Moon Cakes

Cake Kiosks outside Vincom Towers Mall

The lunar calendar is different from the whatever-it-is calendar we use. I don’t know why and I’m not going to try to explain. Its enough for you to know that they overlap and we’re now in a period with an (August) moon festival which is celebrated each year with the giving of moon cakes.

The more sophisticated of our Vietnamese colleagues turn their noses up at the cakes, relating them to a bygone era. The festival itself was supposed to be a children’s event but it has become one of those things taken over by adults.

I knew nothing about any of this until new shopfronts began appearing all over Hanoi. The dowdy peanut shop, stationers or electrical cable shop suddenly acquired an extension in red and gold which protruded another metre into the street. Shining glass counters stacked high with red and gold boxes or bags appeared and surrounding trees were strung with fairy lights and Chinese lanterns. To see one or two shops so converted would be unusual enough but literally dozens of shops have been modified. At a modern shopping mall near our house a whole row of kiosks appeared overnight all dressed in the same livery.

When it started, about three weeks ago, the pavements were packed with shoppers. Crowds pushing and shoved to get served at the most favoured vendors. Less favoured locations a few metres away, and apparently selling identical produce, were deserted – that’s the way it works here, reputation is everything. Sales continued well into the evening and beyond the times when Vietnamese businesses usually close. Teams of extra staff could be seen sitting on pavements and in doorways furiously assembling the red and gold boxes into which the moon cakes are carefully packed, desperately trying to keep up with demand.

Given that we’ve been told city folk don’t go for the cakes (its more of a country thing you know) yet everyone buys them and everyone gives them to all their relatives I wonder where they all finish up? Certainly they seem a bit rich for the kids, I tried one, they look like ornamental mini pork pies. A decorated pastry crust and a rice based filling with a hard boiled egg yolk at the centre. The filling is sweet not savoury and it’s the quality of the filling that differentiates the good from the indifferent.

I’d been meaning to get some nighttime photos of these shops and finally got round to it on Saturday night – there being nothing else on this week. It was after nine and despite everyone telling me it is now Autumn the temperature was still in the high twenties. I was sweating and getting sticky before I got to the end of the road.

I stopped to watch the rats at the end of our alley, we noticed a few nights back that they use the electricity cables as their own mass transit system. If you stand and watch for a few minutes you can see dozens of them, they hurtle past - far more confident than any tightrope walker - moving up a level or branching off as they reach a pole. They obviously use these routes regularly - there’s no hesitation at junctions.

On the main road the Saturday night parade of motorbikes was in full swing, motorbikes all with two people on and many wearing their best outfits. They cruise the main streets of the one way system, a couple of friends chatting as they weave through the traffic, three or four couples riding side by side laughing and calling to each other or pairs of lovers - the pillion passenger hugging close to the driver. Occasionally the hugging is very obviously very intimate and one wonders how the driver is managing to stay on the road!

I took some photos by the shopping mall and then moved on towards the old quarter where I’d seen the most spectacular displays. But the festival is nearly over and the cluster of shopfronts I really wanted to photograph had already gone, as had the lights. The street which had been teeming with people two weeks ago was dark, quiet and closed.

Walking back in a wide circle which brought me down the side of Lenin Park gave me the opportunity to study more closely the small terrace of shops at the end of Van Ho II. They are tiny, maybe three metres square and not even two stories. More like one and a half – there’s a loft over each shop which is not quite high enough to stand up. The terrace backs onto the park wall, so they only have the one room. Most of them are either tailors or hairdressers. What had not been apparent to me before was that the owners actually live on the premises. At this time of night the steel grills are pulled part way across the entrance and the families sit on the floor watching tv and cooking on a gas burner, children get ready for bed, presumably in the loft. It does bring home that Vietnam is a developing country and not everyone is riding the crest of the economic boom. That said all of these small spaces contained a tv and at least one motorbike, dragged off the road overnight and parked next to the hairdresser’s chair or the tailor’s sewing machine for safe keeping.

By the time I got back into our alley all the grills and shutters were closed and the houses silent and in darkness. Startled I jumped to one side to avoid a young woman on a very quiet motorbike who emerged from a side alley without any lights, she braked hard to avoid me. We didn’t make that much of a commotion, but it was enough to disturb one resident. I slunk back to the house in the shadows, hoping no one saw me as THE dog began its machine-like bark.

Dog Story 2

The calm of our local street market at midnight

On the way to work this morning I had two near disasters. The problem is reading what other road users are going to do. Since no one follows any of the rules of the road traffic proceeds by telepathic agreement between drivers. This is especially true where a left turn is involved (remember they drive on the right). I regularly see a woman on a motor bike who always goes to the inside edge of the road before making a wide sweep out to the left ensuring she has to cross the path of every other driver on the road to make her turn. At least I know what to expect when I see her.

This morning I was cycling up Van Ho two and reached a small junction where the majority of motorbikes coming towards me turn across me. The art is to guess which ones will go in front of me and which will go behind, effectively I have to find a gap through the flow despite the fact that in theory I have priority.

This morning a guy who I expected to go in front of me decided to go behind me and we were on collision course until I finally realised his intent, a quick swerve using my one working brake and we slipped by each other with inches to spare. At the next junction – the opposite problem, but this time the guy actually waved to let me know he was going in front. My bike juddered as the brake, long past its sell by date, tried to slow me enough to let him pass. This cat just lost another two lives!

At the last junction before work I experienced another classic Hanoi syndrome. On a two way road cars and bikes had spread across both lanes as they waited for the traffic lights to change (they wait at this junction because the volume of traffic crossing the other way is such that even a local can see it would be suicide to try and go against the lights). I was on the centre line as I had to turn left after the junction, but I had as many motorbikes to my left as to my right. The two opposing armies faced each other and rushed into battle as the lights changed. Its times like this when I tend to hang back or position myself behind a car, not that that is ideal since you never know what the car is going to do; stop, make an illegal left turn, park in the middle of the road or worse still start reversing! Anyway I made it to work where a colleague showed me his bruises from last night when someone on his left at the lights made a right turn in front of him when the lights changed – another favourite – causing him to fall off his motorbike. His bike’s scratched and he is sore but still alive as he put it. His experience happens dozens of times a day here.

Last night had a couple of highlights for us too. For starters Mike locked himself out of his bedroom. He has the most secure room in the house with the best fitting door which does not have a handle. It is opened by turning the key, which was now inside the room with the door closed and Mike on the outside. This happens to him a lot, but on previous occasions it has been in hotels where housekeeping or reception can easily remedy the situation. Here there was only one key – in the room.

Well I wasn’t chairman of the South Notts Crime Prevention Panel for two years without learning a few tricks of the trade and after Mike had gone out (contemplating spending the night on the roof or on the bed settee) I found an old plastic card – credit card style and proved I have not lost my touch. After a few abysmal attempts I finally got the angle right, the card slid down, the lock clicked and the door was open. We spent the rest of the evening sending Mike texts winding him up about not being able to get the spare mattress out as the storeroom was locked.

The dog which sounds like a hacksaw has also made a comeback in the last week. On a number of occasions it has started up then stopped barking abruptly, usually ending with a chocking sound suggesting someone has grabbed it by the throat. However, on three occasions recently it has gone on a bit and a new phenomenon has arisen.

After the dog has barked continuously for about five minutes a siren starts. It’s not a quiet siren, very few are. This is a siren very much like American Police cars in 1960’s movies. It penetrates through the neighbourhood drowning out the dog and everything else. The first time I heard it I thought we had a fire engine in the yard – impossible since our alley is less than 2 metres wide. The siren continues until the dog stops, or is stopped – usually the latter. Last night, as the siren wailed and the dog chocked the German could be heard ranting in the background, but without any kicking of doors. I wonder if he was complaining about the dog or the siren?

Birthday Dinner

There’s something in Vietnamese culture about having food left on the table at the end of a meal, it means everyone was satisfied. If you don’t have anything left then you didn’t cook enough. This philosophy also abounds in Africa, and as we had appointed an African colleague as head chef for a small dinner party on Saturday night, the shopping list for the event was extensive. There is of course another side to this, a sort of paradoxical paranoia – if too much food is left, then it obviously was not to the taste of the guests and that is bad. It’s a fine line.

The event was the birthday of the oldest of our colleagues. She does not normally celebrate these events, but had been persuaded over the last few weeks that she should allow us to put on some small event in her honour. It’s a miracle we got there, the previous 24 hours my communication had been confused and we had lost the plan we made the previous week. Head Chef was in Ha Long all week and travelling back on Friday. She sent a message saying we would meet on Saturday morning and querying the time as she had been invited to a Vietnamese cultural event at 8.30, she was not sure she would have time to go (to the event). I thought she meant Saturday morning and replied saying she had plenty of time. She meant Friday evening and had intended us to go with her. I missed that bit altogether and so we were in the Bia Hoi, with the retired colonel drawing armaments for us to guess the names of, with my phone on charge back at the house when she phoned Derek to ask where we were. Oops!

10.30am Saturday we finally got together and planned. The meal was for eight. The menu was fish curry, mashed potato, fried chicken (must get that recipe), spiced rice, peanut and sesame sauce and the famous chapatti. One guest would bring ratatouille and another some fruit. Derek would cook flambé banana and pineapple dessert. Mike would provide transport for the shopping.

Chef and delivery boy departed for the markets and I went in search of wine and Gordon’s Gin – birthday girl’s favourite. I also wanted some birthday cards. Both cards and Gin proved elusive. The card shop I usually used had decided to take the day off and was closed. I found the gin in the third shop I tried and a few overpriced cards in Vincom Tours – the nearest mall. Cycling down Ba Trieu I was overtaken by Mike and Chef, now laden down with supplies for the cooking operation.

Much of the afternoon was then taken with cooking. I was not allowed near the kitchen. If Derek is possessive the Chef was more so. I didn’t even qualify as washer up. Delicious smells started to permeate the house and as the rice steamer started to heat up an army of our tiny indigenous ants staged an evacuation via the handle, swarming down the casing and across the table to meet their demise on a passing dish cloth.

I was allowed to learn the art of making Chapatti, flour, oil, water (warm) a little salt and sugar, knead the dough, roll it out spread with oil, cut into strips and fold the oiled surface in, roll out again, fry in a dry frying pan, as the dough sets turn it and oil the side which is part cooked, turn back and oil the other side, turn once more and remove as the blisters begin to brown. It takes so long! Cooking Chapatti for a large family must take hours. Anyway timing was perfect, cooking was finished as the guest began to arrive. Drinks were dispensed and the dishes cooked earlier in the afternoon reheated, cards issued, congratulations proffered and then down to the serious matter of eating. There was a LOT left but many contented noises.

We washed up and took a break before dessert (no option but to wash up, every utensil in the house had been used on the first course). Then Derek started the banana and pineapple flambé, which is when the gas ran out.

We’re on bottled gas here. The only mains utilities being the electricity which arrives by a cable precariously strung from a collection of telegraph poles and water which is metered and arrives in the yard before being pumped up to a tank on the roof. Whilst the electricity man comes once a month, with a bill to be paid in cash (in fact he arrived half way through the meal) gas had never been an issue. The bottle had been there when we arrived, over two months ago.

We found a phone number on the cylinder and called it, it was disconnected. We found another phone number and one of our colleagues who really does speak Vietnamese placed the call. Sentences were punctuated with the words “gas cylinder” – afterwards he admitted he didn’t know the Vietnamese for gas cylinder but thought they might know the English. The call was a failure, the woman on the other end just kept saying she didn’t know what he was talking about. You’d think she might have had a guess that we were ringing up for some gas, as it was the 24 hour gas supply line. Derek tried to flambé his bananas with a cigarette lighter, but the mixture had not reached flash point.

Then the phone rang! Someone at the gas company had taken a flier that we might be after some gas and called us back. A second conversation followed in which our address was requested and questions were asked which we were unable to answer, but which turned out to be about the size of the cylinder. Fortunately the guy at the other end of the phone guessed right.

Within half an hour a motorbike carrying two men and a 12kg gas cylinder arrived at the door. Change over was swift and at 200,000VND – less than £7 – seemed good value. We’re cooking on gas!

Dessert was followed by more drinks and we retired to the balcony for music and yet more drinks. The last of the single malt was consumed and guests began to leave. Birthday girl was bedding down on the new bed settee in the lounge (the last one was destroyed in the second flood) and as we assembled her bed she paid tribute to a lovely evening. So everyone was content and we have enough food left to keep us going until next weekend.

Why more people should eat dog

Its nearly midnight and I can’t sleep tonight, its not the heat and its not the rain. It’s a minor war going on out in the street. The perpetrator is an expat, probably a German or East European judging from the accent and war broke out with an enormous crash as he took something heavy to the steel panelled gates of one of our neighbours. This was followed by much screaming at the top of his voice, all of it in John Cleese accented English with a common theme of “shut the f***ing dog up!”

Last Saturday night, at the end of our party, the hard core retired to one of the balconies, where after a few drinks I pointed out to them the normal background noise to our neighbourhood. The small dog with a penetrating bark like someone hacksawing metal without lubricant and which goes on for hour after hour after hour after hour throughout the night. This dog can bark without breathing and does it with such rhythmic consistency that I’m not the only one who has mistaken it for an industrial machine working overtime. Once aware the assembled party goers were unable to blot out the sound. They began to stab themselves in the head with forks, stuff empty beer cans in their ears and hatch elaborate plots to kill the f***ing dog. When the last ones left the dog was still only just getting into its stride.

For my part I’ve adjusted to it pretty well. Its become one of those familiar sounds to go to sleep to, like the ticking of a clock or your partner’s snoring.

The German has obviously not adjusted and having reached the end of his tether has gone in search of the dog. He has now succeeded in creating total bedlam.

The number of active voices outside has grown to about ten, I’ve just wandered out onto one of the balconies and whilst I can’t see any of the action I can tell where it is from the number of our neighbours who are out on their balconies observing, they are there in force. The Vietnamese love a good street argument but I suspect the high level of interest is because the German has a lot of sympathisers.

Voices are getting louder, the noise of the dog has been drowned out by the German’s threats and the dog owners responses. Voices for and against the demise of the dog can now be heard in both English and Vietnamese and every time the dog’s yap rises above the melee something heavy hits the steel gate which is now sounding like the Rank movies gong, but louder. The German sounds as if he might be foaming at the mouth and the opposition are obviously wilting under the onslaught. I can hear some acknowledgements that the dog can be made to be quiet. Anger is going out of the German’s voice to be replaced by reason, he only wants to sleep, he has to work, he’s reached his limit, the dog is driving him crazy (obviously).

Silence falls, for a few minutes. Then the dog starts sawing again, the Rank gong plays the finale to the 1812 overture and the German is back in full frenzy, the cacophony of voices erupts again and then slowly subsides. Now total silence, it looks like the show is over. Total, absolute, silence. I can’t sleep!

Postscript – absolute silence lasted less than an hour, then the dog started again. The German didn’t come back so it looks like the dog won and I can go to bed now.

Flight to Paradise? (3rd August 2006)

Eriyadu island

The main problem with holidaying on a desert island is getting there. My Trip to Eriyadu is good example. It seemed to take place in chunks of two hours, the first getting to Noi Bai Airport in Hanoi. I had toyed with various ideas, the bus was cheapest – 10p to Kim Ma and then 15p to the airport. But I was unsure where Kim Ma bus station was, or how long it would take. So I decided to play safe and go for a taxi. This would be just over £4 for the 30km journey.

I left the house at 8.30am with shoulder bag and suitcase. Then fate took a hand. On the corner was our favourite Xe Om driver. This guy is notorious for trying to dramatically overcharge us. This morning I waved him aside but he persisted in asking me where I was going, “San bay” I replied, he made an impersonation of an aeroplane – he had understood. 80,000 dong he said (£2.60) my response was automatic “No, 50” “70” he said. I stopped, looked at him with an incredulous expression and pointed to my enormous suitcase. No problem he said. I believed him, having recently seen two motorbikes one carrying six 20 litre barrels of beer and the other a three piece suite.

I slung my shoulder bag, put on my hat and climbed onto his bike. A bystander handed me the suitcase which was jammed between the two of us and off we went. It was fine, a cool breeze took off the heat and everything felt secure. However, when we had travelled a distance which should have cost 10 to 15,000 dong he stopped and motioned me to a minibus. Damn this communication business he was never going to take me to the airport! The bus doors were closing so I threw the bag in as a holding measure and with the minibus driver gunning the engine started to pay the beaming xe om driver. My expression clearly conveyed how I felt and he stopped me once I’d handed him 50,000, indicating I need not give him anymore. I glared at him one more time and jumped on the bus as it pulled away.

The bus fare was 30,000 dong, less than the xe om and for three times the distance! Still the overall cost was less than a taxi. I spent the rest of the journey, which was similar to the M1 at Watford Gap on a Friday afternoon, plotting my revenge.

So two hours after leaving the house I arrived at the airport. A very nice young lady from Singapore Airlines (I think they are cloned) explained that things were different here, whereas in Europe latest check-in is two hours before the flight in Hanoi check-in would not open until two hours before the flight. I sat in the airport doorway drinking water for an hour, along with all the other western passengers.

Check-in was painless, except for the debate about visas – you need a visa for the Maldives – no I don’t – yes you do – no I don’t. In the end it was agreed I could purchase one on arrival and my luggage was booked right through to Male. I now had virtually 2 hours in the departures lounge. I headed for security and just in time spotted the ‘traveller’s surcharge desk’ – departure tax by any other name. $14US to get out. I paid up and went through security where my house keys were taken from my bag and examined one by one, I have no idea why. Departures was largely empty, both of people and facilities. There are not that many international flights. It consisted of one completely empty, grossly overpriced restaurant and a series of duty free shops all selling exactly the same things. Less than half the retail units are let. I eyed up a single malt, not bad at half the UK price. I asked about taking alcohol into the Maldives, it is a Muslim state after all. A brief check brought the response that I could take 2 litres of spirits for my own use. I bought a bottle of Laphroig. I sat and read for the rest of the two hours before joining the short queue of economy class passengers watching the long line of business class passengers boarding. We left 15 minutes late for an almost 2 hour flight to Singapore where perversely the clocks were an hour ahead of Hanoi, despite the fact that we flew west. Then 2 hours wait in Changi Airport where I was amazed to find an O’Briens sandwich bar just like in Nottingham. Two gate changes to confuse me and onto the flight for Male. A four hour flight but we go back in time by three hours on the way so arrive an hour after we left if you get what I mean.

Singapore Airlines are very good, food and drink as good as any I’ve had on a plane and those amazing stewardesses. Is it the uniform of low cut tight bodice and long pencil skirt that makes them all look so attractive, or is there a bit of discrimination going on in the recruitment process? Surely all the women in Singapore can’t be that tall, that slim and have such long slender necks, emphasised by wearing their hair up? I lay back and drifted off for a while but was awoken by the young, large, Chinese tourist sitting beside me. He was snoring loudly and gradually sliding further and further onto me. His elbow was just balanced on the edge of his seat arm. I gently nudged it the last millimetre and he woke with a start an instance before his head would have crashed into my lap. He looked dazed, apologised and rolled over the other way – mission accomplished.

I woke up to the landing announcements, one in particular caught my attention – “you are reminded that it is illegal to take alcohol into the Maldives” Hmmm, does anyone actually know anything about the outside world in Vietnam? I decided to play it by ear and got through passport control after explained to the immigration officer that Vietnam was in Asia (?) the need for a visa having never come up. Then I realised I would have to come clean. Here they x-ray all your luggage as you leave the customs hall. As we waited for the carousel to start I wandered over to the nearest group of customs officers and explained my plight. They looked serious until I reached my conclusion – I had a bottle of alcohol I now knew I should not have brought. Then it was all broad smiles, not a problem I could just leave it with them. They would give me a receipt and I could collect it when I left. And that’s what I did.

Outside the airport its hot but not extreme, 29 degrees C, low humidity and an evening breeze – that feels good! I look along the line of tour reps, all waving their signs, for the man from AAA Travel, but there isn’t one. I walk out towards the road and a man walks up to me “Good evening Mr Couldwell, how was your flight?” How do they do that? He delivers me fifty metres to another man behind a Peanuts style psychiatrist’s booth, shakes my hand and disappears. The second man smiles and hands me a hotel registration card to fill out. He then walks me fifty metres to a boat and hands me over again.

There are five crew, an Inman – tomorrow’s Friday and the island has a mosque - and an Indian. I’m the last on board. The boat has 14 airline style seats. The captain walks over with a silver platter stacked with rolled chilled towels. He hands me one with silver tongs and as I wipe my face I can smell the strong odour of lavender. He returns with a bottle of mineral water which he opens with a flourish and hands to me and then returns again with the silver tray and tongues to take the towel away – they really are trying to emulate Singapore Airlines, but they won’t succeed unless they find a few slim amazons to hand out the water. His final visit is to brief me, the journey will take 45 minutes and the life jackets are on the overhead racks, then we’re off.

It’s a fast boat and we skim the flat sea at about 40mph with the nearly full moon reflecting off the surface. The lights of Male soon fade to be replaced by small clusters round the horizon – more tourist islands scattered across the Athol. They don’t mix tourism with the locals here. Only one of the 87 tourist resort islands has a bridge link to a local community. All the rest are separate. Another 11 tourist islands are planned to the same pattern. I slept for most of the journey and was met on the jetty at Eriyadu by a receptionist who walked me to the main building for a welcome cocktail before showing me to my room. I dumped my bags on the floor and just climbed into bed. My journey to paradise had lasted 16 hours.