The Expatriate Experience
Sunday, July 06, 2003
Hanoi, Vietnam:
I have been away from the US on the fourth of July a number of times in my life. [The event at the embassy grounds in Rome with my friend Jenny in ninty-three, or the fireworks at Henley in eighty-nine being the most notable.] But, I cannot say that I have experienced anything like the picnic I attended at the American Club [ and I paraphrase...land owned by the US embassy, yet leased by the private club for the amusement of Americans everywhere] last evening.
I will not go into mind-numbing detail, but I will say that the event included:
* An "Uncle Sam" with a southern accent reading door prize numbers in Vietnamese. [I wish I could even try to simulate the way this sounded, but I fear any attempt will fall very flat]
* An all-Vietnamese band playing such hits as Hotel California and boolie, boolie in a manner that was both enjoyable and quite reminiscent of karaoke performed by an individual who does not really know the proper pronunciation of the lyrics.
* A torrential rain storm -- I think it rained four or five centimeters -- during almost the entire performance of the previously mentioned band.
* The blasphemous showing of all Pepsi and no Coca-Cola.
Hanoi, Vietnam:
I have not been very good -- at all -- about posting. There is something about living somewhere that somehow makes the need to write less press. But, let's let by-gones be by-gones. I've written a little bit here and there, so I am going to be more dilligent. To turn another leaf, I even went out last week and shot a roll of film as a reult of the experience recounted below.
and so it begins....
My primary mode of transportation here in Hanoi has been the peddle-bike. [One must specify "peddle," lest confusion about the motor seems to consistently occur] Generally, most destinations [the bank, many restaurants, the office -- as if I really have an office...] are quite close, so the manual vehicle is sufficient for my needs even if I am dressed quite properly. (Though I always do laugh to myself a little when I'm riding my used Chinese bicycle down the street in nice trousers and a long sleeve shirt; especially when the temperature is 95'F with 88% humidity. fun. really.) Sometimes, though, I do try to take a bit of an adventure on the bicycle. I just point myself in some direction, and start peddling. I carry a map, in case I get really lost -- which does happen, -- but generally I just keep going until I make my way back to start. Now, the point. The other day was the most beautiful day I had seen in a quite a while, and I felt that sitting in front the computer was a travesty. Or rather, at about three in the afternoon I felt that I had spent enough time sitting in front of a monitor considering the blue sky outside my window.
So, I ventured out and set my sites on an old bridge that is a bit of a landmark here in Hanoi. It is called Long Bien (but with some accents that I cannot be bothered to type since the pronunciation would be lost anyway -- no offense) Now this bridge is a quite old bridge; I'm not sure how old, but I do know that a certain superpower did some serious damage to the structure during an incursion in this country that was taking place in the nineteen-seventies. I'll try to avoid naming names.
The bridge is all fixed now, or maybe it might be better to say that the span is standing and is used. [a subtle, but important difference] As a result of the destruction, and [repeated] repair, Long Bien has a special symbolism for the people. Solidarity, I believe. Its a great looking piece of old school engineering. Lots of geometrically placed girders through which the train tracks run. On each side -- a la the Queensboro bridge -- there are roadways. Since they have built a new motorway bridge slightly down stream, this bridge is reserved for bicycles. Many people bring their goods from the country into the city markets everyday over this bridge.
As I rode across, I could not help but notice that there was a bit of construction going on. On the way over the bridge I was distracted by the view of the city that unfolded behind me. I stopped several times to kick myself for being lazy about bringing my camera. Thus, I did not pay too much attention to the construction.
After wandering about a little bit on the far side of the river, I started back over the bridge. I meandered across slowly, taking in the view of the city in front of me, and better noticed the banging that was being performed by the construction crew. About half-way across, I avoided a construction worker standing in the roadway with a metal container. Just as I past him, I heart a long metallic bang. When I stopped to look, I realized that he was being tossed red-hot rivets from another worker who was on the other side of the bridge.
It was just like one of those black-and-white pictures that you see on the sidewalks in New York. One guy stoked the fire, pulled out a glowing rivet and, literally, tossed the object to the man on my side of the bridge -- this was a distance of maybe twenty feet -- who caught it in a big metal funnel. He then passed the rivet up to some other workers in the superstructure who began to hammer the metal into place before it cooled. I had to look on while they performed this task several times before I could continue on, amazed at the sights one can find in a place such as this.
