Final Night in Hanoi

10/05/06 - I seemed to have gained a day during my adventures. Well, forget the date, today Tim flies home.

Somewhere in our shopping, Tim misplaced his small, wallet calculator. This tool had proven invaluable during our many price negotiations. I told Tim that after breakfast, I would wander forth and find him a new one.

When we were dining with Duong's mom and dad, we learned that being retired, with time on his hand; he enjoyed tutoring kids at his home. Dad is a highly respected elder in his village. Kids prize the chance to meet with him. On dad's retirement pay, he is not able to enjoy some of the niceties for teaching; like a decent board to write on, and do math problems on with his students. While I was out, the other day, I happened by the home repair and building section of old Hanoi. With luck, I saw some framed pieces of white-board leaning aside a shop's entrance. This one would be perfect. The size was one and a half meters, by one meter. It even came with hangers on the back.

Having purchased my gift for dad, I now needed to get it home. My buying stop had been the second trip around this section of town. I knew I was lost. I had been a bit afraid to try one, but now was the time to hail a cyclo.

Fully exposed to head-on traffic, without even a bumper, I had become desperate. A cyclo driver was at hand. I pulled out my paper pad and pencil, and I carefully wrote the name of the hotel. There was no question he knew that was where I wanted to end up, but he didn't recognize the name. Luck was on my side. Another cyclo pulled up. A gesturing and pointing discussion ensued. Then, along came a third cyclo. Between the three, they all agreed that the first cyclo driver now knew where to take me.

My first mistake was that I held the white-board on my lap. A quick tap on the shoulder, and I realized I was completely blocking the cyclist's view. We proceeded down streets I had never seen. It started to sprinkle. After a few minutes, I felt the cyclo pulling toward the curb. I knew he was going to ask a stranger where the Win hotel was. At that moment, my eyes focused down the street. There was the hotel's marquee. I turned and told the anguished driver it was just up ahead.

We cycled to the front entrance doors. I didn't know how much to pay for this journey, but we had heard from Nghea that an hour long trip, around town, would only fetch 20,000 dong. When I handed the driver 15,000 dong, he looked indignant, and said 20. I shook my head, and pointed to my watch. He knew it had been a very shot trip, even if we had both been lost for a bit. He nodded acceptance.

The white-board adventure had been the other day. Now, I need to find a calculator and a few colored, erasable, felt-tipped markers for dad. The best advice I received, to find a business goods shop, was to turn left, go up to the main street, left again for two blocks, and then left down the second street. Nghea's helper was sure this was one of the business supply strips in town. So, I followed his advice.

I was a block down the main street, when the clouds opened up. I walked on a ways, and then decided to stand under the awnings at a corner shop. It was less than a minute before a woman came up to me with a plastic poncho option in one hand, and an umbrella in the other. I thanked her with a shake of my head, and she walked away. I blinked only once before I called after her; with a changed mind.

I wanted that umbrella. "How much," I asked. One hundred was the reply. I came back with seventy five. She said, "No", and followed with ninety. I said OK. Wow! For a little more than five dollars, I had a new umbrella. We thanked each other and she walked off. OH, OH! I wonder if it is any good. I quickly opened it, and all was well.

Turning left at the next block, I searched carefully both sides of the street. This was not a business goods section of town! The rain was relentless. Humidity was past the saturation point, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Even with the umbrella, I was still soaking wet.
In desperation, I stopped at a travel shop. This place would employ English speaking help. The lady in charge pointed me to the art supply store across the street. I knew she watched me slap my forehead as I was leaving her shop. I had past the art store two times, already.

The shopkeeper knew no English, and I didn't need very small cans, or tubes, of paint, or, a brush. I sat across from him at his desk. I tried to write and draw depictions of my felt-tip marker need. To my luck, I noticed a blue felt-tip in a jar on his desk. Having pointed out that this is what I needed; he drew me a map to the pen supply store.

How about that? If I had continued to the next corner on the main street, I would have been able to cut my soggy trip by half an hour. Felt-tip markers, galore, and the store had a display case loaded with calculators. I chose red, blue, and black markers for dad. They cost 5,000 dong, each. That's 33 cents. A new pocked calculator set me back 24,000 dong, or, around $1.50.

I was feeling very proud of myself as I trekked back to the hotel. In fact, I had also discovered language wasn't really the worst international barrier, directions were.

Nghea was on duty as I shook off the umbrella and entered the lounge. As always, he was anxious to hear about what I had been up to. I told him all about the trip for felt-tip markers for dad's board, and the new calculator for Tim. Nghea nodded with acceptance of the prices I had paid. Pride showed in my grin.

Nghea noticed I was carrying an umbrella. He asked me why I hadn't used one of the hotel's umbrellas. I told him it wasn't raining when I had left. His helper piped up with, "Sure, it was." He had forgotten to think of the need as I left. Discussion didn't lead with my thoughts about hired help, but centered on how much I had paid for the umbrella. I proudly shared my negotiating experience, and smiled when I told him, "Only ninety thousand." I just said, "I have to go upstairs" after Nghea said, "You could buy one for twenty thousand."

Duong arrived about three thirty, to see Tim off. We visited upstairs, and talked about her parent's plight with their home. Duong and Tim had been discussing possible ways in which mom and dad could avoid the threatened, and pending, eviction by Auntie. Tim had been given the impression that 300 million dong, or $18,750, would allow Duong to make a family allowed purchase of the home from her aunt. Duong would then be free to resell the property for an offered 800 million; more than double the price.

With the money she received, Duong would spend up to 400 million to resettle her folks into a home closer to Duong's work. There would be enough room for mom and dad, Duong, and guests. Of the 800 million, 300 million would be repaid to Tim. The remainder would be used to outfit the new home with more dignified living, sleeping, and kitchen pieces. But, there was a codicil.

Now, we discovered how the Asian mind worked when it came to holding back information, when the information was of a personal nature. Duong finally said that the aunt wanted 400 million. She had told Tim that she had 100 million, and that's why she only needed 300 million. However, there was a hitch to the 100 million.

The man who would loan her the money, would only do so if Duong promised to marry him. He claimed high levels of love for her, but, Duong didn't love him. Tim was upset when he heard that this brokered, marriage loan was why she had let him believe only 300 million was needed. Tim left in the airport taxi after assuring Duong that, before her aunt had time to evict her parents, she would have a full 400 million loan, to buy the property.

Duong had not been able to negotiate a lower price. Her aunt had pointed out that sister and brother-in-law had been living rent free for ten years. Also, the aunt knew that Duong was desperate to get her parents into a home which would bring them self pride, as they aged.

After Tim left, Duong and I sat in the lobby, and talked for a few minutes. Tonight, Duong had a five thirty class for advanced students. She suggested we go to dinner with a couple of her life-long friends, after she returned from class. I told her I had nothing to do, and asked if I may sit in on her lecture. Off we went.

For a moment, picture the Boston Marathon. You see the mass of runners, waiting for the starter's gun. There it is! The ones in front dash off quickly. Runners further back are seen hopping up and down, waiting for space ahead of them. After a few long seconds, the mass is finely moving. Your attention is drawn back to the front of the restless pack.

You observe that some runners are jockeying for a clearer position, hoping for advancement. You also notice that a few of the runners were staying close to friends. Being first, at this time in the race, isn't their goal. You even see some of the runners bringing out cell phones, apparently to update others of their progress so far. And the pack moves on.

All of a sudden, while still being deep in the pack, you notice there must be another marathon happening at the same time, but this one is running in the opposite direction. Some in your pack are going too slow for your stride. You move a bit to the left to jog past. You come face to face with a runner from the other marathon. This person had found himself with the same passing need. Signals are quickly passed that try to warn the runners, who are being passed, to move over a bit. This time, all turns out well and there is open running field ahead. Now, you have a feel for what it looks like, from the back seat of a motorcycle, at a stop light during evening rush hour in Hanoi.

The kamikaze motorbike threat was non-stop; from the hotel to the gates of Duong's night school. The side viewing acuity, and their rapid adjustment ability, is a study worthy of a doctorial thesis. I saw not a single bike being bumped by another.

It was enjoyable being at the back of the class and watching the interaction between Duong and her students. This evening, the class was reviewing a story they had read, which told of the events of great white shark attacks off the shores of South Australia. She began by playing a taped recounting, by an Australian speaker, of an actual attack. Duong would stop the recording, and ask questions about what had just happened in the story. Sometimes, she would ask how what had been just heard could be rephrased. This exchange as off and on until the story ended.

Using this technique, Duong was able to draw the students into discussion, using only English. Her questions required them to quickly formulate, and mentally translate, their own opinions.

After the story was heard, it was time for some board work. For the rest of the period, Duong illustrated the proper uses of adjectives and adverbs. There was much questioning of the students. They created varied sentences, using different descriptive words.

Dinner this evening was with two people who were very dear to Duong. One is a geologist she attended primary and high school with. The second is her younger sister, who is a very gifted tailor. Tonight's table spot is outside, on a lake side sidewalk, across the street from a sidewalk service café. Duong had suggested this location, and she knew the food was good.

We weren't seated five minutes, before two more old school mates biked up, hooting yells of greetings. One of the men was a policeman. The other man she hadn't seen for fifteen years; when he had been her best class friend, ever. We created more table places, and reordered more dinner bowls and beer. The chatter was non-stop, interspersed, occasionally, by someone stepping away to answer, or make, a phone call.

Soon, two more former classmates rode up. It was as if they had just been riding by, and noticed us beside the lake shore; more brew, more bowls, and more food dishes. This dinner among many friends, and a Yankee stranger, lasted quite some time. Once in a while, Duong would turn to me with a translation. One time, she told me they wanted to take us all to another place. There, they could treat me to a noodle dish, Duong had told them, that I had yet to experience. They eagerly awaited my response.

I told Duong that I had to get up early for my trip to the airport. Further, that she shouldn't pass up this time to be with her reunited friends, and continue to share memories with them, by herself. So, it was agreed. They would all follow Duong's bike to my hotel. Duong was going to carry her sister, and I would ride shotgun with one of the guys. This also helped appearances, regarding Duong and her passenger.

Earlier, I had told Duong that I was going to treat her to tonight's dinner. She only had to choose the place, and the food. A superb job was done with both. However, as we were getting ready to leave, I told her I only had 300 thousand on me, and with the added diners, I may need more. What a shock it was to see the bill of only 180 thousand. Several dishes later, one with a refill and with more than ten bottles of beer shared among us, to owe only $11.25 was my best non-negotiated find, while in Vietnam.

There must have been an error by the shopkeeper, or Duong had pre-arranged a palatable bill just for me. I'll never know. On the other hand, food stuffs are very inexpensive in Hanoi.
At the hotel, Duong said she wanted to see me off to the airport, in the morning. I told her that in no way was she to get up early, and ride all of the way to the hotel, for that. We then loaded dad's new white-board onto the bike, with her sister in charge of its safe delivery. Duong gave me an emotionally sad goodbye. I waved them off to finish their party.

I settled the bill with Nghea in the morning. A taxi trip, from and, to the airport, three loads of laundry, two sets of shoes shined, the contents of a few in-room refrigerators, new friendships, and twelve breakfasts later, the total charge for our stay was $330. OH, yes. That included the payback of a 500 thousand dong loan against our bill, which I had asked for the day before.

I want to return to Vietnam, and share new adventures with Anne. Boy, will she ever eat this place up. Where else can you have your dog, and eat it, too.

Rob Duncan
October 16. 2006