August 30 to 31—HaNoi, VietNam, the Loud and Hectic Capital City

Dear Family and Friends,

Thursday, August 30, Dani awoke to the beautiful image of suburban towns across rice fields. Large cathedral steeples dominated the skyline. Our bus arrived in the capital city of HaNoi just at the 14-hour mark at 7:30 AM, as Martha was getting the cobwebs out of her eyes. We put our packs on, said ‘no thank you’ to the numerous hotel touts, and headed to the Hoan Kiem Lake area known for cheaper residences.

We were hunting for an Internet café. Since we had not stopped in the town of Hue as we’d expected, we had not yet done the research needed to find a decent place to stay, so we wanted to check TravelFish.org. This Web site had some more up-to-date reviews of places in VietNam than the two-year-old LP (much has changed in this part of the world since that volume was released). One of the touts stalked us on our walk, trying twice to get us to check out his guest house to no avail. Finally, we found an Internet café, only to see that TravelFish did not work so well at this location. We did find some reviews on a different site and chose to head towards Thanh Ha, a street North of the Lake and very near to the Don Xuay marketplace.

What a zoo! And I mean that literally, as the street of Thanh Ha was cluttered with vendors on the sidewalks. Their baskets contained live snakes, frogs in netting so they could not hop away, squid, ink fish, snails, grubs, prawns, and every imaginable part of pigs and chickens. Intermingled were the brilliant colors of the vegetable vendors with their multitude of greeneries—spicy basil, sweet basil, lettuce, cabbage, other leafy greens with names unknown to us, scallions, and green peppers—along with the oranges, reds, and yellows of the hotter peppers, tomatoes, yams, eggplants, and more. The ground was a bit slippery from all of the water and cutting of choice meat parts, but we managed our way through among the incessant beeping of the motorbikes that really didn’t belong on this alley.

We ended up in Room #301 of the Darling Backpacker’s Guest House for 10 USD per night, which got us a room with a decent bed, breakfast of baguette with jam and coffee in the mornings, balcony overlooking the market, a minifridge, hot shower, cable television that worked most of the time, WiFi in the room (NOT!), and the promise of an early morning’s rise as the beeping began and the market got into full swing. It was not a horrible place, but did have its drawbacks … the air con didn’t work too well and the room was full of ants, which, after our experience with the bugs along the lakeside in Phnom Penh, did not make for pleasant sleeping. But, at least we didn’t have the worst of the street noise since we were taller off the street. AND, at least we hadn’t ended up in a rat hole that charged us 80 USD a night, which we learned later was the fate of our Netherlands friends when they arrived in HaNoi.

Our initial intention was to sit in the room, blog all day in the air con and relax after the all night bus ride, but when the Internet didn’t work in the room, we decided to go ahead and take a walk to find some food. Keys to the cabinet in the room made our brains feel more comfortable with our first day in the big city as we were able to lock away our valuables.

After settling, we walked the city a bit. Martha found an ATM so that we had more than five dollars worth of Vietnamese money in our pockets. We wound through the alley-sized roads of the Old Quarter of HaNoi, and decided to compromise half-way between a street stall and a full restaurant with a small open-faced restaurant crowded with locals that had a large display of yummy-looking prepared foods. A nice waiter asked us in English what we wanted; Martha chose the BBQ pork and Dani selected fish with a side of garlic sautéed Chinese spinach. Yummy! Full, we continued our walk around the city, popped into a couple of souvenir shops and decided we did not want to shop anymore; Hoi An had just been too much of that!

Eventually, we were content to simply sit along the Hoan Kiem Lake to rest and enjoy the peace in the middle of the capital city. We explored the circumference of the lake before heading back towards the hotel. Along the way, we came to a busy intersection where each corner touted the fresh ‘bia hoi’ for 2,000 dong per glass (about 0.13 USD). Three of the four corners offered this option, and folks sat on plastic chairs or stools to watch the traffic and the other farangs across the street. We selected the corner closest to our place, where we passed the afternoon enjoying the company of Alex from Canada and Jek from Indonesia. Alex had been on a biking adventure from HaNoi to SaiGon, flying back North when the bike ride was completed. He’d picked up some of the local lingo, moreso than we had, and amused himself by haggling with the many vendors who repetitively approached us to try to sell us a hat or book. At one point, when a man approached for the fourth time, Alex offered him the rind of his mango with a curt, “Do you want this? Well, I don’t want your stuff, either.” He was a bit brash for us. Jek, on the other hand, was lovely. He was in HaNoi to see his Spanish girlfriend, whom he had met during their time working Search and Rescue after the Tsunami. He encouraged us to visit Indonesia sometime, as he believes the tumultuous relations among the peoples there are slowly improving. In the meantime, he was off to a party with his lovely Spanish lady!

Back to the hotel for a quick shower, we were soon off to dinner. Martha enjoyed flat noodles with beef and greens, and Dani had crispy fried noodles with beef and greens. The restaurant was unlike any you would see in the United States, as it comprised plastic chairs and tables set in the street, surrounded by motorcycles, bikes, and pedestrians, either parked along with us or continuing past the avenue of the every-day impromptu restaurant. In fact, the next day when we walked by, the tables were gone and only the cooking area was still active, working to prep for the next night’s mealtime. After paying, we returned with our leftovers to the hotel, where Martha jumped online in the hotel lobby to update the parents and other family with a simple note that we were in HaNoi; Dani climbed the three flights to our room to put our dish in the fridge.

A bit tired, but invigorated, we briskly walked through the streets to make it to the Water Puppetry show by 9:15 PM. This art form has been around more than 1,000 years, and originated in the watery rice fields of the VietNam peoples. It was neat to imagine the canopied stage set in the rice fields in days of yore instead of a water-logged inside enclosure of an old theater filled with foreigners. The performance started with one high-pitched song by the five person band—a singer, drummer, flute player, stringed zither, and cymbals on the end of ribbed sticks that were played when another stick was rubbed against the ribs to shake the far end.

Then, the puppets came out to entertain us with scenes of rural life: flaming dragons (how did they keep the fire lit while under water?), fishing, ploughing the fields with water buffalo, and a funeral scene. One scenario told us the legend of a turtle that delivered a sword to an early Emperor, who conquered and brought peace to VietNam (and then the turtle took the sword back to the lake where it lies today). Dani wished we had paid the extra several thousand dong for first-class seating to sit closer since the views were not well staged (heads were often in the way). Martha was kind enough to move one seat over and have a lesser view when the woman in front of Dani completely blocked hers. But in all, it was a fun evening’s theatrical enjoyment for 20,000 dong (1.33 USD) each!

Friday, August 31, our day began predictably with the 'sweet' sounds of horns beeping by 6:00 AM. We fitfully attempted to continue sleeping and to let the continuous melody become part of our dreams, but were unfruitful. We decided instead to get up and begin our day of relaxation in HaNoi. We read our books, but then were motivated to go downstairs by the thought of breakfast. Coffee and a fresh, fresh baguette with jam and butter filled in the empty spots for the time being!

In the early afternoon, we motivated to learn about the peoples of VietNam at the Museum of Ethnology. Walking past the baskets of squirming vendor wares, we turned right off of Thanh Ha towards the large building of the marketplace, where we picked up a couple of cyclos to carry us the 5 KM to the museum. The man first wanted 40,000 dong (2.30 USD) for the trip for both of us on two motorbikes, but after making sure they understood the location, it was upped to 50,000 dong, which put a sour taste in Martha’s mouth, so she walked away. They followed us and dropped the price to 30,000 dong. We grudgingly agreed and hopped on the back of the bikes, holding on with one hand to the ‘oh snap!’ steel bar on the backside of the vehicle. We then had another little ‘I almost died in SE Asia’ moment when a bike was directly in the middle of our traffic lane, stopped, but somehow obscured and then WHAMMO—right there. Of course, it was surely more scary to us than it should have been (we were only going about 5 mph, after all!), but we considered the good drivers our heroes as Dani’s bike could have plowed into Martha’s and into the one ahead. But all was well.

When we arrived to the stark white building of the grandiose Museum of Ethnology, the driver asked if we might consider 40,000 dong after seeing how far the ride was, and we conceded that it was not too much to ask for the distance covered. Normally, this might have been perturbing, but they had just saved our lives! What could we do?? Several hours passed as we walked the two levels of this interesting building with its circular display design. It presented photo flashes of the lives of the 54 distinct tribal groups that make up the whole of VietNam, which we reckon is home to about 85 million people. The exhibits varied from:
• shadow box windows with a single mask, pipe, or knife;
• to large windows showing vintage garb with the distinct woven patterns so expertly created by the tribes women, instruments for ritual and entertainment, children’s toys, retired water puppets;
• to video showing the funeral ceremonies, shamanistic rites, gatherings for other religious purposes (that sometimes looked like opportunities for the ‘ladies’ or the ‘gents’ of the town to get together for a roaring good time of community building—reminds Martha of the Episcopalian way), fishing, hat-making, weaving, screening techniques for artistic renderings on cloth (like how pre-modern t-shirts were made by hand), and other trade tasks of the different peoples;
• to a particularly interesting and honest description of the failings of the 1980s’ culmination of the Bau Co (??not positive of the name??) era after the American War (again, likely known to you as the VietNam War, but not so here) when the communists were in control.

The Bau Co era could be likened to the Great Depression or the tight times in America during the World Wars. The times were marked by food stamps for moldy rice, all food rationed in amounts dependent on rank and professional status, separate lines for the poor and the rich, very close family bonds, brilliant ingenuity, making do with what one had, and an invigoration of the continuous human quality of wanting better for the next generation. People were given enough fabric each year for one pair of trousers, so when the knees wore out partway through the year, the legs were cut off and sewn back on, twisted around so the former knees were in the back. They often lived in cramped homes with their livestock. If a person’s job was to travel to Russia, they would return with a TV, radio, and coveted fragrant bars of soap.

This new perspective on recent Vietnames history made Dani think back to the day before; we have taken to giving the hotel soaps, shampoo, and toothbrushes to the beggars who approach us (we don’t like to encourage begging, but also don’t want to not give them anything). One woman seemed extremely pleased with her soap, and Dani now wonders how deeply this woman had experienced the Bau Co era. What surprised Martha most was that this hardship was so recent for these people, but it certainly explained some of Dr. Tung’s rhetoric in Nha Trang about many people wishing to open up the market for new opportunities and Spider’s description at My Son of the Vietnamese not wanting to look at the past but instead to today and tomorrow.

Of course, Martha also thoroughly enjoyed the video describing the activities of the difficulties faced by the artists in those stifling days. She will have to hunt down one poem in particular, called “Remembering Uncle Ho in Spring,” (by Pham Thi Xuan Kha) printed in one of the newspapers and causing quite a stir. It was one of those historical moments in dark times when the floodgates open and ideas, depressions, emotions, hopes, reality are spoken about again. It was one of many brave moments when the people opened their voices to seek for the better, resulting eventually in the comfortable days of today.

We were particularly impressed, as we were during the S-21 and Killing Fields experiences, at the critical analysis of the events and the honesty in telling what happened so that others might learn from the approach of the communists as they tried to equalize society. Today's mix of communism, socialism, and open market towards capitalism seems to be working well for the country, but we were impressed to learn that the top earners are only taxed 10 percent of their pay (which is dispersed among the poorest) and not nearly the 30 percent or more that Americans face to fund our current day war-making machine of a government. (Sorry for the editorial commentary, Martha really does try to keep it out of here, but sometimes one cannot depend on total finger control.) Still, we do see many people begging for money (including a well-dressed elderly gentleman who simply seemed to think the farangs might fork over some cash if he asked for it). The government's system seems to fail elsewhere, as well, as there still exists a need for crime in this country, as we would experience in a couple of days.

We exited the building to wander the open-air displays of traditional homes that have been transported from hill-country tribes to the museum in the last five years. We stopped first to gulp down a bottle of water in the afternoon heat, slowing down as we walked through the last few displays. Upon leaving the museum, the price requested by the cycle driver was initially 60,000 dong (less than 4 USD), but when we told him that we’d arrived for 40,000, he agreed to take us for that amount, so we both hopped on his bike! Weeeeee. Martha sat in the middle, and Dani was grateful that she couldn’t see much of what was going on. We arrived safely to the market area we called home for a few days and wandered slowly until we found a woman sitting around a large pot of soup and five plastic tables filled with happy-looking locals. That’s enough of a recommendation for us! We paid 5,000 dong each (0.33 USD) and were handed large bowls of noodle soup with chicken and beef meatballs and scallions and mint!

Tired, we relaxed at the hotel once again, blogging and reading until the heat outside had died down a bit. We eventually went out to dinner, walking down the road at a time much later than the locals must usually eat. We grabbed a table on a corner where four other groups of folks were finishing up, were handed a menu that had English translation at the back (thank goodness or we may have ordered the frog, snails, or ox scrotum). As we waited for our meals to arrive, we practiced the basic words for the foods so that we might recognize them on other menus that did not have translations. Martha’s water buffalo was tender and wrapped in a green leaf, while Dani’s plate of goat was not as good as the Jamaican goat curry she had in Toronto earlier in 2007, but was still tasty. We were the last table to leave, stopping in the lobby at Darling to post a fortuitously-timed announcement on the blog that we had reached HaNoi!

In love and light, and many thanksgivings for our continued safe journey through VietNam,

Martha and Dani

August 28 to 29—Tailor Day, My Son Ruins, and Leaving Hoi An, VietNam

Dear Family and Friends,

Tuesday, August 28, through Wednesday, August 29, were a blur of tailor shop fitting visits and posting our purchases to go home (almost 10 kilograms for less than 50 USD), with a mixture of exploration and time with the Dutch ladies! Dani awoke suddenly at 8:10 AM on Tuesday after Martha forgot to turn on the alarm clock the night before so that we could easily have a fruit shake before our 8:00 AM scheduled pick-up to tour the ancient My Son ruins! DOH! Thankfully, the bus was late, so we were able to throw together clothes, shoes, contact lenses, and hats in 10 minutes and still make the bus! Whew! The bus drove around to the other guesthouses around town, and finally headed north into the countryside for approximately 40 minutes to reach the tourist site.

Our tour guide, Spider, named the forty of us ‘Spider Group’ for easy collection. We crossed a bridge and were tunneled up the hill by minibus or by Marine Corp-issue “For Official Use Only” green jeeps. Hey, it’s been thirty years and our equipment still works on a daily basis! Up about 2 KM, we learned some about the history of the My Son ruins, including how they used to look before the Viet Cong took up residence in the former-Champa temple and the American bombers made a mess of things, leaving behind a large bomb blast hole that is marked on the site’s maps. Martha spoke with Spider along the path up to the ruins, admitting that it is saddening to learn that bombs from our country had damaged their heritage site. He calmed Martha's fears about the Vietnamese harboring resentment towards Americans, commenting that the place would never have been bombed if the Viet Cong had not housed up in there. VietNam, according to Spider (and seemingly more-so in the Southern parts of the country), is a present and future-only sort of mindset, putting the past behind them. It seemed true, too, because we felt no animosity from the people here when they learned of our American heritage—we had been planning on telling people we were Canadian if necessary.

The sites open to the public had been restored at places and left untouched in others. The American bomb had made quite a crater, left overgrown, a spot that nature will eventually fill with time. The structures of the My Son ruins were actually the third manifestation of most of the buildings. The first and second manifestations (of wood and another short-term building block) had been replaced with brick. The Champa people were known as the brick artisans, creating images of their Hindu gods across layers of bricks mounted in rows. The bases of the structures were actually the parts restored, bricks piled and held together by cement instead of the tree-sap glue used successfully by previous generations. These buildings were used as ‘gates’ for different stages and types of ceremonies, from Hindu fertility rituals calling for the gods Vishnu and Shiva to purification rites fueled by the waters of the clear river running nearby.

Walking the grounds by ourselves to take photos, we talked with others on the tour, discussing Angkor’s grandeur in comparison with the small scale and less-distinguished workmanship of these ruins, and likely talking one couple into making a trip to Siem Reap in the coming weeks. Back towards the bus, we decided to hike down the hill for more walking in our day, eventually hopping into the minivan about 200 meters from our end-point with the last of our group to avoid delaying their departure. We struck up a conversation with a couple from Australia, originally from England. She was a university teacher who traveled to SaiGon to work with students in a distance-learning English master’s program—not an easy task. Her retired husband met here there and they were enjoying their jaunt into VietNam for a couple of weeks. We ran into them again the next day at the post office and they admitted to deciding to stay in quaint Hoi An for the rest of their time in the country.

We had signed up for the bus-to and boat-from tour group, which cost us 2 USD more than the 3 USD option to go to and from by bus only. So we waited with a small group along the riverside for our boat to arrive. In the meantime, we marveled at the sand-laden boats floating swiftly down the high river, barely afloat for their burden, but afloat nonetheless! A Spanish girl sat down to take some time to write in her journal, and one of the local men squatted before her to watch as she wrote in her native tongue. We Westerners have a much greater sense of personal space than folks in SE Asia, we have found, and it was proved as this girl got up and stopped her writing time as soon as the gentleman was distracted from his place stooped at her feet.

On the boat, we slowly headed up stream as we ate plates of tofu with vegetable fried rice. We split an ice tea, which we paid extra for, and watched the boats either working to bring goods or to transport folks along this river community. Our one stop along the way was at a revered woodworkers’ village, which Martha’s parents would have loved because they collect word carvings. We got to witness the carvers at work on the floor, tools displayed in personal formation to their immediate left or right hand, digging into the wood to make happy Buddha to lighten moods around the world. At different stages of the process, one worker would make deep trenches in the wood to get down to be able to add detail. Others would make small chips in the wood to smooth out a Buddha belly or cheek. Expert carpenters were everywhere, working by hand or guiding power tools to make large window decorations or elephant- or dragon-adorned hangers for the women's tapestries. (Dani and Martha loved being in the workshop, with the smells of different types of wood being worked, and we are particularly fond of carpenters as we live between two of them at home.)

We returned to town early around 1:30 PM, even with all of the waiting for boats and such. We returned to the shower and to the tailor shop for 3:00 PM fitting. Dani worked hard on her clothes, pointing out what looked good and what needed adjusting—this is poofy, during the fitting I had asked for the sleeve length to be shorter, and maybe the skirt lining needs to be longer. “Oh, no, that’s the way it should be” was Dani’s girl’s response to all of her requests. “No, it’s not, please make it right,” was a too-commonly-needed phrase from Dani. Martha’s shirts needed to be taken in at the middle, but otherwise didn’t know any better to ask for adjustments along the lines of a suit, so Dani stepped in to help. Martha’s lady just calmly told her that they would take care of whatever she needed. We agreed to return at 7:00 PM after another walk through town. They would then hook us up with buttons and we would return at 8:30 PM that night to pick up the final products.

We went for a quick snack of another of Hoi An’s local dishes of fried wontons covered with fresh parsley and tomato salsa, where we chatted with a businessman named Peter from Munich, Germany, who was vacationing with his currently-absent wife and teenaged son. He kindly gave us his office phone number, just in case we needed a friend during our Oktoberfest adventure at the end of September. Such nice people, those Germans!

At 7:00 PM, we returned to the tailor’s shop and tried on our clothes once again, very happy with the adjustments that had been made and thankful for their hard work. At 8:30 PM, we made our final stop to the shop to get our new duds, quite happy. We asked for some of their business cards to pass on along the way and headed back to the room to drop off all of our new clothes. We finished the day walking the town some more, including another run through the locals’ market and through more of the small streets, able to now tell the seamstresses along the way that we were sorry, but we had already purchased our choices for this trip. Martha packed, and we watched some of From Dusk Til Dawn on HBO before heading to bed before our last morning in Hoi An.

Wednesday, August 29, we were up, packed, and out of the room after final e-mail checks before our 11:00 AM departure time. The front desk lady informed Dani that the post office would come to our hotel, package everything for us, and take it to be shipped for the same price! What service in this town! We decided, however, due to Dani’s paranoia, to take the box to the post office ourselves. We shipped the almost-10 kilogram box by Sea Freight and were sullenly informed it would take three to four months to be delivered to the states! PERFECT! SO WILL WE!

Dani quickly found us somewhere to get her fix and satiate her fruit shake shakes. AWe sat on the little plastic chairs at the little plastic table, enjoying another day's fruity refreshment. And we walked around town some more with our little time left in town, finding the Japanese bridge during daylight and enjoying a lunch of Malaysian fried rice (which had an egg on top and a chicken wing on the side) for Dani and some spicy lemongrass and chili fried rice for Martha at a local hole-in-the-wall.

We made it in plenty of time to catch our bus at 2:00 PM, headed North for Hue. We joyously arrived at 4:40 PM (much earlier than the five hours predicted on the schedule), so decided to just continue through that same night to HaNoi, the capital of VietNam, instead of exploring any of Hue. Hue’s cultural tours were said not to be very good during Martha’s research that morning, and the countryside was mostly littered with tombs of the dead from wars past and reminders of the heat of the fighting that took place here during the American War. You could also get tours to the DMZ (the ‘demilitarized zone’), but there was no guarantee it would be worth the money. More fun was certainly to be had in the capital city than here. So, we got on the next bus starting a bit after 5:30 PM, on the bus for 14 more hours.

Coincidentally (or perhaps not depending on what you think of such things), we saw the three Dutch Ladies walking the streets of Hue as our bus—and consider that we had been in town less than an hour—passed by their rain-soaked, obviously weary bodies. We banged on the window and waved our arms, trying to get their attention as the bus teased us, moving forward a bit so they might catch a view … if only they would look up. Finally, Saskia ‘Lady 38’ did look up from beneath her blue parka, only to wave a hand slightly. Well, maybe she would realize in a bit who our faces belonged to, anyway!

On the bus, we couldn’t even read as the lights went out and the overheads did not function. So, we enjoyed our typical pastime of staring out the window (of course, our new stress-less lives and personal histories of long car rides since youth have helped us develop a great contentment and joy from hours of landscape). Eventually, the rhythmic tones and beeping of the bus horn lulled us to a surprisingly comfortable sleep.

In love and light,

Martha and Dani