The Bay and the City
Jim had been to Hanoi two years ago for two short days and had yearned to return. We had booked his old hotel, Hotel de l’Opera right by the (guess!) Opera house in the French Quarter for four nights—and were soon joined by Michelle’s sister, Dorée, who is presently living in Chiang Mai, Thailand. “This is very en famille,” Dorée exclaimed, seeing our room, a smallish one with an extra bed crammed in. We left it promptly to go exploring.
Hanoi is calmer and less frenetic than what we saw of Ho Chi Minh City—at least the Hanoi motorbikes don’t bear down on you like a swarm of giant bees. That first evening, we walked to the pho shop where Anthony Bourdain and Obama famously shared a bowl of noodles and a beer, an event now memorialized on every wall, menu, and business card in the restaurant. The pho, which is served with egg rolls, has an aromatic meaty, borderline-sweet dark broth, sliced and chopped beef, lots of green herbs, and rice noodles.
Afterwards, we walked to the lake where we admired the lights in the placid water, and were accosted for English lessons by three adorable young college students (their respective majors: banking, computers, and hospitality) and their voluble teacher.
The next day, we set off for Cat Be Harbor and Lan Ha Bay, a four hour journey that involved a taxi, a break for coconut coffees (thick Vietnamese coffee poured over and around a towering swirl of coconut sorbet), a long bus ride, a short water taxi, and another 40 minutes on a bus. We had booked 24 hours on a small boat with just the three of us (and 3-4 crew members). The boat was a little shopworn and Truong, our kind, watchful English-speaking guide turned out to speak very little English (and understood none), but the great beauty of the bay, the peace of being out on the water, and seeing life in the floating fishing villages eclipsed any complaint.
We first puttered through the largest floating fishing village in the area. These are clusters of small fish farms, the different pens made of sunken nets to keep the fish confined and, in some cases, with net covers to keep them from leaping out. Each floating farm has a small dwelling, a platform for work (storing and grinding up bait), and at least one dog. By now something of a breed unto themselves, the German shepherd-Akita-Husky-like mongrels were agile, playful, and territorial. The fishermen (and their dogs) move around their “property” on plank paths about two feet wide.
And they live in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
The bay is famous for its countless dramatically steep rock islands—the Vietnamese say they are the humps of dragons’ tails. A few have small beaches, most are too sheer to set foot on; we did pass two men who would free climb up a sheer rock face about twenty or thirty feet, then dive into the water. Looked like fun. For them.
We were never out of sight of other tourist boats; thousands now roam Halong Bay; Lan Ha Bay is less crowded. We kayaked through caves into still inner bays, paddling into even deeper bays. Small eagles floated on updrafts and crows cawed. (Oddly, no sea gulls or other pelagics lived there.) Heaven. And boats.
Two young men (one of them the boat’s pilot) cooked for us. The pilot, a shy and gloomy chap, cut elaborate flowers out of vegetables. The young cook, elaborately tattooed, manned the woks. We ate squid they’d caught in the night, clams bought from the nearby clam farm and steamed; fried spring rolls, and lots of sautéed morning glory.
We parked at one fish farm and, once the dogs moved aside to let us “land” (one very large puppy, leapt up, nipping our hands and clothes in attempts to make us play). We gazed into the murky “tanks” where 2 year old catfish swam lazily. Big honkers. Our guide amused us by throwing in small flat silver fish into a pen where large bass-like fish snapped them up. Walking on those narrow wood slat walkways was not easy, especially given the constant undulations of the floating world. How long before this balancing act became second nature?
Back in Hanoi, the hotel had upgraded us to a suite. We moved in, feeling a bit like grungy, marauding backpackers who’d sneaked into in a corporate luxury nest, but that didn’t stop us from napping happily on the snowy sheets and billowing pillows, and running a deep tub before stepping out in the evening. We had dinner on a small food street in a tiny restaurant where everyone was glued to the women’s soccer match, Vietnam v. Thailand, which meant that every few minutes there were great cries of joy or dismay. After, we walked to the lake where, on weekends, the streets are closed off to make a delightful urban playground. People of all ages, in all groupings filled the streets. On one block, dozens of tiny candy-colored cars (sedans, fire trucks, buses, ambulances, etc.) were piloted hilariously by tiny children. Music—recorded and live, some acoustic, some amply amplified—changed every few yards. Clusters of young people built structures with small flat sticks—some of these delicate towers grew to the very top of tiptoe-tall–and inevitably tumbled. Two men swung a long jump rope for anyone who wanted to leap in and show their moves; fleet-footed young men paid for a miss or a stumble with five push-ups. Show-offs! The city lights, the lit up pagoda reflected in the lake. All this human activity so spirited and agreeable, and touchingly un-ironic. We kept walking with everyone else; pausing to check the soccer score on TVs in open air cafes; the game stretched into overtime, 0-0, (really, neither team had great chops) until finally, finally, finallyVietnam scored and won.
Big noise followed.