Christmas in July
My father had done
everything he could to avoid Vietnam. In his early twenties, he, like most
Americans, could only associate the country with one thing – war. For thousands of men of his generation the
draft was a death sentence. No one went
to Vietnam
on holiday, they went there to die, and what many people saw on television was
enough to redefine the meaning of hell.
I was born shortly before the Americans pulled out of the war, and less
than a year before the fall of Saigon. Growing up I learned little about the country
save the fact that her soil was once drenched with the blood of my
countrymen. In school, it was as if Vietnam never
existed before the fighting began, then ceased to exist the moment the South
capitulated to the Communists. I was taught nothing of the nation’s history –
including the fact that it was once a French colony. The culture of the people remained a mystery
and the landscape I pictured in my head was always gray and dismal – clouds
perpetually covered the sky and a thick nearly impenetrable mist left
everything moist. Nothing from my
upbringing made it an alluring place to visit, perhaps that is the very reason
I felt compelled to go. It was almost as
if I were driven to recover something that was lost, only I wasn’t exactly sure
what I would be looking for considering there had never been a time that I had
personally possessed it. Coerced by
curiosity, I flew to Vietnam
to explore a world my history books had ignored and to uncover a truth that had
been neglected for too long. However, it
wasn’t the place that ultimately had a great impact on my life but the
friendship I stumbled into and forged over a bowl of noodles and plate of tofu
in the Old Quarter of Hanoi.
By the time I
landed in Hanoi,
collected my things and checked into a cheap hotel, it was early evening. The sun had slipped below the horizon and the
sky was cloudy and gray. Puddles dotted
the earth, and when I walked, my shoes kicked up mud which splattered the back
of my legs. In short, the Vietnam that greeted me was not so different
than the Vietnam
that had thrived in my imagination for three decades. My eyes were sleepy, threatening to shut with
every step, but they were pinned back by a wave of childlike excitement. I was eager to indulge my enthusiasm of being
somewhere new, so instead of retiring to bed, I decided to take a walk, despite
the dreary weather and the loneliness that had already begun to plague me. It was often that I traveled alone, but just
because I was used to it didn’t mean that I preferred it.
Darkness was
rapidly descending and it was doubtful that I would see much, but seeing little
was better than kicking off my shoes, flopping down on a bed and passing out
for the night. My two main objectives in
the north were to go trekking in Sapa and to go kayaking in Halong Bay. If I did nothing else that evening, I wanted
to stop into a few travel agencies and price the two excursions that interested
me. I wouldn’t commit to anything, prior
experience had taught me that it was always best to sleep on something before
paying for it.
The Old Quarter is
a quaint section of the city. The
streets are narrow and the buildings echo the influence of colonialism. In the thirteenth century, there were 36
guilds in Hanoi
and each street was named after the merchandise that was sold there. Cars and motorbikes are loud and the drivers
seemingly close their eyes to pedestrians, making it difficult and often
dangerous to cross the street. I
consulted the map in my guidebook several times to make sure I was walking in
the right direction. I was heading down Pho
Hang Bac (silversmiths) and it was a left onto Pho Ma May (Rattan) that brought
me to the Tamarind Café, home of Handspan Adventure Travel. My intention had been to speak to an agent
about both Halong
Bay and Sapa, but I was
distracted by the sound of a woman’s voice speaking English with a perfect
American accent. Not used to
encountering many Americans abroad, especially in Asia,
my curiosity edged me towards her, goading me into rudely eavesdropping on her
conversation. She was talking to two
German tourists, trying very hard it appeared to convince them to go trekking
with her in Sapa. Immediately my
interest peaked and I stepped even closer.
I’m generally shy, not the type to force my way into someone else’s
conversation, but my desire for companionship dominated all else.
“So, whatcha
doin’,” I presented myself to the stranger without hesitation.
“Hi.” At sound of my voice she spun around, not at
all put off my by interruption. “I’m
going to Halong Bay and then hopefully Sapa, but right
now I’m by myself which makes the trek in Sapa more expensive. If there was at least one other person it
would cut the cost substantially.”
“When are you
going?” I had no set schedule, so I
could easily adapt myself to her plans.
“I’m leaving for Halong Bay
tomorrow, and the day after I get back I’m taking the train to Sapa.” The excitement in her voice mirrored the
excitement in mine. I knew nothing about
her, yet there we were on the verge of making plans as if we had known each
other for years – but in sense, isn’t that what backpacking is about?
I had wanted to go
to Sapa first, but the order really was irrelevant, especially when the
possibility of having a companion was tossed into the equation. “That works for me,” and my intention of not
committing myself to anything until having slept on it was promptly forgotten,
or rather ignored.
“By the way, I’m
Bonnie,” she introduced herself almost as an afterthought, a common occurrence
amongst backpackers. Conversation is
often so completely free and open that you will learn a person’s entire history
before anyone thinks to introduce herself.
“I’m Lizzie.” And knowing nothing else about each other,
save the fact that we are both Americans, we committed ourselves to a week of
traveling together.
“Have you eaten
dinner?” After having organized and paid
for our excursions, I was very hungry.
Since we were going to be spending the next eight or nine days together,
I thought it might be a good idea to get to know each other a little better
before departing for Halong
Bay.
“Not yet.”
We found a place
nearby to eat. It was small, but we were
the only ones there. I was thrilled to
discover that she was a vegetarian and that she would be up for sharing two
different dishes. Scanning the menu, we
settled on a tofu dish and some noodles.
We must have been in the restaurant for two hours, and during that time
not once did we have to suffer through a single awkward moment of silence. Instead of two strangers making an attempt to
be friendly, I felt almost as if we were long lost friends catching up on what
had happened in our lives since we last spoke.
The two of us shared travel stories, showed pictures of our significant
others whom we had left behind on the other side of the globe and we didn’t
hesitate to speak of our dreams for the future.
We ate slowly, but time passed swiftly, and when our plates were cleared
we paid the bill, said goodnight and retired for the evening.
The following
morning I woke to the sound of rain tapping lightly against the hotel
window. Will I ever see the sun? I
questioned as I climbed out of bed and into the shower. Having dressed and repacked my rucksack, I
walked through the rain to the agency.
When I arrived, Bonnie was already there. In total, there were ten people in the group
going to Halong Bay.
During the drive, the rain continued to fall but by the time we boarded
the Junk Boat it was only drizzling.
The bay, despite the clouds, was beautiful. Rock islands with green vegetation strewn all
over them jutted up out of the blue water.
Living on the bay were families that made their homes in either small
boats or in houses built on floating docks.
Both the homes and boats were painted bright vibrant colors – green,
red, yellow and blue – as if to compensate for the dreary redundant life led by
the men, woman and children in the area.
We went kayaking
in the bay, paddling between the islands and into small caves. It was expected that we follow our guide, but
we paddled at our own pace. There were
no time constraints and we were free to explore provided we didn’t overextend
our energy resources. While we were
kayaking the rain finally stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. The sun glistened off the water and the sky
reflected the blue brilliance of the bay.
The few clouds that did remain were like pure white wisps of
cotton. What more could I ask for? I was out on the water doing something I
loved in a beautiful setting with the warm sun tickling my skin. For me it was almost as if Vietnam was
being reborn. The change in weather
banished my youthful impression of the place and I was finally able to set my
preconceived notions aside. I was
certain that if my father could separate the past from the present, he to would
love to go kayaking in Halong
Bay. But he looked upon my holiday as a betrayal
of all the young men who had lost their lives in a time when the Vietnamese
were looked upon as ‘our enemy.’
Later that afternoon,
after we had eaten lunch and we had begun to bake in the sun, to cool off, we
dove from the top of the Junk Boat into the warm water. As it washed over my body I felt very much at
peace, not only with myself, but with my surroundings. The group of us formed a circle and, treading
water to stay afloat, we talked about everything and anything that crossed our
minds. There is nothing to fear amongst
strangers who in all likelihood will never see each other again, and once the
element of fear is removed people tend to be willing to speak more freely with
each other. In the absence of a long
lasting judgment, secrecy becomes unnecessary for survival.
As always, when
the trip came to an end, we all passed around our journals and exchanged
addresses, promising each time the paper changed hands that we would keep in
touch. I had played this game before
dozens of times and I knew better than to believe the words of my passing
companions. On occasion, a
correspondence might be kept up for years, but it was extremely rare. Initially parties might make a feeble attempt
to call or shoot off an e-mail, but inevitably everyday life gets in the gets
in the way. Work supersedes play, and
the people you once believed could become your friends slip into the afterlife
of nostalgic memories.
Bonnie and I
exchanged addresses with the rest, but our time to part was not yet upon
us. We spent a day walking around and
exploring Hanoi. We visited what remains of Hoa Lo Prison,
better known to some Americans as the ‘Hanoi Hilton.’ It is where many American POWs were
incarcerated during the American War.
Amongst the war relics in the museum was the uniform worn by the now
senator of Arizona
– John McCain. It appeared to be a
source of pride for at least one Vietnamese man. He was giving a tour of the prison to a group
of Japanese tourists and he stopped beside the case that displayed McCain’s
uniform. “Belonged to McCain,” he
pointed, his finger touching the glass.
“He very high up in American government.
Very important, very very important man,” he repeated several times in
broken English.
That night we went
to see a water puppet show. Initially, I
wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about going.
In the past, I had always found puppet shows to be rather dull and
boring, but Bonnie was excited about seeing the show, and since I didn’t have
anything better to do I joined her.
Besides, water puppet shows are a part of Vietnamese culture, and since
I was there I figured I should experience as much as possible. During the show, the puppeteers stand in the
water behind a curtain so that they are not seen by the audience. Puppets are attached to long sticks which the
puppeteers skillfully guide through the water.
The scenes often reflect Vietnamese folk lore and are accompanied by
traditional music. Despite my initial
disinterest, I enjoyed myself immensely.
The following
night Bonnie and I took the train to Sapa and arriving in the morning we met
Lan, the woman who would be our guide for the next three days. She spoke English very well and was excited
to share her knowledge of the H’mong and Dzao people. The trek was not difficult and the landscape
was breathtaking. Mountains rose up
around us while rice paddies blanketed the ground. Along the trail we encountered several Black
H’mong people, many of whom were camera shy, but we did meet two woman who
allowed us to take their picture. They
were dressed in traditional H’mong indigo hemp robes, and on their backs they
carried baskets filled with handicrafts which they were eager to sell. Bonnie made a few purchases for her family
back home, but I didn’t buy anything.
However, as a token of friendship and kindness, each of the women tied a
colorful string bracelet on my wrist and Bonnie’s wrist.
The children who
live in the hills proved to be very curious. Oftentimes, tourists are their
only link to the outside world. Many of
them live without technology and two of the little boys we met were very
intrigued by our cameras. I took their
picture and, when I flipped the camera around to show it to them, they squealed
with delight.
It was our second
afternoon in Sapa that we went swimming in the river. We were led by a young girl through the small
village in which we would be staying.
Engaged in conversation, neither Bonnie nor I paid much attention to
where we were going. We didn’t realize
that once the girl delivered us to the swimming hole she would return to her
home, leaving us alone to find our own way back. As dusk approached, we dried off not wanting
to have to pick our way through the dark.
Both Bonnie and I thought that if we walked pretty much in a straight
line we would find the home stay, but the both of us had remembered
incorrectly. We walked in circles trying
communicate – without a common language – to the locals we encountered along
the way. They proved to be patient and
they tried to be helpful, some of them even invited us into their home for the
night, but no one succeeded in understanding exactly what we were trying to
say. Eventually, after we had taken a
few wrong turns and the sun had bid us farewell, we stumbled upon the house in
which we would be sleeping, arriving just in time for dinner.
The trek came to a
conclusion around noon of the third day, leaving us a few hours to wander
around town before having to catch a train back to Hanoi.
We strolled through the outdoor market, buying souvenirs for our
families and friends back home. During
most of our trek the weather had been beautiful, but that afternoon the monsoon
clouds made an appearance and within minutes of their arrival rain descended in
a fury. To escape the weather, Bonnie
and I ducked into a café for a drink. We
were the only customers, and even though we didn’t order food they were happy
to have us there. After bringing us our
drinks, the owner of the place proudly popped into the VCR the only English tape
he possessed. It was late July, five
months before Christmas, but the owner of the restaurant ignored that simple
fact. The music videos showed Vietnamese
men and women dressed up for Christmas singing traditional Christmas carols in
English. Bonnie and I laughed at first,
but by the third song we were singing along, while the owner smiled at us. When the rain passed and the sun poked its
nose through the clouds Bonnie and I finished our drinks, sang one last song
and paid our bill, returning to the street in a much different mood than we had
been in when we sought shelter. With the
Christmas songs still echoing in our ears we continued to sing. The holiday cheer may have been premature,
but it was infectious, and we were anxious to share it with others. Walking through town, Bonnie wished everyone
we met a Merry Christmas. I do not know
if they understood her, if they did, I’m certain that she confused them, but not
a single person failed to smile in response.
I didn’t want to
say goodbye to Bonnie, but only a week remained before I had to be in Saigon and there were several places I wanted to visit as
I traveled south. Bonnie and I had
already exchanged numbers and addresses, and unlike the others whom I knew I
would never hear from again, I had not the slightest doubt that Bonnie would
forever be a part of my life. She sat
with me as I waited for the bus that would carry me to Hue, and when it arrived she gave me a hug,
ordering me to keep her up to date with the rest of my journey.
“Merry Christmas,”
she called after me as I started to board the bus.
“Merry Christmas,”
I turned around half laughing to myself, knowing that from now on Bonnie,
Christmas and Vietnam would forever be intertwined in my mind.
