The week I spent in Hanoi was anything but what I expected. I had a robust collection of mental images, having grown up watching the CBS Evening news throughout the 1960's and early 70's; I had been strongly impacted by the battlefield death of a young man who attended our church -- I knew his sister and I listened to the numerous adult conversations that erupted at the crest of the tragic news and continued for months after his solemn return and internment; the "Peace Movement" swirled all around me -- in class, in popular culture; from my bike, I literally watched B-52s methodically launch for points west (we lived near an active Air Force base); one of my good friend's brothers spent a tour near Đà Nẵng as a "military" water ski instructor at an officers' club; I certainly was familiar with the anti-communist rhetoric that flooded the American landscape during the duration of the Cold War; I watched the Second Indochina War (1959-1975) bring down President Johnson and torture Richard Nixon; and I had a draft card in my wallet -- I was eligible for and followed the last two draft lotteries with increasingly keen anticipation. So watching the movie "Apocalypse Now" was akin to sensing my cerebral concrete set. The horror.
What was missing, however, was an awareness of Vietnam's long history. Bordered by China to the north, it had broken away in the 10th century and flourished more or less until it was colonized by the French in the mid-19th century. Efforts to resist French domination and then Japanese occupation culminated with Japan's collapse and the failure of France's effort to restore its colonial empire. In a way, America slipped into this Southeast Asian vacuum as it tried to mitigate the post-Second World War collapse of Britain and the emergence of China and the Soviet Union. Divided now into two countries (Geneva Conference, 1954), Vietnam erupted into an ideological civil war -- the Viet Minh in the north backed by the Chinese and Soviets; the United States supporting the South's struggle against the North's communist insurgency.
Upon my arrival, I could see out to the Red River to the northeast as I looked across Hanoi from my 20th floor hotel room window. The French influence in old town was prominent -- from the tree-lined boulevards to prominent French colonial buildings and residences. I later learned that Hanoi was host to the first western universities in Indochina -- a university, a medical school and a school of fine art, established in the first two decades of the 20th century. On the streets below, Vietnamese commerce appeared robust, with individuals (mostly women) coming and going, carrying or pushing sacks or parcels, large and small, on flatbed bicycle or tricycle -- and a few with equal loads hung at the opposing ends of shoulder-borne poles, balanced.
I therefore had to explore a street market next to the hotel -- it appeared full of strange and exotic items, goods such as traditional clothing and hats, hammocks, knives, slippers, tropical fruits. Or at least that is what I thought they were. The smell was sweetly foreign, hinting of dried fruits and candies -- perhaps intertwined with an occasional air of candle or incense or perfume. I browsed, pondered and poked. I also tried to do a bit of mental math as I converted đồng to dollars, dollars to đồng -- without appearing to use my fingers or lip-sink the final result.
As I ventured further into this side street market, the environment turned organic. Aha -- I'm moving from the clothing and knickknack section into the food section. It was at this point that my senses went on the alert. Battle stations. I noticed a trough in the middle of what was now a v-shaped walkway. I was following this trough and I could see increasing moisture ahead. Drainage was seeping from both sides. Forward and to my right, there were live chickens and rabbits, caged. Let's have a look, shall we? No worries -- I had a tin of Altoids in my pocket which could overpower any offensive odor. A few steps and 30 seconds later, I saw a chicken selected, dispatched, de-feathered, wrapped and whisked away for dinner. Yikes! In slow motion, a hose flushed remnants towards me.
I touched my Altoid tin -- and reminded myself to keep moving. I shifted into National Geographic mode -- snap a picture and go -- gawk at the results later. It did not take long for the smell to become overpowering. I stopped and released the "curiously strong" mints. One. Two. Three. "Further back in the mouth and exhale," I instructed myself. "Up through your nose -- mouth closed." I looked and saw dog -- the dog stand. Hot dog! Boiled dog, barbecued dog. Dog, dog, dog. Various sizes, various parts. Pieces here, pieces there. That's a tail, that's a snoot! I held my breath and rapidly stole several pictures -- then fled towards the light at the end of the market.Fast forward, please. Okay.
Further down the street, I found a side walk cafe next to a French colonial house-as-restaurant. Incredible food -- at least half of which I have no idea of what I was partaking. The shrimp were gigantic and fresh. Here, large fans blew a pleasing mist towards patrons to counter the 90-plus degree, 90-percent humidity. Beware the fish sauce, extremely organic. Noted, but late. Could I cleanse my mind or are those market images forever seared deep? I reminded myself that I was in a very colonial French area in old town Hanoi. A couple nearby was kissing. I relaxed into documentary mode. This time, I took many pictures -- and reassured myself, "Edit as I go. Enjoy. Forget. Relax. Breath." Dogs.
On a positive note, I immediately noticed that in Hanoi, if not most of Vietnam, scooters were everywhere. On the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, I assessed that the scooter-to-car ratio had to be at least ten-to-one, if not more. Mind you, these were not full fledged motorcycles. These were bona fide scooters. Italian scooters -- relatives of those I'd seen throughout the Mediterranean. Now I am sure that there were others -- Japanese, Chinese, or who knows -- knockoffs or copies. What do we do with the fakers?
And every intersection seemingly duplicated the start of a motocross race. Cyclists revved their engines in anticipation of the imminent green light. Bikes were stacked ten, twenty, thirty deep. Men, women, boys and girls, sitting single, double -- with or without extra cargo -- running up their engines in anticipation. And most wore no protection -- no helmets, many flip flops. (I understand that now helmets in Vietnam are mandatory for those that scoot.) As I walked block-to-block, I was amazed at the mass of scooters zipping down streets. How can I count blue cars if there are no cars?
Fine, count blue scooters. The more I looked, the more I observed that there were predominantly two eras of scooter here on the road -- the old and the new. There were newer Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki scooters. But it also appeared that there were many Piaggio Vespas from the 1960s and 70s that were very much in use. And occasionally I spotted a Lambretta or two. What was this? The older bikes looked good and were apparently functional. Color now did not matter -- how could I get one back to the states? And at what cost?Certainly, I could find a Vietnamese shop to find and restore a Vespa for me. Having instituted free market reforms in 1986, also know as Đổi Mới (renovation), Vietnam has provided a means for commerce with the West -- and for me to get me a 1960s era scooter. One local shop keeper told me that although he despised Americans, he liked our money. It was then that I realized that the loss of more than 50,000 American and upwards to three million Vietnamese souls would shroud Vietnamese and American relations for decades. If not for a millennium.
And the dogs? Scooter!
