Morning Chaos in Hanoi

Par Danielle Gaucher (en anglais)

The neighbour’s rooster crowing first thing in the morning does not top my list of “things that I will miss about Vietnam”. However, I have reluctantly come to embrace it as a familiar sound of the morning in Hanoi. Accompanying the rooster is the voice of a woman hollering “fresh bread for sale” in regular monotone intervals. In the distance, the daily news and communist propaganda is projected from loud speakers over a backdrop of motorbike mufflers and horns.

I timidly peak my nose out from under the covers and reach for the snooze button on my alarm with one glove covered hand. When I first arrived in Hanoi in mid-September, I felt suffocated by the heat and humidity. I was told that it was mild compared to the summer and that I would soon be longing for the heat once winter came around. Having endured twenty-three winters in Saskatchewan with minus sixty degree wind-chills, I scoffed at these warnings. By mid-January however, any pride I had been harbouring had gone.

As I lie in bed trying to summon enough courage to get up, I notice something wet beside me. I am then reminded that my brand-new electric hot water bottle, which had been so full of promise, had exploded the previous night leaving half of my mattress soaked. The thought of this unknown but undoubtedly toxic substance is enough to get me out of bed. I vow that I will never again take indoor heating for granted. Fortunately, it actually feels slightly warmer outside than inside.

My walk to work is always eventful, not least of all because crossing the street in Hanoi means that one or two brushes with death are inevitable. Having talked to several others who are new to this city, it seems that there is somewhat of a common experience in adapting to crossing the street. When you first arrive, you stand at the side of the road patiently waiting for a break in the constant flow of motorcycles. It never comes, and so you venture onto the road taking one fear-filled step at a time as the drivers dodge you one by one. Before long, your confidence steadily increases and you triumphantly step off the sidewalk with little hesitation. This confidence comes to an abrupt end however, as you see more and more people driving the wrong way down the street while talking on their cell phone and holding their young child with their other arm.

Though the sidewalks offer a safe-haven, they are far from peaceful. Scattered tables with tiny plastic stools are full of people enjoying their morning coffee and bowls of pho for breakfast. Each corner is occupied by motorcycle-taxi drivers yelling greetings along the lines of “Madame! Taxi?!?! Madame!”. I pass through narrow alleyways with markets selling fresh fruit, vegetables, meat, and seafood. Chickens hop around haphazardly, seemingly unfazed by the less fortunate one who has just had its throat slit and is now being bled.

I stop to buy some pineapple, which I will contribute to the “snack table” in our office. Despite my effort to barter, I still pay twice as much as a local would. Though I have come to accept this, I cannot help but feel discouraged that my handful of mispronounced Vietnamese words has not served me better.

Before entering the office, I make a quick detour to buy some sticky rice for breakfast. This has become a morning ritual, and the street vendor seems pleased when she sees me coming. Sticky rice in hand, I make my way up the hazy staircase of the Oxfam building, which is full of smoke from a charcoal stove on the street below. I reach Oxfam-Quebec’s office on the third floor, say “hello”, “bonjour” and “sin chào” to my co-workers, and finally sit down at my computer for another day at work.

Over the course of my internship I have had some extraordinary once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Nonetheless, everyday experiences, such as my chaotic walk to work, standout among the things that I will remember most from my time in Vietnam. Therefore, although I may not have relished crossing the busy streets or welcomed the rooster’s crowing every morning, part of me will miss these things all the same.