Day 7 - Hanoi - 13th September 2014
Hanoi Day 7 – 13th September 2014
Breakfast of fruit, miso soup, rice and dumplings, and we are in the foyer on time for 9 am. We meet Han, (rhymes with ‘Honey’ he says) our second in command tour guide, another smiling and helpful man. The group is all here, and we leave precisely on time, people are introducing themselves, and barriers beginning to fall. I even kissed Betty good morning.
It’s steaming hot, and within a few minutes of alighting the air conditioned bus at Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, we are all sweating, wet haired, and red faced. Unfortunately, we will not see Ho Chi Minh’s body, it is 45 years since his death, and his body is sent annually to Moscow for maintenance (true), and this year he has gone for three months and not the normal two months. Clearly a big repair job. I understand – there have been times in my life when I have felt that three months maintenance in Moscow was probably necessary. He says that when HCM is here – he speaks of him as if he had merely gone on holiday and hasn’t been dead for decades – there are queues two kms long to get in to see his body, and you can scarcely walk through the peaceful gardens and ornamental carp filled lake to his simple home for the throngs. They say that to experience the HCM Mausoleum is to experience the full repressive force of the communist apparatus. No talking, no hands in pockets, no knees and no shoulders displayed, no intimations of disrespect. For the body of this beloved Vietminh leader, who led the independence movement, who despite his humility and gentle nature, led a revolution, and is preserved under eerie orange lighting in a glass coffin. Visitors flow around his granite tomb in two tightly controlled lines, and many weep. He spoke 17 languages, was a poet, a writer, an accomplished musician, he never married, had no children and refused to live in the Presidential Palace, instead choosing the guard house of his body guards. The souvenir shops show photos of a man with gentle eyes, smiling, and the most famous photo of all, holding a small child in his arms in a tender embrace.
The heat is too much for Kath, and after less than ten minutes, one of the guides has to return her to the comfort of the bus, but the rest of us walk through what was the original zoo, now a place of great peace with trees from all over Vietnam and the world, until it begins to rain, a welcome relief I think, but how comical to see people run for cover, seemingly alarmed by a few fat drops of water, even Quong is holding his ‘follow me paddle’ over his head to protect his perfectly coiffed hair.
We head back to the bus and drive on to the Temple of Literature. This is Vietnam’s first university and a monument to scholars, it was built in 1076 and is featured on the back of 100,000 dong banknotes ($4.50). Though it has been reconstructed numerous times over the centuries, the Confucian mainstay preserved a classic architectural style with a citadel, beautiful courtyards and a large lake. It’s a very popular historical sight, and we see a group of young graduates in cap and gowns, who must be dying of heat I thin. What a surprise as we bump into Bronwyn Bishop and a small entourage of Vietnamese. She looks cool, classically dressed, her trademark helmet hair, and high stilettos. I wait for a moment, and greet her, shaking her hand, telling her we are a group of Aussies, she beams and steps forward, and then Gerald is there shaking her hand and the rest of the group too. Later I overhear ‘Trust Sandra!’ but not with any malice, more like admiration. Gerald says I am gaining a reputation in the group.
The group are flagging and we head back to the bus, where Ashley and Kath are waiting. People have bought fans from the women hawkers, and souvenirs, and although it is not yet 12, most people join Quong for lunch at a Pho cafe. Gerald and I head back to the hotel, where we have a cool swim, eat some fruit in the room, a rest, and I write, ready for the 3.15 pick up.
The last rickshaw ride I had was with Joshua and Bev Riley in Singapore when Josh was ten years old. Gerald believes it is demeaning to the operator and does not want to go, but I am excited and as I am trailing the group talking to Gerald who is heading off for a walk, I discover all the rickshaws are taken. Which is a good thing, as by the time they get me one, all the group have left, and I am effectively on my own, with a man called Tien, who has lucked out with little me, compared to the giants he could have got.
The rickshaw ride is great fun, ‘my’ man pleasant and lopes along easily, we travel along wide boulevards and narrow alleys, dodging traffic nimbly at four way intersections as my heart races, and I see all manner of things I would never otherwise have seen. Families boiling water for tea on the pavement as it ‘soots up’ their apartments, as they still use wood. People in their thousands going about their business, others milling aimlessly, people watching, streets filled with every conceivable item – the ‘Lantern Street’ for example is a riot of colour with paper lanterns of every description swaying gently in the breeze – the ‘Toilet Street’ – is it called toilet street I wonder? – sells nothing but toilets and basins and piping and taps – and best of all, (I think of Madeleine and Joe Lobseys kids), is ‘Stuffed Toy Street’ – full of, you guessed! A zillion stuffed toys of every colour and shape, hanging in patterns from shopfronts. And everything permeated by the smell of garlic and chilli and roasting pork. And yes, there is a ‘Pork Street’ too!
We head to the Thang Long Water Puppet Theatre for a show which is unique, so clever and must be so hard to do. All the puppets are in water, the operators are behind screens, and the puppets appear on long bamboo rods, and do amazing things, some of them incredibly complicated and must be incredibly heavy, with six or seven ‘people’ on each rod. Exquisitely painted and the talent of the operators make it easy to imagine that these ‘people’ are real – we see romance in the rice paddies, we see battles between fighting fish, men with swords and mothers with babies. Either side of the water ‘stage’ are singers and musicians, playing and singing traditional music and songs – the women with clear, high, sweet voices and the men with a low base. They are the ones who create the drama with the songs and the music and the cymbals and the drums and I am on the edge of my seat when Gerald points out a young Asaian boy, perhaps 13, seated in front of us. In the midst of this experience, he is playing a GAME on his I Pad. A GAME ON HIS I PAD. What the??? His parents appear oblivious and I have to stop myself from climbing over the seat and smashing it. I return to the fantasy and the delight of the performing artists and the legends and stories in front of me and immerse myself, all the more because of this silly boy, in the experience. When, at the end, the performers come out, all of whom stand thigh deep in water throughout the performance, (which must be cold in winter) – I am amazed to see they are almost all women, and so humble to their applause. They must be so physically strong! I want to shower them with accolades and boquets and embarrass some of the audience with my enthusiasm. A large German couple next to me never once put their hands together in a clap. Here is another opportunity for growth, Sandra Groom, and I decide not to have a conversation with them about respect and acknowledgement, much to Gerald’s relief.
Its a few hours since the herd grazed, and people are asking about food. Quong says he will take them to a restaurant close to the hotel, which serves ‘Vietnamese and Western food’. I can see eyes glaze over, and Gerald and I make indepedent decisons to give that one a miss. We ask the bus to drop us off at a humble pho restaurant, not far from KOTO, and the herd continues to its Western food destination without us. The meal is not particularly wonderful, we are the only people there for most of it, but the people are charming and eager to please, and delight in having their photo taken with me. Gerald declines this photo opportunity. He has a beer and we make a shandy for me, and we leave pleasantly full and tired.
‘We need cash for tomorrow’ Gerald says, and lo! – there is an ATM right there. He has left his wallet in the hotel, so we carefully negotiate the unfamiliar instructions on the screen whilst shielding it from public view. We have heard stories about people being accosted once they have withdrawn cash, and we have a fair walk home in the dark through murderous traffic. Gerald is a patient man, and careful, and we wait whilst the machine grinds slowly through several questions. We wait. And we wait. Nothing. We wait some more, and all of a sudden, an alarming statement appears to the effect that the bank now has our credit card, we can collect it in the morning. Oh my. We are starting to panic, what if its a scam, I have read of this! – the machine says that, and you leave, and some smart arse around the corner is waiting for you to leave, and he puts in a bit of chewing gum or something, and retrieves your card, and goes on a spending spree. Gerald presses a few buttons, but the machine has made up its mind. Tomorrow, sorry. As we are leaving at the crack of dawn for Ha-Long Bay, this is impossible. Reluctantly, we leave, casting sad glances back at the machine that ate my credit card, but we cannot see a man from the shadows retrieving it.
Gerald does not want to cancel it if the bank has it securely, as we have many transactions that go out on that very card each month, which will be dishonoured if we cancel it. Back at the hotel, we inform Quong by phone. This is another good reason to travel with a tour guide and a group. Quong is on to it, and true to form, despite many problems and concerns and seemingly impossible to sort out challenges – Quong handles it, he has a sister who works in that bank – and by the end of our trip, we are informed our card has been destroyed. A whole bunch of work for Gerald when we get home, but at least we have not been robbed. The reason for our card being eaten was, we think, our too slow and careful response to the questions being asked.
We pack up for our journey to Ha-Long Bay and go to bed worried.