Vietnam: An Embarrassment of Riches
By Mike Stratton
The hotel's bellhop asked where I was from, the same as nearly every other local I interacted with in Vietnam. Yes, I'm from America, and yes I realize I look Asian. "Ohh, you must be very rich", they would wistfully say, when hearing my citizenship. I would try and explain that I wasn't rich, just an average working American on vacation. "No, no, you rich", they would conclude. And in a place where a great meal costs about 3 bucks, a taxi ride 2 bucks and silly souvenir hat 1 buck, the concept of wealth kind of loses its meaning. In Vietnam, if you own a scooter, you're rich. Because riding that ultimate symbol of status means you are upwardly mobile. Beep Beep. If I lived in Vietnam, I would own a scooter. That would be awesome. In a Ho Chi Min City of 6 million motos, I would be number 6,000,001. But my license plate would still read 747-400.
Vietnam is quintessentially Asian, meaning, there isn't an undercurrent of anger, jealousy, or resentment that lies just beneath the surface. In marked contrast to Egypt, where you are seen as prey, people in Vietnam are pretty mellow, laid back and genial. Yeah, they want to sell you things, but it's a soft sell, and they don't harass you if you say no. You can haggle, but it's an easy haggle, because stuff is already so affordable, from a Western point of view. In other words, people there are pretty cool. And unlike Thailand, where signs warn tourists to be wary of wily locals, I'm still trying to find something to be wary about in Vietnam. The best I can come up with is to avoid the snake wine. I mean, the least they could have done is take the freakin' snake out of the freakin' bottle! Hello? Major buzzkill!
But there are 2 types of visitors to Vietnam: One type that describes the smells coming from the street-food culture as intense, vibrant, bold and aromatic. And the other type that describes the same scene as pungent, rotten, disgusting and gross. For the latter group, well, enjoy your hotel's continental breakfast, because you're out of luck here. The buzzing streets of Saigon and Hanoi are filled with patrons sitting on ridiculously tiny stools, slurping noodles out of piping-hot bowls served from steaming vats of brothy goodness. Between the scooters parked on the sidewalks and the make-shift tables filled with hungry diners, there isn't much room left for pedestrian traffic. So what's the solution? Have a seat, and eat. Dive in.
It's pretty amazing to watch the food arrive early in the mornings. The de-facto sidewalk restaurant owner, usually a female, sets up her wood or propane-fired stove. Her deliveries arrive by scooter and on foot, not by truck. The chicken lady will arrive, dropping off hunks of skin-on, de-feathered, yellow birds. She puts them in her bubbling silver vat to start her stock. The rice noodle lady shows up on foot, carrying measured portions of noodles on her back, with the help of a long bamboo pole and rope. Same as the onion lady, same as the rice lady, same as the hot pepper lady, same as the pork lady, same as the fruit lady, same as the vegetable lady, same as the fish sauce lady. One after another, they drop off and get paid, moving down the sidewalk to the next stoop where someone else is firing up her vat of goodness. They pay in cash, exchanging thick wads of Vietnamese Dong for their meal's components. You know you're ready to eat when the crusty cook sets out her ridiculously short stools and comically low-slung tables. You ask how much, and then hand over 30,000 Dong (about $1.50), and watch her pour you a scalding-hot bowl of noodles with chicken, spices, peppers and spearminty-flavored green stuff. They're called Pho Noodles, and it's the national dish of Vietnam. People buzz by you, scooters park next to you, but you don't care. You are busy devouring the flavors of the Orient. The crusty cook looks on approvingly. Not at your Americanized chopsticks skills, but at your good food sense.
Maybe you're noticed, but it seems that most of the work in Vietnam is done by women. From the incredibly laborious rice-paddy farming to the delivery of goods for cooking up goodies, women dominate the labor market here. Transporting, farming, selling, the women do it all. The guys? I have no idea what they do. Mainly ride around town on scooters. Perhaps that's why the streets are so crowded. Okay, some men do work. But I guarantee you, they don't work nearly as hard as the women.
Images of Vietnam: The endless, floating bio-mass of water hibiscus that turns the Saigon River and Mekong Delta into a bobbing, visually-appealing, conveyor-belt of green...The incongruous shrines and monuments that sit alone in the middle of the rice paddies, signifying the farmer buried far underneath the soil...The impossibly-thin, translucent rice paper that wraps around Vietnam's other national dish, the spring roll...The ice-cubed filled glasses of milk, tea and juice that sweat profusely in the Vietnamese heat, as if leeching from the inside out, leaving pools of accumulated condensation overflowing their coasters...The filtered light streaming through the ceiling of the Jade Emperor Pagoda, turning the rising, fragrant incense into piercing rays of smokey, brilliant motion...Hearing your Australian boat-mates ask if you would like a snap. A picture, that is...The flora and fauna of Vietnam that take the edge off the nation's frantic cities...How the Vietnamese squat close to the ground, when waiting for a bus, or playing chess, or just making conversation...The eagles that snag fish from the emerald-green waters of Halong Bay, carrying off their dinner to some unseen nest...The cardboard boxes that are held together with string and tape, which constitutes checked luggage in Vietnam, slowly rotating on the belt in baggage claim, all in various stages of disintegration...Those same eagles, disappearing into the mist-shrouded mountaintops.
Maybe the Vietnamese are right after all, maybe I am rich. Because I love how Vietnam propels you forward, by boat, taxi, van, scooter, moto, ship or sampan. I love the feeling of perpetual motion that reveals why traveling here is so memorably addictive. From the sultry, ambitious progress of Saigon, to the moldy, grimy, sleepy town of Hanoi, I love to watch how Vietnam is moving in different directions, just like the water hibiscus floating in the Mekong. If you come here and pay attention, you'll discover all the treasures you desire. That's rich.
Vietnam is quintessentially Asian, meaning, there isn't an undercurrent of anger, jealousy, or resentment that lies just beneath the surface. In marked contrast to Egypt, where you are seen as prey, people in Vietnam are pretty mellow, laid back and genial. Yeah, they want to sell you things, but it's a soft sell, and they don't harass you if you say no. You can haggle, but it's an easy haggle, because stuff is already so affordable, from a Western point of view. In other words, people there are pretty cool. And unlike Thailand, where signs warn tourists to be wary of wily locals, I'm still trying to find something to be wary about in Vietnam. The best I can come up with is to avoid the snake wine. I mean, the least they could have done is take the freakin' snake out of the freakin' bottle! Hello? Major buzzkill!
But there are 2 types of visitors to Vietnam: One type that describes the smells coming from the street-food culture as intense, vibrant, bold and aromatic. And the other type that describes the same scene as pungent, rotten, disgusting and gross. For the latter group, well, enjoy your hotel's continental breakfast, because you're out of luck here. The buzzing streets of Saigon and Hanoi are filled with patrons sitting on ridiculously tiny stools, slurping noodles out of piping-hot bowls served from steaming vats of brothy goodness. Between the scooters parked on the sidewalks and the make-shift tables filled with hungry diners, there isn't much room left for pedestrian traffic. So what's the solution? Have a seat, and eat. Dive in.
It's pretty amazing to watch the food arrive early in the mornings. The de-facto sidewalk restaurant owner, usually a female, sets up her wood or propane-fired stove. Her deliveries arrive by scooter and on foot, not by truck. The chicken lady will arrive, dropping off hunks of skin-on, de-feathered, yellow birds. She puts them in her bubbling silver vat to start her stock. The rice noodle lady shows up on foot, carrying measured portions of noodles on her back, with the help of a long bamboo pole and rope. Same as the onion lady, same as the rice lady, same as the hot pepper lady, same as the pork lady, same as the fruit lady, same as the vegetable lady, same as the fish sauce lady. One after another, they drop off and get paid, moving down the sidewalk to the next stoop where someone else is firing up her vat of goodness. They pay in cash, exchanging thick wads of Vietnamese Dong for their meal's components. You know you're ready to eat when the crusty cook sets out her ridiculously short stools and comically low-slung tables. You ask how much, and then hand over 30,000 Dong (about $1.50), and watch her pour you a scalding-hot bowl of noodles with chicken, spices, peppers and spearminty-flavored green stuff. They're called Pho Noodles, and it's the national dish of Vietnam. People buzz by you, scooters park next to you, but you don't care. You are busy devouring the flavors of the Orient. The crusty cook looks on approvingly. Not at your Americanized chopsticks skills, but at your good food sense.
Maybe you're noticed, but it seems that most of the work in Vietnam is done by women. From the incredibly laborious rice-paddy farming to the delivery of goods for cooking up goodies, women dominate the labor market here. Transporting, farming, selling, the women do it all. The guys? I have no idea what they do. Mainly ride around town on scooters. Perhaps that's why the streets are so crowded. Okay, some men do work. But I guarantee you, they don't work nearly as hard as the women.
Images of Vietnam: The endless, floating bio-mass of water hibiscus that turns the Saigon River and Mekong Delta into a bobbing, visually-appealing, conveyor-belt of green...The incongruous shrines and monuments that sit alone in the middle of the rice paddies, signifying the farmer buried far underneath the soil...The impossibly-thin, translucent rice paper that wraps around Vietnam's other national dish, the spring roll...The ice-cubed filled glasses of milk, tea and juice that sweat profusely in the Vietnamese heat, as if leeching from the inside out, leaving pools of accumulated condensation overflowing their coasters...The filtered light streaming through the ceiling of the Jade Emperor Pagoda, turning the rising, fragrant incense into piercing rays of smokey, brilliant motion...Hearing your Australian boat-mates ask if you would like a snap. A picture, that is...The flora and fauna of Vietnam that take the edge off the nation's frantic cities...How the Vietnamese squat close to the ground, when waiting for a bus, or playing chess, or just making conversation...The eagles that snag fish from the emerald-green waters of Halong Bay, carrying off their dinner to some unseen nest...The cardboard boxes that are held together with string and tape, which constitutes checked luggage in Vietnam, slowly rotating on the belt in baggage claim, all in various stages of disintegration...Those same eagles, disappearing into the mist-shrouded mountaintops.
Maybe the Vietnamese are right after all, maybe I am rich. Because I love how Vietnam propels you forward, by boat, taxi, van, scooter, moto, ship or sampan. I love the feeling of perpetual motion that reveals why traveling here is so memorably addictive. From the sultry, ambitious progress of Saigon, to the moldy, grimy, sleepy town of Hanoi, I love to watch how Vietnam is moving in different directions, just like the water hibiscus floating in the Mekong. If you come here and pay attention, you'll discover all the treasures you desire. That's rich.