Mai looks at it for a few seconds then turns to me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shakes her head slowly. ‘We cannot help her.’
‘Why not?’ I ask, wide-eyed. How on earth could she know? Is there some clue in the photo I’ve missed, I wonder. Is Hien somehow notorious?
‘Because she not from this district,’ Mai explains.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, baffled, then ‘How do you know?’
The reply is a maddening masterpiece in circular reasoning, of the type that drives foreigners to distraction in Vietnam.
‘If she from this district then we would help her already.’
I stare stupefied at Mai. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say. Hao pipes up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tells me. ‘There are too many people like this in Vietnam. We cannot help everybody.’
‘Mr Hao. I’m not stupid. I know you can’t help everybody,’ I tell him slowly, unsmilingly. My dismay has turned to frustration. ‘I’m asking you to help me to help this one woman. I can pay for her treatment.’
Mr Hao looks down at his hands, which lie flat on the tabletop. Mai scratches her cheek, deep in thought. After a moment she brightens and tells me there’s a woman attached to a special hospital who should be able to help. She’ll ring the woman after lunch.
‘I will call to you at your house this afternoon,’ she promises, and I leave, feeling satisfied that things are now moving in the right direction.
Back home I wait by the silent phone and occupy myself reading an Agatha Christie book from the library of Genius Boy-Minh. Every ten minutes I glance at the clock on the wall.
Just after four o’clock, the phone kicks into action, making me jump. I grab the pen I’ve put beside the phone in case I need to take down any information, and swipe up the handset.
‘Carolyn?’ slurs a voice. The line is bad. It’s a friend in Sydney, drunk and maudlin, wanting a long chat. I swear under my breath. I tell her I’m waiting for an urgent call, but she won’t be deterred, and talks on at great length. By the time I get her off the phone it’s quarter to five. I panic and become convinced that Mai has tried to ring and given up. After five or so minutes of indecision, I call the Red Cross office again.
The phone rings out. The staff members have gone home.
The weekend comes and goes. I feel so keenly that I’ve let Hien down that I avoid the Nam Bo. On Sunday I pass the supermarket on the other side of the road on my way to the market. I look discreetly towards the Nam Bo but I don’t spot Hien. Unusual, but she may just be out of sight behind the corner of the doorway.
But on Monday morning I head to the Na Bo, and find she’s still missing. The last time I saw her she looked terrible, and seemed weaker than ever, now she’s vanished. I wander distraught between the wretched humans that populate the intersection and ask them ‘Co Hien o dau?’ – ‘where is Auntie Hien?’ Nobody I find can speak English.
I find one of the women who shares the doorway with Hien. She’s probably ten years older than Hien but is relatively healthy.
‘Co Hien o dau?’
She looks at me with concern. ‘Co Hien om,’ she says. I shake my head, not understanding, but she keeps repeating the same phrase over and over. ‘Co Hien om’. I don’t know what om means. As the first syllable of ‘ominous’ it seems to have some malevolent power even in another language. I fear the worst. I ask her to write the phrase in my pocket book so that I can ask someone later. She takes the pen awkwardly and forms the letters in a small shaky cursive. ‘Co Hien om’
Across the road I try again with a group of men who sell cigarettes at a stall. The first one, seeing a foreigner approach, panics and waves his palms at me like a film star trying to keep the paparazzi at bay. The second one follows suit. But the third seems to speak a word or two of English, or thinks he does. He points to the ground at his feet and says ‘she lie, she lie.’
This serves to reinforce my earlier fear. Hien has died over the weekend, it seems, only hours away from the possibility of help. My efforts, I reflect, were too few and too late.
I walk home dejected, in a haze of sadness and guilt. As I pass the little hairdressing salon halfway along Pho Yen The I’m distracted by the sound of something repeatedly hitting plastic. I look to its source at the kerb just in time to see a plucked chicken with a broken neck flip itself, with remarkable facility, out of the plastic basin it had been left to die in, and into the gutter beside it. There, it flails absurdly, theatrically, a danse macabre. Unable to squawk, it nonetheless makes something of a commotion and in no time a man – the would-be slaughterer – comes running out from the salon. He looks irate – later I come to understand it was a likely case of fellatio interruptus. He scoops the unfortunate bird back into the bucket, wrings its neck some more then runs back into the shop.
But this is a tough old bird. The sounds of renewed flapping against the plastic and the laughter of bystanders follow me to my compound gate. In some metaphysical morse code, the doomed chicken is flapping out a message to me: dying isn’t that easy.
Patriot games
The chicken was right.
Two days later I find Hien back in situ at the Nam Bo, smiling at my obvious relief.
‘Di dau?’ I ask her. ‘Go where?’
She points to the inside of her elbow, which is sporting a band-aid and says ‘thuoc’ a few times. I’ve know this is the word for medicine. It looks like she’s been at a hospital for a couple of days. ‘Om’, I’ve discovered, means ‘sick’.
As I squat there with Hien, a strange series of events is set in motion.
It starts when I feel someone tug at the material of my shirt. Looking up, I see a little girl – no more than six or seven. I haven’t seen her at this intersection before. Her face and clothes are filthy and she’s wearing no shoes. She alternately rubs her belly and points into her open mouth. Hearing a ‘pssst’ noise from Hien’s direction I turn back around and see the expression on Hien’s face has changed to hostility. The girl ignores her completely.
‘Me hungry’ she says. ‘Me no money’. She’s very persistent. Her face and posture are an ironic study in abject despair – ironic because that would probably be her true outlook if she were old enough to understand her circumstances. I reach for my wallet, although Natassia has told to me not to give money to kids like her. She’s a beggar of a particular type – particularly heart-breaking. Kids like her are specially trained by adults and work under supervision from a distance. There’s something disturbing, almost grotesque, about the exaggerated routine and the loss of innocence.
But before I can dislodge any money, Hien half rises and shoos the girl away with apparent aggression, addressing her in stern Vietnamese. It has little effect. The girl is like a brushed away fly. She comes straight back and repeats her practised routine.
Finally Hien actually stands up, something I’ve never seen her do, and charges the girl, sweeping her away with her bamboo fan. There’s a complete lack of genuine rancour in her frown. It’s theatrical. She’s even smiling a little, the way an aunt might smile at a mischievous niece. Hien’s just being protective of me. Finally the girl sinks back and hovers in the wings, out of range.
I bid Hien ‘xin chao’ at this point and head across the busy road, with the beggar girl in tow, half-heartedly plying her routine again for want of a worthier subject. I keep walking, heading in the direction of Hanoi’s only train station.
But glancing back again at the beggar girl I notice she’s found a new foreigner to harangue. The woman cuts a conspicuous figure in my neighbourhood. She’s middle-aged, buxom and attractive, with bright red hair and an aura of self-confidence. I imagine she’s European. After a few rounds of tummy-rubbing and tonsil-pointing, the girl’s persistence pays off. Although clearly in a hurry, the woman stops and I watch her open her wallet and give the girl a generous sum of money.
Hanoi’s sole train station, according to my map, is two blocks west of the Nam Bo and is a sprawling patchwork suburb unto itsel
f. Originally French-built, a bomb in the American War demolished the middle part of the building, leaving the French outer wings still standing. Inspired by Stalin’s aesthetic, the communists rebuilt just this part – a towering cement façade.
When I arrive, the grandiose front entrance is seething with people. Gaining admission means battling my way not only though the comers and goers, but also through the stayers – a contingent of hundreds of xe om drivers, cyclo drivers, fruit-sellers, money-changers and various other vendors and shysters who have positioned themselves for business around the entrance.
Once inside the vast, high-ceilinged vestibule I struggle toward the ticketing area, buffeted by hordes of Vietnamese. There isn’t another foreigner in sight.
I attach myself to what appears to be a line for tickets and find myself shuffling intermittently toward a line of attendants behind a glass partition. While shuffling, I mumble to myself in Vietnamese, trying, with dubious results, to parse the phrase ‘Two soft class return tickets to Lao Cai please’. Lao Cai is the closest station to Sapa, in the mountains, where Natassia and I plan to spend the weekend.
But when I finally make it to the booth I become marooned there, pointedly ignored, as the attendant serves a series of Vietnamese who were behind me in the queue. Each time I lean forward to speak another shout comes from behind me, aimed at the sullen middle-aged attendant, ‘chi oi!’ (‘oy you – older sister’) and a new queue-jumper has usurped my position.
When the woman judges my humiliation is sufficient she notices me and says ‘Yes please?’ in clear English. I breathe a sigh of relief and address her in polite tones.
‘Hello. I would like to buy two return tickets, soft class, to Lao Cai, leaving on Friday, returning on Monday.’
‘The trains are booked out this weekend,’ she replies, without checking the computer in front of her.
‘Please, could you just check?’ I beseech, indicating the computer. The woman jabs at the keyboard, glowers at the screen then looks back to me.
‘Yes, okay. There are two tickets to Lao Cai on Friday.’
It’s a small victory and I’m amazed.
‘Soft class sleeper?’ I’m adamant about travelling soft class after hearing Justin’s tale of an overnight trip to Lao Cai in hard class. At twenty-one years of age, lithe and fit, he said he rolled off the train nine hours later, a hollow-boned eighty-year-old.
‘Yes. Soft class.’ She looks impatient. ‘You pay money now please.’
‘Huh? … What about the trip back?’ I shout through the screen.
‘You buy ticket Hanoi to Lao Cai first please.’
‘First, can you find out if we can come back on Monday morning,’ I say slowly, imagining we’ve hit a communications snag. ‘We cannot go there if there is no seat to come back.’
‘You pay for this ticket first please, then I look for return seat.’ She gives me a look that says: ‘Pay the money or piss off.’ I take the latter option, shaking my head and wandering off muttering to myself.
I could take this personally, but I strongly suspect she’s just following regulations. It’s another case of that strange shortsightedness I’ve observed.
I contact Natassia with the news as soon as I get home. She thinks I should have paid the money, that it would have been okay. This is a setback, she makes it clear, but there must be another avenue.
‘Ah – wait a minute,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Yvette’s husband Khai! He told me to call him if I’m going anywhere – he’s got a friend who runs a tour business. Tulip.’
‘Tulip?’
‘Mmmm. That’s the name of the business I think.’
‘Maybe you should call him. Immediately,’ she suggests.
I do, and he’s at home off work and happy to help. ‘If you buy from my friend maybe he can give you the Vietnamese price. Much, much cheaper,’ he laughs.
Khai rides straight over to take me to his friend’s business in the Old Quarter. As we turn out of my street, I nod at the staring xe om drivers, except for Quan, whom I now pointedly ignore. I sense Quan looking at me, but if he’s aggravated by my recent behaviour, there’s no sign of it.
The Tulip staff, in their dark, airless little shop are very friendly, although I’m a little surprised at the ‘special’ price, which sounds rather more than the full price. But it’s a good deal, they tell me. Tulip has its own ‘luxury’ air-conditioned carriage for foreigners, which is attached to the train. There’s some special arrangement with the railway authorities, they explain to me, and the carriage is managed exclusively by Tulip. I look to Khai who’s nodding enthusiastically.
‘This way is very comfortable,’ he tells me. I hand over the cash for two return tickets. Perhaps aware of my misgivings, he adds: ‘When you see Sapa, you will not believe your eyes.’
But when Zac gets wind of our trip he seems irritated.
‘You’re gonna to be out of Hanoi for National Day,’ he says.
‘Your point being?’ I inquire, suspiciously.
‘You’re going to miss the celebrations.’ He sighs. I turn my head and squint at him from the corner of my eye. Then he adds: ‘Do you have any idea how jealous that makes me?’
‘Ahh!’ That’s more like it. ‘You’ll be right,’ I tell him. ‘It sounds like fun.’
‘Yeah, it’s fascinating. I can’t wait,’ he replies. ‘The place fills up with drunken farmers who come in on their tractors. They go apeshit and choke the streets completely so that you can’t go anywhere.’
I smile and say nothing. It sounds like the kind of event I would enjoy.
When I tell my students I’m spending a weekend up in Sapa, I find they too are pre-occupied by the fact I’ll be out of town for National Day in Hanoi. ‘You will miss the celebrations,’ they all say. ‘There is a parade in the day and fireworks at night.’
Worse still, I’m reminded, I won’t be in the capital city to commemorate an important day in the nation’s history. The outspoken Pham from my advanced class at UNCO stands and delivers a dissertation while the other students nod enthusiastically.
‘We celebrate our National Day on September two because on this day in 1945 my people win final victory in our fight against the French. And Ho Chi Minh make the Declaration of Independence in Ba Dinh Square.’ She looks knowingly at me, then, seeing my expressionless face, adds, ‘It is near here.’
In the days before Natassia and I leave, I notice the city is indeed gearing up for something big. Banners and flags are proliferating in the streets and the trees around Hoan Kiem Lake are festooned with colourful electric lights. Nga tells me National Day is a public holiday and it’s important to spend the day with your family. She too seems disappointed that I’ll miss the occasion.
I begin to feel some regrets about the timing, but I’m eager to get up to Sapa this weekend.
Fellowship of the ring
Sapa is an old French hill station in the mountains above Lao Cai, on the Chinese border. Lao Cai is 294km north of Hanoi; the train trip takes nine hours.
Natassia and I jump on the train Friday night in high spirits. The Tulip carriage seems okay, nothing special. Each box has two bunk beds. We share ours with a friendly Vietnamese couple, putting the lie to the ‘just for foreigners’ pitch. But they’re asleep almost before the train has pulled out. I ask the Tulip representative why the aircon is not working.
‘Ah – sorry – we turn it off because the Vietnamese passenger don’t like it,’ he explains. He seems to be hiding a grin himself.
The rep’s name is Thinh. He’s a wiry guy with a hungry look, but very friendly. He takes a few swigs on our bottle of rice spirits then leaves it to us to drink ourselves into a happy sleep.
We’re woken by a surly female attendant at Lao Cai. The sky is powdery with the beginnings of sunrise as we’re bundled, hungover, onto a minibus and begin the two-kilometre climb up the mountain pass to Sapa. It’s a spectacular trip. The road is badly pot-holed, rocky and perilously close to the precipi
ces below. But precipice-gazing is also very rewarding, showing dizzying valleys terraced wall-to-wall with electric green rice paddies.
At one point we pass through a small, dilapidated town and I start at the surreal sight of a massive shining shopping mall about 500 metres ahead of us.
‘What the hell’s that?’ I say to Natassia, who points out the neon signs above it are in Chinese. Thinh overhears us.
‘That, over there, is China!’ he says simply, as the bus make a sharp left turn in order to stay in Vietnam.
‘My god!’ I say with awe, squinting at the concrete monstrosity. ‘Now I can say I’ve seen China.’
I look back to where we’ve come from. Mountains, mist, dazzling rice fields. The terracing that divides the paddies is impossibly complex, like a head of African hair, styled into corn-rows by a pedantic madwoman. The scenery is breathtaking. I feel almost patriotically glad to be on the Vietnam side of this border.
In Sapa, Natassia and I find a brand new hotel on the side of a mountain, yet only metres from the town centre. Our previously unused room features a balcony with a cutaway view of a yawning white abyss. The hotel’s manager points emphatically into it and chants: ‘Fancy Pants, Fancy Pants’, which inspires me to peer ever harder into the swirling cloud. Mount Fansipan, or ‘Phan Si Pan’, is Vietnam’s highest peak.
As soon as we’ve unpacked and showered we walk the thirty metres to the main drag and I laugh in disbelief. Khai was perfectly right. Looking around, I feel I’ve been transported to a mammoth film set for some overblown sci-fantasy flick. The air is misty, rendering the street in muted shades. The shop-fronts and buildings that line it look exactly as I imagine they would have looked several decades ago, and the sloping street is teeming with people, none of whom look like anyone I’ve ever seen before.
Single White Female in Hanoi Page 18
