The up-side to coming back to Hanoi from Hoi An was that I was around for the 80th anniversary party of the Vietnam National United Front. I'm not sure what the VNUF is; it's connected to the Vietnamese Communist Party in some way I couldn't work out in a one-minute web search and will therefore never understand. But a stage had been erected in the middle of a major intersection by Hoan Kiem Lake, and on Thursday night I went to have a look at the celebrations.
When it started, I was eating dinner nearby, but didn't have a view of the stage. I could hear someone singing a droning, repetitive ballad. It reminded me of a song played over video monitors in the security check area for Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum, and also of the 'Wat Pho' song my cab driver made up in Bangkok (which is not to disparage any of these songs; they're all great compositions). Then they switched unexpectedly to one of those frantic polkas that gets faster and faster as it goes.
When I got there, they were playing techno, and there was a shirtless man on stage wrestling a snake. 'Wrestling' is probably generous; he was really just staggering around the stage with a python wrapped around him, but it was damn entertaining. There's a simple formula for success in the Hanoi entertainment industry: Pythons + techno = gold. There is the question of where you can go after wrestling a python, but he had an answer: Two pythons.
With the snake wrestler on stage, the crowd, which had been small and earnest, got bigger and louder. Bunches of balloon animals bobbed above it at intervals. I'd passed some of these vendors on the walk down; that was what had convinced me that the show was going to be worth going to. Also adding to the fun was the fact that the authorities had lured a big audience out onto the street, but hadn't blocked the area off to traffic in any way.
After the python wrestler came a magician in a shiny jacket. I felt a bit bad for the magician. His jacket was very, very shiny; but he wasn't really a very good magician, and the jacket wasn't enough. It was hard on him, having to go on after the python wrestler. It's never easy to follow a man of genius. After the magician, there was a girl who lay on her back and juggled things with her feet, and a couple of mimes with rouged cheeks, and a girl who climbed into a suspended metal ring and did some tricks -- but after the python wrestler, it all felt a bit flat.
They put on another show the next night, but the magic had gone, and the magician hadn't, so I left and took a walk around the lake. Groups of ladies were doing aerobics in the parks by the shore, others were slow-dancing to country and western music, a big group of kids were rollerskating in the open square around the statue of Ly Thai To, and teenagers were trying to sell marijuana to any foreign tourists who looked young or disreputable (I felt flattered either way).
My departure from Hanoi was a shambles. My watch and the hotel room alarm clock should both have gone off at 6, and neither did, possibly because they'd been incompetently set. And when my cab had driven a couple of blocks, I found the hotel room key in my pocket. I jumped out to return it, ran back towards the hotel, and realized I didn't know where it was. I thought about going back to the cab, but wasn't sure I could find that, either. I eventually found my way, but it was an interesting moment, lost in Hanoi with a flight to catch and my passport and all my luggage in a parked taxi somewhere.
Checking in for the flight was a farce. Including the slapstick above, getting on the flight to Hong Kong actually involved almost all the most annoying genres of comedy. The flight itself was perfectly OK. I did wonder a bit about the cabin staff. Vietnam Airlines is one of these Asian airlines that employs only pretty girls between 21 and 29, identically made-up with rouged cheeks and eye-of-Horus mascara, and it makes you wonder what kind of Logan's Run-type scenario plays out for them at 30.
My friend Nancy came to meet me at the airport in Hong Kong, and also found my hotel for me. It's on the island, in the heart of Hong Kong's glamorous dried seafood district, where shops selling dried fish and dried shark fins run for blocks. The area's packed with decaying high rises that seem to be holding each other up, like drunks on a streetcar. Laundry racks and air conditioners hang out of 20th storey windows, and the signs suspended over the street are old and faded. It's off the end of the metro line; instead, there's a clattery double-decker tram that runs over to the Armani stores, historic landmarks, and bank headquarters of the central coast.
Hong Kong's clean and safe and well-organized. I saw things I hadn't seen in two months, like people waiting for a walk signal at an intersection. On my private scale of India-ness, where Iceland is a 0, India a 9, and the check-in area for Vietnam Airlines at Noi Bai a 10, Hong Kong is a 1. On the streets, LED signs tell you not to drink and drive. Stickers on escalators remind you to use the handrail and reassure you that they're disinfected regularly with antibacterial cleansers. On the subway, there's a barrier with doors that line up with those of the train, so there's no question of throwing yourself onto the tracks. Bangkok had the same system, but it made less sense in Bangkok; in a city with that many ways to get yourself killed, it seemed like a strange use of resources. And if any Indian city had had an LED street sign, it would have said look, we don't care about drinking, but can you go the right way? And can someone get these cows off the road? And, sir, couldn't you hold it until you get home? I mean, does anyone know what's going on, here?
When it started, I was eating dinner nearby, but didn't have a view of the stage. I could hear someone singing a droning, repetitive ballad. It reminded me of a song played over video monitors in the security check area for Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum, and also of the 'Wat Pho' song my cab driver made up in Bangkok (which is not to disparage any of these songs; they're all great compositions). Then they switched unexpectedly to one of those frantic polkas that gets faster and faster as it goes.
When I got there, they were playing techno, and there was a shirtless man on stage wrestling a snake. 'Wrestling' is probably generous; he was really just staggering around the stage with a python wrapped around him, but it was damn entertaining. There's a simple formula for success in the Hanoi entertainment industry: Pythons + techno = gold. There is the question of where you can go after wrestling a python, but he had an answer: Two pythons.
With the snake wrestler on stage, the crowd, which had been small and earnest, got bigger and louder. Bunches of balloon animals bobbed above it at intervals. I'd passed some of these vendors on the walk down; that was what had convinced me that the show was going to be worth going to. Also adding to the fun was the fact that the authorities had lured a big audience out onto the street, but hadn't blocked the area off to traffic in any way.
After the python wrestler came a magician in a shiny jacket. I felt a bit bad for the magician. His jacket was very, very shiny; but he wasn't really a very good magician, and the jacket wasn't enough. It was hard on him, having to go on after the python wrestler. It's never easy to follow a man of genius. After the magician, there was a girl who lay on her back and juggled things with her feet, and a couple of mimes with rouged cheeks, and a girl who climbed into a suspended metal ring and did some tricks -- but after the python wrestler, it all felt a bit flat.
They put on another show the next night, but the magic had gone, and the magician hadn't, so I left and took a walk around the lake. Groups of ladies were doing aerobics in the parks by the shore, others were slow-dancing to country and western music, a big group of kids were rollerskating in the open square around the statue of Ly Thai To, and teenagers were trying to sell marijuana to any foreign tourists who looked young or disreputable (I felt flattered either way).
 |
| Communist flag, stock ticker, it's all good |
My departure from Hanoi was a shambles. My watch and the hotel room alarm clock should both have gone off at 6, and neither did, possibly because they'd been incompetently set. And when my cab had driven a couple of blocks, I found the hotel room key in my pocket. I jumped out to return it, ran back towards the hotel, and realized I didn't know where it was. I thought about going back to the cab, but wasn't sure I could find that, either. I eventually found my way, but it was an interesting moment, lost in Hanoi with a flight to catch and my passport and all my luggage in a parked taxi somewhere.
Checking in for the flight was a farce. Including the slapstick above, getting on the flight to Hong Kong actually involved almost all the most annoying genres of comedy. The flight itself was perfectly OK. I did wonder a bit about the cabin staff. Vietnam Airlines is one of these Asian airlines that employs only pretty girls between 21 and 29, identically made-up with rouged cheeks and eye-of-Horus mascara, and it makes you wonder what kind of Logan's Run-type scenario plays out for them at 30.
My friend Nancy came to meet me at the airport in Hong Kong, and also found my hotel for me. It's on the island, in the heart of Hong Kong's glamorous dried seafood district, where shops selling dried fish and dried shark fins run for blocks. The area's packed with decaying high rises that seem to be holding each other up, like drunks on a streetcar. Laundry racks and air conditioners hang out of 20th storey windows, and the signs suspended over the street are old and faded. It's off the end of the metro line; instead, there's a clattery double-decker tram that runs over to the Armani stores, historic landmarks, and bank headquarters of the central coast.
Hong Kong's clean and safe and well-organized. I saw things I hadn't seen in two months, like people waiting for a walk signal at an intersection. On my private scale of India-ness, where Iceland is a 0, India a 9, and the check-in area for Vietnam Airlines at Noi Bai a 10, Hong Kong is a 1. On the streets, LED signs tell you not to drink and drive. Stickers on escalators remind you to use the handrail and reassure you that they're disinfected regularly with antibacterial cleansers. On the subway, there's a barrier with doors that line up with those of the train, so there's no question of throwing yourself onto the tracks. Bangkok had the same system, but it made less sense in Bangkok; in a city with that many ways to get yourself killed, it seemed like a strange use of resources. And if any Indian city had had an LED street sign, it would have said look, we don't care about drinking, but can you go the right way? And can someone get these cows off the road? And, sir, couldn't you hold it until you get home? I mean, does anyone know what's going on, here?
