Until They Are Home: Bringing Back the MIAs from Vietnam, a Personal Memoir

4. My Hometown: Hanoi

 AFTER TWO MONTHS of nonstop adventure, the pace eased enough for me to rest a little and take a closer look at Hanoi before the next mission cycle began. For a few weeks I had the luxury of becoming an evening and weekend tourist. After carefully reading the guide books, I poked into the nooks and crannies of the city and visited Ho Chi Minh’s tomb, Hoa Lo Prison—the POW “Hanoi Hilton”—beautiful pagodas, Buddhist temples, thriving markets , and quiet parks. I even wandered in the warren of shops in the Hang Gai, the old, traditional neighborhood above Hoan Kiem Lake. In Ho Chi Minh City, anyone from Hanoi is considered a huckleberry from the back side of the mountains, which is probably why I felt at home with the country people in the very heart of the workers’ paradise: the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. As I mentioned before, in Saigon I had the same feeling as in LA; the pace was fast and furious, and the traffic was a nightmare. At least in Hanoi, if you get hit by a cyclo (a cycle rickshaw), it was just an accident. It’s also no challenge to shop in Saigon because they have everything. In Hanoi shopping is fun because, to find what you want, say an American-sized coffee cup instead of a thimble, you have to look all afternoon and go into dozens of shops and back alleys. Of course, you’re not going to find one anyway, but you go on an adventure. In Saigon I wouldn’t dream of wandering around alone in the back streets without two or three mean friends, but, in Hanoi, không sao!—no big deal!—unless you happen to run into a soldier with an AK-47, which would be a government place not for curious “round eyes.” Chapter 4 MY HOMETOWN: HANOI  Chapter 4 Ho Chi Minh’s tomb, Hanoi. Tran Quoc Pagoda, Tay Ho Lake, Hanoi. Tran Quoc Pagoda, Hanoi. MY HOMETOWN: HANOI  In Saigon everyone had tipping down pat, an idea almost entirely foreign in Hanoi, except employees at the Hilton and cab drivers. When I tipped a barber ten thousand dong (sixty cents) after a two-dollar haircut, she came running after me saying I had forgotten my change. I always went to the local Communist barbershop, Cat Toc Nam (Lift Hair Men), a good place with no funny stuff like in those Saigon “babe-er shops” with their happy endings. In Hanoi people don’t chat in barbershops, especially ones run by the Communist Party. I started a photo collection, things I had seen on motorbikes, cyclos, and scooters. A family of four on a little 125cc moped was routine. Buddy claimed he saw a guy in a bathtub on a scooter; the guy was hugging the driver to keep the bike from upending. The principal means of transportation was motorbikes, bicycles, and cyclos; real motorcycles over 250cc were illegal. The few cars and trucks drove right in the middle of the road; that is, they split the white stripe even when coming from opposite directions; the motorbikes had all the rest. In Vietnam we flew on Vietnam Air, we flew on Russian helicopters, we went into the mountains, we went into the swamps and jungles, but the most dangerous thing we did was cross a busy street. You just stepped out into the traffic, eyes straight ahead and keeping an exact speed while a river of motorbikes flowed around you. If you hesitated, chickened out, or stopped, The 140 Buddhas of Tran Quoc Pagoda tower, Hanoi.  Chapter 4 you wrecked everybody’s time-distance calculations and could cause a massive pileup. The second most dangerous thing was to ride in a vehicle on any road whatsoever. The Vietnamese had not adopted the concept of the seatbelt, of right of way, or of risk mitigation. I had yet to see a stop sign. The best solution while in a vehicle is to find interesting things to note left and right—looking ahead only generated a feeling of dread and terror. Somehow the Vietnamese developed a fairly efficient system to avoid head-on collisions, but it was so Asian and subtle, complete with driver body language, eye contact , headshakes, hand and arm signals that it remained one of those profound enigmas like the dreamtime or songlines of Aboriginal Australians...