Good Morning Vietnam

After a happy Christmas and numerous walks down memory lane and elsewhere, Grandpa returned to the UK while our eldest son was able to enjoy Grandma’s undivided attention on an action packed three day trip to Shanghai. They returned bubbling with enthusiasm at all they had seen.

Grandma stayed on for the final days of the school holidays to give us the gift of a child-free weekend in Hanoi. We were like children let out of school early and our eyes were as big as saucers as we took in the vast range of impressions that make up Hanoi’s varied, jumbled and bustling cityscape.

Arriving in Vietnam for the first time, one can not fail to be amazed by the traffic chaos. As we approached the capital through a flat, wet landscape of paddy fields, maize and small plots I was struck by the numbers of mopeds, some piled high with live chickens, eggs or fruit and grew concerned for those that hurtled towards us on the wrong side of the dual carriageway.

As we approached the city the madness increased along with the density of buildings; traffic poured in all directions at junctions and intersections, road signs an irrelevance, thousand upon thousand of mopeds, bikes too, tourist cyclos, the odd motorised three wheeler, some busses and a number of cars and small taxis, all flowing like a wide, slow river which can’t or won’t stop, paying no heed to the considerable potential for accidents.

The noise of horns and bells, all sounding at once and combined with the constant roar of hundreds of engines was deafening. Crossing roads was a challenge we didn’t undertake lightly. The green and red pedestrian signs at zebra crossings mean little to the traffic which bears down on one from all directions should one dare to leave the safety of the pavement. And as one does, the vehicles neither slow nor stop but fan out, aiming for a space either in front or behind the reckless pedestrian, parting like the Red Sea as Moses makes his way across.

Narrow town houses, some with fantasy turrets, balustrades and pinnacles, up to five storeys high and several rooms deep but sometimes no wider than six foot, line the roads in uneven rows or stand further back in unregulated jumbles. Business is often conducted from the ground floor room. We grew accustomed to the sight of a moped parked inside a jeweller’s or a dress shop where space outside was short. In the old quarter the pavements are packed so tightly with the two-wheelers that pedestrians have little choice but to walk in the road which in turn contributes to the noise of horns and the general levels of road chaos.

Telephone wires loop loosely between the telegraph poles in their masses, close enough to reach up and touch. In the French quarter the streets are wide and tree lined with generous pavements and large old houses, cool and quiet behind their louvre shutters. It is a buzzy place, vibrant, colourful, smokey and chaotic and we were charmed by its odd mixture of faded French colonial grandeur, ancient pagodas and temples, the so called Vietnamese tube houses and a dollop of Soviet architecture around the military parade ground where Ho Chi Minh’s ponderous grey mausoleum stands.

We got up early to visit the mausoleum. Unfortunately our arrival there coincided with that of 1,000 high school pupils all dressed in identical blue and white cagoules. Some way along the queue we were spotted by an official who pulled us out of line and quizzed us about cameras and mobile phones. We had both about our person and assumed he was going to remove them. He didn’t. His intervention was more to do with the exercise of power for power’s sake. He made us stand to one side and let about 400 of the said school children pass before letting us proceed. I couldn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt for wanting to separate us from the mass of school children as there were still another 400 or so behind us when he allowed us to rejoin the queue.

The line moved quickly despite our set back. Cameras were taken away from us at a security check further along, but surprisingly we were allowed to retain our mobile phones. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to inform the custodians of Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum that mobile phones can now also be used to take pictures.

As we got nearer the entrance the babble of the school children simmered into quieter, more respectful whispers. I on the other hand was told by a guard to take my hands out of my pockets and the Pioneering Accountant was instructed to hush. We were not, it seemed, treating the visit with due respect and attention. We entered a dimly lit room where Ho Chi Minh has lain in his embalmed state since his death in 1969. Poor Uncle Ho. In his will he declared his wish to be cremated and have his ashes strewn in the north, the south and the central region of Vietnam as a symbol of the country’s unity he so desired. His wish was overruled by his successors who had the Father of the Nation embalmed for all to see.

I couldn’t help thinking that Ho, a man who eschewed the trappings of power and chose a simple two roomed house on stilts over Hanoi’s grandiose presidential palace, might even have detested his final resting place and all it represented. Half way round I wanted a closer look. Was there a trace of a grimace in that peaceful old face? I reached into my bag to rummage for my glasses. The Pioneering Accountant stifled a squawk of alarm and, assuming I was about to grab a quick snap with my phone, put a hand on my arm. I’d already had a premonition that I might be shot for reaching for my glasses but decided I must stand up for my right to see clearly. We emerged blinking into the daylight and struggling to hide our laughter from the disapproving guards.

The sights of Hanoi are many and varied. The increasing liberalisation of the country which has enabled individuals to pursue their own business interests is in evidence all around. Women with flat woven baskets suspended from a yolk across one shoulder carry with them the means to set up a small street restaurant complete with stove, cups, bowls, chopsticks, ingredients and even tiny plastic stools for customers. Fruit vendors sell their harvest in baskets from a wooden platform on the back of a moped, a cyclist pedals by with a popcorn machine and a saucepan on the back of the bike, another with wire baskets holding heavy fuel pellets which are sold to the street kitchens. A barber hangs a mirror on a tree trunk, unfolds a chair and touts for custom. A lottery ticket vendor puts up a folding table and is open for business. Between us we must have had declined hundreds of offers to clean our rather dusty shoes. There is a different attitude to the use of public space and tiny businesses thrive wherever they are able.

We avoided the street vendors, not out of concern for hygiene but simply because my very tall and not very bendy husband could not have sat comfortably on seats made for small two year olds. We ate like kings and amused ourselves by reading the menus which offer such tempting dishes as boiled dog meat, pig's solid small intestine and fried tortoise. The food was delicious but one can't help feeling that something gets lost in translation.

Returning to Hong Kong with mixed emotions I reassess my feelings on the city we now call home. Despite my eagerness to be reunited with the children I am not particularly thrilled to be back. Hong Kong has none of Hanoi’s charm and leads me to conclude, albeit not very originally, that the place is unashamedly and solely dedicated to the pursuit of money. Whilst it has its own unique character and is constantly renewing itself in pursuit of its goal the side effects are an undeniable harshness and a soullessness I have not encountered elsewhere.

As someone who has never been much good at making money it strikes me how unsuited I am to settling here and that without goals of my own I could sink without trace and be deemed an abject failure in Hong Kong’s eyes. Yet I am pursued by a nagging feeling that I owe it to my husband as well as myself to do better than that. So how shall I use my time in Hong Kong? Perhaps it’s time to make some New Year’s resolutions.