Andrew Turco - A year in Cambodia

The next evening, we touched down in Hanoi after a fifteen-minute layover along the way in Vientiane during the daily HCMC-Phnom Penh-Vientiane-Hanoi, U-shaped Vietnam Airlines flight. I emailed Elena from the airport to say hi just because we were so nearby, even though I knew we were no more likely to run into each other in the airport in Vientiane than we are when I’m in Phnom Penh. I never thought that that airport would be one I’d get to know so well, but I’ve now flown through there enough times to tell you exactly what books are sold at the single gift shop and to tell you that the men’s bathroom is on the left and the women’s bathroom is on the right of the waiting area. I’ll be honest; I wouldn’t have even known what country Vientiane was in before this past year, and now I feel like the airport there is practically a second home.

Our arrival in Vietnam fit perfectly into my vision of what Vietnam should be like. I didn’t really have a clear picture of what I thought the country would be like, but I knew that when I saw it, I’d know whether it was right or not. It definitely worked for me. We landed on the tarmac after it was already dark, but because of the airport spotlights and the misty air, everything was well illuminated and yet slightly obscured at the same time. As we walked across the runway, I could make out the military police patrolling the airport. Their uniforms were a pea soup green, straight out of the 1960’s or 70’s, official looking, and with an accompanying brimmed, almost ship captain-like hat. They epitomized the communist look to me, even though that might have been purely because I was looking for it. Throughout the trip, I tried to justify that I wasn’t just making it up. And they do really look different than, for example, the Cambodian military officers in Phnom Penh. Here, all of the officers’ uniforms look like they’re the same ones that are used in the field. The colors are much darker green or khaki, they don’t have the same extent of decorative patches and straps, and they lack the formal looking hats. In Vietnam, though, the soldiers seemed upright and as if they came from a propaganda poster.

Anyway, we continued through the airport, which was well-aged, smoky, and poorly lit and stood for what seemed like forever as they carefully inspected every aspect of our passports before allowing us past the yellow and black striped line on the floor and officially into Vietnam. I was relieved after all the scrutiny that they didn’t even spend more than a second on my actual visa, with its white out-ed dates and handwritten number from the embassy here in Phnom Penh.

We arrived at the Metropole Hotel in downtown Hanoi, and although radically different in feel than the Hotel Le Royal, was equally colonial in its architecture and a part of the history of the city. It’s white, upright, French colonial architecture abutted the sidewalk and the street, in contrast to the soft off-white yellow stucco of more art deco Le Royal, set back from the street behind its gates and gardens. The Metropole had two old, deep blue Citroens parked out front and built its aura partly from the fact that it, just like the Le Royal, hosted many journalists and writers who worked prominently during the past century. Graham Greene worked on The Quiet American while staying there, it served as Jane Fonda’s home base when she visited Hanoi, and plaques outside some of the rooms indicated which ambassadors had made their permanent quarters in which rooms at various points in history.

Immediately, even just from our trip to a local pho restaurant down the block on that first night, I started being able to discern the differences between Phnom Penh and Hanoi. First of all, the weather was cool. It wasn’t the exaggerated cold that everyone had warned about before I left, but it also felt good to get inside that first evening, as the wind whipped through the streets at night

People were out at night in Hanoi. There was activity on the street. What’s sometimes frustrating about Phnom Penh is that so many things close by 8:00 or 9:00. In contrast to when I first arrive, I’ve actually realized that there are many parts of Phnom Penh that do stay open late. They’re not as much a rarity as people had originally seemed to indicate. But the basics close, and it’s just those places that stay open late on purpose that continue into the night. In Hanoi, though, people were eating street food at 10:00 at night with fifty other people on sidewalk corners. It gave all of the streets a sense of life and energy at night.

Also, there were more motorbikes in Hanoi. They were everywhere. I thought there were a lot in Phnom Penh, as they’re the main means of getting around. But after going to Hanoi, I realized how much cars have a presence here. There, a solid wall of bikes will take up a full three lanes of traffic in either direction. Also, people drive fast in Hanoi. Even though they drive slowly here because traffic is so chaotic and uncontrolled, traffic in Hanoi seemed scarier to me because people drove fast. And while the bikes here are mainly older Hondas and Daelims, with their classic designs that have changed little since their introductions a few decades ago, the bikes in Hanoi were sleek and very obviously fashion statements. Decorative patterns, designer seats, and matching accessories seemed to have been seriously considered by the owners.

Back at the hotel, elegant frosted glass and metal overhangs surrounded the corner of the hotel facing the nearby square, and diners sat at tables along the sidewalk unharrassed. The tables were arranged along the sidewalk in a way that didn’t put barriers between the restaurant and the public space it abutted. By contrast, a hotel like Le Royal, for example, sits behind a high wall and gates. In general, Hanoi felt way less bunkered, and there was a lack of barbed wire along properties’ perimeters. In the places along the riverfront in Phnom Penh, diners often sit at tables overflowing onto the sidewalk, but kids come by peddling books, motorbikes park on the nearby cement, and there’s a general sense of chaos. I kept catching myself getting into my normally very conscious night-walking mode and then realized that I could relax a little more while I was in Hanoi and could give myself a break.

And finally, I ate my words about a French joke that somehow developed between Dad and me. Throughout his time in Phnom Penh, whenever I’d make some French reference, he’d shrug it off, saying it was no Vietnam. Every time we did something in Vietnam, however, Dad always made sure to commented on how French it was while I was around. The baguette and butter that we had at one French-Vietnamese fusion restaurant before dinner was literally some of the best bread and butter I’ve ever had in my life. But when Dad would insist that it must be because of the French influence, I would indignantly protest about why he didn’t think the same about the baguettes in Cambodia. He would reply that Cambodia wasn’t “really” French and that Vietnam was the focus of French Indochina in a kidding on the square way kind of way (when something is said as a joke but is actually pretty true). I would object, stating that the French had invested plenty in Cambodia and that it was Phnom Penh, not Hanoi, that was known as “The Pearl of Asia.” Eventually, I think he started doing it just to annoy me, but he had a point as well. All of a sudden, Phnom Penh’s collection of French colonial architecture and French culture seemed moderately amateur in comparison, and I realized that the French did seem to care a lot more about Vietnam.

For a couple of days, we toured around the city, and Hanoi felt slightly more substantial than Phnom Penh as an urban entity. There were numerous museums and sights to visit. We saw the Temple of Literature, which was quite impressive and very Chinese in style. It’s red color, the layered Chinese pagoda-style roofs, and the giant Chinese characters all gave it a very different feel than temples here in Phnom Penh, with their bright colors, elephant and snake decorations, and Indian-influenced figures. We went on a cyclo tour (three wheeled bicycle carriage, in which the driver sits in back over the peddles and pushes the passenger in a chair between the two front wheels). They’re very common in Phnom Penh as well, but it’s something that I’d never gotten around to actually riding yet, so it was exciting purely for the ride. The cyclo took us past the Hanoi Opera House, which is modeled on the bigger version in Paris, and the surrounding area actually looks like it could be straight from Paris. Nearby was the actually Hilton.

In another area of the city, also old but from the pre-colonial time, the city’s non-French architecture is all super skinny, tall houses. Old Vietnamese laws apparently taxed property based on its street frontage. As a result, most of the buildings are these four story, extra skinny buildings with only one room’s width of space on each floor. Although the laws are long gone, the tradition has continued through today, resulting in a very distinctive building vernacular. We strolled through some of these older, tube house neighborhoods. What was most noticeable were all of Christmas decorations for sale throughout the shops spilling out from their first floor. Vietnam has fully embraced Santa costumes and flickering lights. And we got our requisite rice paddy hat wearing, peace sign throwing picture in front of an elaborate snowman and reindeer display at one of the buildings near our hotel.

Additionally, we went to the military museum, where it was admittedly a little strange to see US military equipment on display. But nothing was quite the scene that Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum was. The mausoleum is set right next to the presidential palace and grounds but on the edge of the grounds that abuts a vast paved plaza that used to serve as a major parade route but which has now been absorbed into the mausoleum’s sphere. In many ways, the gray concrete, almost desolate plaza, and very communist-style architecture looming at the edges reminded me a lot of Tiananmen Square.

We arrived right when the mausoleum opened, as everyone is suggested to do because it closes at 11:00 AM sharp. Because it’s often visited by so many people, there are apparently days when people will wait but won’t make it through the entrance in time. Before entering, we were required to drop our cameras, remove hats and sunglasses, put on a serious face, and stop talking. Granted, we were there completely voluntarily so no one was forcing us to be there, but I don’t think I can think of an experience that I’ve had before that seemed so fascist and restricted. Guards stood every few feet monitoring the line and everyone who entered. I think I was gruffly spoken to twice, once for having my hands in my pockets and I think another time for maybe looking in the wrong direction. Everyone was shuffled through so that your feet never stopped and so that you glanced at the embalmed body as you shuffled through the space.

We then continued on to rest of the grounds, and the ornate ochre French colonial palace that serves as the presidential residence stood in stark contrast to the authoritative, blocky mausoleum. Although I don’t have the first hand memories of the events, I still found the grounds, cars, and house on stilts that Ho Chi Minh brought to the site when he took power to be interesting to see after having such a conception and image in my mind of the whole era and the war. I tried to ask our guide about Vietnam’s next war, the liberation/invasion of Cambodia, to see if the perspective and views of the war would be any different than in Cambodia, but in comparison to the “American War,” this one apparently didn’t register much in the Vietnamese consciousness. Here in Cambodia, it’s very much a topic in the population’s consciousness, but as our guide aptly noted, wars outside one’s homes and on foreign territory never have the same resonance as those fought in one’s own communities.

After these days of sightseeing in Hanoi, we headed to the coast to see the natural wonders of Halong Bay. The couple hour drive through the countryside was disappointingly flat, smoggy, and dry. Although the airport and Hanoi’s downtown worked perfectly, both Dad and I discussed how the landscape in and around Hanoi was not the Vietnam we had built up in our minds from images and descriptions in media we’ve been exposed to. We experienced no trudging through the soaking wet, dense, jungles. I’m assuming the landscape changes dramatically between the Northern and Southern parts of the country. When we were planning our trip and were deciding between Hanoi and Saigon, I wanted to go to the North because of its architecture and its reputation for greater cultural. Saigon is close enough to Phnom Penh that I can get there by bus or boat in about six hours. Since going, I’ve learned that the South is known more for its food but not as much for its art and that Saigon dwarfs Hanoi with its size. But while the South may fulfill my preconceived images of Vietnam, Hanoi brought me back to China in some ways.

I’m convinced that there’s nothing more effective than certain smells at bringing out memories from previous times. Songs can do similar things, but the rareness of distinctive smells I think means that they bring back even more vivid memories. Hanoi smelled like China. I couldn’t place exactly what it was. It might have been a combination of the cooking ingredients and the coal polluted air, but to understand, you may just have to rely on your own experience when you were so brought back to another time in your life. The smell, combined with the slightly overcast, smoggy air, the occasional Chinese characters from before Vietnam adopted a variation of our alphabet, and some architecture that is more reminiscent of China than Cambodia’s Indian influenced architecture gave everything this comforting feeling. What’s funny for me to think about is that, although I don’t recognize it yet, I’m sure the smells that I hate about Cambodia but are unique to my living here will also bring me back at some point in a similar way, but it’s always hard to imagine when the whole experience itself is still so a part of the everyday.

Halong Bay is a series of cliff islands jutting out in an incredibly steep and high way from the middle of the ocean. (Even these, to a certain extent, reminded me of my trip last summer to Jian Ja Jie National Park in China, plus water). We boarded an old sailing junk (which never actually sailed - none of them do), and we powered around. It is a tourist area whose activities are dictated by the Vietnamese government, so the experience felt a little pre-planned, and we traveled pretty much in the same fleet as everyone out on the water that day. The views were still impressive, though. Unfortunately, the result of all of the tourism was apparent as we watched plastic bags and other refuse occasionally travel by the boat and smelled the result of all of the diesel engines in this UNESCO world heritage site. The appeal of the nature hasn’t brought the careful stewardship one would hope for.

The one time our boat was somewhat able to break away from the rest of the fleet was on the second day, right after breakfast. All of the boats had anchored in the same protected bay for the night. We had opted out of kayaking in the evening in favor of walking up to a small overlook that had views of the nearby islands. So while everyone else was getting ready to motor out to the next stop the next morning, we had some time to hop in a two-man kayak and paddle around. The fact that our kayak would soon sink should have been predicted by the fact that Dad and I commented to each other about 15 minutes into our paddle how nice it was that we weren’t restricted to one area and could explore freely throughout the caves and coves all around the nearby islands.

Our kayak seemed a little tippier than most, and I pretty much blamed it on what I assumed was a cheap knock-off kayak’s failure to actually get the design right. Well, soon, we were going out of our way to paddle with only our arms and not even budging the rest of our bodies because the boat was rocking back and forth so much with each stroke. Finally, we got to the point that we were tipping and having to compensate with our weight so much after each stroke that we were making little forward progress. We decided that it was better to just head back than endure the frustration. The only thing is that, to get back, we now had to go against the current and somehow turn the boat around with the very small waves (they were tiny) coming broadside against the boat. Next thing I knew, in one of those you can feel it happening so surreally that you don’t think it could actually happen, we flipped and were swimming in this water that I had been noting how polluted it looked hours earlier. Well, at least we realized it wasn’t just our ineptitude on a kayak and realized that the inside of our ocean kayak had nearly completely filled with water and was surging back and forth disproportionately every time we adjusted our weight, resulting in our eventual capsize. The only thing about flipping is that we now had to get in and paddle back in our submerged boat. After a few short minutes of sitting in a sinking kayak, however, the junk boat unexpectedly pulled around the corner on its way to pick us up anyway since we had been out long enough that we needed to get back onto the regulated course.

In the scheme of these four neighboring and interconnected Southeast Asian countries, all of them have developed their own stereotyped reputations. The saying goes that Cambodians plant the rice, Laotians watch it grow, and the Vietnamese reap the harvest and make the profit. (And Thailand is never usually included in this story because they’re the rich ones who’ve had a mostly stable history over the past decades and therefore get left out as a result of a combination of bitterness and jealousy). Anyway, I had been “warned” beforehand by biased sources that Vietnamese had the reputation of being pushy and being businessmen focused solely on making money. Well, I was pleasantly given the opportunity to prove them wrong, as I found the moto drivers in Hanoi to be infinitely less annoying and in your face than their counterparts in Phnom Penh. For as much as Cambodians are known for their gentle dispositions, the average motorbike driver in Hanoi’s simple hand up in the air was a great relief in comparison to the harassing yells and clapping at you that occur in Phnom Penh.

But it was during my departure that allowed me to leave with my best impression when I went through the security check with my carry-on bags. Since coming to Asia, I’ve somehow managed to go from my over-packing self to an efficient, single backpack traveler. Anyway, I went through with my sun tan lotion, bug spray, shampoo, and hair gel spread throughout my bag. It hadn’t been a problem on the way there, and I didn’t even think of it as I was going through the airport. But the x-ray viewer cared. He quickly picked it up on his screen, and flagged the number two inspector, who then went through my bag and pulled out one bottle. This was not satisfactory to the first x-ray-er, who demanded that his assistant find the rest. Slowly, he found the others, looked at the original agent, threw one into the confiscated pile and then, when the other guy wasn’t looking, winked at me as he put the rest of the toiletries back into my bag.