“You look very nice, I think. Don’t change.”
“So, where are you going to take me?”
Chapter Seven
Hanoi spreads over two thousand square kilometres, but Huynh told me that the most important tourist sites lie in compact areas. Walking appeared to be daunting with the onslaught of motorcycles, but in fact, in Huynh’s company I found it relatively easy. The traffic in Hanoi moves like a snake in that it appears to continually move, sliding around things if they get in the way. However, when crossing a road, he taught me to go slowly and carefully, as any sudden movements may cause a domino effect.
“The Old Quarter offers one of the most fascinating inner-city areas in Vietnam and is well worth exploring,” he told me, as we made our way there.
“It is based around thirty-six streets, each named after the merchandise sold there. To some extent this tradition continues, although Hang Gai might just as likely sell CDs these days as silk.”
We started, to my surprise, at a Western Cathedral, St. Joseph’s Cathedral, completed in the 1880s. It stands at the end of Nha Tho, which, I noticed, was fast becoming one of Hanoi's trendiest streets with its fashionable foreign restaurants and boutiques. We walked along the right-hand side of the cathedral, taking us through alleyways in which the ordinary people scurried and grafted away from the glare of government gloss. Vietnamese daily life was much harder than the government would have everyone believe. Then we turned right onto Thanh Phu Doan and across Hang Bong Street, where we came to an open intersection with Hang Da Market to our left. As with most Far Eastern markets, I was intrigued at the wares on sale, finding it an interesting stroll, particularly as Huynh was able to tell me about what was being sold and some history of the place. Piles of fresh vegetables, animal entrails and slices of pig fat filled the hall.
I found Huynh pleasant company, as he was clearly proud of his city and wanted to make a good impression with me. It dawned on me that his motives may well be hormonal rather than police orientated, and it was a shock to realise that he may just fancy me!
“The market is a good spot for buying pottery,” he told me, but I declined spending any money.
Opposite the market ran another narrow alley, Yen Thai, which took us to Hanh Manh, in which traditional musical instruments seemed to be the main items for sale, and I saw workers making ceremonial drums. From Hang Manh we turned right into the colourful Hang Quat, which appeared to be selling religious and temple paraphernalia. Then, left at Luong Van Can and right onto Hang Bac, which, I was told, was originally Silver Street. There seemed to be a flood of tourists, many of them bronzed Australians, showing me that it is now the heart of backpacker land. Huynh clearly had little time for tourists, but we paused so I could check the hand-carved funeral headstones on this road.
“When you turn left up Ta Hien onto Hang Buom, you can see to your left Bach Ma Pagoda, founded in the Ly Dynasty.”
“Can we stop and have a drink?” I asked, deflating his guide-book commentary a little.
Grinning, he agreed and we found a small café off another small alley. No tourists ventured here, as there was little to show that it was a café. Filled with mildly disinterested locals, they stared at me with blank expressions, looking away when they saw Huynh was with me.
“How long have you been a policeman?” I asked after he ordered tea.
“Ten years.”
“You don’t look old enough,” I joked, but I noticed he frowned.
“I am thirty-one.”
Reaching out, I touched his arm. He stared at my hand for a second.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, I just mean you look quite young to be a lieutenant, that’s all.”
“Oh, like a joke?”
“Like a joke, but it didn’t work. In the West, we have a saying that you know you are getting old when the policemen look young.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“Why no husband?”
I could ask you, why no wife?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Not met the right girl, yet.”
“Same here.”
The pot of tea arrived and I found it remarkably refreshing. There were also some small sweetmeats in pastry that simply melted on the tongue.
“These are delicious.”
“You will find the better food away from the tourists.”
“So I’m discovering.”
“Do you like your job?” he asked, abruptly.
“It’s okay. It pays the bills, I guess.”
“If you could do anything, what would it be?”
Boy, there’s a question. I thought about it seriously. I don’t think I’d ever actually looked at the question before. The army was a sort of compromise that worked for a while, but now I was almost free, I could actually choose, or could I?
“I honestly don’t know. But I think I’d like to help people who have nothing to set themselves up in life. Being from the West, we take so much for granted, and most of these things are missing in so many people’s lives.”
“What does your father do?”
“My parents died when I was young, but he was an engineer. How about your father?”
“He was a soldier. He was badly wounded in the war, dying when I was very young. My mother remarried and so my siblings are not my father’s children.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. The Americans seem to have a very short memory. They come over here and think that it is all forgotten, but it isn’t.”
“I can see that. I think many Westerners are very ignorant about Vietnam and other places in this region.”
“Are you?”
“What? Ignorant, yes, very, but I hope to learn.”
“You are rare, I think.”
“Rare, how so?”
“You are willing to see things that do not meet the Western world view.”
“Don’t mistake all Westerners as being the same. There are enlightened people in all nations, even America. Unfortunately, the ignorant seem to get everywhere as well.”
“I accept that, but my experience is that most Westerners treat us all as ignorant gooks. Our country was civilised while you all had red skins and painted yourself every time you went hunting.”
He actually made a joke, so I laughed, making him grin with pleasure.
“Parlez vous français?” he asked.
“Vous savez que je fais, je suis Canadien français.”
“I learned French from my grandfather. He’d learned it in the old days, but I thought I’d never be able to use it. The French don’t come here very much.”
“You speak it very well. My French is different, as we speak a slightly different dialect in Canada. I don’t speak it very much these days, except when I go to Quebec or to France.”
“Are there many Vietnamese in your country?”
“Some. We have many Chinese from Hong Kong. The British refused to honour their passports, so many came to Canada, many settling around Vancouver.”
“The Chinese had a lot of influence on Vietnam. Many of our names and our language connect to Chinese. We are different, though, like you are different to the Americans.”
I said nothing, simply drinking my tea.
“I’d like to see Canada,” he said.
“You’d like it. But it can be very cold in winter.”
“A man from Scotland told me that there’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.”
Grinning, I agreed. “He was a wise man, I think.”
After we finished our refreshment, he dragged me back to the tour. Turning left yet again down Dao Duy Tu and straight on until we came to the archway of the original city walls to our right. A narrow alley straight ahead took us to the back of Dong Xuan Market, one of Hanoi's busiest. The alley abounds with local women selling seafood and other fresh, often live, produce. Keeping the concrete market building to our left, we walked to Pho Dong Xuan past a picturesque pagoda with a cooking pan shop at its entrance. Walking south along the main street at the market's front took us past fashion clothes stores and expensive watch shops back to the northern shore of Hoan Kiem Lake.