Home :: Journey with Gina
:: The Sisters of Vietnam
July 30, 2000
The Sisters of Vietnam
Vietnam
It's 11 p.m. in Vietnam's central city of Hue, former capital and the S-shaped country's fifth largest city. Most tourists sip cocktails at their hotels overlooking the Perfume River, home to 5,000 fisherman and gravel miners. Other visitors ride mopeds and hire tri-shaws around town. Me? I'm in a tailor's silk shop ordering a dress.
I've got to have an ao dai, the national attire of the elegant women of Vietnam. This high-collar, long-sleeve, tight-bodice, ankle-length tunic slit from the waist down and worn over complementary slacks, makes the local women look "fascinating," according to Phu, my Hue guide. I'm hoping it will do the same for me.
I'm feeling unattractive, what with alternating two pairs of slacks, rotating four tops and my hair crying for its overdue perm. My only pair of dress shoes - soft, black walking clogs - is scuffed, dusty and caked with mud. And my nail polish has chipped into tiny views of the world map. So, I'll take what little glamour I can get.
Miss Lam outlines my measurements, promises to sew through the night and then express mail the purple silk creation to me in Hanoi. We're giddy with fatigue as we study my itinerary, working through the logistics of finalizing the transaction. I hand her my credit card and then write down the particulars for my hotel.
In Saigon, a forty-five-kilogram, four foot nothing firecracker in a red ao dai introduces herself to me at the airport. Her name is Hang. She will be my guide in this South Vietnam city of six million, officially renamed Ho Chi Minh but still referred to as Saigon.
Hang liked that I am traveling alone and asked if I was single. Smiling she said, "You and me, both single ladies. We'll be like friends on your tour."
We talked about marriage and family and Hang shared that "in Vietnam, very bad for the woman; slave to the man." She offered to find me a Vietnamese husband. "Something new," she said. "Then I go to America for the western man!"
In the Saigon suburb of Hoc Man, Hang and I stopped at the local market on the way to the Cu Chi Tunnel, the 250 kilometer network of underground dugouts used by the Viet Cong during what the Vietnamese call "The American War." Folks smiled and waved as we strolled by and asked Hang where I'm from. "America!" she yelled. I flinched.
"Is it not popular to be American in Vietnam?" I asked. Hang told me that an increasing number of Americans visit Vietnam and just about everyone I met wanted me to know that they have friends or relatives in the U.S.
"The war is over twenty-five years," Hang said. "The Vietnamese people look to the future."
Nevertheless, I experienced surreal pangs of paranoia at Cu Chi.
Sixty kilometers northwest of Saigon, the local Cu Chi guide gave a graphic and lively presentation of the tunnel's bamboo-covered traps. Several yards away, in an area covered with dried leaves, Hang and the guide gave me one minute to locate an original tunnel entrance. "How do I find it?" I asked, not moving. "By falling in?"
Hang laughed and tapped the face of her watch. Without taking a step I pointed to a small mound of leaves near her feet. She and the guide smiled approvingly.
"Very quick," Hang said.
I wiped the Southeast Asian heat from my forehead. I was a little unnerved by the game show quality of the tour.
Next, Hang and the local guide invited me to crawl through all three levels of the tunnel for 100 meters. Hang pointed to the 13 meter shortcut in case I got tired and needed to bail. As it turned out, heat, not fatigue, was the issue. Already an oppressive 32o C - 90o F - it felt twice as hot underground, especially in the third and narrowest level used for transit by the guerillas. For tourist benefit, the tunnel had been widened except for a small section retaining its original width where the only way through was to crawl on my belly like a snake.
Hang and the local guide also encouraged me to have my photo taken next to B52 bomb fragments and an M41 American tank still at the location where it was hit. I passed.
In one of the tunnel kitchens at the first level, we sipped tea and ate manioc, a potato-like vegetable eaten by the Viet Cong for often months at a time. Hang turned the conversation to the topic of my being single. In Vietnamese, she told two single Cu Chi guides that I was looking for a Vietnamese husband. They both giggled and turned red. I kicked Hang under the table.
Tanh, my North Vietnam guide, talked incessantly about the States as he showed me the capital of Hanoi. Who did I think would win the election - Bush or Gore? Do I like President Clinton? Did I think Elizabeth Dole would be president one day? Is there French influence in Connecticut? How about Paris, Texas? Is Nebraska near Vermont? Is it true that American people call Jesse Helms "Mr. No?"
Chatty, informative and personable, Tanh gave a superb walking tour through Hanoi's Old Quarter, its colorful, teeming, narrow streets juxtaposing the pristine elegance of the French Quarter - remnants of mid-19th century colonialism - characterized by creamy yellow buildings with swirled white moldings, archways and columns.
Later, I walked to the water puppet theatre, "number one in Vietnam," according to Hang.
The colorful, intricate and highly kinetic water puppetry was invented from rural festivals during the Ly dynasty of 1009-1225. Artists manipulate the puppets from long poles - making them move, talk and dance on the water's surface - while standing behind a curtain in waist-deep water.
I'm not much for corpse viewing but Ho Chi Minh's tomb in Hanoi was memorable due to the pomp and circumstance required to enter the tomb - single file from across the street, lead by white, red and gold uniformed soldiers - the reverent elegance of the tomb's interior and the simple fact that "Uncle Ho" has been dead for 31 years but looks as thought he is sleeping. His body undergoes a two-month preservation process annually, during which the mausoleum is closed to visitors.
I enjoyed Vietnam's five big cities - Saigon in the south, Hue and Danang in the center, Hanoi and Haiphong in the north - but my favorite times came with the silence, surrounded by nature.
"China Beach," so called by Americans because of its South China Sea location, no longer hosts soldiers on R&R but is a popular cooling off spot for bathers around Danang. Southeast of Saigon, the lush Mekong Delta is now peaceful, a fertile lifeline for fishermen, tourist boatmen and fruit and honey farmers, one of whom hosted us at a tea party amid his beehives and orchards of Dragon Fruit, Longon and Gooseberries. And I never tired of the soft Jade waters and the almost 2,000 limestone formations of Halong Bay, a 1,500 kilometer UNESCO Heritage Site east of Hanoi. And a one-night stay on Cat Ba Island was not enough to explore its white sand beaches, dense national forest and panoramic views.
Away from the cities where the standard of beauty is porcelain-white skin, the bronzed "country girls," as Phu calls them, admired my appearance. "Ooh la la!" said one. "Beautiful," said another. Phu tells me that in Vietnamese they call me, "sister."
In Saigon, Hang straddles her motorbike, then dons the evening gloves and surgical mask worn by all the city women to protect against sun and pollution. I climbed on back and we darted across the traffic circle, penetrating the wall of oncoming bikes for a left turn.
Finally, I would get some nail polish remover.
In Hanoi, my last night in Vietnam, I tried on Miss Lam's ao dai. It fit perfectly. Who are these incredible women who whip up silk dresses in the middle of the night and before getting started, escort you back to your hotel on their motorbikes?
I checked the full-length mirror, smoothing the purple silk along my waist. With a fresh set of nails, my hair in a twist and a shoeshine from Saigon, I felt like a million bucks.
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