The bus has pulled up to the station in Hanoi and I’m the last one off, struggling down the narrow aisle with Willa and two bags, rushing to claim my backpack from the bus’ undercarriage before someone else does. I stumble on the last step and as I right myself, women surrounding the bus shove cheap jewelry and trinkets in my face, “You buy from me!”, “You buy something!” Moto drivers grab for my bags, trying to convince me to go with them, that they have a good, cheap guesthouse for me. I’m too tired to put Willa, myself and the bags onto the back of a motor bike in the middle of Hanoi traffic, so I pick a driver who has a car - there’s only one - and ask him to please take me to Camellia 3 guesthouse. He recommends a better, cheaper guesthouse, but I insist, telling him that my husband is going to meet me at Camellia 3. I hope this will be so.
We had just visited Cat Ba Island in Ha Long Bay, renowned for its mythically beautiful limestone outcroppings in aqua waters. We arrived around noon on Monday and by Tuesday morning we were ready to leave.
Our bus from Ninh Binh dropped us off at the Haiphong ferry dock where we paid an exorbitant amount of money for an air-conditioned fast boat to Cat Ba Island leaving right then. (The alternative was waiting on the sweltering dock for three hours to take a slow, non-air-conditioned boat.) The boat was already packed with Vietnamese tourists and tons of luggage and we grabbed the last two seats in the back. We were the only Westerners and, undoubtedly, the only people to pay as much as we did for our tickets.
We twice offered to switch seats with the woman next to us, so that she could sit with her family, but she declined. We later figured she must be viewing the ride as a mini-vacation from her husband and four children, who talked loudly, ate messily and got seasick for the duration of the trip. Just about everyone on board was sick - save us, fortunately - and we were appalled when exiting to see bags and bags of vomit amidst the crumbs, spilled sodas and trash that people had left behind on their seats and the floor.
On Cat Ba Island, we checked into our guesthouse and the bed crashed beneath us when we sat on it. At lunch we were overcharged for warm water, shrimp that had gone bad and old steamed rice. The two small beaches were so crowded with people we only got glimpses of sand and the ocean’s surf so strong we never considered taking Willa in. We walked around the somewhat depressed town, had two more underwhelming, overpriced meals and were given the directive “You buy something!” every 3 feet. We finally did: our return ferry tickets.
Gazing out the window of the boat, watching the brown water that surrounds Cat Ba Island, a thought occurred to me. “Johnny, did you get our passports back from the front desk?”* Shit. We quickly made the plan that Willa and I would continue on, taking the bus to Haiphong and from there, another bus to Hanoi. Johnny would go back to Cat Ba on the next ferry, take the bus back to the guesthouse, get our passports, take the journey again and meet us in Hanoi tonight at Camellia 3, a guesthouse hurriedly selected from our guidebook.
Now, in Hanoi, the taxi drops Willa and me off at the hotel and it’s lovely. Friendly staff, buffet breakfast included with the room, WiFi and a large exchange library in the lobby. Unfortunately, the cheapest room is $22, beyond our budget. I figure we’ll indulge ourselves for one night after a hectic day of travel. Unfortunately, it’s not available. The hotel’s completely booked, as is just about every other hotel in Hanoi. It seems ‘high season’ has officially begun.
The hotel manager kindly lets us hang out and store our bags in the lobby, as I try to figure out what to do. A new manager comes on shift and tells me that he owns a hotel nearby and has a room available for $18. It’s still above our budget, but we need a room and I rightly figure that the manager’s connection will help guarantee that Johnny gets the note I leave for him at the front desk and that he’ll be able to find us.
Many hours later, after Willa and I have checked in and unpacked our bags, walked around our neighborhood, eaten dinner, after Willa’s had her bath and we’ve read and played 52-card pick-up, after she’s gone to sleep, Johnny walks in the door. Over the past five months, we have not been apart for more than a few hours at a time. It feels as though we haven’t seen each other in days and our words rush out, detailing what we’ve been doing since we last saw each other. I am so relieved to have him back with us. With our passports.
We take long walks every day. Around the lake in the center of town, along the wide, tree-lined streets of the wealthy French Quarter, to museums and galleries. The work on the first floor of the Fine Arts Museum is especially impressive and we play ‘picks,’ amassing quite a collection to decorate our future home with. We go to see Ho Chi Minh’s embalmed body at the Mausoleum, but the line wraps around the block and we don’t feel like waiting. On our way back to our guesthouse, we come across Mondo Gelato and have the most delicious, creamy gelato, which becomes a diet staple.
Another day we take a cyclo to the massive Reunification Park where children ride go-carts, men and women play badminton, and a miniature train runs in loops. At one of the several playgrounds in the park, Willa climbs the steps and slides down the slide so many times I lose count. She shrieks with glee each time, as though it is her first.
A woman with a bundle of mylar balloons in the shapes of rabbits, fish and circles follows me, “You buy from me!” I decline several times and she then squats down to Willa’s height, holding the balloons out to her. “You buy for baby!” I pull a Linda Walker, calmly telling her, “Lady, if my daughter takes a balloon I won’t make her give it back and I won’t pay you for it, so unless you are prepared to give it to her for free, I recommend you move on.” Somehow this message is understood and she leaves us. Linda Walker is my mother-in-law and she similarly reproached a grocery store manager when Johnny, as a young boy, took candy from the shelves strategically placed at small child hand and eye-level.
We ride the merry-go-round again and again at Willa’s insistence until, beyond tired, she breaks down, staggering in tears from horse to sleigh, a character in her own melodrama. We go home.
We are staying in the Old Quarter, the ancient, merchant’s quarter. It’s packed with markets, cheap guesthouses, all manner of tourist-related shops - travel agencies, souvenir and guidebook shops, trekking outfits, etc. - food stalls and beer stands. In the afternoons, we sit at one of these popular beer stands, Bia Hoi, sipping cheap, pale beer and watching traffic.
Late one morning we stop around the corner from our guesthouse at one of the sidewalk cafes and feel like we’ve joined a kindergarden group for lunch. The brightly colored plastic chairs and stools are so small and the tables so short, we have to sit parallel to the table. I offend a woman by having my back to her, but we are squeezed for space and can’t figure out how else to sit at the table. We are amazons here.
A young woman in pajamas sets down a bowl of freshly washed greens - lettuce, bean sprouts, mint and basil - for the table and, for each of us, a plate of rice noodles, a small bowl of pork-broth based soup with grilled meatballs of ground pork and chopped scallions, slices of barbecued pork and slices of cucumber. As is the custom, we wipe our chopsticks down with small napkin squares. On the table are jars of chopped chilis, a garlic and chili-flavored vinegar and fish sauce to add to the soup to taste.
We take a bite of noodle with our chopsticks, dip it into the soup and then into our mouths. In between bites of noodles, we eat the meat and tear off more pieces of greens, adding them to the soup. A plate of cut up spring rolls is set down in front of us and we dip those in the soup before eating, as well. The soup gets drunk from the bowl last.
Garlic and Chili Vinegar: In a jar put sliced red chilis, sliced garlic and top with white vinegar. Let it sit for a few hours, days. This condiment is on every Vietnamese table and is fantastic on top of fried egg on rice, fried noodles, bowls of noodle soup.
Hanoi is infinitely more enjoyable and sophisticated (despite there seeming to be almost as many women with hickies on their necks as without) than Ho Chi Minh City, but we tire of the ceaseless traffic, heat and “You buy something from me!” cries that begin the moment we step outside our guesthouse.
We take the overnight train up north, to the town and mountains of Sa Pa where we will spend our remaining two weeks in Vietnam here. We know this from the moment we step off the train into the crisp, chilly air. From the dizzying, twisting drive up into the breathtakingly beautiful mountains. The decision is cemented the moment we see our room at Cat Cat guesthouse with a balcony that looks out to the mist-covered mountains above and valleys terraced with crops below. Our room with its fireplace and comfortable beds, plush with white cotton duvets.
It rains almost every morning and we huddle and cuddle together in our warm bed until the thought of the guesthouse restaurant’s rich coffee and crepes with lemon and sugar persuade me to get up. We walk through the market and around the small town, to the oval cement park where Willa runs from puddle to puddle, splashing with her new purple rubber boots. Around the park’s perimeter, women tend charcoal fires, roasting and selling ears of corn, sweet potatoes and whole eggs. Mobile carts selling baguettes circle the park blaring techno-ice-cream-truck versions of “Jingle Bells,” “Auld Lang Syne,” and “Happy Birthday.”
Women and girls from the ethnic minority hill tribes, mostly Black Hmong and Red Dao here, hover outside the guesthouse front door with baskets and hands full of souvenirs to sell: blankets and pillow cases made from embroidered and woven cloth, hats, woven and silver bracelets, necklaces. They comb the streets and the park for potential buyers, ambulance-chasing the buses and mini-vans bearing tourists from the train station. “You buy me!” and “You buy something!”
Some of the young girls walk and talk with you, often adept at both English and French, asking about your homeland, your baby and your travels, finally wrapping up conversation with, “So, maybe before you leave Sa Pa, you buy a small something from me?” They’ve grown up in a free market economy, as opposed to their mothers and grandmothers for whom it is still new. For whom “You buy from me!” is not just the only sales pitch they know, but often the only English they know.
The faces of the Black Hmong and Red Dao are brown from the sun and free of make-up, unlike the pale, covered faces of most Vietnamese women. Long, thick, black hair hangs loose or in a ponytail down the backs of young girls and swept up in ornate twists and buns held with silver combs on the women. Silver bracelets run up their arms and large, silver, hoop earrings hang from their ears. Their hand-embroidered and woven tunics, pants and jackets are dyed from indigo and their fingers and hands seem to be permanently stained. The women wrap black velvet cloth around their legs secured with ribbon and somehow pull off leg-warmers with panache. Probably because they are really worn to warm the legs.
We take walks, down winding roads, to waterfalls and up mountain paths. Passed Red Dao women with their bright red headdresses selling souvenirs laid out on blankets by the side of the road. An old man in a traditional indigo tunic and a young boy wearing a jacket with Dolce & Gabbana splashed across the back, both with pants rolled up to their thighs, herding their water buffalo up the mountain. An albino water buffalo and its baby grazing on the roadside. Motorcycles climbing the mountain, beeping their horns and revving their engines. Motorcycles descending the mountain, rolling silently with engines turned off. One man shouts out “Beep! Beep!,” as he rounds the bend. We laugh and call out that his is the best horn we’ve heard. He and his passenger laugh and “Beep!” in response.
Late at night, the teenage Black Hmong girls in their traditional clothes use the computers in the guesthouse lobby, chatting on-line with friends, watching videos and looking at photos of celebrities. Their fingers fly over the keys, simultaneously working and chatting in numerous windows. Their passwords are staggeringly long with hyphens in between letters and numbers. And yet, there’s no compunction about reading e-mails over someone’s shoulders. When checking e-mails, I’m not infrequently startled to hear, “What does _____ mean?” When Johnny asks around about the availability of WiFi in Sa Pa, he’s told there’s none in town, only in the mountain villages.
Our visa expires on August 10th, when we will fly back to Bangkok. We’ve frequently been perplexed and frustrated by the Vietnamese we've encountered. People’s social graces elude us with seemingly common courtesies coming few and far between. And yet I feel melancholy about leaving.
The people who have been kind have been exceptionally so. We’ve made fast and good friends with fellow travelers. And, of course, the country itself is stunning in its natural beauty and diversity - chilly mountain regions, beaches, sand dunes, lush rice paddies. For all of our complaints, it hasn’t escaped our notice that on this journey we have spent more time in this country than in any other.
* All guesthouses and hotels require that you leave your passports at the front desk as insurance against guests running out on their bill.
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