Words

30 April, 2008

Resiliency and Rice Liquor

Hanoi's streets take on a distinctly dark and ominous characteristic during the witching hour. In this busy city the brief period spans only from about three to five am, when the most opportunistic fire-roasted-squid vendors, desperate free-lance recyclers, and persistent moto taxi drivers lurk the streets in search of meager earnings - while the remainder of the city's entrepreneurs catch a much-needed break from their hectic, 20-hour work days. The streets are silent and shadow-filled - a welcome respite from the daytime havoc. This is the only hour, day or night, when it is possible to cross the narrow streets of Hanoi without fear of being plowed over by oncoming traffic, ranging from speeding motos to overloaded bike carts to the rare king of the road, the car, which brakes for nobody. In fact, due to the extinguished street lamps this time of night, the sidewalks are so dark and full of unlit obstacles that the safest place to walk is right down the center of the road.

On one Old Quarter street during the witching hour, however, especially approaching a weekend, one will notice that not everyone is asleep. There is a stir, much in contrast to the quiet surroundings, on a drag called Duong Hang Bac, which shoots west out of the quarter. Dimly-lit pockets of humanity lurk suspiciously on the dusky sidewalk. Along this road late at night, packs of teenagers and twenty-somethings congregate in small groups of two to four, sitting cross-legged and shoeless on straw mats set right onto the ground. Under candlelight they imbibe rice spirits and chat peacefully, while munching on freshly roasted squid. I find them, or rather, they find me, at a time in the night when I should also be sleeping, just like the rest of the sensible Hanoi residents; early the next morning I have a patriotic and symbolic date to visit the tomb of Ho Chi Minh. As per the rules, this visit must terminate before 10:15 am. Yet, according to my watch, as I emerge from the smokey bars with a friend, it is already 3:38 in the morning when the candle-lit silhouettes, crouched on the sidewalk, beckon us over - two stumbling Westerners who have no business drinking any more alcohol this particular night - for a lesson in Vietnamese hospitality. They gracefully motion that we take a seat with them on their straw mat. We remove our sandals and sit down next to our three new acquaintances on their woven square in a seemingly preconceived, pentagonal pattern, crosslegged together, immediately a tightly knit group of five, in balance with the cosmos. The blurred and shaded faces ask us, in the international language of pointing, if we would like a drink. Who are we to decline?

There are surprisingly few elderly folks to be found moving about in the streets of Vietnamese cities - even fewer than one might expect in a city full of hazards for those less capable of fending for themselves. Several clear reasons exist for this reality. One is that the Vietnamese population is, like that of many third-world nations, bottom heavy, in that the fertility rate is high, so the majority of the population is under 18. Vietnam has an unsustainable annual population growth rate of 3.3%, which is a hallmark of a developing country. Another reason, also developmentally related, is that the average life expectancy is about 70 years. People do not live as long there as they do in the West. However, there is an underlying factor, unrelated to demographics, that keeps the older generation off the streets of bustling cities such as Saigon and Hanoi - this generation died in Vietnam's horrific, bloody conflicts of the 1950s, '60s and '70s. A man who was 20 in 1974, at the end of the Vietnam war (or American War as it is referred to in Vietnam) would be only 54 in 2008. This means that anybody currently over the age of fifty would have had to survive the extremely deadly conflicts of that violent period. In most countries, one would expect to see plenty of men in their fifties strolling the boulevards, drinking tea with his friends at a cafe or still working for a living. Sadly, the rare male aged 50 years or older one encounters in the street in Vietnam is often limping slowly, burdened by some injury suffered during the intense period of regional conflict, and is commonly starving and begging in the street, unable to work due to his debilitation.

The most recent and horrific major war, the one most burned into the psyche of this war-torn nation, is the conflict that developed between the North Vietnamese and a weaker South Vietnamese army, who were aided by the invasion of the US military. Although our new late-night friends were not even born at the time of the war's end, this tumultuous and bloody period left an unparalleled legacy of violence and horror in the minds of the countrymen with whom I now sit. Yet here I am, an American amongst several North Vietnamese youths, whose grandfathers surely, and fathers likely, brutally fought against my parents' generation - our contemporary ancestors mercilessly slaughtered each other just one generation previous to this occasion. And here we mingle peacefully, harmoniously, cross-legged, in silence and mutual respect, while drinking to our 'health.'

"Cham fo cham!" toasts one of our new friends, raising a shot glass of rice liquor to the middle of our square. The rest of us follow suit. "Cham fo cham!" A dulled crinkle is emitted from the brief union of our plastic glasses in the center of our formation as all of us together slurp down the dry, potent liquor. Following an instant of intense oral discomfort, smiles reemerge all around and everyone reaches to a plate in the center of the mat for a piece of shredded squid, one that has been freshly roasted over a portable bucket of coals, courtesey of the late-night calimari queen across the street, who works the streets late into this night. A dip into a sweet chili paste to zap away the liquor's burn and the clamor of elation again returns to the group. This ritual is repeated several times over the next 10 minutes, until the bottle of rice liquor runs dry. After a moment's silence, the Vietnamese fellows, my friend and I all sit on the dark square of pavement staring at each other with an understanding that transcends verbal communication, a look of mutual approval. One of our new friends hops up to grab another bottle of cheaply distilled booze from across the empty street. The outgoing fellow next to me breaks the silence, and rumbles, "You America? America great country!"

My mind wanders. 'These guys should hate me,' utters my paranoid subconscious. The US has caused nothing but harm to the people of Vietnam in the past, while destroying the land in some areas for generations to come. How can they not be angry with me? How can they say, "America great country!" when shaking my hand enthusiastically, after I peevishly reveal my roots, when America cowardly dumped millions of gallons of carcinogenic chemicals directly on their citizens from planes overhead just 35 years ago? In the US, some people still hold grudges against the English for the colonial period over three centuries ago; some Americans hate the citizens of Japan for the incident at Pearl Harbor; some even fault the French people for not participating in the unwarranted invasion of Iraq in 2003 - it is always convenient to blame citizens, who are never guilty, for the actions or inaction of a particular government. But the Vietnam War was not a colonialistic rebellion three hundred years ago. It was a brutal civil war, intervened in by idealogical outsiders, who did infinitely more harm than good. And it took place merely three and half decades ago. It is recent history, fresh in the minds of many. It claimed millions of lives, disrupted so many more, made orphans of legions of children, caused deformations and cancer to thousands, broke up families, destroyed livelihoods, villages, cultures - an entire country. It effected irreparable harm to the citizens and environment of Vietnam. And the United States is at fault for much of the atrocity. With these truths clearly out in the open, how can they look me in the eyes and say 'cheers' to me with rice liquor?

An example of the horrific tragedy suffered by the population doused with the chemical Agent Orange

The Vietnamese don't have the time or energy for hate, anger or vindictiveness. They are too busy working hard to change their future. If they mentally lingered over their recent history, they would never move forward as a nation or progress as a culture. They realized long ago, when sifting through the ashes of their charred villages, that they must forgive and try to forget. There is no remedy for the horrors of the past so the only positive outlook is to concentrate on the future. To survive the decades of warfare the Vietnamese have evolvef beyond the simple moralistic inclinations of revenge and insidious grudges. Instead of hate and negativity they fostered inventiveness and resourcefulness, ingenuity and industriousness. Instead of focusing on the negative outcomes that have befallen them over centuries of warfare, they maintained an optimistic outlook, so when the fog of war cleared, they would still be around to enjoy a more prosperous period. All the while, the citizens, enduring war after war, honed a survivalist instinct and waited for their opportunity to arrive to show their resiliency.

During the conflicts of the mid-20th century, the Vietcong dug thousands of miles of tunnels, stretching from Saigon to the Cambodian border in every direction, in order to penetrate into enemy territory. The intricate network, which was entirely underground and invisible to the opposition, supported entire cities of people, complete with triage and surgery centers, kitchens and meeting rooms. There were factories, where failed US ammunition and supplies would be skillfully crafted into much needed basics for the under-supplied North Vietnamese army. High caliber rifle bullet shells would become lighters, while tires from US vehicles were made into sandals for the troops. Unexploded artillery that was stolen from US bases or dropped from planes were manufactured into land mines, knives and booby traps to be used against the enemy.

A worker at the Cu Chi tunnels shows how sandals are made from army vehicle tires

Unexploded artillery, dropped by American planes, found by Vietnamese troops in the jungles near Saigon

Entire communities lived in up to three claustrophobic levels of hot, sticky underground tunnels, subsisting on the root of the cassava plant and little else. Ingenious methods of survival were perfected, along with a strong sense of fortitude. The industriousness necessary to survive during these trying times is still apparent in the manner the Vietnamese go about their everyday lives, finding incrdicble solutions to myriad difficulties and relying on industriousness and productivity to survive.

A guide makes his way through a restored tunnel dug by the Vietcong in the 1960s.

There are many examples of Vietnamese resourcefulness to be found throughout the country today, even when examining the rapidly changing society. It is even still possible to find US military issue equipment from the 1970s in use. When I visited an ancient temple complex in central Vietnam, built by the intricately artistic Champa culture in the 12th century, I found a perfect example of the Vietnamese culture of ingenuity. From the entrance gate to the temples, a group of visitors was piled into an old jeep. I instantly recognized the make - an old US-issue relic - from having driven a similar era make in high school. This jeep had run over 400,000 miles since it had been abandonded by the US military in the early 1970s. The Vietnamese had kept it running since the war and now use it to cart around American tourists.

The next day I hopped on a motorbike with a driver, who took me to a sacred Buddhist pagoda on the outskirts of an expansive, central Vietnamese river town. As Vietnam has recently enacted a helmet law for all motorcyclists, my driver donned an olive green helmet as we sped off. I noticed on the back it had some Americanized painted numbers and some sort of USGI insignia. It looked antique and well used. Through the wind, I yelled ahead into his ear, "Where did you get this helmet?" He turned toward me and uttered one word, which was enough to verify my inclination. "War." To obey the new law he had converted an old US army helmet from the '60s into a motorbike helmet.

The sentiment I hear echoed time and time again around the globe, wherever I travel, is the same in any language or culture: life is difficult. This is a cry so authentic and pure that every time I hear it, whether mentioned in passing by a gardener in Kashmir, aggressively by a drunk miner in Bolivia, or passionately by a tourist tout in Morocco, I have trouble holding back the involuntary response that yearns to burst forth. When I hear the same thing over and over from such good, honest and hard-working people, I struggle not to shed tears for the less fortunate on this earth. I am so privileged while so many others are not. The fact that people from every part of the globe, regardless of race, religion, or belief, say the same thing about the difficulty of life, leaves no doubt in my mind that this is the true reality of the human condition for the majority of those living on the planet.

In Vietnam, as in other developing countries, I often hear that life is difficult. If there is one thing the impoverished are not, it is whiny. They are not complaining; they are merely stating the facts. Life is tough in Vietnam. A good wage is six dollars a day, and that wage is reserved for somebody who has developed a specialty, such as being able to speak fluent English, and can work in the tourist sector. The remainder of the workforce survives on much less than this amount, toiling seven days a week for up to 20 hours per days, which provides them with just barely enough to eat. Food in Vietnam is cheap by Western standards - rarely over a dollar for a meal. However, the average wage-earner in Vietnam cannot afford three decent squares a day on their meager salary. Yes, life is tough and only the strong, industrious, resourceful, cunning, and forgiving survive. These are the characteristics that define the Vietnamese of today. And if they are not working themselves to the bone for their own subsistence, then they are honoring the generations before them, whose populations were decimated violently in the pursuit of a peaceful and prosperous future for their offspring. Today's Vietnamese hope to offer the same peace and prosperity to the next generation.

On the straw mat the conversation has begun to ramble on to the useless but passionately discussed topics inherent with the swilling of excessive amounts of alcohol. We have reached the point in the night where we are identifying our favorite English Premier League football clubs. The fifth round of liquor, in rapid succession, has brought much more animation to the group. The discussion, which is more lively but contains less and less actual language, more hand motioning, physical interaction and smiling, has transcended language barriers completely, thanks to the liquor and our hosts' genuine kindness - their kind spirits and their kindness with their spirits. Even before the journey to the sidewalk my friend and I were already well enough along the train to Buzzville, but it becomes increasingly more difficult to say 'no' to these generous kids interested in cultural exchange. Meanwhile, as the time approaches 4:30 am and Ho Chi Minh will be unveiled to us in only three and a half hours, we continue to enjoy our serendipitous situation. Finally, cross-legged, cross-eyed and woozy, we decide it is time to leave, before we wear out our welcome or forget our whereabouts...after one more shot of course. "Cham fo cham!" All toast and reach for one more round of fiery squid.

"Cam on (Thank you)," I say to our hosts, exercising the only Vietnamese I can muster up at the moment. They do not say 'You are welcome.' Instead, to my surprise, they thank us for the experience. I reach for some cash. In the 45 minutes we sat with them they spent nine dollars on liquor and snacks, two days' work for some of these youngsters. It is the least I can do to chip in. They refuse the donation, looking surprised and a little disappointed that I would not accept their invitation unconditionally. Without trying to insult them I offer again. They refuse resolutely. I can only rise from the mat, stumbling as a young llama taking his first steps, and exuberantly thank our hosts one final time. They repeat their thanks to us again, clearly pleased to have had the chance to show Vietnamese hospitality to a couple of Westerners.

Again we walk in in the lonely, dark streets of Hanoi, wandering past still more candlelit groups, still sitting on mats, hidden in the shadows of the pre-dawn sidewalk on the Duong Hang Bac. Again, some groups motion to us to come join them. We politely decline. Fortunately, they do not insist.