Originally published August 2004
Everybody, everybody,I may have mentioned in the first installment of BTHz that there was a little matter of the heat here. I hope to not beat this horse too vigourously over the course of our correspondence, but allow me to get this out of the way, and hopefully this will be the end of it: Holy crap it's hot here.
Granted, today is a little better than yesterday, as overcast skies have made a liesurely stroll around Hoan Kiem Lake, the body of water that sits in the middle of Hanoi's Old Quarter, quite pleasant. But still I find myself, like David Lee Roth before me, going a little bit crazy from the heat. Keroac, in his rambling travelogue On The Road, described the heat in Mexico (or was it Central America? My days of reading the Beats are so far behind me) as a sort of enveloping presence, and that those who live in such conditions develop a symbiotic relationship with the clime. I recall his description of a young child whose face was covered with beads of sweat that seemed almost permanent. And I imagine that the population of Hanoi have a similar relationship with the heat; some people buzz to and from wherever it is they're constantly buzzing to and from on their motorbikes decked out in suits, sleeves, long pants and other seemingly unfathomable modes of attire given that the temperatures seem to be consistently in the 30s (celsius, goddammit). Sure, there are some who sport shorts and short sleeves, but y'know. (Also fascinating is that many motorbike pilots sport facemasks or bandanas to guard their lungs from exhaust, dirt, etc. But more on this in a future edition perhaps.)
As it turns out, I packed all wrong for this trip. The doctor who gave me my immunizations suggested that I just keep as covered as possible so as to avoid a potentially Malarial skeeter bite. I'm gonna guess she's never been here. My one pair of shorts is getting a workout, and I wore a long sleeved shirt my first day out and I think it almost killed me. So I'm going shorts and t-shirts from here out; the next mosquito I see will be my first.
On to other things; last night Kate and I were escorted by a classmate of hers, Tran, to the the Museum of Ethnic Minorities aka Museum of Ethnology. Vietnamese people make up a large percentage of the country's population, but there are smaller ethnic groups (the Khmer, for instance; the Chinese are an ethnic minority here, too) who live throughout the country; the museum we visited celebrates their contributions to the country's history. As interesting as the museum is, the ride there and back was the more exhilirating experience. On the way there, Kate and her friend rode on her motorbike; i rode on the back of a hired motorbike. This was my first experience actually inside the droning motorbike cacophony that fills the streets morning and night; it was actually uneventful. There aren't a lot of stop signs here, which, you might think, could lead to all sorts of mishaps; but the fact is Vietnamese drivers simply don't have the mindset so many American drivers are possessed of, that they have inalienable rights to a) the 100 feet of road directly in front of them; b) never have to brake and c) never have to deviate from the straight-line course they're presently on. Vietnamese drivers are immensely attentive, and though there is a constant honking, bleating and tut-tutting of horns, these aren't horn blasts in anger, simply a way of saying "here I am; there you are." Traffic moves a little more slowly, but people hardly ever actually stop, so nothing ever seems to be congested.
On the ride home from the Museum of Ethnology, which was on the edge of town, there were no motorbikes for hire, so the three of us hopped on Than's bike and rode back. While three people on a motorbike is technically against the law, people do it all the time; in fact, on the ride home we spotted a bike carrying four (4!) adults. We took a detour to one of Tran's friends houses, ducking in and out of alleyways and eventually getting stuck behind the "garbage truck," essentially a hand-pushed cart. Seems that among the things that unite us all as human beings is that anyone, anywhere, can get stuck behind the garbage truck.
Not a whole lot else to report at present. Still adjusting, slowly, to the local time. By the calculation of one day for every hour of time difference, I should be fully clicking along on Hanoi time by the morning I leave.
Realized yesterday that among the channels we get on the set in our hotel room is CNN. Woke up this morning and watched John Edwards' speech at the convention at 9 a.m. I'm still trying to figure out how to make this whole "being 12-hours-ahead" think work out for you in terms of getting you sports scores and stock quotes early enough to make a killing with your bookie; I'll let you know when I've got it.
Alright, people, I'm off to book a trip to scenic Halong Bay and then pay a stop a the Miltary Museum where, I'm told, there's a pile of gunned-down U.S. fighter planes in the courtyard.
Alrighty then,
BH
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