girls and Son. Several other women joined us, eager to be a part of the discussion, even if they could only understand bits and pieces of it. The young women spoke very good English. They said they had learned it from talking to foreigners. They could repeat any word or phrase I said flawlessly, whether they knew what it meant or not. They said that they spoke more English than Vietnamese. “Vietnamese is very difficult to learn. English easy.” English is also much more useful to them, from a business perspective, than Vietnamese, so they are motivated. As usual they all wanted to know where we came from, if we had children, and what we did at home. The two young women both had two children. One of them said she was twenty-five. She had a five-year old and a three-year old child. I asked when she would have her next baby. “Maybe no more,” she said. “Two enough.” I said “Yes, two enough. Sometimes two too many! Hard work!” and asked her where her children were. “At home with grandmother.” Likely she is one of the major income earners for the family. Doug asked her how business was. “Not so good today, but o.k.” I asked if they lived in the village we had just visited. They laughed. “No, we live far away, in other village. Three hours. One and one half hours walking, one and one half hours bus.” And they come to Sa Pa every day, carrying their goods, and little babies, if they have them, on their backs.
Doug asked if he could take some photos, and they agreed without hesitation. I remembered that I had my computer with me. I don't generally carry it around, but we'd been using it that morning, and I hadn't taken it back up to the room before we went off walking. So after he took the photos I took the memory card out of his camera and put it into the computer. First I showed them the few photos I had of our grandchildren – the petit and blond-haired little Amelia, and a chubby baby Ben. They loved them both. To them, fairness is goodness, almost godliness. The fact that, in the photo, Amelia was wearing a sparkly white fairy dress with a full skirt just added to the princess effect. Then I showed them the photos Doug had just taken, of them and me, eating our bowls of soup. “Magic,” I said, pointing to the computer. “Magic,” they agreed. And of course, it is, for both them and me. Everyone around us wanted to have a look, and there was a fair crowd behind me by the time I figured we could either go on for hours, looking at photos of Laos, Malaysia, India, and even B.C., or I could close the cover and say so long. I closed the cover; it was time to go. Doug paid for the soups. Son asked if we had paid for her soup. When I assured her that we had, she again glowed with pleasure: these foreigners had invited her for lunch!
We were about to take our leave when Son pulled out the little coloured tubes. “You buy from me?” She was laughing even as she said it. I'd already decided I would, so we began the process of bargaining. She wanted 40,000 dong, which is the equivalent of $3 Canadian. I offered her 35,000. “No, no, 40,000!” she said. We haggled back and forth just for the fun of it. We both knew that I would give her 40,000. I knew I would like to give her so much more... . So in the end I gave her 40,000 dong and she gave me the little tubes. It was time to say 'good-bye.' Again I looked right into her eyes and said “We go to our hotel now Son. We say good-bye.” She started to raise her hand to shake mine, but instead I reached out and gave her a hug: “My sister Son,” I said, “good luck with your business. I will remember you.” There were tears in her eyes. “I remember too.” As we walked away I felt happy that we had lunched with Son and her friends, been able to share the photos with them, and happy that we had made a more meaningful connection than just buying some trinkets from the natives. But sad, heavy of heart, at the circumstances beyond either of our control, that make my life so easy, and hers so terribly hard.
We weren't more than a couple of blocks from the market when I felt a tugging at my sleeve. I turned, and there was Son. She was holding out a little silver bracelet. “For you,” she said. I thought she wanted me to buy it, so I said “No thank-you Son, I cannot buy.” But she said “No buy. I give to you. I give. You keep. Remember me.” Now there were tears in both our eyes. She said to Doug “I cry again!” I hugged her again, good-bye, good luck, and she was gone. The next day, as we were driving out of Sa Pa, along the road that I thought likely passed her village, I looked for her. I had a little woven bracelet from Mexico that I wanted to give her. But we didn't see her. Still I think she will remember me. I know that I will remember her.
Sa Pa to Bac Ha
We enjoyed a wonderfully sedate ride down the mountain from Sa Pa to Lao Cai in an almost new Mercedes mini-van with only a few other passengers and no cargo. I had not been looking forward to the trip, in fear that we'd be on yet another overloaded old bus with a young yahoo driver careening down a narrow road with no barriers between us and the sheer drops over the mountainside. But our driver was an older fellow, and he drove the road, which was paved throughout, slowly and carefully. It's likely he did so more in consideration of his new vehicle than the comfort and safety of his passengers, but either way it was grand. I was able to actually enjoy the vistas. The terraced mountainsides , and the networks of walking paths reminded me of the South American Andes. The terraces are lovely to look at, outlining the undulating contours of the slopes in a cascade of steps. From some angles, the mountainsides look like massive staircases. Their beauty is enhanced, in my mind, when I think of the decades, perhaps centuries, of human toil that went into their making, and still goes into their maintenance. All done by hand. Truly a magnificent tribute to the tribal people who have lived here since time out of mind.
But unlike the Andes, which are organized in a series of fingers, all flowing out of one central ridge, the mountains here are all in a jumble. Some terrible forces heaved the rocks up this way and that; some gentler forces have softened their contours, and covered them over with lush vegetation. Because the climate is warmer, and the majority of the mountains not as high as the Andean slopes, it is possible to grow a much wider variety of crops. Rice, as always, is the main one. But here there are also all sorts of greens, beans, potatoes, corn, tomatoes, carrots, onions, and several kinds of squash. The local markets reflect this bounty, with little mountains of vegetables piled on tables or tarps on the ground, all fresh and plump and rich in colour: the corn is orange! Farmers fertilize their crops with animal manure, and we've seen them buying bags of chemical fertilizers as well. We've also seen them out in the fields, wielding back-pack sprayers. They wear no masks or gloves to protect them from the undoubtedly toxic cocktails of pesticides and herbicides that chemical companies like Monsanto continue to sell over here long after they've been banned in most western countries because of concerns about both human safety and environmental impact. It's a crime, but only one of many perpetrated by the west: pharmaceutical companies dump post-dated drugs; cigarette companies hand out cigarettes to children. And much of the country is still littered with unexploded bombs, its ground still toxic from chemicals used during the war.
We were dropped in the central square in Lo Cai, just infront of the train station. There were no buses or mini-vans in sight – just a few guys with motorcycle taxis and one or two real (ie. vehicle) taxis. A young fellow emerged from a guest house-restaurant-tour company door and invited us to store our bags inside while we waited for a bus to Bac Ha. I was skeptical, but he insisted “no charge, free,” so we followed him inside. Once he had us in there he informed us that there were no buses going to Bac Ha that day – the big market that draws all the tourists is Sunday, and this was just Friday – but that he could arrange one for us. “How much?” Doug asked. “One hundred dollars U.S.” the guy responded, completely straight-faced. We both laughed, grabbed our bags and asked him where the local bus station was. He pointed down the road.
The local bus was the usual wreck, and we had to wait an hour before it left, but it cost only $4 a piece. And it was an experience. We'd only just got started when we stopped at a roadside 'warehouse' – the sidewalk was covered with boxes, baskets, and bags. Several women and a few men were waiting, and everyone went to work loading the cargo first on the top of the bus, and then into the back seats and the aisle, until the thing was stuffed to the gills. Doug watched as they loaded the top: 6 five gallon containers of diesel fuel, 20-25 large heavy boxes, a half-dozen even larger and sacks (it took two guys to lift them) placed on top of the boxes, and several dozen plastic stacking chairs, all covered with a tarp. I watched the stuff coming in – more big boxes, sacks of rice and vegetables, machinery and construction materials. Only a few passengers got on at this point, but as usual we picked up dozens more along the way. The first half of our route was through a fairly level valley with many small villages. Just before we started to climb, we stopped to pick up a group of tribal people – three women and a man. Two of the women looked at the bus, crammed with passengers, and decided not to get on. But the man eventually convinced them, and they squeezed into the door. Passengers who were already sitting on sacks in the aisles shoved back, now sitting in the laps of those behind them, and the two women picked their way over the sacks and around the legs of passengers who, sitting two to a seat, were half in the aisles, and sat themselves down on a sack beside me. One of them was young – perhaps 16 or so, but the other was very old – too old to be sitting on a sack.
Somehow the ticket-taker managed to thread his way through the crowded bus, collecting fares according to when the person had boarded and how far they were going. When he came to her, the old lady protested, pointing to the sack she was sitting on, and then to the seats. It was clear she didn't think she should have to pay full fare. The ticket-taker wasn't having any of it, but she continued to argue until the younger gal shushed her and paid the fare for both of them. I admired the feistiness of the old gal. Furthermore she was right. None of us should have had to pay full fare. I wondered how much was paid for each box and sack. But the Vietnamese people are long suffering. No one else complained – they almost never do. They just move over and move on.
We climbed for well over an hour, up a barely one-lane road that twisted its way around the mountainsides. Fortunately there was little traffic; we met almost no vehicles coming down. Eventually we got to the top – high, but not as high as Sa Pa – to the dusty little town of Bac Ha. As usual, I sat in the sun with our bags while Doug looked for a hotel. He managed to find a good one – the nicest one we've stayed in yet – and we were the only people there for the first night. There were very few other tourists in town; everyone comes for the market on Sunday. We went for a walk round town on Saturday, again feeling like celebrities as all the locals smiled, waved and called out cheery 'hellos!' We finally saw our first dog meat for sale. A woman had a small table out front of her house with a scalded, and therefore hairless, but still 'raw' dog's head on one corner, likely as a sort of 'advertisement,' and a small amount of meat, which was quite red, lying beside it. That's the first and only dog meat we've seen for sale here, which is a little odd, as there are lots of dogs here, none of whom look much good for ought else than the pot. And every time we encounter an aggressively barking, snarling cur I can't help hoping that it will soon be someone's supper.
Earlier in the morning Doug had gone out for a wee stroll while I banged away on the computer. He stopped in at a fancy big hotel and had a chat with a young fellow who was manning the front counter. We'd been wondering how the Vietnamese felt about Americans, and Doug decided to ask him, for no other reason than that he spoke good English, and seemed inclined to talk. He said he liked Americans because they had tried to help the Vietnamese fight against communism. He didn't have much good to say about communism. According to him, the top government officials and military men 'get everything,' and the people 'get nothing.' (Sounds like Cuba!) He said China is even worse. He offered this advice to Baraq Obama: “drop a big bomb on China, and a little one on Vietnam – just on the government.” So there you have it. He went on to tell Doug that there would be a tribal music and dance show at the hotel at 8 pm, and that we should come back for it. We did. The music consisted of a couple of horns and some drums – it reminded us of India. The dancers were all women – about eight of them in all – in tribal costume; and the dances were slow and sedate – perhaps the French influence?
On Sunday morning we headed down to the market, a large open area in the centre of town. There were scads of tourists there already. Some had come in the night before, but even more arrived that morning, driving hours from Sa Pa to get here. But the market was so big, and there were so many locals, that it hardly mattered. Bac Ha is famous for its animal market, and that's where we went first. There were lots of water buffalo bulls for sale. Their owners either tethered them to rocks or stood holding them, waiting for prospective buyers. There was a crowd of men around one particularly large bull: he was a fine specimen. We watched them sizing him up. Apart from pulling his tail, no one really touched him – apparently looking is enough. We were told later that a working bull can cost as much as $1000 US. That's one heck of a lot of money here!
In addition to the water buffalo, there were lots of pigs, chickens, a few ducks, and several dogs and puppies for sale. Once sold, everything got stuffed into feed bags for transport. There was a constant din of pigs squealing as they were dragged off, their feet bound together, and then stuffed, head first, into a sack. A small hole was cut in the corner for the snout – that was all you could see of the pig. It looked like the dogs were being sold as pets, or guard dogs, rather than as meat, but there were an inordinate number of them, and not very many seemed to sell. So perhaps they'll end up in the stew-pot after all... . Further down, and away from the main market, was the horse market. It was the most interesting to us, because we've both had horses and know a little bit about them. All of the horses here a small – perhaps Mongolian ponies. They're fairly fine-boned, but surprisingly sturdy and strong. They're not ridden, but are used to pull carts and pack loads. Like the water buffalo, they were standing tethered to a rock, waiting to be sold. Again we noticed that almost none of the prospective buyers touched the horses. We did see one fellow look at the teeth and mouth of a horse he had pretty much already decided to buy. But none of them felt the animal's legs, or ran a hand along the shoulder, back and rump, or looked at their eyes.
We watched as one fellow bought a young colt. It was probably not much more than a year old, and it didn't look like a very promising specimen to me. Very thin, probably wormy, narrow-chested with a weak hind end and its neck set too low on its shoulders. He paid 3 million dong, or about $240 dollars for it – an awfully big sum for an animal that won't be working for another year or two (I hope). Once he'd decided to buy it, he asked his wife for the money. She searched around in the folds of her voluminous dress, and pulled out a purse. The man gave the money not to the seller, but to a third party who counted the money to confirm that it was the agreed-upon amount. That man passed the money again not to the seller, but to the seller's neutral 'money counter,' another man who counted the money again, to confirm for the seller that it was the agreed-upon amount. The transaction ritual was then complete. The new owner took the little horse by its lead rope and walked about 25 feet away from where he'd bought it. He then stopped, tethered the horse and squatted down to wait – for another prospective buyer! Within a half-hour he'd resold the horse for 3,200,000 dong, making about a $20 profit. He and his wife were extremely pleased. We didn't stay around long enough to see if he bought and resold other horses – perhaps he had his eye on one with a bigger price tag, and was working his way up.
We wove our way throughout the rest of the market, gawking at all of the stuff – lots of flip-flops and clothes from China, all sorts of weird and wonderful food-stuffs, bolts of colourful fabric that attracted crushes of tribal women, and a large covered area with buckets of live fish and tables of dead meat. We didn't see any dog here. We bought a bag of oranges, paying the same price as the locals only after pointing out to the seller that we'd seen what others were paying, and weren't going to pay him the 10,000 additional dong (around 75 cents) that he was asking us for. He just laughed: he'll get it from the next, less observant, tourist. And good for him! Why not get what he can?
Bac Ha to Lao Cai
The next morning we lazed around, taking lovely hot showers and enjoying the luxury of a comfortable room. Doug went out to scout out the bus situation, and found out there was a local bus to Lao Cai at noon. We tossed our gear into our bags and went down to the square. This was another ride I wasn't looking forward to: a steep and winding down-mountain one-lane road with no barriers. The bus looked old, as usual. One can't help but wonder about the brakes. The driver was young, but not too young. He drove slowly – past one bus broken down on the side of the road, and two motorcycle accidents – and we got down to level ground without mis-hap.
We went straight to the train station in Lao Cai, but found there were no sleepers available for the night train to Hanoi, so we decided to stay in Lao Cai until the following night. The next day we walked up to the Chinese border. At this point on the border, Vietnam and China are separated by a river. At Lao Cai, crossing the border means going over a 'friendship bridge,' through a magnificent gate. We watched as streams of people walked, carrying baskets on poles, pushing bicycles and pulling handcarts, all filled to the gills with Chinese goods coming into Vietnam. Very few goods were going the other way. And very little vehicular traffic was going either way: just a few cargo trucks. The majority of the traffic was pedestrian.
We saw two interesting sights when we were strolling around Lao Cai. One was a charcoal factory. Several people were making perforated charcoal cylinders – about 5 inches across and 6 inches tall. Women and men were coming on bicycles and motorcycles and buying them by the dozens. They will take them round and sell them to townsfolk. They're used for cooking: first they're put in a fire until they're red hot. Then they're taken out, with tongs, and put into insulated buckets. A pot of water, soup or rice is placed on top of the pot and within minutes it's boiling. It's a great system – low tech and efficient. The next thing we saw was equally low-tech: a great cauldron of tar suspended over a wood fire in the middle of the road. Road workers, mostly women, were ladling the hot tar into wheel-barrows and wheeling it to the part of the road where it was needed. Other workers tossed pebbles from large piles over the tar, and then a steam roller rolled the whole thing flat. And that's how Lao Cai re-surfaces its roads! As I was taking a photo of the road-works, two of the women road-workers asked me to take a photo of them with Doug. They were very pleased when they saw it, laughing and smiling. Then they wanted a photo with me. They were equally pleased with that, putting their arms around me for the photo, and shaking my hands afterwards in thanks. Their hands, gloveless, were very rough indeed. But their smiles were sweet and sincere.
While we were in Lao Cai we had all our meals at the same restaurant. We've found that, if a place serves good food, this works well. The owners get to know you, and you often get better service – you become their 'friend.' This place was run by a young couple, who had a baby of 16 months. They were teaching the baby to say 'hello' to foreigners, as most Vietnamese tend to do. The little fellow would put out his hand, palm upwards, and then lower his hand down as he did a little bow with his body, saying 'Oh!' His gesture was almost regal, and so cute. His uncle (?) plopped him onto my lap at one point and I thought, oh no, now he's going to cry – the usual reaction of babies here when we get too close (we're so different looking, and probably smelling, than what they're used to!) - but this little fellow was quite happy, and played with the glass and spoon on the table until his big brother decided to snatch him away, maybe before he broke it. Before we got on the train the baby's parents gave us a half-dozen mini-apples for the ride. So friendly, and so generous!
Hanoi
We were only able to buy 'hard sleeper' tickets for the night train to Hanoi. There were no 'soft sleepers' available. Another traveler had told us that the hard sleepers were perfectly adequate – not really that hard at all. If we ever see him again... . Neither of us slept much, and both of us felt bruised and sore when we arrived in Hanoi at 5:30 am. We thought it was just a wee bit early to try to check in at a hotel, so we sat down and had a tea at a dirty little street eatery outside the railway station. That was our introduction to Hanoi – a most fitting one as it turned out. These street eateries are everywhere in Hanoi – on sidewalks, in alleyways, in the doorways of shops. They all have little stools – even smaller than what we might use as a step-stool – that 'customers' perch on (the Vietnamese, being so much smaller than we are, seem able to this quite comfortably; westerners look incredibly awkward – much too big and ungainly). They use only just slightly larger step-stools as tables. Presumably the small size of their 'furniture' makes it cheaper, more portable, and easier to fit into small spaces than regular-sized furniture. It reminds me of visiting my kids' kindergarten classes and sitting in the little chairs – right out of Gulliver's travels.
Hanoi is unlike any other city we've been to. We're in the 'old city,' a rabbit-warren of very narrow alleys and busy motorcycle-clogged streets. All lined with hole-in-the-wall stalls and shops of every description. Street sellers everywhere, some on over-loaded bicycles, some pushing carts, others jogging along balancing baskets on poles over their shoulders. Food sellers squatting on the pavement or sidewalk cooking up noodles or grilling shish-kebabs on little charcoal braziers. Guys with shoe-shine kits calling out “hello shoe-shine!” And careening through it all, on roads, alleys, sidewalks and even in buildings, motorcycles. Motorcyclists here, more than anywhere else we've been in Asia, obey no rules of the road. They don't stop for red lights; they drive in the wrong lane, or the wrong way up one-way streets; they drive, full-speed, up sidewalks; they drive right into shops and restaurants, and they don't stop for pedestrians. They also ride two, three and four to a motorcycle, carry impossible loads on them, and only wear helmets as fashion statements. As one traveler noted, they've gone from riding bicycles to driving motorcycles without shifting gears: they ride their motorcycles as though they were bicycles – anywhere and everywhere – without apparent consideration of the differences in power, speed, and consequences of accidents.
For a pedestrian, particularly a western one, used to the safe passage afforded by crosswalks, and to vehicles that generally stop, even if begrudgingly, once you're in their lane, crossing the street is an extreme sport which is associated with very real and significant risks. It takes nerve, determination and a great deal of know-how. One might call it an art form. We watched Hanoians, especially children, who are always our best teachers, as they executed the manoeuvre with grace, skill and aplomb. What we noted was that they wait for a slight break in the traffic – specifically a gap in which there are no cars as there are always motorcycles. Then they set out, slowly, across the road. And they just keep moving, slowly and surely, like turtles going up the beach to lay their eggs. Once they're in motion, they seldom even look at the traffic: perhaps at that point it's a question of fatalism – they just keep going. The steady stream of motorcycles, bicycles and cars parts like a river around a protruding rock, flowing unabated on either side.
In this sport, timing is everything. The drivers make split-second decisions, based on their calculation of your trajectory and the on the locations of other vehicles around them and other pedestrians and obstacles in their path, about which side of you they're going to pass on – fore or aft. They pass within inches, not feet, and near-misses or slight grazings are part of the game. Those who are knocked off their feet, their bicycle, their motorcycle, generally just pick themselves up and carry on. No use in complaining – and who would you complain to? A couple of British gals we met were 'bumped' – and knocked off their feet – by a minibus: the same one they'd been passengers in the day before. The driver showed no inclination in stopping until they shouted at him. But as they were essentially unhurt, save for the shock of the impact, there was nothing to be done, and the bus carried on. To say that one feels like a moving target is an understatement, yet at the same time, it is evident that in truth the cyclists and motorcyclists are trying to avoid hitting you. They just don't consider slowing down (or stopping, heaven forbid) as one of their options.
Although we are getting the hang of street-crossing, we are still novices. We can't help but look, and on occasion make the grave mistake of stopping – a very dangerous (non)move in this game. I've had some close calls with motorcycles, and a couple of gentle nudges. The rider usually looks at me and smiles, rather than scowls, and I smile back, but only because I'm not hurt – just given a gentle reminder of the rules of the game. Still it's well to remember that Vietnam has one of the highest rates of traffic fatalities in the world: 10,000 a year. I don't know how many of these are pedestrian fatalities, but I suspect many. Many more would involve unruly motorcyclists, and the rest unlucky bus passengers. But in a country trying desperately to control its population (Vietnam has recently initiated a two-children only policy), the accidental deaths of 10,000 souls is hardly an issue for concern.
The chaotic traffic situation is an apt metaphor for the equally chaotic business situation. Nowhere have I witnessed such completely unbridled capitalism. Anyone can sell anything anywhere. People wander the streets, on foot, bicycle, or motorcycle; set up stalls on the sidewalk, or just lay their wares out on the pavement; create instant eateries with portable 'kitchens,' tables and stools wherever they can find an available few feet of road frontage; steal the names of successful hotels, restaurants, clothing lines, electronic companies, and sell inferior goods and services under those names; and charge whatever they think they can get from their customers, fleecing unwary (and even wary) tourists as a matter of course. It's hard to believe that Vietnam is a communist country. Not only is private enterprise ubiquitous, but it seems to be almost completely unregulated. One simply could not get away, in the western world, with the kinds of things that are apparently accepted practice here.
I have come to think of the brand of communism in Vietnam as 'Communism Light.” Not only is private enterprise ubiquitous, but the kinds of benefits that I thought a communist government was meant to ensure its people – like free education and health care – are not on offer here. The people pay for all of their education, from kindergarten on up. If they can't afford it – and by their telling of it, it's expensive – they just don't send their children. Likewise health care: if they can't afford it, they don't get it. That being said, we've seen few beggars, although there are lots of very poor people. And there's a surfeit of food – the Vietnamese are excellent farmers, and the country is intensively cultivated. So no one need go hungry.
It's hard for us, as we witness the industry, enterprise and wealth of this communist country, and the markets overflowing with produce, fish and meat, not to think of Cuba. Cuba where there is NO private enterprise (save the few highly regulated bed and breakfasts), and where food shortages have been and continue to be the rule. There are a number of factors contributing to this sorry state of affairs, including the oft-blamed US embargo. But the real culprit, the thing that is most holding Cuba back and keeping it in a state of abject poverty and privation, is the Castros. The Castros unwillingness to permit any form of private enterprise, including the growing and selling of food, has crippled its economy and beggared its people. It is surely one of the most repressive forms of 'communism' in the world. I remember now a woman in Cuba, when speaking about Cuba's government, saying: “it's not Communism, it's Fidelism.” Too true. And Fidel, who make no mistake is still very much in charge, seems to want his people to struggle and suffer, and go on struggling and suffering. For him, Communism is all about the struggle, the ongoing 'revolution.' It is a revolution without end. But he has worn his people out. They are tired, hungry and, even more importantly, living without hope. Turning that situation around is going to take nothing less than a miracle. Just how that might occur is hard to imagine, given the continuing iron grip of the Castros.
Halong Bay
We are not guided tour types, but from all accounts we heard, it seemed that the best way to get to Halong Bay, the premiere attraction near Hanoi, was by guided tour. So we signed up and set off, by bus with around 24 others. It was a 3 hour trip to get there. We stopped at a ceramics factory along the way, where they were selling, among other things, some beautiful hand-painted ceramics. I watched as four women did the painted, using very fine brushes, flowers and fishes and Chinese-looking landscapes. A young fellow sat, doing nothing (other than watching me intently), at one end of the table. He was the 'supervisor.' Presumably he is there to make sure that the women don't slack off, or talk, or take unapproved bathroom breaks. For their part, none of the women so much as looked up as I circled their table, looking at what each of them was painting, and taking photographs. Finally one face of communism appears: workers toiling without break, their every move monitored by unsmiling supervisors. We saw the same thing in another factory, this time producing embroidered pictures, on the way back. The only difference was that some of the workers were men. In both cases, the work is detailed and painstaking, and the workers were bent over, eyes close to their work. Few wore glasses, but most were young: they will likely need them before long. Apart from the tedious nature of their activities, conditions at the two factories were good: excellent lighting, good air quality and lots of space.
When we got to Halong Bay we boarded one of the 500 'junks' that ferry tourists around. Some of these are day-cruisers but most have staterooms for overnight tours. On the advice of other travelers, we had chosen the two-days, one-night tour. No sooner were we on board that we were served a sumptuous lunch – the best meal we'd had since arriving in Vietnam. A whole steamed fish, lots of vegetables, rice of course, and fruit for dessert. Fabulous. The boat got underway as we were eating, and by the time we were finished we were sailing amidst the thousands of karsts – tall steep-sided rocky islands – that poke up from the waters of the bay in clusters, lines or singly. We'd sail (actually motor) between two giant rocks and see around us receding groups of islands, their colours fading from deep blue-grey to pale pale blue as distance, and mists, exerted their influence. It was a magical sea-scape, hauntingly beautiful and, despite the number of boats, amazingly quiet and serene. The whole area is so large that at this point at least it easily accommodates the many boats plying its waters. At some points we were quite alone on the bay.
Our first stop was at some limestone caves. We expected these to be the usual not that big and not that impressive caves that we'd been inveigled to walk or cycle to in so many other places. We were amazed when, following the steady stream of tourists up the many stairs to enter the first, and largest cave, we found ourselves in a truly massive cave – the largest and most impressive that either of us have ever been in. There must have been at least a hundred other people in the cave, but they were hardly noticeable in the great cavernous space. It was at least a hundred feet high, and several hundred feet in length. Massive stalagmites, stalactites and sculpted caverns were highlighted with coloured lights – blue, green, orange and red. One of the most famous, in the shape of a dragon, had two pin-point lights for eyes. We were shown 'turtles,' 'dragons,' 'elephants' and other fanciful creature shapes. Some required real flights of fancy to 'see.' I particularly liked the scalloped edges of many of the rock formations. Some looked like flowing robes or frilly dresses. I tried taking photos, but none of them could even begin to capture the scale, beauty and wonder of the cave. So be it.
We continued sailing for the rest of the afternoon, through seeming endless groups of rocky sentries. We saw a floating fishing village. We stopped at another, where a man rowed out towards us in a little woven boat, towing four plastic kayaks. A few of the group, all young and energetic, swam and kayaked as the rest of us watched. Then we motored on to our night mooring – a busy little island where several other boats were also tied up for the night. We had another sumptuous meal, enjoying the company of three Malaysians with whom we sat. One of them was a retired electrical engineer. In Malaysia, retirement is mandatory at age 56. The intention is to make room for younger workers. He was thoroughly enjoying his retirement, taking trips short and long. He looked youthful, relaxed and happy, a veritable advertisement for early retirement.
Perhaps because we'd made friends with the young guide, we were given the nicest stateroom on the boat. It was on the upper level, where the rest were all lower, and it spanned the entire width of the boat, with large windows all along one side, where the rest were narrower and had but small windows. All of us had our own bathrooms, and all of the rooms were wood-paneled and spotlessly clean. Delightful. Even more delightful, from our perspective, were the lovely soft mattresses on the beds. So, once the youngsters quit their noisy partying (they all had gruesome hang-overs the next morning), we had a wonderful sleep, gently rocked by the rippling waves of the bay. The next morning was cool and a little misty, revealing the quintessential aspect of Halong Bay – an ever-receding horizon of blue-grey karsts floating in the mist on a blue-grey sea. We motored back to our starting point, Halong Bay City, where we disembarked and were herded into a cavernous restaurant for lunch. Then back on the bus for the three hour ride to Hanoi. This was extended by about an hour when we got caught up in a traffic jam – likely a common occurrence, just outside the city. And then we were dumped back into the chaos, clutter and clatter of Hanoi. Such a shocking dichotomy! So long Halong, hello Hanoi!
And back to Hanoi...
We spent one day in Hanoi doing the tourist thing. We didn't visit Ho Chi Minh's museum and mausoleum, partly because Ho himself isn't there. He's gone off to Russia for his yearly re-enbalming. He used to go to Paris, but I guess Paris is off these days. Now it's Russia. Apparently if he had been there, and we had gone, we would have had to stand in long queues, slowly shuffling forward to 'view his remains.' He must have been quite a guy!
What we did do was go to the Women's Museum, the Hoa Lo prison, and the Water Puppet theatre. We started at the Women's Museum, where we saw an exhibition documenting women's contributions, and sacrifices, during wars first against the French Colonialists and then against the American Imperialists. What struck me most, and strikes me daily here, is the incredible strength of Vietnamese women who are so petite that they easily fit into children's clothes and shoes. Of course the exhibition showed determined women, united to fight the French (as I suspect they were) and the Americans (as some were not). Regardless, the conditions under which they fought were appalling – living with almost no food in steaming insect-infected jungles and damp, dank tunnels with barely enough room to stand; fighting with home-made weapons, carrying impossibly heavy loads; and of course being imprisoned and tortured (most dreadfully by the French, but also by the Americans). A decidedly depressing exhibition, but interesting nonetheless. The second exhibition, which was the one we had gone to see, was on the lives of women street sellers in Hanoi. This consisted primarily of a series of wall posters with photos and writings – mostly quotes from people interviewed – as well as a couple of videos and a few displays of typical street seller equipment.
We have of course seen legions of street sellers here in Hanoi: graceful bamboo-pole women, bicycle and motorcycle vendors, push-cart people, and vast numbers of people sitting on sidewalks with whatever they're selling, from flip-flops to fast-food, displayed in front of or around them. Many will tag along after foreigners, trying to get them to buy something, but the majority are selling to locals, and have a particular location or daily route, or a specific group of customers who buy from them. As of July 1 this year, the government of Hanoi has made a decision to ban street-sellers from certain areas, ostensibly to 'clean up' the city and make it more beautiful for tourists and locals alike. The government also cites traffic and garbage issues as reasons why the street-sellers must be banned from certain areas. They have been harassing them daily since them, arresting some, but mostly fining them and, in the case of food vendors, dumping their goods on the ground, making it impossible for the vendor to sell them. We saw one situation where a uniformed guy (cop?) was steadfastly holding on to the back of a woman's bicycle. She was selling oranges. She was crying piteously, and trying to move her bike forward. He was holding on, and was stronger. As we walked on, we saw other uniformed men heading towards the scene.
The exhibition deepened our understanding of the lives, and plight, of the street vendors – women and men – who are mostly from the countryside. Most of them have either lost their allotments of land, or have not been able to support themselves and their families through farming, and in desperation have come to Hanoi to join the legions of street sellers. They often live communally – people from one village banding together for support – sharing the expenses associated with housing and food. Their days start early – for most of them around 4 or 5 am – and end late. Some work well into the night. And many carry heavy loads all day – heavy fruits and vegetables, books, clothing, pottery – whatever they think they can sell. According to the exhibition, after paying for their food and accommodation here, they make, on average, about 75 cents a day. That's if they eat mostly rice with a few vegetables, with a couple of slices of pork once a day. Those who have children have generally left them behind, in their village, where they are looked after by a grandmother. Many are working as street sellers in order to be able to pay to send their kids to school, which from kindergarten on is an expensive proposition. Teachers' salaries, books, uniforms and equipment must all be paid for by the family. It's a harsh reality for both the sellers and their families.
Still and all, the street sellers, and particularly the bamboo-pole women,represent the quintessential Hanoi – the Hanoi that many tourists, like us, come to see. All of us photograph them endlessly, admiring their grace and beauty, their strength, and their wonderful conical bamboo hats. Although they don't stop, they will often smile for the photo . A few might ask for 'a dollar,' but don't really expect to get one. It seems to us that, if the government really wanted to clean up the city and make it safer for tourists and locals alike, the very first move ought to be to get the motorcycles off the sidewalks. The sidewalks are not only almost entirely taken up by parked motorbikes, but the cyclists ride them full tilt right up the sidewalk. Now that's unsafe. If the motorbikes were relegated to parkades, there would be plenty of room for street vendors and pedestrians alike, and the sidewalk would become a safe and enjoyable place to walk, rather than a dangerous obstacle course. But of course there are other reasons, reasons that aren't being openly stated, why the government wants to get rid of the street sellers. 'Twas ever thus.
After the Women's Museum we walked over to the Hoa Lo prison, more commonly known as the 'Hanoi Hilton.' The complex of buildings was originally an ethnic village, taken over by the French and renovated as an administration centre and a prison. Once the Vietnamese had got rid of the French, they used it as a prison, most infamously as a prison for American fighter pilots. This is where John McCain was imprisoned – and tortured. The place was grim – multiple small dark cells with leg-irons. There were lots of depictions of dreadful treatment and tortures inflicted by the French on Vietnamese prisoners, including the guillotine used to execute hundreds. And then there were photos of American soldiers playing basketball and eating a turkey (?) dinner at Christmas, all looking quite well-fed and cheery. Hmmm.
After these two rather depressing exhibitions, it was wonderful to end the day with the fun and colourful Water Puppet theatre. Water puppetry originated in the rice fields, where farmers would stage shows using wooden marionettes mounted on floating blocks and manipulated with long poles and strings. The puppeteers are hidden behind a curtain. The puppets range from magnificent dragons to brilliantly plumed chickens to splashing cavorting children and a cadre of dancing girls. The show was light-hearted, with lots of humour – a fisherman trying to catch a particularly large fish, and ending up being dragged under the water by it; two chickens doing a mating dance, producing a large egg, which pops up between them from under the water, and then cracks open to release a mini-chicken. There was little 'talking' during the show, and no 'story' to follow. It was just a series of vignettes depicting everyday life in many Vietnamese villages. It was accompanied by wonderful music played by an orchestra off to one side of the stage. The musicians were also colourfully dressed, and played a range of fascinating traditional instruments. It was a great show, thoroughly enjoyable, and a nice antidote to the day's previous activities.
Tonight we're off on the night train to Hue, a historical World Heritage city on the coast, situated almost midway between north and south Vietnam. We've heard wonderful things about Hue, and are looking forward not only to a slightly smaller city, but also a little warmer weather. In anticipation, we gave the jackets we bought in northern Laos to a couple of British gals who are on their way to China. They are definitely going to need them; we intend not to!
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