Bound for Vietnam Read online

  The pharmacy displayed all its medicines in glass cases and antibiotics and other drugs, which should have been refrigerated, lay in direct sunshine at the front of the shop. Prices, which were mostly very cheap, had been clumsily handwritten with ink on old pieces of paper. You could buy anything your heart desired (except anti-malarials) – intramuscular or intravenous Cortisone, Haloperidol, hormones. They had never heard of prescriptions. Want to give yourself an anaesthetic? No problem. You could buy the Pentothal and then the equipment with which to administer it.

  Busy shops and bustling markets abounded. Most shops were small, some were mere cubicles and all the shops that sold the same item were collected together in one street as though they believed that there was safety in numbers. French perfume was a reasonable price and in some shops I saw a few things that were proudly labelled ‘Made in America’. Apparently there were no hard feelings, especially in the matter of trade.

  Little dogs that resembled Maltese terriers and were meant to be white scrounged among mountainous piles of garbage in the gutters, although I did see the streets being cleaned by council workers. But life went on in the gutters of Hanoi; in one a woman did her washing in a big aluminium bowl and the barber cut hair and threw shaving water down into another. Bamboo bongs, or puffs on extremely unhygienic looking communal ones the size of drain pipes, were sold at street corners.

  I often ate at the Old Darling Café, a traveller’s hang-out in a small down-town side street. While waiting for my meal I usually let a shoe-shine boy clean and polish my daggy old shoes, even though they were suede. I felt sorry for the many young boys who approached travellers with postcards or shoe-shine boxes. But there were few beggars on the streets of Hanoi and the ones I did see were mostly old or disabled. One day as I ate my lunch of fried rice and spicy chicken, I was entertained by the sight of a young woman nit-picking another’s hair in front of her shop across the street. Business must have been slow. It could get slower if the customers saw this.

  Vietnamese food is very good and incredibly cheap. The bread was divine, a legacy of the French, as was the coffee. And there was cheese, real cheese, also a left-over from French days. At the Trung, the cook used to heat the breakfast bread rolls on the coals of the cooking brazier, which made them even better.

  One day, hopeful of finding a ship in which to travel down the coast to Ho Chi Minh City or other places south, I took a cyclo and went looking for the docks. I ended up lost on a dirt road. A man and woman on a motorbike stopped to ask if they could help me. This happened several times and kind passers-by directed me ever further on, until I found a boat that made short trips on the Red River. All further enquiries concerning shipping resulted in dead ends, so the next morning I went to the train station to buy a ticket south. I had decided to go to Danang by train and then on to Hoian, an ancient town I wanted to see, by bus. The station is located on Grass Street, a main road that used to run to the imperial palace and was broad enough to accommodate a parade of horses and elephants carrying high officials to an audience with the king. The street got its name from the feed for the animals that was cut by prisoners and stacked by the roadside.

  At the station I found the abominable Foreigner Prices listed again. The fare to Danang was more than half a million dong. A patient woman sold me a ticket, and addressed me as ‘Madame’, another legacy of the French. There was even a computer. The waiting room was labelled, ‘The Room for Passengers at the Train on the Station’. It had big polished wooden seats, a bar where refreshments were sold and was gratifyingly spacious and almost empty.

  I went to the Hanoi Zoo. A great spot in the outer suburbs, bad luck it was not as nice for the animals as it was for the humans. The first animal I saw on entering the grounds was a big black bear chewing a plastic drink bottle that someone had thoughtfully thrown at it. Three elephants, graded in sizes, very large, medium and baby, were chained separately in an enclosure and swung their trunks ceaselessly in an agony of boredom. But one lucky one was free, although alone, in a large enclosure with a pool. I watched four men scale the wall to enter the pen with the chained ones and thought it was unfortunate that the elephants could not get at them. Other animals were taunted and provoked. Monkeys were hit, poked, prodded and teased. A tiny, trusting baby monkey with a wizened face and innocent eyes was given a lighted cigarette by a ten-year-old boy who shouldn’t have been smoking anyway – although it was common to see male children doing this. I gave the horrible kid a verbal beating and would have followed it with a clip under the ear if I hadn’t been afraid of getting arrested for imperialist aggression. More fortunate monkeys were being fed sugared popcorn.

  This made me feel hungry. I smelled something cooking and followed my nose past the many small stalls that sold drinks and sweets until I spotted a line of cabbages on top of a crumbly wall. I thought that a source of nourishment might lie behind this barrier. I was right. Under a trellis of blue creepers nestled a tiny outdoor café. I sat down at a microscopic table on an even smaller chair and was fed big chunks of tomatoes and potatoes in a delicious soup, fried rice, tofu and sausage meat wrapped in rice paper, a salad of cucumber and unidentified greens and tea for eighty-five cents.

  Afterwards I walked over a curved bridge to an island in a lake where more birds and animals were kept in cages among gardens and under big trees. One strange triangular apparatus had four white long-haired cats in it. I wondered what they were but I couldn’t read the label that described them. The zoo’s toilet block was another of the topless open plan squat-on-the-tiles jobs. Its sewerage system was simplicity itself; an open drain ran straight outside into an open ditch.

  The zoo was a long interesting cyclo ride from the centre of town. On the way I had passed the Hanoi Hilton, the grim gaol that was built by the French in the early twentieth century and was later used to house western prisoners of war. Situated in a pleasant commercial street, it came as a shock to see the building’s barred windows and the barbed wire and glass shards on top of its surrounding wall.

  Then we rode through the area of imposing houses and buildings that surrounds Ho Chi Minh’s grey granite mausoleum. In Vietnam Uncle Ho is awarded the reverence due to, but seldom given, temples and deities. His tomb, set in a spacious square where no cars are admitted, looms over everything from the top of a massive set of steps. Inscribed over the entrance is Ho’s quotation, ‘Nothing is more precious than independence and freedom’. The Ho Chi Minh museum is opposite the mausoleum. It is a stupendous building that is also set up high for maximum impact and is approached by a mammoth flight of steps.

  Extensive expanses of uncut lawns and acres of gardens intersected by paved paths surround the museum. I had walked to the far end of one of the paths when I was abruptly halted by a loud shouted, ‘No!’ This warning was uttered in an unmistakable tone by one of the many rifletoting soldiers who patrolled the premises. I turned about smartly and went off in the other direction, but when I reached the end of that path I got the same reaction. I set off another way, this time escorted by four guards who had suddenly materialised to correct this erring foreigner. But they were friendly enough and when I said, ‘Sorry’ and laughed, they responded with jokes and we all marched along happily to the place permitted to Good Little Tourists.

  In Vietnam I found what I had expected but did not get in China – oriental architecture and gardens in peaceful and serene surroundings. Van Mieu, the Temple of Literature in Hanoi, fulfilled all my expectations. It was the ultimate. The oldest school and the first university in the country, it was established in 1076 AD and dedicated to Confucius as a place of worship and learning. The entire complex was shut off from the noise of the street by high, thick walls that measured about a kilometre around. Only the faint murmur of traffic that seemed far away in another world reached inside this tranquil place where visitors were few and innumerable birds twittered in massive old trees. In the large grounds you could ramble on tree-shaded grass from courtyard to courtyard through ornate gatew
ays. Each courtyard had a wooden pavilion in its centre and as you approached one courtyard you saw the pavilion of the next framed in its gateway, a beautiful, composed picture. At the rear of the complex grew the most ancient-looking tree that I have ever seen; a huge, gnarled and twisted frangipani that must have been hundreds of years old. A water puppet show was also staged at the back of the temple compound. The setting was a tank of flood-lit water and the puppets were manipulated from behind a screen as a story was told. The usual villain, hero and heroine were present and they were accompanied by boats and other water-craft. A fairyland of magical illusion was created as the glittering reflections of the puppets, their colourful costumes and the sparkling lights moved on the water.

  Another morning I was pedalled to the Viet Cong Bank. What a building! An enormous French colonial edifice, it had a ceiling thirty metres high that was inset with skylights of coloured glass and a series of curved staircases wound up to a lofty mezzanine floor. I crossed the marble floor that was edged by polished wooden couches and waited patiently in line for twenty minutes behind two Canadians who were trying to cash a traveller’s cheque. Then I found that I was in the wrong queue.

  When I left the bank, the Canadians were still trying to get their money, but a cash advance, and in American dollars, on my Visa Card had taken only a couple of minutes. You got much more value using US dollars than the local currency.

  One evening I paid a call on the cathedral. A long central aisle led to a colourful main altar that was flanked by two minor ones. High above, the domed ceiling was shaped like a bishop’s hat, and a wooden railed balcony in the rear housed the choir. I stepped soundlessly down the dusky aisle, my footsteps masked by rubber soles. The atmosphere was heavy with history. Ghosts lurked in the darkened, silent pews. I sat down to absorb the peace and quiet. Two or three people came in to pray. Then others began filtering in for evensong, mostly old women who wore heavy French head-dresses or scarves. I looked at their tranquil faces and wondered what they had lived through to have achieved this serenity. One smiled softly at me. The priest had a shock of white hair and was also old, almost in his dotage. He doddled around the altar on faltering feet, and when he came to a step the altar boy took his hand and helped him down. Incense burned, bells tinkled and candles flickered mystically. The choir and the old ladies raised their voices sweetly and the pure notes drifted away into the dim recesses of the vaulted ceiling.

  On the steps outside the cathedral a legless beggar leaned on his crutches and solicited alms. It was a fine evening so I walked back to the Trung through streets that were now calm after the hustle of the day.

  I got the urge to interfere with nature again and bought some hair colour. Ever since my days in Saudi Arabia when I could hide my mistakes under a veil I decide now and then to play with my hair – usually with disastrous results. I never learn! This time was no different. It was the usual debacle. My natural dark brown was stripped to a dull, dirty stripey blonde. I should have guessed when I saw the bottle labelled ‘peroxide’. At least they called a spade a shovel here and didn’t disguise it with euphemisms like activator or developer. But I was mystified how a bottle of liquid could produce stripes of a nasty green colour, like the shade you get when meat is turning bad, in your hair.

  On my last day in Hanoi I visited Lenin Park. Written Le Nin, it is a big green area where large old flame trees, bamboos and palms flourish and iron and stone trellises are covered with bright, purple and pink flowering creepers. Fronting an extensive, glistening lake and garlanded by vines, rows of Grecian columns form walkways that look like scenes from Parish prints of the twenties. At the edge of the lake fishermen pulled in gigantic nets that had been set in a semi-circle and in which many small fish were entangled. They threw most of the fish back into the water, but two women gleaned those that fell from the edges of the nets, collected them in rattan baskets and bicycled away. From the amount of fish I saw jumping all over the water as the net was pulled in, the lake must have been teeming with fish. It was also teeming with rubbish.

  But there was not much pollution. The air in Hanoi was clear. This was another perfect day for park meandering, sitting on benches along the stone walkways, or leaning on paved bridges. It was Saturday and lovers had commandeered many of the seats. Women vendors sold drinks from panniers on their bicycles and kids called out to me, ‘Madame, Madame’. It was a restful place and no one hassled me. The children only came with wide smiles to say hello. A sweeper pulled a cart past me, with a forty-four gallon drum rubbish bin attached. Another cart was the water chariot and from it women gave the flower pots and urns their rations with a dipper and sprinkled the garden beds with galvanised-iron watering cans. A woman went by with all the ingredients for chewing betel nut in two baskets on her shoulder pole. I had seen betel juice on the ground, but chewing it did not seem to be a common practice in the cities although I did see old women doing this. Groups of men squatted on the grass playing cards or checkers and now and then I came across a man who had tied a hammock between two trees so that he could swing gently to and fro while gazing out over the lake. This looked a blissful occupation.

  Returning from the park on foot, I was confronted by a street vendor who insisted on trying to sell me a live duck.

  After staying ten days at the Trung, I took the train to Danang. When I went to pay my bill, I discovered that it had grown very big! I was given a calculator to add it up myself, but the sum I arrived at was not checked by Madame Doctor – even though I pleaded partial numerical illiteracy and begged her to. Doctor Marie (whom everyone, staff included, called Mumsy) just smiled and said, ‘No problem.’ I tried to pay for my laundry, but I was told to forget it, as well as the last lot of food and drink I’d had there. I was soundly kissed goodbye by everyone, especially Tham, the little worker who continually hummed, whistled or sang and always seemed happy and full of innocent fun.

  I’d had some photocopying done in a shop near the Trung. The staff could not change the bank note I offered them, so they told me to come back later and pay, or forget it. I could suit myself. I don’t believe this place, I thought as I regretfully left.

  11 Chariots of Dire

  Riding the Thong Nhat, The Vietnamese Unification Express, on a one-track, narrow gauge line is a bone rattling adventure. There are unscheduled stops and a good chance of derailment owing to flooding or typhoons, in the fifty-six hours it takes to reach Ho Chi Minh City. But it is one of the most spectacular train journeys in Asia. The train passes through a dramatic landscape of jagged granite mountains and rocky coastlines that is interrupted by long, coal black tunnels. Begun in 1899, the train-line was repeatedly sabotaged and bombed in the second world war, the Indochinese War and the American war and it was only re-opened in 1976.

  Vietnamese trains are old, but they have been well cared for. I thought The Unification Express was wonderful. It was not as plush as the showcase Shanghai–Beijing train, but it was clean, including the loo, which even ran to the luxury of toilet paper. And the trains came with service with a smile. When I boarded at seven in the evening a conductor carried my bags on for me.

  My two person compartment had an upper and lower berth and a wooden wash-stand in one corner, the lid of which lifted to disclose a small blue porcelain sink with a tap. Attached to the wall beside the wash-stand was a little fold-down table, beneath which nestled two tiny stools and a waste bin. It was a long time since I had seen one of those articles on a train. There were also bed lights, a fan and, apart from the outside windows, a window covered by an ornate, wrought-iron grill and a curtain that opened into the corridor.

  The other half of the two-person cabin arrived; an interesting Englishman who was a steam railway buff. Nigel had some great train stories. We sat on the lower bunk talking for hours and soon became mates. After a while we were brought a plastic bag of long, stringy green tea and later still our minute table was ceremoniously laid with pepper, salt and toothpicks. But although we waited a very long time, nothi
ng in the food line eventuated and regrettably we had nothing to pick out of our teeth. I think we had been expected to buy our dinner from a trolley that we unsuspectingly allowed to get past us. Breakfast, however, was delivered to us in bed – banana, noodles and meat, along with propaganda over the loudspeaker which started at half past five in the morning.

  Nigel got off the train at nine o’clock in Hue. From there the line ran down the sea coast to Danang, three and a half hours away. The countryside was as lovely as I have seen anywhere. Buffalo stood among lush green trees and ducks puddled in wet rice paddies alongside thatched atap and bamboo, or occasionally a stone, house. Women stooped to work in the large expanses of fields in which bananas, sugar cane and vegetables grew in verdant profusion. In each rice paddy the tombs of its previous owners stood guard; the ancestor still looking over his rice. (Or had he been used as fertiliser?) The red, blue and yellow of the painted head stones had been faded by the weather, which gave them added charm. The occasional paddy accommodated a veritable cemetery of tombs, some of which were quite large and contained a stone sarcophagus. Reminders of the American War, bomb craters were visible alongside bridges and riverbanks. We crossed several big rivers on which narrow boats bobbed, while on the banks men fished and women washed their clothes. At a little town made up of a motley collection of low buildings that were mostly stone, I noticed that spirit houses decorated with offerings stood on posts in front of all the dwellings. The red Vietnamese flag flew above the railway station. Its doors had once been painted bright blue, but were now attractively weathered to a more subtle colour. As we crossed more rivers, I began to realise just how much water there is in this country.