Hanoi Trip – Day 2

We were up bright and early with so we could get down to Handspan, and then Uncle Ho’s mausoleum before it closed at 11.00. Getting up bright and early was made surprisingly easy by an enthusiastic rooster who had camped surreptitiously outside our room. I use the word enthusiastic because he started crowing at about 5am and didn’t stop around 5am the next morning, at which time he started his routine once again. Red-eyed we got down to the dining room and gobbled down the free breakfast supplied by the hotel, and before long we were once again negotiating the streets of the old quarter.

We found Handspan once again trouble and settled upon a 3 day 2 night tour to Halong Bay which would leave the next morning. The trip consisted of a lot of cruising, a night on a junk and a night on the beach. When given the option of a day kayaking or trekking, we chose trekking (much to my shoulders’ dismay). It had the makings of a good trip and we were looking forward to it. We were also looking forward to catching up with Ho Chi Minh, so appropriately attired for a visit (i.e. Me in jeans) battled through the groin chafing Hanoi heat to the Mausoleum complex, via the hotel where we extended our reservation for another night. We had timed our trip to the Mausoleum well. It was the Sunday of a weekend enhanced by a national holiday, so the entire population of northern Vietnam had secretly agreed to meet us there.

The line was something legends are made of. I been to Disney world, Maple Leaf Gardens for a Leaf game, Mao Zedong’s Mausoleum and many other places where long queues are famous. They had nothing. The line for a glimpse of Uncle Ho would have had astronauts orbiting the earth wondering which dark line was the Great Wall of China. It was unbelievable. It was 5 people across and despite my best efforts to convince myself that it would probably move quite well, after following the stationary beast for 5 minutes we both agreed to fly the white flag. Mush had read somewhere that there was in fact a foreigners entrance somewhere so after a little exploring we found a building with a sign that said ‘Foreigner’s Entrance’ at the door, so congratulating ourselves we paid for admission and entered.

The Ho Chi Minh Museum was fantastic, the only major disappointment being that it was the museum and not the mausoleum. Our ego’s had gotten the better of us. It was quite and interesting set of displays tracing the life of the man himself. It covered his education in France, through the years forming the various parties opposing the colonial French, through the liberation, and ending with the Vietnam war. It had a good collection of documents, photos and items. I wandered around cursing myself for not having paid more attention in French class back at school as very few exhibits were in English, but all were in both the language of the colonists and Vietnamese. After exiting via the typically strategically placed gift shop we decided to have one last crack at finding a way in to the Mausoleum before kicking the bucket.

After following a path guarded by a uniformed officer rejecting locals yet ignoring foreigners we were approached by an attractive young Vietnamese lady in traditional dress. “Would you like to go inside?” she asked us. Tactfully I enquired as to where the end of the line was, to which she replied “You can join here...”. ‘Here’ made us very happy, because ‘Here’ was about 50 meters from the entrance itself. We checked in our bags and joined the line. It seemed terribly unjust that while locals were required to wait for hours in stifling heat to see their hero, we foreigners were able to just jump the line and waltz on in, especially considering most foreigners probably couldn’t even spell Ho Chi Min. I wasn’t complaining, and after about 15 minutes and 16 security checks we were approaching the door. We timed our wait quite well as just prior to entering we got to witness the changing of the guard. Four officers (two guards, two accompanying soldiers) dressed in white uniforms regally marched up to the entrance and relieved the two guards who had been battling the heat. It successfully distracted me from the fact that I too was battling the heat.

The inside of the gray stone mausoleum was quite cool, and the mood was appropriately somber. Our queue wound around a maze of passages before entering the room where the great man himself lay in a glass case, his hands resting upon a blanket which covered his body from the chest down. I have seen Mao Zedong in Beijing however from what I can remember the mood was quite different. While in Beijing the patrons had looked on with what felt like a subdued fear, here there was just a sense of great admiration, it was very appropriate. We were shuffled through in a short time and for a brief period as we followed the passage out there was a respectful silence. I guess no one really knew what words were fit to accompany the magnitude of the occasion. For the first time for as long as I could remember I was actually short of a word.

We emerged from the cool of the mausoleum out into the blaring heat of what had become the midday Hanoi sun. The building actually stands behind a large open space half concrete half large tiles of grass. The entire area highlighted only by a series of flags adjacent to the building itself. The area directly in front of the mausoleum is bordered by a thin white line which is supposed to be the boundary between where people can and can’t go. This rule is only explained once you actually cross the line, and a small guard dressed in military attire chases after you. So after learning our lesson we took a few photos and then went to have a look at the presidential palace (of course getting on the wrong side of the white line once again – classical conditioning!).

The presidential palace was where Uncle Ho held official functions, and was a rather grand building painted yellow. I noted some irony in the fact that the architecture appeared to be of the colonial French variety (but do understand my knowledge of architecture doesn’t really extend beyond recognizing the difference between a cube and a sphere, and I can only make that distinction when I’m really paying attention!). The building was attractively set amongst healthily attired trees and a few lakes. After viewing the palace both myself and the rash rapidly forming on my groin decided it was time to change from jeans and shoes into a pair of shorts and thongs. This turned out to be quite a maneuver in a 2 x 1 toilet stall complete with water-covered floor. I survived magnificently and would have made the former tenant about as proud of me as he was of himself when he succeeded in kicking out the French. We followed the masses around the narrow path which circumnavigating the estate before stopping for a tepid yet strangely refreshing can of Sunkist and deciding it was time to move on.

Our next stop was the Temple of Literature, which has come highly recommended by the lonely planet, and was just a short walk from the Ho Chi Minh complex. (The following is taken from the Lonely Planet) The temple was founded in 1070 by Emperor Ly Thanh Tong and was dedicated to Confucius in order to honor scholars and men of literary accomplishment. It is also the site of the country’s first university which was constructed in 1076 in order to educate the sons of mandarins. In 1484 Emperor Le Thanh Tong ordered that stelae be erected at the temple recognizing the men who received doctorates in each triennial examination from 1442. Though 116 examinations were held until 1778 when the practice was halted, only 82 stelae are extant. The temple is quiet and peaceful and is a relief from the endless action of the streets of Hanoi. It is comprised of a series of courtyards, the third of which contains the 82 stelae (large stone plaques, each sitting on a stone carved tortoise). At the far end of the enclosure is a building in which sit a series of alters for worship. The art of the temple was quite attractive, however I found it difficult to distinguish from the various temples I have visited in China, Singapore and northern India. It was one of the most well preserved sites I have visited and was definitely worth the time.

It was lunchtime, and Mush had been recommended a little restaurant called KOTO (Know One Teach One) by friends. The fantastic restaurant was quite unique in that the staff consisted of street kids who had been taken in and taught the skills required to maintain a restaurant. The food was great, and the blended fruit drinks were fantastic. The service was faultless and it was great to see something built on good principles become so successful. The restaurant has gained quite a reputation, highlighted by a picture of Bill Clinton with the staff back in 2000. On the way out we both picked up a t-shirt.

It was cyclo time. In Hanoi cyclo’s are similar to what are referred to as rickshaws, trishaws and pedicabs in other countries. They involve a seat pushed by a man riding a bike. The seat despite appearing to fit more than one person comfortably, did not. Mush and I jammed ourselves in for the 10 minute 15’000 dong trip to our next destination Hoa Lo Prison, a.k.a the Hanoi Hilton. After agreeing to 15’000 dong we arrived at our destination and realized we were at the mercy of our little driver when we were short of anything smaller than a 20’000 dong note. After handing it over his grin spread from ear to ear as he handed back 1’000 dong and rode into the sunset. Unfortunately there’s not a whole lot to be done in situations like that, and considering we would be arguing over 10 US cents, it wasn’t worth the energy.

Hoa Lo Prison was constructed by the Colonial French, but has become more famous in many western countries as the site where US prisoners were held during the Vietnam War. A large part of the original prison has been destroyed (in it’s place stands a large office building), however the part that remains has been quite well kept and contains a number of interesting things to see. The majority of the exhibits focus on the French occupation, which is an understandably more important part of recent history to the Vietnamese people than the American war. The brutality of the occupation is emphasized in the prison. There are some interesting items from the part of Vietnamese history more accessible to the West. I found John McCain’s (US Senator, Lost to George W. Bush in the 2000 Republican Presidential Primary) flight suit in a glass case, which was something. After taking a bunch of photos, some of each other shackled, we began to wander back towards to hotel, stopping at St. Josephs Cathedral on the way. The Cathedral, built in 1886 had a number of typical stain glass windows, and was a testament to the Catholic population in Hanoi that had been left behind by the French. As we wandered through there were about 100 kids all attending Sunday school, and they all looked as about excited as I felt when I used to go to Sunday school!

We also stopped in at the rather insignificant Ambassador’s Pagoda, which was basically a Buddhist temple, but after a quick drink at a bar we were both back in the hotel room, desperately in need of a wash and a lie down. Both of which were accomplished.

We decided to go Vietnamese for dinner and made our way to a little restaurant in the old quarter appropriately called ‘Little Hanoi’. The food was good, I had become quite fond of the Vietnamese style of spring rolls. Having been first introduced during my many visits to Pho Hung with Mike in Toronto, I had been looking forward to tasting the genuine article. Much to my dismay they tasted exactly the same. We sat around and discussed the issues of the world, but decided we should stop arguing (i.e. Mush being stupid) and go pick up the much needed supplies for our endeavors of the next few days. My hat, sunscreen and silk sleeping bag required more time than probably should have been invested, but I felt satisfied by the end and that was all that mattered. I actually felt so satisfied that we ended up going bar hopping. Visiting the Hanoi Jazz Club (yes Hanoi has a jazz scene), the Funky Monkey (very funky, maybe a little too funky for a bunch of tourists), and GC (a more traditional pub) before making tracks.

Making tracks in Hanoi at 11.15pm is like making tracks at 4am in any other major city. The place was dead. Apparently conservative little Hanoi has a 11pm last call, a rule which is manipulated by what we would call guanxi (relationships) in China. However even if last call was push back to 2am, it wouldn’t make a difference. The entire town was in bed. I have since learned that people in Hanoi actually live on a different time schedule to the rest of the world (or the world I am used to). Hanoians will typically get up at 5.30am and walk, play sports, or whatever they do socially before the heat sets in. If you visit the many lakes in the wee small hours you will catch half the population of the city out and about. Obviously to counter this they remove a few hours from the other end of the day, so by 10.30 Hanoi is dead. As a result the walk back to hotel felt like those times you are up in the middle of the night trying to hit the side of the bowl so as not to disturb anyone. I think I was successful. However had I run into our enthusiastic rooster friend, I would have relentlessly gone for the middle of the bowl. With vigor.