Visit to Hanoi, Vietnam
September 26, 2006 - October 6, 2006
Thursday, November 22, 2007
The Win Hotel Hanoi
09/26/06 - Arrival at San Francisco International airport (SFO) was at 2105. I brought no checked in bags, so I leaped onto the first section of moving floor that headed away from Arrival Gate 78B. My destination is the International Terminal. I have a long westerly flight which will take me to Southeast Asia.
The United Airwest turboprop flight from Medford took only one and a half hours. Seat 5A permitted me to jam my knees firmly into the back of 4A. This arrangement gave me quite a snug, and form fitting chair.
Occasionally the two engines would slip out of synchronization and vibrate us all to an elevated awareness that this particular aircraft did not represent modern air service's most advanced technology. None the less, I enjoyed the trip. I lazily finished reading Sandra Brown's Chill Factor. This mystery held my interest right up through the end.
The walk to the International Terminal took me past all of the United gates I had used over the years; seeing the gates made SFO feel very much a home-away-from-home to me. Of particular fondness were the few gates I had sat at which were at the near end of the busy terminal.
Time was on my side with this leg of the journey. I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. Traveling on Cathey Pacific Airlines was to be a new experience for me. I didn't have any idea how to find their terminal. So, being a guy, it was natural to stop and ask questions. I spotted a meandering United Captain who happened to be going my way. Not much was lost in cordial conversation as we passed familiar landscape. He pointed me toward the Cathey terminals.
Anne and I have saved lots of unused travel miles with our United MilagePlus membership. The tickets for this trip had been purchased, on-line, from Cheap Tickets. MilagePlus would not honor our accumulated travel points for use to upgrade this ticket. "No worries, Anne. I will purchase a Business Class upgrade for the Hong Kong leg when I get to the airport."
I felt very good about funding my entire in-air time for only fifteen hundred plus dollars. When the ticket agent told me that the upgrade to business would be only sixteen hundred, each way, I politely thanked her and asked to be processed into the cattle car.
My next SFO gate was going to be 9A. Boy, that doesn't sound like much of a hike. As I approached the security check-in, I asked the TSA woman if there were restaurants on the other side. She told me no.
I walked back to the last place where I had seen a collection of eateries. Harbor Village Kitchen looked pretty decent. I discovered that ordering Chinese food was even harder for me than it was for Mexican food. I ended up with wonton (egg noodle soup) with beef brisket and a peach diet Snapple. I couldn't go far wrong with this choice.
The steaming bowl of wonton had four large pieces of meat begging me to fork them on. I stabbed into the closest floater. This piece provided three very tasty bites. A small piece of edge gristle brought no concern and it was easily removed.
The second chunk of brisket had a delightful thumb-nail bite hanging onto an intersectional maze of slippery, floppy, interconnecting tissue. This piece of bovine artwork, sculptured by my Chinese hosts, was placed on the tray next to my other rejected tissue pieces. Not to worry, I thought. I still have two and a half hours before gate check-in. I am in a very relaxed "have no worries" mood.
The noodles were cooked just right. Try as I may, I spun a small portion onto my spoon in an attempt to find the noodle's natural end. Each forkful had to be bitten off. This noodle seemed to be just one, with its self. I came to the end when I finished the bowl.
Ah, I've saved the last piece of brisket until the end. The meat looked ready. It was sharing space now with only leafy green things in the chestnut colored base. I stabbed into the visual essence of brisket and lifted it out of the bowl. Using a slight wrist turning, I permitted the soup to drip off before proceeding.
To my surprise, as I brought the loaded fork to my mouth, there was no meat on this piece. I was intrigued, however, something about this piece of gristly stuff registered familiar. I slowly turned the fork to glimpse new aspects, and it came to me. Flashes of long ago Biology texts were brought to mind. This was the chapter in the book which displayed cross sectional views of the mammalian heart's ventricular valves. I placed this last piece on the tray with the rest and enjoyed a few quality sips of Peach Snapple.
One day I will wait for my flight at the gate which is just to the right of the head end of the moving floor. Gate 9A is at the very end of the corridor, and downstairs; only two more hours to wait. I think I will start my new Nelson Demille novel, Up Country. I'll probably doze off, but I resolved to hold off on my Ambian CR until I got seated.
Two short days later, at 0945, Vietnam Airlines landed at Noi Bai airport; serving Hanoi, Vietnam. There were many westerners on the flight from Hong Kong. I met a young Aussie while waiting for Tim in the Hong Kong terminal. His name is Tom.
Tom was born in Hanoi and went with his mother on a movie production trip to Australia. She never returned home. Tom is in his last year at university in Sydney. He was going to Hanoi to attend his step-sister's wedding.
Tim's flight came in from Cairns around seven o'clock. The three of us visited until our Vietnam Airline loaded at 0800. This leg of the trip was only going to last an hour and a half, but not to be outdone; we were served meat and pancakes for the in-flight breakfast.
The approach to Noi Bai airport took us over cultivated fields. The large spaces were divided into smaller plots, each neatly tilled. With a careful eye you could see a few people with "paddy" hats hoeing weeds.
We are staying at the Win Hotel. The hotel fare included our taxi trip from the airport. As we came off the causeway into the airport lobby we spotted the taxi driver holding a sign calling for "Tim Haralson". I will try to describe the trip to the Win hotel from the airport, but it is best experienced live. Let me name the taxi driver Wo, because that is the first word that formed in my mouth as we merged into mainstream traffic as we left the airfield. Wo only knows two movements; Go and Honk.
Traffic in Vietnam drives, as we do, on the right hand side of the road; well, most of the time. Wo only knew the left hand lane of our side of the freeway - one hasn't experienced tailgating, light blinking and horn honking unless you've ridden with Wo.
As we approached the city center we entered a state of unparalleled traffic chaos. It seemed as if the main rule to order is: If you're moving, keep moving and others will part; not, however, without blowing their horn.
The city has few traffic lights, but at every intersection there is a white stripped path for pedestrians to cross. One hasn't a long enough life to wait for a break in the traffic. Before you step off of the curb it is best to see that the on-coming hoard does not contain any cars, trucks, or buses. The odds are greatly in your favor that motor bikes will rule and you will be spared.
When stepping off of the curb you look just straight ahead. You present no body signals that you are anything but certain of your destination. Horns will beep, bikes will pass close behind and close in front, but they seem to know not to mess with you, physically. In a dream-time analogy, this may be a bit like stepping off the roof of a high building; knowing that you can really fly.
After checking in with reception at the Win, Tim wanted to get some dollars changed into the Vietnam dong. The current exchange rate is one US dollar for 15,800 dong. He knew that the banks charge about 4% fee for exchanges, and he knew of a way to avoid this institutional thievery. He would introduce me to a couple of street exchange vendors, who sat atop their motor bikes near the entrance to the ANZ bank. They would give us 15,800 dong without fees.
We met up with the black marketers, where he had said they would be, sitting on their scooters near the bank. The exchanging transaction for one hundred dollars was very open and straight forward. We thanked them, told them we would see them again, and proceeded to stroll the few kilometers around the nearby city lake.
Perhaps by an hour later we had circled the lake, took in its many sights, and were ready to sit somewhere cool for refreshments. Tim guided us to a fifth story restaurant which overlooked the lake-shore drive. We took an indoor window table and ordered drinks with a side of spring rolls.
During this welcomed escape from the heat, I studied the different sizes and colors of the Vietnamese bills. Each bill had an inserted plastic section, which made counterfeiting nearly impossible, and each denomination differed from the others in its rectangular dimensions and shade of earthy yellow and green. I counted the amount I had received at the exchange. I looked through my healthy pile of dong, three times. Each time, I came up with 1,368,000 dong.
"Darn it, Tim, I didn't seem to have gotten a very good rate. How did you do?" Tim's count came to near the same amount. We should have received 1,580,000 dong for our $100 dollars. I figured that it only cost us about 12% for this street side bargain. Well, hey! At least the bank didn't get a chance to rip us off any 4% fee.
O9/29/06 - I had fallen asleep last night at about 10pm. Tim had been watching the Bourne Identity #2. The 17" TV was color and its picture was very good. I was shocked that most of the TV channels were in English, with Vietnamese subtitles. I was to learn that English is a very serious second language in Vietnam.
Tim has a young teacher friend, Nguyen Thuy Duong. She goes by her first name, Duong. Her name is pronounced "Dzoon". Duong is an upper level English teacher at one of the city's high schools. She visited with us for a few hours last evening at the hotel. Duong will meet us tomorrow for some shopping.
For dinner last night, Tim recommended we go to the Little Hanoi restaurant. Little Hanoi is just a few blocks away from the hotel.
The restaurant has an open wall exposing it to the high temperature and humidity of the sidewalk. Inside, however, it had a very comfortable table atmosphere. The city of Hanoi is located on the 21st north parallel. I recall that the Tropic of Cancer belts the earth at 22oN. This low northern latitude, nearing the equator, explains why the temperature is so warm, and why the humidity sits at around 80%.
We selected a street side window table and awaited the arrival of our ordered tuna salad and mixed spring rolls. The time was 5pm. The street traffic was intense. Motorbikes and buses zoomed and beeped non-stop past our window. Once in a while I noticed a bike taxi, called a cyclo, moving slowly among the army of motorbikes.
We enjoyed the meal. At checkout time Tim and I thought we may have to pay off part of our meal washing chopsticks. Earlier, Tim had suggested we not carry all of our converted money when we left Hotel Win. The two of us counted out our dong. We came up short of the 211,000 needed to settle our bill. Together we only had about 150,000 dong. As we recounted the paper pile with our hostess, I remembered I had zipped some dong inside the security pocket of my pants. Digging into my pocket, I came out with 200,000d. We resorted what we had already placed on the counter and quickly resolved our bill. Boy! What a bill paying scare we had for the $17 ticket. Of course, now, I got stuck with a thick pile of small denomination Vietnamese paper money.
This morning I woke up alert at around 0630. Tim was no where to be seen. I quickly dressed. As I was getting ready to go down to the lobby, Tim came into the room. He had woken earlier and reported to me about the breakfast he had just eaten in the Win's lobby. I followed his advice and went downstairs to repeat his order, for myself.
In the lobby a few carry-away tables had been set in front of the four ornate wooden chairs which bordered the walls, as you entered through the double glass doors from the street. I selected one nearest the main entry. Sitting nearby were two western couples. I gave morning greetings and a smile to both.
Mr. Nghea (pronounced "Nia"), the hotel's manager, soon appeared with a paper menu. Item #1 is what Tim had eaten, so I ordered the same. A few brief minutes later Nghea came down the street carrying a steaming bowl on a waiter's tray. Apparently most of the complimentary breakfasts were prepared at one of the street cafes next door.
Nghea's presentation of the breakfast table was very well done. I received one small bowl containing small slices of dried red chili, one bowl held two stubby yellow/green bananas, and one large bowl steamed with my chicken rice-noodle soup. I was also served a large glass of mixed orange juice, a straw, chopsticks and a baguette.
Tim had warned me not to lose track of any bits of chili, if I put some in my soup. I deftly used the chopsticks to place four pieces of chili pepper atop my steaming broth. The pepper steeped while I ate one of my bananas.
When the soup had cooled, I removed the pepper. I had thought that if the peppers added a little more flavor to the clear broth, great. If not, oh well. The seasoning turned out to be just right. With each chopstick grasp of noodles, I could taste a hint of the seasoning. I didn't think the room had heated up that much by the time I had finished my second banana, but I found myself sweating from the pepper spice. None the less, I was proud of my solo meal achievement.
Tim and I lay in the room and read while we waited for Duong to arrive. She came a few hours later, at 10am. We visited while I fumbled with the reconditioned Toshiba laptop Tim had bought for her while he was recently in the US. Duong had asked Tim to find her the best computer he could for under $500 when he came to Medford for a vacation.
She had a problem with the laptop. It wouldn't play any sound out of its built-in speakers. I silently wished Matt were here. I'm certain the difficulty was due to some internal program switch being turned off. All I could discover was that diagnostics said the sound board was working fine. Shucks!
After half an hour I gave up on the Toshiba and the three of us left to go shopping. Tim's main morning objective was to make right the balance he owed to a bamboo supplier. Part of his business goal was to talk the supplier into adjusting what Tim owed against the quarantine fine he had received when his last shipment arrived in Brisbane. Apparently, the majority of his goods were not labeled "Made in Vietnam", as was required under Australian law. The vendor wanted to keep Tim a loyal customer, so she subtracted the total fine amount from Tim's balance owed. Tim was happy, and we were out of there.
We lunched at the Mo Ca café. This was a nicely air-conditioned restaurant visited mostly by western guests. The café was quite busy. Duong had to report to her school at 1:30pm, so after lunch we went directly back to the hotel. Duong was seen off on her motor bike, and then Tim and I went to the room for a well deserved siesta.
For dinner, Duong took us to an authentic Vietnamese restaurant. To reach the dining area we had to pass through the kitchen and then climb two flights of steep stairs. Twelve inch high tables were set on a raised six foot wide area circling the walls of the room. The waiters were thus able to serve the guests from the inner floor space. At each table were four sitting cushions and four back cushions.
We first removed our footwear, and then we climbed up to the cushions. Duong, being only five feet tall, had no difficulty getting seated comfortably. Tim and I, however, found the arrangement a bit more labor intensive. Part way through the meal, my left leg was totally numb. I found relief only by stretching my leg out and sitting sideways to the table.
Duong did all of the ordering. Naturally, we had a rice bowl. Ordered also was a soup course, spring rolls, pork ribs, and some small slivers of meat, which looked and tasted like pan fried chicken. I was very surprised to learn that this main dish was flying fish.
After dinner we took a taxi to a music store which Duong recommended. I had mentioned that I would like to find an instrument unique to Vietnam and Southeast Asia. Actually, this place really wasn't a store. We found a simple street front cutaway of the owner's home.
The back wall of the shop displayed guitars. At the front was a glass case containing a variety of flutes. On the floor sat Mr. and Mrs. Shopkeeper. They were busying themselves with a snack.
I spotted what I was looking for hanging next to a guitar. The instrument is a Dan Bau, pronounced "Dan Bow". This single string music device is found only in Southeast Asia and would be rarely seen, if at all, in Oregon. I learned that the Dan Bau was favored by poets as background for their recitals. When a note is plucked the musician could then vary the sound by flexing an end piece which slightly loosed or tightened the tension on the string. This produced a "woo, whoa, wow" sort of sound.
The shopkeeper, and maker, brought the dan bau to the floor. He then sat down, brought out a half inch wide by three inch tall block of wood. We were fascinated watching him use a hand chisel to form a three inch long sliver of a pick. He then sat at the dan bau and deftly plucked out the notes of a scale. As he found each note to be to his aural satisfaction he would, with a black felt-tip marker, put a dot on the surface under the string. This tuning process took only a couple of minutes. I noticed the diminishing logrithmetic pattern he created with the dots as the notes got higher and higher.
He then gave me a short tutorial on how to pluck different notes. The initial key, of course, was to use the pick only at the points where he had placed a dot. Now, the dan bau does not have frets, as does a guitar. This means that one needs to temporarily create a simulated fret as one is plucking the string. This is done by using the palm of the picking hand in a magically timed movement as the string is picked. In a very short time I had satisfactorily produced not a single note. However, as an eye witness, I could testify that indeed it could be tastefully done. Boy, this is going to take some practice.
After negotiating a considered fair deal for the dan bau, we expressed our thanks and stepped to the sidewalk. Our taxi had been waiting for us. It is fascinating how the mind can so quickly shift from lofty, creative thoughts, to that of musical instrument to that of base human survival. I got the front seat again and we were now in the motorbike 'dodge mode' on our way back to the Win. A schedule was set for tomorrow, good nights were said, and Duong biked towards home.
The United Airwest turboprop flight from Medford took only one and a half hours. Seat 5A permitted me to jam my knees firmly into the back of 4A. This arrangement gave me quite a snug, and form fitting chair.
Occasionally the two engines would slip out of synchronization and vibrate us all to an elevated awareness that this particular aircraft did not represent modern air service's most advanced technology. None the less, I enjoyed the trip. I lazily finished reading Sandra Brown's Chill Factor. This mystery held my interest right up through the end.
The walk to the International Terminal took me past all of the United gates I had used over the years; seeing the gates made SFO feel very much a home-away-from-home to me. Of particular fondness were the few gates I had sat at which were at the near end of the busy terminal.
Time was on my side with this leg of the journey. I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. Traveling on Cathey Pacific Airlines was to be a new experience for me. I didn't have any idea how to find their terminal. So, being a guy, it was natural to stop and ask questions. I spotted a meandering United Captain who happened to be going my way. Not much was lost in cordial conversation as we passed familiar landscape. He pointed me toward the Cathey terminals.
Anne and I have saved lots of unused travel miles with our United MilagePlus membership. The tickets for this trip had been purchased, on-line, from Cheap Tickets. MilagePlus would not honor our accumulated travel points for use to upgrade this ticket. "No worries, Anne. I will purchase a Business Class upgrade for the Hong Kong leg when I get to the airport."
I felt very good about funding my entire in-air time for only fifteen hundred plus dollars. When the ticket agent told me that the upgrade to business would be only sixteen hundred, each way, I politely thanked her and asked to be processed into the cattle car.
My next SFO gate was going to be 9A. Boy, that doesn't sound like much of a hike. As I approached the security check-in, I asked the TSA woman if there were restaurants on the other side. She told me no.
I walked back to the last place where I had seen a collection of eateries. Harbor Village Kitchen looked pretty decent. I discovered that ordering Chinese food was even harder for me than it was for Mexican food. I ended up with wonton (egg noodle soup) with beef brisket and a peach diet Snapple. I couldn't go far wrong with this choice.
The steaming bowl of wonton had four large pieces of meat begging me to fork them on. I stabbed into the closest floater. This piece provided three very tasty bites. A small piece of edge gristle brought no concern and it was easily removed.
The second chunk of brisket had a delightful thumb-nail bite hanging onto an intersectional maze of slippery, floppy, interconnecting tissue. This piece of bovine artwork, sculptured by my Chinese hosts, was placed on the tray next to my other rejected tissue pieces. Not to worry, I thought. I still have two and a half hours before gate check-in. I am in a very relaxed "have no worries" mood.
The noodles were cooked just right. Try as I may, I spun a small portion onto my spoon in an attempt to find the noodle's natural end. Each forkful had to be bitten off. This noodle seemed to be just one, with its self. I came to the end when I finished the bowl.
Ah, I've saved the last piece of brisket until the end. The meat looked ready. It was sharing space now with only leafy green things in the chestnut colored base. I stabbed into the visual essence of brisket and lifted it out of the bowl. Using a slight wrist turning, I permitted the soup to drip off before proceeding.
To my surprise, as I brought the loaded fork to my mouth, there was no meat on this piece. I was intrigued, however, something about this piece of gristly stuff registered familiar. I slowly turned the fork to glimpse new aspects, and it came to me. Flashes of long ago Biology texts were brought to mind. This was the chapter in the book which displayed cross sectional views of the mammalian heart's ventricular valves. I placed this last piece on the tray with the rest and enjoyed a few quality sips of Peach Snapple.
One day I will wait for my flight at the gate which is just to the right of the head end of the moving floor. Gate 9A is at the very end of the corridor, and downstairs; only two more hours to wait. I think I will start my new Nelson Demille novel, Up Country. I'll probably doze off, but I resolved to hold off on my Ambian CR until I got seated.
Two short days later, at 0945, Vietnam Airlines landed at Noi Bai airport; serving Hanoi, Vietnam. There were many westerners on the flight from Hong Kong. I met a young Aussie while waiting for Tim in the Hong Kong terminal. His name is Tom.
Tom was born in Hanoi and went with his mother on a movie production trip to Australia. She never returned home. Tom is in his last year at university in Sydney. He was going to Hanoi to attend his step-sister's wedding.
Tim's flight came in from Cairns around seven o'clock. The three of us visited until our Vietnam Airline loaded at 0800. This leg of the trip was only going to last an hour and a half, but not to be outdone; we were served meat and pancakes for the in-flight breakfast.
The approach to Noi Bai airport took us over cultivated fields. The large spaces were divided into smaller plots, each neatly tilled. With a careful eye you could see a few people with "paddy" hats hoeing weeds.
We are staying at the Win Hotel. The hotel fare included our taxi trip from the airport. As we came off the causeway into the airport lobby we spotted the taxi driver holding a sign calling for "Tim Haralson". I will try to describe the trip to the Win hotel from the airport, but it is best experienced live. Let me name the taxi driver Wo, because that is the first word that formed in my mouth as we merged into mainstream traffic as we left the airfield. Wo only knows two movements; Go and Honk.
Traffic in Vietnam drives, as we do, on the right hand side of the road; well, most of the time. Wo only knew the left hand lane of our side of the freeway - one hasn't experienced tailgating, light blinking and horn honking unless you've ridden with Wo.
As we approached the city center we entered a state of unparalleled traffic chaos. It seemed as if the main rule to order is: If you're moving, keep moving and others will part; not, however, without blowing their horn.
The city has few traffic lights, but at every intersection there is a white stripped path for pedestrians to cross. One hasn't a long enough life to wait for a break in the traffic. Before you step off of the curb it is best to see that the on-coming hoard does not contain any cars, trucks, or buses. The odds are greatly in your favor that motor bikes will rule and you will be spared.
When stepping off of the curb you look just straight ahead. You present no body signals that you are anything but certain of your destination. Horns will beep, bikes will pass close behind and close in front, but they seem to know not to mess with you, physically. In a dream-time analogy, this may be a bit like stepping off the roof of a high building; knowing that you can really fly.
After checking in with reception at the Win, Tim wanted to get some dollars changed into the Vietnam dong. The current exchange rate is one US dollar for 15,800 dong. He knew that the banks charge about 4% fee for exchanges, and he knew of a way to avoid this institutional thievery. He would introduce me to a couple of street exchange vendors, who sat atop their motor bikes near the entrance to the ANZ bank. They would give us 15,800 dong without fees.
We met up with the black marketers, where he had said they would be, sitting on their scooters near the bank. The exchanging transaction for one hundred dollars was very open and straight forward. We thanked them, told them we would see them again, and proceeded to stroll the few kilometers around the nearby city lake.
Perhaps by an hour later we had circled the lake, took in its many sights, and were ready to sit somewhere cool for refreshments. Tim guided us to a fifth story restaurant which overlooked the lake-shore drive. We took an indoor window table and ordered drinks with a side of spring rolls.
During this welcomed escape from the heat, I studied the different sizes and colors of the Vietnamese bills. Each bill had an inserted plastic section, which made counterfeiting nearly impossible, and each denomination differed from the others in its rectangular dimensions and shade of earthy yellow and green. I counted the amount I had received at the exchange. I looked through my healthy pile of dong, three times. Each time, I came up with 1,368,000 dong.
"Darn it, Tim, I didn't seem to have gotten a very good rate. How did you do?" Tim's count came to near the same amount. We should have received 1,580,000 dong for our $100 dollars. I figured that it only cost us about 12% for this street side bargain. Well, hey! At least the bank didn't get a chance to rip us off any 4% fee.
O9/29/06 - I had fallen asleep last night at about 10pm. Tim had been watching the Bourne Identity #2. The 17" TV was color and its picture was very good. I was shocked that most of the TV channels were in English, with Vietnamese subtitles. I was to learn that English is a very serious second language in Vietnam.
Tim has a young teacher friend, Nguyen Thuy Duong. She goes by her first name, Duong. Her name is pronounced "Dzoon". Duong is an upper level English teacher at one of the city's high schools. She visited with us for a few hours last evening at the hotel. Duong will meet us tomorrow for some shopping.
For dinner last night, Tim recommended we go to the Little Hanoi restaurant. Little Hanoi is just a few blocks away from the hotel.
The restaurant has an open wall exposing it to the high temperature and humidity of the sidewalk. Inside, however, it had a very comfortable table atmosphere. The city of Hanoi is located on the 21st north parallel. I recall that the Tropic of Cancer belts the earth at 22oN. This low northern latitude, nearing the equator, explains why the temperature is so warm, and why the humidity sits at around 80%.
We selected a street side window table and awaited the arrival of our ordered tuna salad and mixed spring rolls. The time was 5pm. The street traffic was intense. Motorbikes and buses zoomed and beeped non-stop past our window. Once in a while I noticed a bike taxi, called a cyclo, moving slowly among the army of motorbikes.
We enjoyed the meal. At checkout time Tim and I thought we may have to pay off part of our meal washing chopsticks. Earlier, Tim had suggested we not carry all of our converted money when we left Hotel Win. The two of us counted out our dong. We came up short of the 211,000 needed to settle our bill. Together we only had about 150,000 dong. As we recounted the paper pile with our hostess, I remembered I had zipped some dong inside the security pocket of my pants. Digging into my pocket, I came out with 200,000d. We resorted what we had already placed on the counter and quickly resolved our bill. Boy! What a bill paying scare we had for the $17 ticket. Of course, now, I got stuck with a thick pile of small denomination Vietnamese paper money.
This morning I woke up alert at around 0630. Tim was no where to be seen. I quickly dressed. As I was getting ready to go down to the lobby, Tim came into the room. He had woken earlier and reported to me about the breakfast he had just eaten in the Win's lobby. I followed his advice and went downstairs to repeat his order, for myself.
In the lobby a few carry-away tables had been set in front of the four ornate wooden chairs which bordered the walls, as you entered through the double glass doors from the street. I selected one nearest the main entry. Sitting nearby were two western couples. I gave morning greetings and a smile to both.
Mr. Nghea (pronounced "Nia"), the hotel's manager, soon appeared with a paper menu. Item #1 is what Tim had eaten, so I ordered the same. A few brief minutes later Nghea came down the street carrying a steaming bowl on a waiter's tray. Apparently most of the complimentary breakfasts were prepared at one of the street cafes next door.
Nghea's presentation of the breakfast table was very well done. I received one small bowl containing small slices of dried red chili, one bowl held two stubby yellow/green bananas, and one large bowl steamed with my chicken rice-noodle soup. I was also served a large glass of mixed orange juice, a straw, chopsticks and a baguette.
Tim had warned me not to lose track of any bits of chili, if I put some in my soup. I deftly used the chopsticks to place four pieces of chili pepper atop my steaming broth. The pepper steeped while I ate one of my bananas.
When the soup had cooled, I removed the pepper. I had thought that if the peppers added a little more flavor to the clear broth, great. If not, oh well. The seasoning turned out to be just right. With each chopstick grasp of noodles, I could taste a hint of the seasoning. I didn't think the room had heated up that much by the time I had finished my second banana, but I found myself sweating from the pepper spice. None the less, I was proud of my solo meal achievement.
Tim and I lay in the room and read while we waited for Duong to arrive. She came a few hours later, at 10am. We visited while I fumbled with the reconditioned Toshiba laptop Tim had bought for her while he was recently in the US. Duong had asked Tim to find her the best computer he could for under $500 when he came to Medford for a vacation.
She had a problem with the laptop. It wouldn't play any sound out of its built-in speakers. I silently wished Matt were here. I'm certain the difficulty was due to some internal program switch being turned off. All I could discover was that diagnostics said the sound board was working fine. Shucks!
After half an hour I gave up on the Toshiba and the three of us left to go shopping. Tim's main morning objective was to make right the balance he owed to a bamboo supplier. Part of his business goal was to talk the supplier into adjusting what Tim owed against the quarantine fine he had received when his last shipment arrived in Brisbane. Apparently, the majority of his goods were not labeled "Made in Vietnam", as was required under Australian law. The vendor wanted to keep Tim a loyal customer, so she subtracted the total fine amount from Tim's balance owed. Tim was happy, and we were out of there.
We lunched at the Mo Ca café. This was a nicely air-conditioned restaurant visited mostly by western guests. The café was quite busy. Duong had to report to her school at 1:30pm, so after lunch we went directly back to the hotel. Duong was seen off on her motor bike, and then Tim and I went to the room for a well deserved siesta.
For dinner, Duong took us to an authentic Vietnamese restaurant. To reach the dining area we had to pass through the kitchen and then climb two flights of steep stairs. Twelve inch high tables were set on a raised six foot wide area circling the walls of the room. The waiters were thus able to serve the guests from the inner floor space. At each table were four sitting cushions and four back cushions.
We first removed our footwear, and then we climbed up to the cushions. Duong, being only five feet tall, had no difficulty getting seated comfortably. Tim and I, however, found the arrangement a bit more labor intensive. Part way through the meal, my left leg was totally numb. I found relief only by stretching my leg out and sitting sideways to the table.
Duong did all of the ordering. Naturally, we had a rice bowl. Ordered also was a soup course, spring rolls, pork ribs, and some small slivers of meat, which looked and tasted like pan fried chicken. I was very surprised to learn that this main dish was flying fish.
After dinner we took a taxi to a music store which Duong recommended. I had mentioned that I would like to find an instrument unique to Vietnam and Southeast Asia. Actually, this place really wasn't a store. We found a simple street front cutaway of the owner's home.
The back wall of the shop displayed guitars. At the front was a glass case containing a variety of flutes. On the floor sat Mr. and Mrs. Shopkeeper. They were busying themselves with a snack.
I spotted what I was looking for hanging next to a guitar. The instrument is a Dan Bau, pronounced "Dan Bow". This single string music device is found only in Southeast Asia and would be rarely seen, if at all, in Oregon. I learned that the Dan Bau was favored by poets as background for their recitals. When a note is plucked the musician could then vary the sound by flexing an end piece which slightly loosed or tightened the tension on the string. This produced a "woo, whoa, wow" sort of sound.
The shopkeeper, and maker, brought the dan bau to the floor. He then sat down, brought out a half inch wide by three inch tall block of wood. We were fascinated watching him use a hand chisel to form a three inch long sliver of a pick. He then sat at the dan bau and deftly plucked out the notes of a scale. As he found each note to be to his aural satisfaction he would, with a black felt-tip marker, put a dot on the surface under the string. This tuning process took only a couple of minutes. I noticed the diminishing logrithmetic pattern he created with the dots as the notes got higher and higher.
He then gave me a short tutorial on how to pluck different notes. The initial key, of course, was to use the pick only at the points where he had placed a dot. Now, the dan bau does not have frets, as does a guitar. This means that one needs to temporarily create a simulated fret as one is plucking the string. This is done by using the palm of the picking hand in a magically timed movement as the string is picked. In a very short time I had satisfactorily produced not a single note. However, as an eye witness, I could testify that indeed it could be tastefully done. Boy, this is going to take some practice.
After negotiating a considered fair deal for the dan bau, we expressed our thanks and stepped to the sidewalk. Our taxi had been waiting for us. It is fascinating how the mind can so quickly shift from lofty, creative thoughts, to that of musical instrument to that of base human survival. I got the front seat again and we were now in the motorbike 'dodge mode' on our way back to the Win. A schedule was set for tomorrow, good nights were said, and Duong biked towards home.
Viet Phat Factory Tour - Hanoi
09/30/06 - Awake at 0545, I lay in bed and read for an hour. I woke Tim up at 0700 and then went downstairs for breakfast. The meal of scrambled eggs, baguette and bananas went down well.
Today was to be dedicated to visiting the Viet Phat factory. Viet Phat is the supplier of most of Tim's imported lacquered bamboo. At the factory we would be able to observe the way the bamboo is finished.
A
car and driver, arranged by Viet Phat, picked us up at 0800. We drove about half an hour north through the city. On the way, I took many photos of traffic situations, shops and housing. The transition from inner city to the more rural outskirts is amazing.
The Viet Phat factory consisted of three different finishing shops. Each building had its own production goals. The workers sat on the floors and did everything from sanding to applying mud and lacquer finishing touches. The only automated chore was performed by two young men who used automobile buffers and wax to bring a high shine to black lacquered vases.
The working conditions were primitive, but the workers were very social among themselves. Each worker would happily pose for me as I snapped their picture. After I took a picture, I thanked them. It was surprising to receive thanks in return.
Tim didn't buy any product from Viet Phat while on this trip. It was his business mission to view as many wares as he could, and to explain to them the standards he was looking for. The factory manager took many notes. The factory team was very interested in hearing Tim's thoughts.
The tour was finished after we visited Viet Phat's business office and showroom. Upon arriving at the office we were first seated and refreshed with glasses of water. Duong and I learned that Viet Phat received their entire bamboo product from a company located in Bamboo Village. Viet Phat only added lacquer finishes to the goods.
The driver then returned us to the hotel. It was decided to have a quick lunch at Little Hanoi, by now a familiar spot. I wanted something a little on the Yankee side of the menu. I chose the bacon, cheese and tomato sandwich, with French fries. This meal filled me up, just right.
Duong had afternoon classes, so we agreed to meet this afternoon at the hotel at five thirty for a visit before dinner. At six forty five Tim and I became concerned where Duong may be. Naturally, I had images of her having some traffic trouble on her motor bike. She finally arrived. Her brother, who had recently been in an accident, needed some medical attention.
We were to meet with an Australian couple, Tim and Duong knew, for dinner at seven o'clock. Visiting would wait. We hailed a taxi and hurried to the restaurant for dinner. It took us about ten minutes to search the very popular eating spot before Carl and Susan were located. The retired couple lived in Hanoi three months out of the year. The rest of the time they lived at their farm in Brisbane. Carl and Susan had brought along a guest. Her name is Chung. Chung, like Duong, is a local native who also teaches English.
For dinner I ordered chicken choa (chow). This is a rice based soup with bits of chicken. A round of spring rolls was shared by all. My first spoon of the chicken meat tasted very rubbery. I suspected something was wrong. I used my chopsticks to remove the meat. I learned later from Carl that the people of Southeast Asia favor the bird's connecting tissue. It is considered a prized part of the chicken. Carl said that when you were given connecting tissue, you were considered an honored guest.
Had I known I was going to be such an honored guest, I would have ordered a simple rice or noodle bowl. The tissue I almost ate turned out to be the stomach, complete with the former owner's last meal.
Carl, Susan and Chung invited us to an acquaintance's new bar club for after-dinner beer. The bar owner had not yet been able to get a license for selling liquor. So, he operated the place as a club. As a club, the owner can ask for a cover charge to enter and enjoy the ambiance. Now that you have paid a cover charge, you drink down that volume of beer, in exchange for the fee. I guess this must be OK with the State party?
Duong had received a call from her brother. So she couldn't go to the club. Tim and I decided we would see her back to the hotel, where she had parked her bike. We said our goodbyes at the restaurant and taxied home. Tim and I were both in bed by nine o'clock. That was good.
Today was to be dedicated to visiting the Viet Phat factory. Viet Phat is the supplier of most of Tim's imported lacquered bamboo. At the factory we would be able to observe the way the bamboo is finished.
A
car and driver, arranged by Viet Phat, picked us up at 0800. We drove about half an hour north through the city. On the way, I took many photos of traffic situations, shops and housing. The transition from inner city to the more rural outskirts is amazing.
The Viet Phat factory consisted of three different finishing shops. Each building had its own production goals. The workers sat on the floors and did everything from sanding to applying mud and lacquer finishing touches. The only automated chore was performed by two young men who used automobile buffers and wax to bring a high shine to black lacquered vases.
The working conditions were primitive, but the workers were very social among themselves. Each worker would happily pose for me as I snapped their picture. After I took a picture, I thanked them. It was surprising to receive thanks in return.
Tim didn't buy any product from Viet Phat while on this trip. It was his business mission to view as many wares as he could, and to explain to them the standards he was looking for. The factory manager took many notes. The factory team was very interested in hearing Tim's thoughts.
The tour was finished after we visited Viet Phat's business office and showroom. Upon arriving at the office we were first seated and refreshed with glasses of water. Duong and I learned that Viet Phat received their entire bamboo product from a company located in Bamboo Village. Viet Phat only added lacquer finishes to the goods.
The driver then returned us to the hotel. It was decided to have a quick lunch at Little Hanoi, by now a familiar spot. I wanted something a little on the Yankee side of the menu. I chose the bacon, cheese and tomato sandwich, with French fries. This meal filled me up, just right.
Duong had afternoon classes, so we agreed to meet this afternoon at the hotel at five thirty for a visit before dinner. At six forty five Tim and I became concerned where Duong may be. Naturally, I had images of her having some traffic trouble on her motor bike. She finally arrived. Her brother, who had recently been in an accident, needed some medical attention.
We were to meet with an Australian couple, Tim and Duong knew, for dinner at seven o'clock. Visiting would wait. We hailed a taxi and hurried to the restaurant for dinner. It took us about ten minutes to search the very popular eating spot before Carl and Susan were located. The retired couple lived in Hanoi three months out of the year. The rest of the time they lived at their farm in Brisbane. Carl and Susan had brought along a guest. Her name is Chung. Chung, like Duong, is a local native who also teaches English.
For dinner I ordered chicken choa (chow). This is a rice based soup with bits of chicken. A round of spring rolls was shared by all. My first spoon of the chicken meat tasted very rubbery. I suspected something was wrong. I used my chopsticks to remove the meat. I learned later from Carl that the people of Southeast Asia favor the bird's connecting tissue. It is considered a prized part of the chicken. Carl said that when you were given connecting tissue, you were considered an honored guest.
Had I known I was going to be such an honored guest, I would have ordered a simple rice or noodle bowl. The tissue I almost ate turned out to be the stomach, complete with the former owner's last meal.
Carl, Susan and Chung invited us to an acquaintance's new bar club for after-dinner beer. The bar owner had not yet been able to get a license for selling liquor. So, he operated the place as a club. As a club, the owner can ask for a cover charge to enter and enjoy the ambiance. Now that you have paid a cover charge, you drink down that volume of beer, in exchange for the fee. I guess this must be OK with the State party?
Duong had received a call from her brother. So she couldn't go to the club. Tim and I decided we would see her back to the hotel, where she had parked her bike. We said our goodbyes at the restaurant and taxied home. Tim and I were both in bed by nine o'clock. That was good.
A Day of Shopping - Hanoi
10/01/06 - Seven o'clock saw us both up and at breakfast for eggs, baguette, and hot Lipton tea. This morning we have nothing scheduled, so we both checked our email after breakfast. Then we set out for a morning of street shopping.
My mission today was to find clothes for Anne' and Bella, and an iPod for Anne. The clothes wanted to be made in Vietnam and present some native styling. Anne would like an iPod. She could listen to music during quilting and while she was at tennis. None of these items should be difficult to locate. Tim knew of an indoor shopping center located at the north end of the neighboring lake.
Tim and I crossed busy streets like native pros. I kind of decided the best way to appear unafraid of the bike traffic was to talk with each other with animation as we progressed. If you look at the traffic, you will hesitate. This will create confusion for the motorists.
The shopping mall was air-conditioned. It felt good. We browsed the first two floors and sampled the prices. We expected to find items a bit cheaper on the street. During this short look-about we realized that all non-local products were less expensive in Medford. Tim believes that Oregon, without a sales tax, is America's west coast old Hong Kong.
By 10 o'clock we were back at Son Son's street side store. The owner is the lady who had conceded Tim's quarantine fine. We will both buy some things from Son Son when she is in the shop tomorrow evening. We weren't going to get any special deals from her helpers.
Next to Son Son's shop is a lady's dress and blouse shop. I begged Tim to permit me some time to meet with the owner/seamstress and try to find something special she had made that I could take home for Anne' and Bella. Ladies, please take note. I had received an email from Matt telling me sizes for Anne' and Bella as US4 and US2, respectively. However, Vietnamese clothing is labeled S, M, or L. This caused some conversion consternation. I figured that the owner had a similar physique to Anne', only she was shorter. For Bella, we figured she would wear a size smaller. The sizes turned out to be L and M. (Should I rip the tags off?)
I found product on the racks that would represent typical Vietnamese women's ware. The owner offered to sew the items in a different color, if I wished. I declined, thinking our schedule may not permit a convenient return.
Following this quite scary shopping experience, we walked back to the hotel. There we opened sodas and rested while we waited for Duong. The plan is for Duong to take me to a fabric factory this afternoon. Anne wanted some cotton samples she could use in her quilts.
My mission today was to find clothes for Anne' and Bella, and an iPod for Anne. The clothes wanted to be made in Vietnam and present some native styling. Anne would like an iPod. She could listen to music during quilting and while she was at tennis. None of these items should be difficult to locate. Tim knew of an indoor shopping center located at the north end of the neighboring lake.
Tim and I crossed busy streets like native pros. I kind of decided the best way to appear unafraid of the bike traffic was to talk with each other with animation as we progressed. If you look at the traffic, you will hesitate. This will create confusion for the motorists.
The shopping mall was air-conditioned. It felt good. We browsed the first two floors and sampled the prices. We expected to find items a bit cheaper on the street. During this short look-about we realized that all non-local products were less expensive in Medford. Tim believes that Oregon, without a sales tax, is America's west coast old Hong Kong.
By 10 o'clock we were back at Son Son's street side store. The owner is the lady who had conceded Tim's quarantine fine. We will both buy some things from Son Son when she is in the shop tomorrow evening. We weren't going to get any special deals from her helpers.
Next to Son Son's shop is a lady's dress and blouse shop. I begged Tim to permit me some time to meet with the owner/seamstress and try to find something special she had made that I could take home for Anne' and Bella. Ladies, please take note. I had received an email from Matt telling me sizes for Anne' and Bella as US4 and US2, respectively. However, Vietnamese clothing is labeled S, M, or L. This caused some conversion consternation. I figured that the owner had a similar physique to Anne', only she was shorter. For Bella, we figured she would wear a size smaller. The sizes turned out to be L and M. (Should I rip the tags off?)
I found product on the racks that would represent typical Vietnamese women's ware. The owner offered to sew the items in a different color, if I wished. I declined, thinking our schedule may not permit a convenient return.
Following this quite scary shopping experience, we walked back to the hotel. There we opened sodas and rested while we waited for Duong. The plan is for Duong to take me to a fabric factory this afternoon. Anne wanted some cotton samples she could use in her quilts.
Bamboo Village Tour - Hanoi
10/02/06 - Noodle soup, a baguette and tea got me started at 0700. Today, a hire car was to pick us up at 0800. A last minute gab between Tim and Nghea backed up a few beeping scooters while we waited for Tim on the narrow lane.
In Vietnam, the lanes are really just the width of an alley in the United States. Subtract from that, the width of two bricked sidewalks, filled with parked motor bikes, many blocking convenient access to the open shops, and you have a typical old Hanoi street.
The car was hired with a driver and fuel for the day, by Tim. We were traveling about 100 kilometers north of Hanoi to a city of the name Y Yen. This city was known to us as Bamboo Village. The cost for the day's journey would be 850,000 dong, or about $53.13.
Y Yen is in the Nam Dinh province. Tim wanted to tour the factor which produced most of the raw bamboo product he imported to Australia. Tim had been purchasing this product through Viet Phat. Viet Phat represented a middleman for everything except the colored, lacquered ware. So, Tim's mission was to meet with the principals of Bamboo Village and end up dealing straight through them.
On the way out of the city, we stopped to pick Duong up at her home. A little further down the road we picked up the owner of the factory. The owner, Tuan, lived in Hanoi and drove several times a week to Y Yen and back. All settled into the air-conditioned van, off we drove.
Except for a few kilometers of four lane highways, the entire trip was on two lane roads. Leaving Hanoi at eight thirty in the morning caught us up in the going to work traffic. Up to this time I had been blown away by the vehicle chaos on the city's streets. There had been nothing, however, to prepare me for the rush hour level of Buddhist mayhem that was occurring this morning. Toe-to-head traffic was barely interrupted by trucks, motor bikes and pedestrians crossing traffic at right angles. The din of horns was ceaseless. Out of nowhere a scooter, carrying three adults and a child, would pull along side my passenger side window. Then, without appearing to look to his left, the driver would cut and cross in front of the van; to emerge on the left of the car or bikes in front of us.
Perhaps 50% of all motorbikes are driven by older women or young ladies. Most of the time, the female driver would be carrying a woman on the seat behind her, or perhaps, a child holding on tight. Often a woman would be driving with a small child standing on the food board in front of the seat, with eyes looking over the handle bar instrument cluster.
The trip took us three hours. Of that time, about two hours was required to exit the greater Hanoi urban area. Now there were vast acres of flat, open agriculture. Most of the fields were hand cultivated rice and vegetables. Very large, horned cattle spotted the grassed acres. Water buffalo pulling a hand plow etched the rich soil.
The owner of the bamboo business had taken over the driving from the nodding taxi-hire about an hour back. The first thing the hire did after he got in the very back of the van was to light up a cigarette. He had then become quite alert and chatty. We finally enter Y Yen. There seemed to be little industry in this small city.
Tuan pulled to the left, in front of his personally owned part of the bamboo factory. Tuan is actually just the coordinator of production. I guess he could be called the general manager. For that job he receives a portion of the monthly profit. It is Tuan's roll to take the orders and assign the production of the products to one or more of the several families who make up the Bamboo Village factory.
Tuan grew up in Y Yen and learned the many aspects of his trade craft while working under his father's supervision. In time, because of his learned skills and his natural leadership abilities, Tuan became the leader of his village co-operative.
The stay at Tuan's building was short. We soon found our way, slowly maneuvering on very narrow dirt lanes, across patches of cut rice plants, to a dense residential part of the town. The van was parked in the rutted lane. We were led to a path which passed stone walls with white stucco. These walls defined individual home lots. The first home we entered appeared to be an initial greeting place for factory guests.
We were shown to a small hand carved wooden table where each of us took a chair. Once seated, a woman came to the table and poured glasses of water. Remember, when traveling abroad, don't drink the water. I found myself caught between a custom trap and host formality. Down it went.
I was surprised at how refreshing the water was. Plus, it was crystal clear and had no hints of bad taste. The end of travel-rest lasted only a couple of minutes. There was no time for conversation. We arose and followed Tuan.
Our first stop was at an open, but covered, concrete floor area that was attached to the back side of a home. There were two boys working on the floor. One was busy splitting one meter lengths of bamboo into half inch strips. His tool was a machete. Once he created a small pile of thin slats, he would pass each through a small planer which stripped the half millimeter outer green layer from the stick.
The bamboo sticks were then used by the second boy. He would run each stick through a small curling machine. The electric machine would put a constant radius of curvature on each piece. When the machine did this, it also pressed indentations across the stick. The boy then used the pre-curved pieces and inserted them into the flat circular piece he was making.
The boy began with a pre-sized outer circle of bamboo. Concentrically smaller circles were formed by the pieces he inserted. When the wide plate was left with only a two inch hole at its center, the boy would insert a small cone made from bamboo of the same width. He then placed the flat plate, with center cone, on a convex stone. With a hammer, he gave the cone a quick whack which smashed the cone and left the small center hole filled-in. With hammer in hand, he then pounded the piece from the center out. This left the bamboo plate the shape of the stone under it. Now, he had a rough surfaced, shallow bamboo bowl.
At the next step the boy painted both sides of the bowl with a water-glue mixture. The indentations that were earlier squished onto the surface of the bamboo sticks now permitted the glue to soak completely through the bowl's bamboo content. This bowl was then set aside to dry, and the next one started.
When the glued platters had dried, they were carted to another home where a couple of workers used electric hand sanders to remove the rough edges of the bamboo. The initial sanding of each bowl took only a few minutes. Since this sanding station completed their task so much faster than it took to make the item, they did initial sanding on many different kinds of product.
The next step in the finishing process involved the arduous hand sanding. Here, girls took over. They clustered in small groups of four or five, sitting in a rough circle, on the floor. It looked like they were using small pieces of 250 grit paper. Using only their finger tips and the palm of the hand, they would work both sides of the bowl smooth. In endless chatter, time passed for them very quickly.
Now, it is not a wonder that the hand sanding was done by women. Since the Stone Age, women have worked in small groups raising the children and tending to the more rudimentary menial tasks. Through this process, women developed much higher social skills than those of their men. This made the days pass by more quickly. So it is today.
Near the sanding klatch was a man sitting on the floor. He is the quality control inspector. With a piece of white marker in his hand, he would quickly eye the initial sanding, make a few marks, and then pass it back to the women to be re-touched.
After a few cycles between the sanders and the inspector, the worked piece would be sent to its next station. This is where the smoothly sanded piece would receive either a clear coat of lacquer, or it would receive a stain, first. After the piece was dusted off, it received its first coating. The painting was done by hand.
With the coat of lacquer applied, and dried. The product would be taken to a new sanding group. This collection of workers was much larger than the first klatch of sanders. These sanders were both men and women. Kneeling, or sitting lotus style, on the floor, the sanders leaned over a large pond of water that was recessed into the floor. They used wet-and-dry sandpaper, again, only with their hands, to work the lacquered surface to smoothness. If the piece was colored, it would cycle through these sanders up to ten times. If the bamboo was to be clear coated, then it only passed their hands a couple of times. The finished product was very, very smooth.
Wet-and-dry sanding was the final stop for anything receiving clear coating. However, if the piece was stained, it was passed to one more station. At the next station two young men sat on the floor with electric auto buffers. Here they would apply some conventional car wax to the colored bamboo, and then, while holding it between their legs, they would buff the product to a high gloss shine.
The tour was quite a learning session. I was simultaneously both sad, and satisfied. I didn't feel good about the working conditions. I don't think I had any preconceived ideas as to what we would see. I suppose the workers could have been sitting on stools at work benches, but I don't believe that would have made handling the wood any more convenient. There was dust everywhere, so maybe some exhaust fans would have been good. On the other hand, because of the climate, everything was left as open as possible, so fans probably wouldn't have worked to keep things cleaner.
All of the workers took lunch breaks with their families. Children were spotted everywhere around the village. I am sure that so long as individual workers kept up with production expectations, they were able to take as many personal breaks as they wished. After all, each family was working for themselves, within a cooperative village spirit.
On the very positive side of the tour, I saw people openly content and visually happy about what they were doing. There were no clocks on the walls; no time cards to be punched. Every family member who could responsibly take on a small task was given one. Kids who were still too young played together, or were seen standing nearby their mom as she worked.
Each family was content in the knowledge that as long as production expectations were met, they were guaranteed a place at the village factory. Each worker was proud to contribute to their family and village betterment. The wages earned was something near, $100 per month. Y Yen specialized in bamboo wood products. Another village may have developed a specialty in some aspect of clothing. The cooperative village concept is how small towns survived.
When the tour ended we loaded into the van for lunch. Tuan treated, and we found ourselves packed around a table in the backroom of a café. Beer, all around, was the expected beverage. Four or five different dishes were served and chopsticks dueled for shares of the meal.
It was during lunch that Tim, with the assistance of Duong as translator, discussed his potential future role in the Village company. Tim's interest is to be able to buy into the ownership of the Bamboo Village factory. This way he could market without a middleman, keeping prices lower to the retailer, and share in any direct profits. Duong and Tuan chatted back and forth; stopping only long enough to brief Tim in English what was being said, and to offer him another opportunity to ask further questions.
It wasn't to be for two days later, that Tim and I were told by Duong the actual spirit of Tuan's desires from a partner, or owner. The Village is a collective of skilled families, each contributing to the same end, that being: the securing of a means to make a living.
A few of the families, we learned, sold some of the wares they made under their own family name. Production for this type of personal benefit was acceptable, so long as the primary factory orders were filled on time. Tuan told us there were many families which spent time, up to ten o'clock each night, to make bamboo ware for their personal marketing.
This family enterprise was a key unknown to Tim's consideration of bringing the entire village's production under one corporate roof. If Tim made a cash offer to Tuan, would the investment also bring control of the wares made by the few family companies? This would need to be discussed more in the future.
The family centered Asian mind appears to process much differently than the western one. Tim presented a suggested price he was willing to offer for purchase into the ownership of the company of villagers. Tuan expressed, in much length, that production had little need for extra money. What they made, paid for their raw materials, and left enough for each of the families. In fact, Tuan could not bring to immediate mind what Bamboo Village would do with extra cash, if it got some.
Center to Tuan's transfer of ownership was to have Tim bring more customer orders from Australia and America. Currently Tim is the only buyer of these goods from Australia, and there is only one man in the United States who has ever purchased a production order from Bamboo Village. Tuan's true desire is to be able to bring more work, to more families, in Y Yen. It would seem that if growth could be assured, then token money could secure ownership of the production process. Tuan's only personal desire is that he remains to be the one who assigns jobs when a new order is received. He wants to remain the general manager of Bamboo Village.
In Vietnam, the lanes are really just the width of an alley in the United States. Subtract from that, the width of two bricked sidewalks, filled with parked motor bikes, many blocking convenient access to the open shops, and you have a typical old Hanoi street.
The car was hired with a driver and fuel for the day, by Tim. We were traveling about 100 kilometers north of Hanoi to a city of the name Y Yen. This city was known to us as Bamboo Village. The cost for the day's journey would be 850,000 dong, or about $53.13.
Y Yen is in the Nam Dinh province. Tim wanted to tour the factor which produced most of the raw bamboo product he imported to Australia. Tim had been purchasing this product through Viet Phat. Viet Phat represented a middleman for everything except the colored, lacquered ware. So, Tim's mission was to meet with the principals of Bamboo Village and end up dealing straight through them.
On the way out of the city, we stopped to pick Duong up at her home. A little further down the road we picked up the owner of the factory. The owner, Tuan, lived in Hanoi and drove several times a week to Y Yen and back. All settled into the air-conditioned van, off we drove.
Except for a few kilometers of four lane highways, the entire trip was on two lane roads. Leaving Hanoi at eight thirty in the morning caught us up in the going to work traffic. Up to this time I had been blown away by the vehicle chaos on the city's streets. There had been nothing, however, to prepare me for the rush hour level of Buddhist mayhem that was occurring this morning. Toe-to-head traffic was barely interrupted by trucks, motor bikes and pedestrians crossing traffic at right angles. The din of horns was ceaseless. Out of nowhere a scooter, carrying three adults and a child, would pull along side my passenger side window. Then, without appearing to look to his left, the driver would cut and cross in front of the van; to emerge on the left of the car or bikes in front of us.
Perhaps 50% of all motorbikes are driven by older women or young ladies. Most of the time, the female driver would be carrying a woman on the seat behind her, or perhaps, a child holding on tight. Often a woman would be driving with a small child standing on the food board in front of the seat, with eyes looking over the handle bar instrument cluster.
The trip took us three hours. Of that time, about two hours was required to exit the greater Hanoi urban area. Now there were vast acres of flat, open agriculture. Most of the fields were hand cultivated rice and vegetables. Very large, horned cattle spotted the grassed acres. Water buffalo pulling a hand plow etched the rich soil.
The owner of the bamboo business had taken over the driving from the nodding taxi-hire about an hour back. The first thing the hire did after he got in the very back of the van was to light up a cigarette. He had then become quite alert and chatty. We finally enter Y Yen. There seemed to be little industry in this small city.
Tuan pulled to the left, in front of his personally owned part of the bamboo factory. Tuan is actually just the coordinator of production. I guess he could be called the general manager. For that job he receives a portion of the monthly profit. It is Tuan's roll to take the orders and assign the production of the products to one or more of the several families who make up the Bamboo Village factory.
Tuan grew up in Y Yen and learned the many aspects of his trade craft while working under his father's supervision. In time, because of his learned skills and his natural leadership abilities, Tuan became the leader of his village co-operative.
The stay at Tuan's building was short. We soon found our way, slowly maneuvering on very narrow dirt lanes, across patches of cut rice plants, to a dense residential part of the town. The van was parked in the rutted lane. We were led to a path which passed stone walls with white stucco. These walls defined individual home lots. The first home we entered appeared to be an initial greeting place for factory guests.
We were shown to a small hand carved wooden table where each of us took a chair. Once seated, a woman came to the table and poured glasses of water. Remember, when traveling abroad, don't drink the water. I found myself caught between a custom trap and host formality. Down it went.
I was surprised at how refreshing the water was. Plus, it was crystal clear and had no hints of bad taste. The end of travel-rest lasted only a couple of minutes. There was no time for conversation. We arose and followed Tuan.
Our first stop was at an open, but covered, concrete floor area that was attached to the back side of a home. There were two boys working on the floor. One was busy splitting one meter lengths of bamboo into half inch strips. His tool was a machete. Once he created a small pile of thin slats, he would pass each through a small planer which stripped the half millimeter outer green layer from the stick.
The bamboo sticks were then used by the second boy. He would run each stick through a small curling machine. The electric machine would put a constant radius of curvature on each piece. When the machine did this, it also pressed indentations across the stick. The boy then used the pre-curved pieces and inserted them into the flat circular piece he was making.
The boy began with a pre-sized outer circle of bamboo. Concentrically smaller circles were formed by the pieces he inserted. When the wide plate was left with only a two inch hole at its center, the boy would insert a small cone made from bamboo of the same width. He then placed the flat plate, with center cone, on a convex stone. With a hammer, he gave the cone a quick whack which smashed the cone and left the small center hole filled-in. With hammer in hand, he then pounded the piece from the center out. This left the bamboo plate the shape of the stone under it. Now, he had a rough surfaced, shallow bamboo bowl.
At the next step the boy painted both sides of the bowl with a water-glue mixture. The indentations that were earlier squished onto the surface of the bamboo sticks now permitted the glue to soak completely through the bowl's bamboo content. This bowl was then set aside to dry, and the next one started.
When the glued platters had dried, they were carted to another home where a couple of workers used electric hand sanders to remove the rough edges of the bamboo. The initial sanding of each bowl took only a few minutes. Since this sanding station completed their task so much faster than it took to make the item, they did initial sanding on many different kinds of product.
The next step in the finishing process involved the arduous hand sanding. Here, girls took over. They clustered in small groups of four or five, sitting in a rough circle, on the floor. It looked like they were using small pieces of 250 grit paper. Using only their finger tips and the palm of the hand, they would work both sides of the bowl smooth. In endless chatter, time passed for them very quickly.
Now, it is not a wonder that the hand sanding was done by women. Since the Stone Age, women have worked in small groups raising the children and tending to the more rudimentary menial tasks. Through this process, women developed much higher social skills than those of their men. This made the days pass by more quickly. So it is today.
Near the sanding klatch was a man sitting on the floor. He is the quality control inspector. With a piece of white marker in his hand, he would quickly eye the initial sanding, make a few marks, and then pass it back to the women to be re-touched.
After a few cycles between the sanders and the inspector, the worked piece would be sent to its next station. This is where the smoothly sanded piece would receive either a clear coat of lacquer, or it would receive a stain, first. After the piece was dusted off, it received its first coating. The painting was done by hand.
With the coat of lacquer applied, and dried. The product would be taken to a new sanding group. This collection of workers was much larger than the first klatch of sanders. These sanders were both men and women. Kneeling, or sitting lotus style, on the floor, the sanders leaned over a large pond of water that was recessed into the floor. They used wet-and-dry sandpaper, again, only with their hands, to work the lacquered surface to smoothness. If the piece was colored, it would cycle through these sanders up to ten times. If the bamboo was to be clear coated, then it only passed their hands a couple of times. The finished product was very, very smooth.
Wet-and-dry sanding was the final stop for anything receiving clear coating. However, if the piece was stained, it was passed to one more station. At the next station two young men sat on the floor with electric auto buffers. Here they would apply some conventional car wax to the colored bamboo, and then, while holding it between their legs, they would buff the product to a high gloss shine.
The tour was quite a learning session. I was simultaneously both sad, and satisfied. I didn't feel good about the working conditions. I don't think I had any preconceived ideas as to what we would see. I suppose the workers could have been sitting on stools at work benches, but I don't believe that would have made handling the wood any more convenient. There was dust everywhere, so maybe some exhaust fans would have been good. On the other hand, because of the climate, everything was left as open as possible, so fans probably wouldn't have worked to keep things cleaner.
All of the workers took lunch breaks with their families. Children were spotted everywhere around the village. I am sure that so long as individual workers kept up with production expectations, they were able to take as many personal breaks as they wished. After all, each family was working for themselves, within a cooperative village spirit.
On the very positive side of the tour, I saw people openly content and visually happy about what they were doing. There were no clocks on the walls; no time cards to be punched. Every family member who could responsibly take on a small task was given one. Kids who were still too young played together, or were seen standing nearby their mom as she worked.
Each family was content in the knowledge that as long as production expectations were met, they were guaranteed a place at the village factory. Each worker was proud to contribute to their family and village betterment. The wages earned was something near, $100 per month. Y Yen specialized in bamboo wood products. Another village may have developed a specialty in some aspect of clothing. The cooperative village concept is how small towns survived.
When the tour ended we loaded into the van for lunch. Tuan treated, and we found ourselves packed around a table in the backroom of a café. Beer, all around, was the expected beverage. Four or five different dishes were served and chopsticks dueled for shares of the meal.
It was during lunch that Tim, with the assistance of Duong as translator, discussed his potential future role in the Village company. Tim's interest is to be able to buy into the ownership of the Bamboo Village factory. This way he could market without a middleman, keeping prices lower to the retailer, and share in any direct profits. Duong and Tuan chatted back and forth; stopping only long enough to brief Tim in English what was being said, and to offer him another opportunity to ask further questions.
It wasn't to be for two days later, that Tim and I were told by Duong the actual spirit of Tuan's desires from a partner, or owner. The Village is a collective of skilled families, each contributing to the same end, that being: the securing of a means to make a living.
A few of the families, we learned, sold some of the wares they made under their own family name. Production for this type of personal benefit was acceptable, so long as the primary factory orders were filled on time. Tuan told us there were many families which spent time, up to ten o'clock each night, to make bamboo ware for their personal marketing.
This family enterprise was a key unknown to Tim's consideration of bringing the entire village's production under one corporate roof. If Tim made a cash offer to Tuan, would the investment also bring control of the wares made by the few family companies? This would need to be discussed more in the future.
The family centered Asian mind appears to process much differently than the western one. Tim presented a suggested price he was willing to offer for purchase into the ownership of the company of villagers. Tuan expressed, in much length, that production had little need for extra money. What they made, paid for their raw materials, and left enough for each of the families. In fact, Tuan could not bring to immediate mind what Bamboo Village would do with extra cash, if it got some.
Center to Tuan's transfer of ownership was to have Tim bring more customer orders from Australia and America. Currently Tim is the only buyer of these goods from Australia, and there is only one man in the United States who has ever purchased a production order from Bamboo Village. Tuan's true desire is to be able to bring more work, to more families, in Y Yen. It would seem that if growth could be assured, then token money could secure ownership of the production process. Tuan's only personal desire is that he remains to be the one who assigns jobs when a new order is received. He wants to remain the general manager of Bamboo Village.
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