When I ring UNCO for some teaching shifts, the usually friendly Yen sounds a little distant.
‘I’m sorry. This term there are no more class for you. Now Mr Zac teach many class. I’m sorry.’
I’ve been undercut. I hang up and reflect that it’s my own stupid fault. I handed them Zac on a platter. I loyally sung his praises, testified to his fake qualifications, and added that he’d work for less money than me.
My first day back at NER, the enormous room is bitterly cold. Opposite me Kiwi Anthony is freshly returned from New Zealand and wearing a pink woollen beanie. Charlie is sporting a Russian-style fur hat, complete with pendulous earflaps. I’m wearing a vivid purple creation that combines a bonnet and a scarf into one jazzy knitted unit. The foreigner enclave must look like the mad hatter’s tea party but no one’s complained. As foreigners, we’re expected to be peculiar. Intermittently I blow into my hands to warm them so I can type faster.
At the first coffee break I find Charlie.
‘Where’s Frank? Shouldn’t he still be here?’
‘Ahhh, er.’ Charlie can’t twirl his hair in the hat so he twists the earflaps. ‘Frank had some more, er, trouble … ’ He sucks air through his teeth.
‘Did he go back to Saigon early?’
‘Well, actually, we had to … sort of … ship him back to the UK.’
‘Shit!’
‘Yeah. He was coming into work saying guys from the Ministry of Internal Affairs were tailing him. Then he got more and more paranoid until he wouldn’t leave the hotel.’
‘Poor Frank.’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie looks grave. He’s a compassionate guy.
But there’s a distinct holiday atmosphere in the office and not much copy in. Most of the Vietnamese staff are chatting on the phone or peeling fruit. One exception is the old scary guy with the Darth Vader voice who inhabits the other side of the vast room and never speaks to foreigners. He’s settled himself in a comfortable chair and tuned the massive TV set to party broadcasts, which blare, at phenomenal volume, across the room.
Nam the patriotic stooge glances up approvingly. It’s been confirmed by Kiwi Anthony that Nam will run as a candidate in the 11th National Assembly election, in May.
Today, Nam’s submitted a little piece on ‘land fever’, detailing the recent explosion in real estate prices around Hanoi. Perhaps inspired, he’s even suggested a headline for it.
‘You can try to keep my headline?’ he asks me hopefully.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I assure him, glancing at the story. It’s headed: Hey Comes a land bubble!
About mid-morning the other side of the room explodes with a sudden round of cheering. I look behind me in time to see Khanh the photographer and another Vietnamese employee kicking a dying rat soccer-style down the aisle, towards the door.
‘Ah yes, back in Hanoi,’ says Anthony crisply.
But it’s a slightly different Hanoi. We’re now on the final rundown to Tet and something potent is building up. Tet dwarfs all other events on the Vietnamese calendar, because it’s like Christmas and New Year’s Eve rolled into one; New Year’s Eve because it is, literally, a New Year celebration, albeit a lunar one, and Christmas, because it’s a kind of commercial festival too, and one with holy significance. Chickens are sacrificed; altars are cleaned and freshly stocked. This year Tet falls quite late on the Roman calendar, in February.
On the streets, under the low ceiling of cloud and the new red and gold banners, money is flying hand over fist as people spend, spend, spend. They’re squandering their entire year’s savings, putting an actual bulge in the Consumer Price Index. I sub a story revealing that the banks have run out of money. ‘Banks are nervously eyeing each others’ dong … ’ it begins.
The streets are almost impassable. Exhaust fumes from the mostly stationary bikes have turned the biting air blue. The horns are deafening. Most progress takes place with feet on the ground on either side of the bike, a la Flintstones. Every second bike has a stout cumquat tree, fully laden with fruit, tied onto the back, so that the misty streetscape seems to be studded with bright orange baubles. Aussie Bill tells me the trees cost a month’s wages for most, but every home must have one.
Lunchtime, sitting at the canteen, I watch a woman saunter past carrying two clucking upside-down ducks. I follow with my eyes as she turns the corner, towards the NER building. I imagine the ducks are headed upstairs, where ‘Malcolm’ and his closest cronies work.
Meanwhile, where round mooncakes filled the streets for the autumn moon festival, the square, banana-leaf-wrapped banh chung now reigns. Banh Chung has a famous history. According to legend, the recipe was given in a dream by a genie to a prince, and with it, he wooed his father into selecting him, above his twenty-one brothers, as heir to the throne.
It’s very poetic, but I know better than to try one. And it’s not just that I’m vegetarian. Like the mam tom sauce, made from rotted shrimp, banh chung appears to be a delicacy appreciated only by the Vietnamese. Described by Vietnamese friends, it sounds relatively inoffensive; a boiled rice cake filled with green bean paste and pork, but long-term expats give it the thumbs down. To my astonishment, even Zac won’t eat banh chung.
‘It’s like biting into a chunk of lard,’ he grimaces. ‘The whole think is just solid pig fat, and it’s not even flavoured or anything. I just don’t get it.’
‘It does explain the recent proliferation of pigs,’ I point out.
Halfway through the month, Anthony announces that a small village in Ha Tay province has just managed to get into the Guinness Book of Records by making the largest ever Banh Chung.
‘Check this out!’ He summarises from the press release. ‘It weighs 1.4 tonnes and took 50 chefs eight hours to make. It took 100 kilograms of pork. And it’s under armed guard.’
Cute, smart, likeable, Anthony is a mine of information. He’s spent his twenties in Hanoi, and is admired and respected by expats and Vietnamese alike. But although the guy himself is scrupulously private to the point of mysterious, he seems to know everything before anyone else gets the faintest wind of it. He’s put this partly to use by publishing a little ‘What’s on’ guide to Hanoi, complete with articles by expats, quizzes and competitions. Increasingly I know the people and places that get a mention. The guide makes me feel more connected to my new city, gives me hope that one day I can make Hanoi my town. When I tell Anthony this, he nods compassionately.
‘When Hanoi feels like your town, it’s time to leave,’ he replies.
‘You’re still here,’ I observe.
‘Yep,’ he shoots back. ‘I guess I left it too late.’
With Tet looming, Anthony’s got an excursion planned.
‘My liver’s not up to another year of tran pham tran,’ he explains. ‘I’m off to Laos.’
Tram phan tram literally means ‘a hundred per cent’, but its common usage is as an exhortation to scull a hundred per cent of whatever’s in front of you. It’s usually just a glass of sudsy beer, but around Tet this gets replaced by the more grievous local moonshine – ruou. It may or may not contain traces of snake, or bear foetus, but it’s flammable, and liable to cause a gruesome hangover. When it comes to macho drinking feats, the Vietnamese have a proud tradition, and it’s extra points if they can induct a foreigner. Over Tet, Anthony assures me, there’s no escape from a week, at least, of constant biliousness.
Within a few days of this news, the chilling cry of ‘tran pham tran’ can be heard from all corners of the NER office. The atmosphere becomes rowdier and productivity grinds to a halt. ‘Malcolm’ himself appears from upstairs, with his grotesque toady, the sinister Mr. Loan, in tow. He plods the length of the room nodding and patting the Vietnamese reporters on the back. He looks like a Vietnamese version of Idi Amin.
I’m force fed a glass of mushroom ruou in the desktop publishing room, and repeatedly turn down invitations to tram phan tram with Khanh the photographer. This is because I haven’t failed to notice the receding l
evel of liquid in his jar of snake penises.
Next, Zac announces he’s getting out for Tet. He intends to ride his Minsk to the Laos border. He offers to take me with him. I decline.
Then Alexa says she’s heading to the mountains in the north for Tet, on the advice of long-term expat friends. Georgia, the young American teacher at Global informs me she’s going overland to Laos too. Then Charlie and some of the crowd at the Bia Hoi announce a Tet expedition to Bangkok.
Finally, I crack. It’s not the fear of ruou. It’s the weather. And it’s not just the bitter, relentless cold and rain, it’s the accompanying nine storeys of cloud. I haven’t seen sunlight since I returned. Tet’s barely more than a week away, and for the locals, a nuclear winter couldn’t dent the delirium of anticipation. But I don’t have Tet to buoy me. Another week of this and I feel certain I’ll develop SAD, the depressive condition caused by sun deprivation. It’s the microclimate at work again. All around us, in every direction, even north, are patches of sun-drenched land.
I get home and call Vietnam Airlines. All planes to and from Laos are completely booked out for the next three weeks. ‘Please have pity,’ I try. After a great deal of friendly persistence and some outright begging I manage to score the last seat on a return flight to Vientiane, capital of Laos, leaving the day before Tet. I sit back, pleased with myself, and notice a potted cumquat tree in my living room. With the ceramic pot, it must weigh about thirty kilos. There’s no sign of how it got there.
Huong and Cuong
‘Where are we going?’ I ask the back of My Linh’s head, which is wrapped in a fetching velour hat. It’s dinner time and I’m hoping wherever it is, there’ll be something I can eat.
‘I take you now meet my friend Huong,’ she says into the headwind. ‘I tell her you vegetarian. She cook special for you.’
Although less than a kilometre from my place, it’s a strange destination - a military compound surrounded by high walls. Armed guards let us in and we wind our way through a sort of enclosed village with narrow lanes.
Huong greets us delightedly at the door of a very expensive house. She’s not like any Hanoian I’ve met so far. At forty, she’s petit and sleek, with blow-dried, shoulder length hair and tight but classy clothes. Unfortunately, she only has a smattering of English.
Through My Linh, I learn that Huong works for Vietnam Airlines, a fact I will come to bemoan, and is divorced, a rarity. Her ex was high up in the army, and she’s still allowed to live in opulent government housing at the barracks. She welcomes us into her house and leads us through the living room to the grand wooden dining table.
The table is laid out with dishes. There are several plates of iridescent pressed meat. Another plate has slices of processed cheese, still wrapped in plastic. There’s a pile of sliced white sandwich bread, something I haven’t seen here before, and haven’t missed, and – is it a horrible coincidence or a Zeitgeist? – there are two bowls of Russian salad, one with chunks of ham, one without – for me. Huong has spent a great deal of money on these exotic foods, to accommodate the foreigner. I thank her.
I watch My Linh do her best, making a pressed meat and cheese sandwich. I know it’s new territory for her. The only time I’ve seen her eat a bread roll, she cut it into strips and stirred it into her noodles, to be eaten with chopsticks. I lean forward and encourage her to remove the plastic wrapping on the cheese. With as much dignity as I can muster, I work my way through half a plate of Russian salad.
After the meal, Huong makes a phone call. She’s fired up and wants to go raging.
‘Huong take us go dancing!’ My Linh smiles. We raid Huong’s collection of make-up and perfume then wrap up again and wheel the bikes out of the lock-up in front of the house. Huong owns a brand new Italian Vespa. My Linh and I follow her into town, all the way to Hanoi’s most ostentatious nightclub, the New Century Discotheque. I’ve been here a couple of times, but not with locals.
Once inside the vast club, Huong knows where to go. We cut our way through the tourists, expats, prostitutes and newly affluent, drunk young Hanoians, through to the VIP area. Within minutes of arriving we’re at a table of four well-dressed, middle-aged men, two of them in suits. I introduce myself to two guys from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and another who describes himself as ‘a businessman’. Then Huong introduces me to the fourth, a good-looking fortyish guy who eyes me straight away.
‘My friend, Mr Cuong’.
My Linh plants her lips in my ear and exhales a hot breath. ‘Mr Cuong, he is a famous actor,’ she whispers.
Cuong orders glasses for his new friends, and soon I’m guzzling Hennessy V.S.O.P. cognac. I’m hardly halfway through the glass when Cuong flashes me a boyish grin and fills it again for me. There are two empty cognac bottles on the table, left there by the otherwise over-zealous waiters as a status symbol. I look around at the sozzled party men. I’m impressed by their ability to hold their liquor. I pick carefully at a plate of spectacular cut fruit, into which one of the men has ashed a cigarette, and gesture to all that I’m taking a walk.
I wander around the club, upstairs and down. The New Century looks like any nightclub. The patrons upstairs look down over a balcony onto the action. The light show is high-budget and there are some scantily clad dancers gyrating on the stage. Rumours have it that this place is a haunt of corrupt party cadres. I’m baffled as to why senior-level government officials would want to spend an evening listening to pounding music in a nightclub filled with younger and lesser mortals.
I have a bit of a dance, chat to a DJ, and learn, at the bar, that the cognac costs a mind-numbing US$150 a bottle. That’s a total of $450 on alcohol alone at my table. When I get back to the table I see Huong and My Linh have left their brandy untouched. Huong looks relaxed, but My Linh looks distinctly out of place. Cuong buys me some flashing nightclub gimmicks from a passing vendor, tips him too, and smiles charismatically at me. He looks like a guy who could outlast a fruitfly.
When we say goodbye, Cuong kisses me on the cheek and discreetly fondles my buttocks. So I’m not surprised when, outside the nightclub, my two friends are thrilled to tell me Mr Cuong would like to ‘meet’ me again. He did have a certain something, I reflect, despite the shady company he seems to keep. And for once the chemistry felt mutual. As a musician, I’m used to hanging around actors, we share vaguely similar careers. But I’m busy right now and he looked like trouble.
‘I’m flying to Laos in only four more days,’ I remind the women. But Huong takes the news badly.
‘You no Hanoi in Tet!’ she admonishes.
‘That’s right, I’ll be in Laos for Tet.’
The two women talk for a minute. Then Huong musters up all her English.
‘My Linh want to take you go her village for Tet.’
‘I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m booked to fly to Laos.’
‘Ah! Chi Carolyn. I know already,’ says My Linh sadly, holding my arm and resting her head on my shoulder. ‘But I wish you can come! Just for one day to my village.’
‘I’ve already paid for the flight, and I can’t change it,’ I explain, with what I hope sounds like regret. My Linh translates.
‘No!’ says Huong. ‘I can change the flight.’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ I counter with barely disguised relief. ‘No other seats left.’
It’s unbelievable. Within 24 hours, Huong has pulled strings that shouldn’t have existed. A call to Vietnam Airlines confirms that my flight has been moved back. I’m off to meet My Linh’s family in the provinces amid Zac-fuelled visions of the family stuffing me with pork lard cakes and exhorting me to tram phan tram dog-lung ruou.
Before we head off, Huong announces a dinner for the three of us and Mr Cuong at the Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant Nguyet once brought me to.
Cuong is late, so we start ordering without him. It isn’t easy. The waiters are lurking sullen and open-mouthed in front of the TV set, ignoring us until we shout at them. We have
to order several times, and most of the orders arrive messed up in ways that smack of wilfulness. The staff are perfect exponents of the work ethic fostered by the combination of communism and nepotism.
When the food has all been laid out, there’s about twice as much as we ordered, which seems to happen often when there’s foreigners involved in the eating, and paying. Again and again, we look politely towards the door. No Cuong. We start to serve ourselves.
‘Mr Cuong – he always come late,’ Huong informs us with unconvincing levity. The anticipation seems to have tainted the evening. We’re all nervous and uncommunicative. The language barrier is tiring me tonight and I’m starting to rue this ham-fisted piece of match-making. The evening is winding down before I come to the realisation we’ve been stood up.
But no. There’s a sudden whoosh of excitement in the restaurant. Cuong is making his entrance. The staff stare in amazement and spring into gushing servility. Although clearly able to walk unassisted, Cuong is helped to our table and gently seated beside Huong. A waiter hands him a bowl and a cup and bows out backwards.
The star rises and kisses each of us on the cheek, grins guiltily at me, and starts serving himself from the dishes on the table.
‘Very hungry!’ he exclaims to me, in Vietnamese. He talks to the women and they explain to me that he’s rushed here from a job.
‘You’re a busy man,’ I observe dryly. But to my surprise he turns to Huong for help.
‘He cannot speak English,’ My Linh explains.
‘Oh. Great,’ I say dully. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
We sit in silence and watch Cuong eat. He’s combined the steamed rice, tempura vegetables and soup into one bowl and is slurping it from a spoon, barely pausing to breathe. His head bows low to the table. In his other hand hangs a pair of chopsticks, ready to tackle any big bits. Cuong has the social conscience of a locust. He finishes up pretty much everything on the table.
Single White Female in Hanoi Page 29
