An American In Hanoi

by

Mark Mason

As we circled Noi Bai airport in the Russian-made Tupoleus, I couldn't help but marvel at the simple beauty and rusticity of Hanoi. Deep shades of lime green fields lay in dark contrast to the burgundy colored water of the Red River and its tributaries as they snaked around the city in a manner of almost engineered synchronicity. Its majestic sprawl seemed to whisper peace and serenity.

Suddenly, the illusion of peacefulness gave way to the harshness of reality. Hundreds of bomb craters filled with stagnant water surrounded the airfield. The remnants of what appeared to once have been an air defense system lay in silent decay. Strewn about like a monument to what occurred here twenty years before.

The airplane landed and we were met on the tarmac by several old buses. An attractive young Vietnamese woman greeted me as I walked down the stairs.

The young lady was dressed in the traditional ao dai, which is a high-necked gown like dress over loose white trousers. Her thick black hair was brushed to a sheen. She exuded the elegant grace of a Tonkinese courtesan.

Once again fantasy gave way to reality as several hard looking Vietnamese army regulars stepped off the buss and formed a threatening gauntlet. The business ends of their Russian made AK-47 machine guns gently pointed us toward our respective buses. Welcome to Vietnam!

After the short ride to the airport terminal I claimed my luggage and began the patience testing experience of customs inspection.

The customs officials are no different in Vietnam than in any other part of the world. Coarse and demanding, they talk continuously in a language foreign to most of the people entering from an international flight. Their terse commentary was the epitome of bureaucratic strength.

My stomach fluttered for a moment and then jumped to my throat as I laid my American passport on the agent’s desk. "American?" He said with a hint of disbelief. "American!" He exclaimed with warmth and sincerity. He turned to the agent in the next booth and said, "American," with obvious kindness and respect. He returned my passport with a smile and said, "You may pass."

I gathered my baggage and stepped through the airport doors into the bright sunlight and a whole new world.

As I walked along a four-foot chain-link fence I was unprepared for my greeting. Hundreds of people reached out from the fence yelling and screaming in their native tongue. I had no idea what they were saying and I was frightened. It reminded of the American POWs infamous "march to Hanoi." Soon I realized the large mob were taxi drivers attempting to solicit customers for the twenty-mile drive to downtown Hanoi.

I walked in the direction of the major traffic flow, assuming that most everyone was headed toward the city center. I put at least a mile between me and Noi Bai airport before flagging down a taxi.

The driver brought me to the Sofia hotel and escorted my baggage and me to the reception area. I counted out ten crisp US dollar bills and placed them in his hand. He seemed satisfied, bowed gently, turned and left.

The Sofia was old and run down, as was everything else I saw on my short ride through central Hanoi. The lights were kept low as if not to show any subtle defects it may have had.

I paid twelve dollars for my room and followed the bellhop up three flights of stairs and across the tarpapered roof of the building to my room.

The room was small and dark and smelled of cheap disinfectant. The bellhop opened the shutter of the glassless window and pointed to a thermos bottle that sat on a dilapidated table. The young man then walked over to the bathroom turned on the light and motioned me over. "No drink water", he said, pointing to the sink. Abruptly, he turned and left before I could reach into my wallet to give him a tip.

I lay down on my bed with a gnawing feeling of loneliness and fell asleep.

I awoke late in the evening, well after sundown. The lone light bulb that hung above my bed was too small and weak to light the room but bright enough to cast ominous shadows.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught some movement. I jumped with horror and disbelief. It was a huge rat, so plump and thick that for one fleeting moment I thought it was a cat. It quickly slipped beneath a hole in the door.

I peered out my window at a makeshift rooftop courtyard. Scurrying with frenzy among the potted plants and small trees were dozens of the well-fed rodents. As famished as I was, nothing could entice me to walk out my door and cross that rooftop. Sleep would be my only rescue from those rats.

I was awakened early the next morning by the sounds and smells of a city coming alive. I dressed hurriedly and set out upon the streets in search of food and human contact.

My search was short; the sidewalks were crowded with food venders. Large pots of rice steamed over open fires. Soups basted fragrantly. Many different types of meats sautéing with fresh vegetables beckoned with their poignant aromas.

I sat down on a small bench at an equally undersized table. It reminded me of a child's tea party set. A lady with broad smile pointed to several of the smoldering pots and mumbled something to me. I nodded my head yes, not caring what she had asked. "Hot food and plenty of it," I replied in English.

A large plate of rice and vegetables was followed by a soup with noodles and topped off with a salad of many different types of greens that were unfamiliar to me. I ate heartily and happily. My loneliness and fear from the night before seemed to fade as the energy of the city swirled around me.

I set out on a short walk to the Lake of the Restored Sword. Walking around push carts of food, dodging bicycle driven taxis, and avoiding an occasional family of rats, I arrived at one of Hanoi's most beautiful parks.

Even at such an early hour in the morning large crowds of people lined its banks taking in its peacefulness. Elderly gentlemen played chess while women worked on embroidering colorful silk materials and children frolicked noisily using a tin can as a makeshift soccer ball.

I walked around the lake giving out balloons and gum to the children and smiles and nods to the adults. On occasion a person would stop me and attempt to speak to me in either Vietnamese or French. I could only shrug my shoulders and move on.

After I circled the lake I began to head back toward my hotel. As I walked up a small alleyway the unmistakable stench of human excrement hung offensively in the windless heat of the tropical air. Among the piles of feces once again the rats ruled. The rats in Hanoi seemed highly professional and downright courteous. None of the locals seemed bothered by their presence so I made up my mind to cohabitate with them peacefully as well.

At the end of the alley I came to a large triangular building surrounded by a fifteen-foot wall. Atop the wall were long strands of barbwire that ran between two guard towers.

I suddenly realized at what I was looking; the infamous Hoa Lo prison. Better known by the name given by American POWs, The Hanoi Hilton.

I circled the drab, almost harmless looking building, several times. Imagining the years of torture and depravation inflicted upon fellow human beings inside. As I took several photographs of the entrance a young guard, dressed in what looked like a Boy Scout uniform, approached me, pointed to my camera and shook his head negatively.

I followed him back to the main door and went inside right on his heels. He turned and said something to me in Vietnamese and pointed to the door. It was then that I let him have it with my secret weapon. I pulled out a pack of American made Marlboro cigarettes. His face suddenly changed to a welcoming smile and his fellow guard jumped up from a rusted metal chair and offered me a seat.

We sat in silence smoking our cigarettes. Beyond the dark hallway I noticed a small courtyard. I contemplated asking to see the inside of the prison by offering further bribes but was overcome with fear. This was not a place that I wanted to know more about, reflecting back on the previous night in my rat infested hotel.

The guards simultaneously crushed their cigarettes out on the cold concrete floor and motioned me toward the door. I was more than grateful to leave. I shook hands with the two men and walked back out into the sunlight.

I walked further on along Hanoi's scabrous streets to trying to avoid being accosted by the city's aggressive beggars. Mothers with sick babies in their arms would follow me matching my quickening pace. They held their children up to my face with a pleading look in their eyes. It was a painful experience not soon to be forgotten.

Late afternoon found me in front of Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum. It was a dreary looking concrete structure unbecoming of the great inspiration and leadership that "Uncle Ho" had represented toward the liberation of his countryman.

I walked across the large parade grounds to the high concrete steps leading to the entrance of the mausoleum. The place was deserted but for a lone sentry at the top of the steps. I hesitated and then began to climb the steps. The soldier snapped to attention and clapped his white-gloved hands and motioned me away.

As the city gave way to nightfall a new ambiance was in the air. Gone were the food carts and sidewalk venders. No longer were there families with young children bounding along the streets. Men loitered in the shadows sharing bottles of Russian vodka. The sweet smell of opium punctuated the night air. Prostitutes ambled by slowly, like stray dogs headed for the pound. The city felt unsafe in a new way. I headed back to my hotel returning to the secure but lonely scenario of my room.

In the six additional days I spent in the capital city of Vietnam I came to feel at home with the repetition of life among its people. The simplicity of a child's laughter brought about by my teasing was enough to bring a flash of joy to the eyes of people hardened with hopelessness.

Whatever the calling was that brought me to Vietnam seemed satisfied. My feelings about this forgotten land that for so long had been shrouded in mystery could be summed up by the words of former POW Colonel Gerald Coffee.

"In our human family, the color of our skin and the shape of our eyes or the sounds of our language count for so little. We all laugh and cry, hunger and thirst, celebrate and mourn in the same ways. We all take pride in our national cultures and heritage. With the realization of kinship in the true sense comes an understanding and empathy that leaves no place for hatred and bitterness."

How true it is.