Hanoi.  From the Vietnamese “Ha” meaning River and “Noi” meaning Between.  The city between the Red River.  Capital of North Vietnam since its inception in the early 1950′s (when it was France’s war instead of America’s) and capital of all Vietnam now.  And now my entry point into the country for a second time in less than as many weeks.

Touching gently down at Hanoi International Airport, all prior offenses — my own and those of my homeland — are seemingly forgiven as the thin, grinning immigration officer takes a single glance at my vividly colored new Visa stating that, at last, I am welcome in their land.  The war theoretically ended before I was even conceived, but a lifetime of various media types has led me to believe that, of all the places I’ve invaded thus far, this one might have call to be the least welcoming.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The "third world test": Do chickens run wild in your capital city?

Immigration people welcomed me, after looking at my distinctively American passport, with a warm smile.  Cab drivers, upon hearing where I hailed from, immediately asked me all sorts of questions about my country with genuine curiosity.  Every utterance of “where are you from?” immediately filled me with dread, even after several weeks in Vietnam, yet never once did the answer bring about any hard stares or unkind frowns.  Even an older man I spoke with at a restaurant outside Ho Chi Minh City accompanied by a limping, semi-retarded 40-year old son (a prime candidate for being an Agent Orange baby) spoke quite fondly with me about life in my homeland.

Stumbling out of the airport on a gimped out foot that refuses to heal quickly enough to suit my needs [see Vang Vieng post], I push past money-changers and a guy selling giant novelty lighters to jump into one of the first taxis I find.  The currency swap is the craziest I’ve endured thus far, with one hundred dollars roughly equaling two million Dong.  Yes, Dong.  The cab costs the equivalent of fifteen US Dollars, but it’s not a terrible deal for the hour-long ride.

My driver’s English is passable at best and we dash by rice paddies and large open spaces in relative silence.  We pass buses and trucks, and a few other taxis, but more than anything else the roads are overrun with motorcycles.  Most shoot past us, though some older and overburdened ones amble  along on the shoulders like dying horses.  Small teenage girls with sunglasses and no helmets ride by on scooters alongside older men on small Honda two-wheelers carrying massively unrealistic payloads like mattresses and refrigerators.  If there’s a way to cart something around by motorcycle, the Vietnamese have discovered it.  Or they don’t mind making a ridiculous attempt at it until something goes terribly wrong.

Vast fields of rice paddies on the way in from the airport. Note the classic Vietnamese headwear

As the city begins to flesh out around us — French colonial pastel chic mixed with modern post-communist Vietnamese style — motorcycle density increases to an almost untenable surge.  Upwards of four bikes ride alongside each other in a single lane, and the cluster of Vietnamese on wheels moves like wild birds as a single unit, expanding, contracting and swerving as one around unwelcome obstacles like those people daring enough to attempt fording the frenetic streets.  There’s an art to such a crossing, but I haven’t been instructed in it as of yet.

The flood of motorcycles both inspires and unnerves me as I consider my potential journey from north to south.  This is a culture that thrives on motorcycle transport, but the skill seems innately built into the people at an early age.  When a bike dangerously passes by with five people on it, three of them under the age of five, it’s obvious that the Vietnamese were literally born to ride.  One noteworthy thing that stands out, from my perspective, is the complete lack of the supposedly infamous Minsk bikes; nearly everyone is on a Honda of some sort.  Could I have been so misled about the ubiquity of the Soviet era rides here in Vietnam?

An advertisement for the “Drift Hostel” that I’d picked up in Laos is all the enticement I need to head that way, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find the place fun, vibrantly decorated and centrally located enough that I can walk to most of the key tourist spots in Hanoi.  The owner is an Australian woman, though the staff is almost entirely comprised of young, Vietnamese women with great English skills and a penchant for playfully removing sunglasses and smilingly refusing to give them back to the point where it’s borderline irritating.  This seems to be a common Vietnamese game as it happened to me many times throughout the country, leading me to fill with mild paranoia after a time whenever any Vietnamese person’s fingers neared my face whilst bedecked in my ever-stylish Ray-Bans.

The sunglasses-loving (my sunglasses, that is) ladies of Drift Hostel

Two weeks down the road, this disconcerting game of passive, obvious theft would occur with my motorcycle; it would be even less fun, then.

The hostel’s travel agency offers multi-day motorcycle trips to northern Vietnam, most notably the hillsides of Sapa, near the Chinese border.  Larger trips go further south, but they offer a price and degree of safety outside of my preferred range.  Trips to the magnificent Halong Bay catch my eyes above all else; the hundreds of karst islands bursting out from the ocean just a few hours from Hanoi are one of the most spectacular sites on earth.  Two-day cruises leave daily from central Hanoi.  For a few dollars more and an extra day, one can also visit Cat Ba Island, the largest chunk of land in Halong Bay.  Not much is mentioned about what one does on Cat Ba Island, which makes sense upon arrival there, as there is very little worth doing.  At the time, this was not known to me.

“You should try the snake blood.”   An American (by accent) with a New York Yankees cap on who has noticed my research of local sites points up to a sign on the wall.

Snake Farm!
Have a shot of hot snake blood and vodka
Leaving daily at 5 pm

“It’s great,” he explains.  ”They kill the snake right in front of you, then drain the blood into the shotglasses.  Someone in the group even gets to eat the heart.”

“You eat the heart?”

“Nah.  I thought about it, but an Aussie guy was much more excited about it than me.  He said it was still beating in his mouth as he swallowed it.”

“Nice.”

Ubiquitous Vietnamese snake whiskey. It tastes about how you would expect: like shit

The large activity book features plenty of local activities as well that don’t involve leaving the city or ingesting the still-beating hearts of any recently deceased animals:  The mummified corpse of Ho Chi Minh.  A prison cell that once held John McCain.  A show involving something called Water Puppets.  Cooking Lessons [see: this post for recipes].  Local markets and historic lakes.  Seats of power and centers of culture.  Hanoi’s turned itself into a fairly meaty tourist playground.

Upstairs in the common room, tired travelers back from one of the Halong boat trips lean back on sofas watching Apocalypse Now in silence.  I make a quick pitch for a trip to the local market, but there’s little interest until later and so I stumble out on my own after getting maps and directions from the girls at the front desk.  Outside, a motorcycle taxi is only too glad to take me and, devoid of helmets, we tear madly through the streets as other bikes come mere inches from my unfortunately long, Caucasian knees.

An interested baby watches on while I sit at an outdoor restaurant for dinner

Hanoi’s night market specializes more in the needs of locals than foreigners like myself; there are plenty of tourist shops for visitors elsewhere.  Still, hawkers run up to me with cheap English books and DVDs in cardboard boxes.  The books come with  professional-looking covers, though the insides are cheap, photo-copied pages, sometimes with folds or dark xerox burns, leaving certain sections almost entirely illegible.  Acutely aware of my own lack of knowledge about the war in ‘Nam, I pick up The 10,000 Day War by Michael Maclear after haggling viciously and walking away from the energetic salesman twice.  For the same price (and the same effort at haggling), I pick up a new pair of shorts as well.  They almost last me two weeks.

Some traditional musicians seem to be setting up a large act on a stage near the end of the market.  Locals already huddle together on the ground in anticipation, with more approaching, though I’m the only outsider.  With plenty of time to spare, I step into a tent-covered restaurant next door and down a few beers with the Vietnamese version of fresh hot pot.  Food is dropped down in front of me in a large container of clear broth with its own fire cooking underneath it to maintain the temperature.  It’s alright, though the cold beers are a bit more flavorful and just as filling.

The show is starting as I return, grabbing an empty patch of pavement near the front next to a small Vietnamese child who finds me far more interesting than most of the performance.  Many people stare, sometimes even chuckling as I make eye contact, but all seemed friendly and welcoming. On stage, the musicians switch off from song to song, with a narration of some sort (in Vietnamese) thrown in between each number.  I’m more fond of the songs with multiple instruments and less singing, as traditional Vietnamese singing is a distinctly acquired a taste as hearing When Doves Cry.  Not the Prince song– I mean the actual sound of birds in pain.

It’s even more densely packed around me at the free show after about an hour when the pain and numbness the pavement has caused my ass surpasses the mild joy received by sticking around at the show.  I try to depart as surreptitiously as possible, but being the tallest, whitest person in attendance, my plan is flawed from the start.

Turtle Tower, built on the Hoan Kiem (or Sword) Lake

The walk back to the hostel is long, but more than feasible, and it allows me to pass by Hanoi’s famous Hoan Kiem Lake with its equally famous Turtle Tower built out on a lone, small island.  It’s well lit and stands out peacefully under the full moon in the heart of the otherwise bustling large city.  The location is undeniably romantic, as young couples — both Vietnamese and foreign — sit on benches and patches of grass along the waterside.  At its northern end sits the famous and popular KFC restaurant: the lone American fast food joint in Vietnam (common theories state that its popularity is likely due to the bizarre similarity between cartoon drawings of Ho Chi Minh and Colonel Sanders).

Separated at birth?

With a cooking class the following morning, I pass up on watching 30 Days of Night in the common room and crash early in the dorms.  The head chef picks me up early and we make our way through the densely stocked outdoor food market picking up fresh ingredients for the meal.  He asks if I’d like to prepare dog.  I decline.  Motorcycles bearing boxes of produce dart through aisles barely large enough for people to pass through; more than once I’m pushed over into piles of tomatoes, shrimp and/or nameless medicinal roots.

At a Bia Hoi. Some of us are even lucky enough to have seats with backs.

Collapsing after the large meal back on the sofas at the Drift, I fall into a near sleep watching Inglourious Basterds and chatting with some of the new arrivals.  There’s been plenty of talk about hitting up a Bia Hoi, though no one’s been to one yet.  ”Bia” is conveniently enough the word for “beer” in Vietnam, and throughout every city are clusters of people sitting out on corners being served cheap beer from a keg, not unlike at high school and college parties throughout the United States.  Drinks are sold in plastic cups, but at 20 US cents a cup, it’s the best deal in town, presuming one doesn’t mind sitting on small plastic stools that seem like they’d belong in an underfunded nursery school.

The hostel’s Minsk contact hasn’t picked up his phone or answered any emails from me, but I was able to organize a trip to Halong Bay.  I can’t find much information about Cat Ba Island, but the price difference for the extra day there is minimal enough that I opt to explore it out of curiosity.  A shuttle is set to pick me up in the morning at nine, leaving ample time for Drift’s free breakfast.  Unfortunately it also leaves time for the crazed French woman.

The first sign of some potential Minsk action

The Crazed French Woman

I’d already been warned — by hostel employees and other guests — but I couldn’t really understand without meeting her.  Coming down to breakfast, I spotted the short woman yelling at the visibly perturbed Vietnamese girl behind the counter, doing her best to deflect every complaint and/or piece of advice.  Her skin is pulled taut against brittle-looking bones and coarse strands of muscle, yet she flails about with energy surging from some hidden and impossible reserve.  Eyes dart about madly as though imprisoned within her skull and seeking release with their every frantic glance.  For some reason, she wears what looks to be a white fisherman’s hat.

Hanoi's motorcycle culture

“It’s breakfast and you are playing music like this!  Why are you playing music like this?  Why are you playing music?  I do not think anyone wants music at breakfast, but this?” she exclaims, referring to the relatively quiet Coldplay broadcast out over the cafe in the background, “this is too much!”   She looks to me quickly for agreement that never comes.

“Ok,” says the girl behind the counter.  I only want to settle my tab and have breakfast, but the poor Vietnamese clerk is trapped in a bizarre and pointless French tractor-beam and can’t seem to escape.  The inane conversation about the merits of pre-noon music continues for far too long before I force my cause to the front while the Frenchwoman locks a fixed stare onto me.  I head back to the dining area, head down, but it’s too late; I’ve provided a more compelling outlet for the woman than her previous target and she can’t resist following.

“Where are you from?” she asks me pointedly.

“America,” I say.  ”The United States.”

“New York?”

“No, Maryland.”

“Oh.  I do not know Maryland.”

“I didn’t expect you to.  No one knows Maryland.”

“I have been to New York.”

“Yeah?”

“So expensive.  I stayed in a shelter there.  A women’s shelter.  It was the cheapest place I could find.  But I didn’t like it — there were too many black convicts.  They hit me, push me.  But they do not take from me very much.  And why?  Because I do not have anything.  Hah?  So the joke is on them.”

“You got that right.”

“But seriously, I like Americans.  I want an American man.  They are romantic.  So romantic.  Not at all like French men.”

“That’s crazy.  I thought French men were supposed to be very romantic.  What with the… you know, berets.  And stuff…”

“Faaahhh.  They all Smoke!  So many cigarettes.  Every French man smokes cigarettes.  And you know, the statistic is 4 out of 5 French men will die of cancer.  And the people around them too!  No, I will not go out with a French man.”

“Ok.”

“I am so pissed.  I am out of money and my mother refuses to send anymore.  She says I ask too much and need to solve my own problems.  And she is right.  But I am trapped and in trouble and she will not talk to me.”

“Well how old is she?”  I’m fairly certain the madwoman’s in her late 40′s at least, still writing home for cash, and this seemed the easiest way to find out.

“She is 83.  Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Ahh.  Well if you want, you can invite me to come to Maryland and yes, I would come and stay with you.  But I cannot offer you the same because I am homeless and live in a shelter.   And it is not a good place for guests.”

“That’s a shame…”

“But maybe some time later.”

“Maybe.  I have to leave now.”

“Ah yes, you go on the boat.  They are here for you now.”

“God I hope so.”

Vietnamese Water Puppetry

The show comes highly recommended, though no one that has gone seems able to adequately describe what a “water puppet” show is.  From the unavoidable obtuseness in their descriptions, I’d figured the show to be too amazing a spectacle to put into words.  This is not the case as I will prove right here:  Water Puppets are a variety of small plastic figures with minimal moving parts performing on a stage of water which hides their controlling parts, in front of a curtain which hides their handlers.

Due to the glut of positive reviews, I figured I owed a night to this spectacle and attended on my first night back from the not-yet-blogged-about Halong Bay.  I don’t feel they deserve their own entry, though, so I’m tossing it on here.

A layout of the "stage" with the orchestra arranged to the left, above.

The action starts to intensify. At this point, one begins to feel a grudging respect for the performance, even without necessarily feeling entertained by the eerie puppets

Later puppets tended to be more impressive looking. At the very least, they splashed each other more.

The puppeteers