Vendor women used to be one of my annoyances about Hanoi. For 6 months, I wondered if they were cheating me, dishonest, beggarly, or just rude. I never seemed to get a fair price, their gossipy inquisitiveness bordered on crude and their easy manners – peasant dialects, sanitary habits – highlighted what I didn't like about my country(wo)men.
"Where's your lover?"
"You should come meet my cousin."
"Your accent is strange -- are you from the South?"
"Why do you want the local price?"
"This is cheap! It's not in season right now... that's not in season either!"
"Ha ha. Do you really want mint? Wouldn't it be better with cilantro?"
*Smirk*
I was lucky sometimes to get even a response. At the morning markets, they would chit chat and laugh at my bargaining attempts, before turning over to take a nap.
I just helped a colleague planned this trip to Vietnam. I revisited the sites, the restaurants and the markets with his guidebook. I even got on Skype to book his hotel room with Ms. Giang, the receptionist. She reminded me of how noncommittal and evasive the culture is.
But how good was that time! There was a wonton noodle stand in an alleyway near my apartment. The vendor lady would often ladle extra portions for me, recognizing that I lived down the block. The easy way in which she nodded her hello, the easy manner in which the patrons knocked elbows, packed tightly together on red plastic stools, the easy way in which the orange lights flickered off and on (blackouts and all) – it was a simpler time, perhaps.
There was one long day where I strolled home on Ly Thuong Kiet street and I passed an old lady selling pineapples. I had struck out with other pineapple ladies before. I knew that the price shouldn't be more than 6,000 dong, but the lowest I could get it to was 12,000 dong. Those nervy ladies would not budge. Often, they would see me fail with a vendor down the street and due to the efficiency of the system, would quote me the exact same prices with the exact same baseline.
"I'll have a pineapple."
"14,000 dong."
"Really? No way. it's only 4,000 dong."
"Sigh. 5,000?"
"Okay!"
The care which she cut the pineapple into spirals, poured the chili-salt and wrapped it in a plastic bag broke my heart. It was the evening's end, and she was older than my own mother. How long has she squatted on the pavement with her forlorn basket? Perhaps my bleeding heart bought too much into the pity play -- after all, she's probably done this so many times that she's used to the rhythm of the marketplace.
I thought of the other conversations, the snippets and the clues in the glances and gestures from the ladies of Hanoi. They were the breadwinners -- sometimes out of habit and oftentimes out of necessity. The country's population is awfully young -and those who are of age have to carry the burden until the youth can enter the workforce (if there are jobs to be had.)
I saw a collective resignation in the faces of Hanoi women. They laugh easily and love the intimacy of touch. But behind the laughter was a steely determination that survived lazy husbands, demanding children and a social structure that placed a huge burden of responsibility but little reward on their sun-darkened shoulders.
They best represent the city to me. And I'm not sure if I miss Hanoi because it was a carefree time or because the problems there are so very real and very different from my own...