Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh

Until Friday, I felt reasonably confident that whatever my errors, gaffes, misunderstandings, and mistakes, I probably had actually irritated people only in Hanoi. That's the sort of self-empowering message I repeat as a mantra, making myself feel better, that although I've long since given up hope of improving the world, I've probably made it worse for people in only the small number of areas in which I've lived or spent significant amounts of time. Like with one of my private language teachers, who has to hear me maul the pronunciation of his native tongue, despite his best efforts, with the only bright moments for him in our lessons coming when his cell phone rings with a distinctive ring tone, an announcer shouting, "Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Jennifer Lopez!" To quote Jack Burton, sooner or later I rub everyone the wrong way. But in Vietnam, that meant only in Hanoi.

Until last Friday. We took our trip to the astounding metropolis Ho Chi Minh City, aka Saigon, and I think that the students were as impressed as I with the differences between that city and Hanoi. The two cities have the sort of uneasy rivalry, bordering on mutual ridicule, that one sees between Osaka and Tokyo, Beijing and Shanghai, and New York and Every Other Place in America that Considers Itself, However Ludicrously, an Important City. But it's hard for me to take sides, given my new affection for Hanoi and even newer affection for HCM City.

The physical layout of the city, with wide, French-style avenues (wonder how that happened), certainly contrasts with the (as one of my students put it) nearly medieval character of of sharp, twisty roads in Hanoi. The prevalence of foreign businesspeople (including, perhaps most prominently, an astounding Korean presence) also suggests a kind of cosmopolitanism that one doesn't necessarily see in Hanoi, even with the gorgeous mergers of architectural styles that have yielded the distinctive character of the streets up here. But the in-your-face modernity of HCM City's District 1, with its luxury hotels and boutiques, could also lead one to neglect Chùa Bà Thiên Hậu, or the Thien Hau Temple, with its distinctively Chinese roots. It's dedicated to a goddess who particularly protects sailors and fishermen (and, if you look at a map of Vietnam, you'll see why she might be of more importance here than in, say, Laos). Most noticeable to the students (including the one who first took a version of this snapshot, which I immediately did myself; she shall remain nameless though I encourage her to write a post to take credit for her good eye, since this is a much

better photo than any I'd have dreamt up on my own) were the visuals of the offerings, mostly in the form of incense. For special wishes that one might want to make, a long stick of incense makes a statement, but after it burns out in 48 hours, what then? Those with special goals -- whether to pray for their child's application to school, or the memory of a loved one -- might wish to purchase one of the hanging, conical incense spirals that sit alongside one another, dropping bits of still hot ash onto those who gather to take photos at the edge of the courtyard.

After the temple, we took in more of the rich melange of religious influences in HCM City by heading to the

famous Cathedral of Notre Dame, which sits a bit uneasily alongside the spectacular Central Post Office. The Cathedral is an architectural wonder, from the Escher-like tile work on the floor near the entrance to the neon-veiled Mary to the left of the spectators. The wall tiles around Maria are thanks and messages from donors who have presumably paid money to make sure that their prayers are remembered permanently in this highly visible symbol of Vietnamese Catholicism. I wish that there had been some worshippers with whom we could have spoken, but we were not there during Mass and could therefore intrude, as touristic ethnographers, into

their prayers. Instead, we took photos of one another's feet against the perception-destroying floors and of the silently glowing Mother of God.

I had to meet a friend that night, so I skipped out on the group dinner and wandered around the hotel area early in the evening. The Circle K convenience store chain, which I haven't seen up here in Hanoi but seemed to be everywhere in HCM City, is a sentimental favorite of mine because they're all over Japan. I pulled into one around 6:45 p.m. to load up on bottles of water and razor blades, struggling even worse than usual with my Vietnamese because of the difference in accents between Hanoi and HCM City, when an alarmingly sudden and violent downpour began. Walking back to my hotel seemed unwise. One of the other customers purchased a can of beer and pulled out his cellphone, speaking into it in obviously native Japanese. Thank God. For the booze and the chance to feel like something other than a monolingual nincompoop. I purchased a beer myself and stood there, chatting first with the staff and another customer in a hideous mixture of Vietnamese and English, and then to the other fellow in Japanese. I was beginning to do something I've read about in novels, seen in movies, watched on TV, and occasionally heard about from acquaintances before they politely excuse themselves and move to another table. I was making a new friend. In HCM City. Maybe, just maybe, I had found my place.

And then they walked in. They looked innocuous enough, two cute little girls, probably around 10 years old, both of them taking off their soaked shoes before walking through the door. The staff obviously knew them, as the Japanese man did. One of the girls had obviously decided that The Feral Kid in The Road Warrior was far more than a mere comedic foil; he was a model for both appearance and action. She started right away with the English: "Mister, please buy me Milo," referring to the sort of chocolate drink mix that one, I guess, puts into liquids that don't contain alcohol. Since I presumably might have mistaken her for a pushy street urchin coming up to a random stranger and demanding that he buy her stuff because, frankly, he's stuck in a convenience store in the middle of a rainstorm and she can make the experience even more purgatorial than it sounds, she immediately emphasized the magnanimity lying behind her request. Well, demand. Well, frankly, order. She said, "Not for me, for my sister," pointing at the other kid. The other girl also said, "Mister, please buy me Milo......Not for me, for my sister."

The other customers and staff, having seen this routine before, told the kids to knock it off. I looked at the Milo, calculated the price in my head, and decided, you know, this kid deserves something for figuring out a way to bug wealthy foreign tourists this efficiently. I reached for the roughly $2 package of Milo, at which point the girl immediately said, "not this one....that one!" I followed her finger to a massive jar of higher-end chocolate mix, running about $14. At this point, I said, "err..." though, to be fair, I was trying to think about how to say "err....." in Vietnamese, which made me less eloquent than I might ordinarily have been.

The girls continued harassing me, but I wouldn't bend. Sorry, for a couple of kids who have learned just enough English to bug the hell out of me, $2 is as high as I go. To irritate me enough to pay for $14 or else make me escape into the certain death afforded by the monsoon, they'd better learn how to recite the entire screenplay for You've Got Mail. I kept offering the smaller tin but they would have none of it. Fortunately, the rain the let up in time for me to avoid the certain segue to Hanks/Ryan/Ephron and my complete and utter capitulation. I said goodbye to the Japanese fellow, shaking his hand. The Feral Kid -- and I suspect that this is an image I will take with me to my grave -- reached out her hand to shake hands with me; when I reached for it, she pulled it back immediately and smoothed her hair, mocking me with the old "fake handshake" trick. I took off down the block, with the girls following me, screaming for me to buy the gum, at a much higher price, that they had just purchased at the Circle K. Realizing that they were going to find out the hotel at which I was staying -- which I couldn't see as being of a lot of benefit to me -- I stopped into a bar with two security guards in front, both of them laughing and then yelling "Đi Đi" to the kids, sending them on their way.

The following morning, the group went on a tour of the tunnel area of Cu Chi District in Saigon, about an hour's drive from the center of the city. This was an elaborate underground complex used by the Vietcong to stage their raids in the Tet Offensive. Now, of course, it's a tourist site, with all that that implies -- and so much more. The show begins with a lecture by one's tour guide (ours was terrific, and it appears that individual guides have the right to do a lecture and then show the film that's available on DVD in the opening lecture room). The documentary, apparently made in 1967 for a Vietnamese-language audience, is a fascinating piece of work. The English-language translation, evidently added much later (as was the electronic soundtrack), sticks uncomfortably close to the original; someone apparently hadn't gotten the oft-repeated memo about how the Vietnam War was a tragedy for both sides, that it was the result of mistakes, and that we're beyond that and that the USA and Vietnam are now good friends. In this video, peasants are valorized for their skill in killing Americans. Indeed, there was apparently a citation known as the "American Killer Hero Award," which may not roll off the tongue in English as easily as "Medal of Honor" or "Silver Star," but one can't fault it for a lack of descriptiveness. I'll admit to loving the video for the same reason that I love watching just about any piece of film or television that undermines our most valiant efforts to sanitize and cleanse the past. The language and emotion of the video were raw, and for that reason good preparation for some of the more striking parts of the tour. The display of booby traps -- all filled with bamboo spikes meant to penetrate hearts, stomachs, legs, arms, genitalia, skulls -- would have been alarming even if not accompanied with a mural proudly showing caricatured American soldiers screaming in pain as they're killed by one contraption or another. It's hard as well not to be impressed by the way in which the firing range -- a couple of bucks per bullet, should one want to fire away from an AK-47 or M-16 -- is located uncomfortably close to (by which I mean, 20 feet or so) the refreshment and souvenir station that comes up 2/3 of the way through the tour. The last section of the tour allows people to crawl through the tunnels (I declined, not so much out of fear as a sense that, having left my regular glasses on the bus, I'd be unable to see anything through my prescription sunglasses) before sitting down for a few strips of tapioca dipped in peanut. It was probably the most memorable and enjoyable tourist site (and I know tourism!) I've ever visited.

It was hot out, unsurprisingly, and I stopped back at the Circle K for some water on the way to my hotel. The Feral Kid popped in again, this time with another, older "sister." Recognizing me, she immediately demanded that I buy her some Milo. I declined, thinking that she'd maybe give up or rethink her negotiating strategy (by which I mean, her strategy of not negotiating). She grabbed my forearm, leaning forward to knock me against the candy rack, then attempted to block my door, preventing me from exiting the store. Quick note: it's very odd to stand directly across the street from a very elite-looking Sheraton hotel and feel that you're unable to get out of a convenience store because you're worried about being attacked by a ten-year-old with the rage virus. But I've always felt that the way you know you're making the world a better place is by thinking about your effect on the children. And at the moment of that push, I could rest assured: sooner or later, I rub everyone the wrong way, and not just in Hanoi.

Desaix

Hanoi III: Week I – Desaix Anderson

Despite technical problems and other discombobulating events, we are off to a good start. The students are a delightful group and full of life.
Historian Huu Ngoc’s presentation at the Van Mieu Confucian Temple of “Three Thousand Years of Vietnamese History and Culture --- in One Hour” again provided a cosmic and well-integrated view of Vietnam’s attraction and resistance to China’s dominance over a period of two thousand years, Vietnam’s struggle against French colonialism over 100 years, and finally the challenges of the emplacement by others of Vietnam in the Cold War. Mr. Ngoc retains certain nostalgia for Vietnamese traditional culture and voices some concern about the impact of globalization on that culture, but ultimately is confident that the Vietnamese people will prevail.

Secretary General of the Vietnam Historical Society provided his excellent analysis of the life and crucial role of Ho Chi Minh. A critic of many government policies, he, nevertheless, believes that Ho Chi Minh would approve of the direction in which Vietnam is now proceeding, including specifically in establishing a strong relationship with the United States.

Dr. Christophe Robert provided a highly insightful analysis on the nexus between Vladimir Lenin’s view of history and Ho Chi Minh’s attraction to Leninist methods and policies to promote the nationalist revolution in Vietnam. With the historical context of French colonialism from their reading, the students were highly appreciative of Dr. Robert’s compelling analysis on Ho Chi Minh’s manipulations and use of Lenin’s theories to create and lead Vietnam’s revolution.

Based on his impressive reading of international and Vietnamese scholars, Dr. Pham Hong Tung outlined the various theories of the sources of Vietnam’s strength in surmounting the challenges of defining its identity against enormous odds.
The week-end excursion to Ha Long Bay on the junk “Sunrise” captivated the students with its stunning beauty, the magnificence of the huge caves, not to mention the delicious shrimp and two sessions of swimming in the fantastic surroundings. We had a great time!

6/14/09

Trong mưa

While our seminar students take their group Vietnamese lessons from 9 to 10 every morning in the same classroom as our regular lectures, I take an individual lesson a few buildings away in the Department of Vietnamese Studies. This usually means wrapping up a few minutes early so I can scamper the 200 yards or so and avoid being late for a lecture on LBJ's escalation of the war or the intellectual background of Ho Chi Minh's communist and nationalist movements in the 1940s and 1950s.

Apparently -- and I would not necessarily have noticed this had sudden events not made the campus's topography very, very relevant to my life -- my language class's building sits a few centimeters lower than the buildings in the central part of campus. As regular readers of this blog know, I consider my body to be a machine; I happily ascend those few centimeters each day without complaint. But in a downpour yesterday, virtually all of the water on campus swept down toward my building, collecting outside the slightly elevated front step and trapping a few of us inside.

My thoughts, naturally enough, turned to the question of how long we could hold off before turning on one another, first with the kind of bitter recriminations of frightened people trapped in a lifeboat, and then later resorting to cannibalism. My guess was that we could probably hold off for 90 minutes or so before the absolute worst began, though admittedly my understanding of the limits of human endurance has been shaped by the length of the average zombie movie.

Others in the building -- perhaps as fearful as I was of the consequences of sticking around, though they hid it behind a kind of resigned laughter, like "here we go again" -- took off their

shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and plunged into the foot-deep water (immediately

outside our building) and moved up to the slightly higher ground of the road. I'm not one to shrink from a challenge -- except for quitting my marathon training in 1995; deciding not to ask out a girl in junior high school after some of my lying, horrible classmates convinced me that she had been a cast member of the Brady Bunch and therefore far above my station; and turning down a friend's request last year to quit my job and join him on a new venture -- I said, no, but why not take Joe Biden? And look what happened... -- so I followed suit. Silently thanking Princeton for demanding that I update my tetanus immunization, I trudged through the knee-, then calf-, then ankle-deep water to join our class a bit late, barefoot, and soggy.

Spotted!

...Kate Adamson: Fitting In, a brief summary.

JUNE 4, 2009. Adopted regionally appropriate pseudonym, well-received by fellow members of the BFDC, as evidenced by approving smiles in members-only Vietnamese class (June 9) when subtly integrated into “tên là gì” exercise. Further confirmation of its merit as an accurate indicator of identity can be accessed in the contact lists of member's mobile phones. *(6)*

JUNE 5, 2009. Revelry unmatched discovered in regional delicacy: yogurt, and pho. *(8)*

JUNE 6, 2009. Attended historically and culturally rich sites in Ha Noi like Army Museum, HCM's Mausoleum, Ba Dinh Square, one-legged pagoda, and Bar Tunnel Club. Sought funky, alas, fruitless, otherwise merry and rewarding day. *(8)*

JUNE 7, 2009. Joined Lake-side aerobics classes. On any given weekday, from 5-8am, locals stream in from the capillaries of streets surrounding Hoan Kiem Lake. On June 7, KA walked the 3 minutes from the hotel residency through the dense community of shops, restaurants, homes, and even temples concentrated around the lake’s edge, seamlessly joining the mass movement of people. Even in the early morning, when the air is pleasantly less polluted, the humidity is not as stifling, the honking of motorbikes is less frequent, and many residents are still sleep, the circle retains its dynamicism. The migration of people? Incredible (see Prof Leheny’s narration below for more). Even more incredible? The tacit self-designation and the creation of order among the cluttered masses. They systematically arrange in organized exercise. Between the games of hackie-sack on the sidewalks, the weightlifting on testosterone row (distinctly separated from the rest by boundary in the road), and the endless current of pedestrians circulating the lake, chi Kate dabbled between groups of people practicing tai chi, yoga, and heart-pumping, sweat-inducing, endorphin-releasing aerobics. Camouflaged among the other fit people—mostly elderly ladies—aerobercising, each cluster slightly different in difficulty, average age, size, or technique, our subject successively fit in with each group she joined (as measured by the response from other class participants-- all very encouraging, even possessive!) Some, the eldest group, more focused on belly-massages than the upper-body-twists and kicks of the more vigorous troupes, teamed together to shoo away a shirtless and shoeless friend that kept following Kate, unusually attached, offering his hands with open-wounds for her to shake. Clearly, alliances, of many degrees, were forged. *(8)*

JUNE 8, 2009. Hawaii-chaired. Enriched lives and made memories at Chim Sao, delicious dining experience. *(8)

JUNE 9, 2009. Took first Vietnamese Language class. Never has been the thirst for knowledge so desperate! *(7)*

JUNE 10, 2009. Taught ballet class. Language barriers minor obstacle in disciplining the 30 tutu-clad 6-year-olds, however, weaponry of excessively-animated facial expressions, Looney-tune limb-gesturing, pianist, and a young assisting teacher translating the interpretive “universal language” of movement all worked to combat the deficiency of shared spoken language. All and all, trying, but curious experience. Class given a 10 min break, and within the first five, assisted learning exercises in hand games culminated in harmonious and pleasant pointing and laughing. Everyone was having fun. It was much like college at Princeton. Dance moves exchanged, friends made, and smiles shared. *(6)*sunset at Ha Long Bay

JUNE 12, 2009. Just like the “Descending Dragon” fabled to create the physically dramatic rock formations, chi Kate descended from the roof of the imitation ancient shrimp junk into the only mildly-polluted, but richly jade colored, waters of Ha Long Bay. Creation of many karsts in the process. Also, she explored caves (above), kayaked, ate stuffed crab and cooked fish fresh from the sea, and soaked up lots of beautiful views (below, like the dragon.) *(6)*

JUNE 13, 2009. Regional garb sported, among emerald-green rice paddies. *(5--did not qualify for higher rating because purchase was at least two sizes too small, which is tacky)*


JUNE 14, 2009. Lost in the crowd of ~300 residents from the city attending evening Mass. Inconspicuously seated on the right side of the aisle with other conservatively-dressed, young ladies present at the service-- the demographic all very petite, with Westernized dress-- and then and also next to Charlie, the 6’3” Aryan male, (not fitting in. Men were to be seated on the left of the aisle.) *(6)*

JUNE 15, 2009. Snake Village, ritualistic practices of snake-consumption. No parts went to waste. *(9)*


*sliding scale môt - mu’òi’ (1-10) for how well she fit in


This documentation is by no means nearing termination or closure, but this day certainly is!! Until the next installment of Kate Adamson: Fitting In..... chao!!! Much more to come, so, Mom, tune in for more later!

Some snippets from the past 10 days

I'm terrible at keeping travel journals, so for this trip I've started a personal blog - sadly, I'm too lazy to write separate posts for this blog, but since I'm writing almost every day, I thought I'd just post some unconnected thoughts from the past 10 days. I'll cross-post more frequently in the coming weeks - and I promise it won't be so disjointed! I've included the dates, to give you some small sense of chronology.

June 9:

I’m hungry, debating whether I should go up and write this entry on the top floor of the hotel, where breakfast is served. I didn’t eat dinner last night – I’m discovering that between the heat and the large meals, I really only need two meals a day. But I did go to the grocery store last night and inadvertently bought some very overpriced raisin bran (no sign from the box that I’m in a foreign country – it must be imported straight from the U.S.) and a thermos for my tea with Tom and Jerry on the front (it was that or a shiny picture of Superman, but I’m not sure I was prepared to stare at Superman first thing in the morning). Grocery stores are always some of the strangest places to go in foreign countries. I was craving cheese, and after much searching had the rather obvious realization that they don’t eat cheese here. So no bries or gruyeres for me. But they do have kettle chips and cornflakes, so I suppose we Americans are supposed to be set.

I wasn’t brave enough to buy any of the Vietnamese snacks (I will next time), but I loved just wandering around, and I was incredibly pleased with myself when I discovered the second level of the grocery store, which was full of cosmetics and toys and pretty much anything you could want (I found my thermos there). I was amused to see that pads and tampons were in the aisle marked “sundry goods” – I’d love to do a study on how people classify tampons in grocery stores worldwide. There were a couple of other confused-looking tourists reading the backs of yogurt (or were they milk?) containers in the store (it’s called Intermix), but mostly it seemed local – lots of women buying cereal with children in tow.

On the way back from the grocery store, I made a friend! I stopped into an art gallery just across the street from the hotel (clearly very expensive, targeted at tourists – it had a “We prefer Mastercard” stamp on the door) and the girl who was working there turned out to be my age and studying English. We talked for a while before she had to go back to her job – they’re on vacation right now in the Vietnamese schools (unless you’re one of the Vietnamese girls in our seminar, and then you’re in exams), but she said to stop by the gallery again and we'd make a date for coffee – she wants to practice her English.

June 14:

I am in love with Vietnamese architecture. Driving back from Ha Long Bay yesterday, we drove through dozens of villages (and past hundreds of rice paddies) and the houses were insane and beautiful – all of them in different pastel colors, tall and very thin (four or five stories, but as wide as a store front), the sides sometimes just bare grey concrete but the fronts decorated with elaborate wooden doors, twisting balcony railings, marbled columns, the pointed tops of the buildings painted with flowers. One house even had the Mercedes hood ornament incorporated into the front of their second-story balcony. A few times, I could see inside, and the interiors seem to be just as dazzlingly jumbled – sea green walls, mirrors, brightly colored faux-marble tiles. The whole effect was pure kitsch. These houses were scattered among some older, simpler buildings, which have thatched roofs and small courtyards, much more the traditional Vietnamese houses that I had imagined. But the whole effect made the 3-hour ride much more bearable, especially since we had crushed over 20 people into one very small bus, and I had forgotten my iPod.

I think perhaps I should back up a little. This weekend, we went to Ha Long Bay, which is east of Hanoi, on the South China Sea. Hundreds of limestone mountains rise out of the bay, covered with green – and full of insects, which chirp melodically as you sail past. The best way to see the bay is on a tourist junk – we stayed overnight, which meant that we got to see the sunset over the bay (but, sadly, not the sunrise, even though I deliberately got up at 5:30 – the haze over the bay means that the sun just kind of appears). The sunset was unbelievably magical – the sea was pink and blue and gold, with the lights from the boats pricking the water and the sun disappearing behind the mountains. There are floating fishing villages scattered through the bay, and we stopped at one to go kayaking. The kayaking was pleasant, even though I am terrible at anything even vaguely sporty. The distressing part came from our proximity to the water - up close, we could see lots of trash and motor oil floating on the surface. The worst pollution that I saw, actually, was in the fish pens in one of the fishing villages – there were soggy cigarette butts and plastic wrappers drifting in the water.

June 15:

Yesterday, I decided to go to Catholic mass at St. Joseph’s Cathedral with Dan in the late afternoon (the one time I’ve been able to use my French was when I asked a nun when the masses took place), which was so lovely. I didn’t know what was going on, because of course the mass was in Vietnamese, but at least half of the service was sung by the choir, and the cathedral has amazing acoustics. Dan is Catholic, so he kept me posted on important moments during the service (and kept me from getting up and taking communion). But we were both confused when after about an hour, people started getting up and leaving, even though the priest was still talking. We had also been puzzled by the brief presence of a marching band in a corner of the church. We walked outside and saw that the cathedral square was full of people in bright costumes – little girls in yellow headdresses, old men in blue, women in the Vietnamese áo dài, which is a long dress-like tunic over a pair of silk pants. There were also hordes of people taking pictures and milling around. Someone passed us a sheet of prayers in Vietnamese, and we tried to read over it, despite the fact that the words "cat" and "table" were not likely to appear. We engaged several fellow tourists in conversation, but they were equally bewildered. After a few moments, priests emerged from the doors of the church carrying the Eucharist, the little girls tossed handfuls of flowers into the air, and a choir of nuns began to sing the prayers. Then the whole crowd started marching in a long procession around the church, singing. It was incredibly beautiful – Dan and I were both completely confused, although we had a range of wildly varying theories. The truth was almost disappointing - we finally talked to a nun and found out that it was the feast of Corpus Christi. The whole experience – mass, ceremony and procession – took about two and a half hours.

There was a weird coda, though. I was walking back to the hotel and almost got knocked into a motorbike by an old woman in traditional clothes, who had asked me (through gestures) whether I had come from the church. I was expecting a smile, but instead when I nodded enthusiastically she whacked me with her fan and gave me a very frightening frown, and I almost toppled into a passing motorbike. According to the women at the desk and some tourists who were hanging out in the lobby, my dress was too low cut for traditionalists. So that was an interesting complication to an otherwise enchanting experience.

Regina Pacis

Regina Pacis (Queen of Peace) says the statue of the Virgin Mary in front of the cathedral in Hanoi, the former Cathédrale Saint Joseph, a remnant of the French colonial presence in Vietnam.

“Remnant” is a misnomer: there’s nothing dead, decaying, stilted, or immobile about the large Catholic community in Hanoi and throughout northern and southern Vietnam.

Sunday evening, 6:30 pm, last week (June 7). As every Sunday, there is open-air mass in the cathedral, and on the plaza in front of it. The esplanade up the stairs at the entrance of the cathedral is crowded with people. They sit on small red or light blue plastic stools. Two women beggars are seated on the ground on either side of the gate’s entrance. Their conical hats are propped up on the ground in front of them. People bend down slightly and drop 1,000 dong bills in their hats as they walk in and climb the stairs to the church. The face of the younger woman is horribly deformed by a goiter, which results from lack of iodine in the diet. This can be easily treated, though it's still somewhat frequent in remote areas in the northern Vietnamese countryside.

The loudspeakers broadcast the melodious voice of the officiating priest over the plaza. A large video screen projects his image to the faithful as he stands at the altar. His sermon discusses the love of the Father: with this love one is never alone, regardless of one's actual family situation or social status. But one also has a duty to others in Christianity.

His amplified voice is loud and clear. This is very different from the usual terrible quality of loudspeakers in Vietnam. No “noise” in the transmission here, so to speak. I am struck by the comforting tones and reassuring warmth of his voice. At first I almost cannot figure out which accent he speaks in because his voice is so "round" and neutral, and flows so easily. He’s clearly trained his voice. His rhetoric is flawless and he modulates his delivery with ease. He speaks slowly and eloquently. This is fairly basic rhetoric (about love, mutual support, and duty) but also a powerful speech.

As I listen to the priest leading people in reading the scripture, I cannot help the blasphemous (or, preferably, ecumenical) thought that this sounds a lot like the voices of the faithful chanting sutras in Buddhist temples.

People sit quietly and listen. They admonish their children to play without making noise, they draw the little ones closer to them and absent-mindedly stroke their hair. There are a lot of people on the plaza beyond the cathedral's gates, too.

Traffic seems quiet in the surrounding streets, for once. Night falls quickly. The sunset is radiant. The clouds light up and glow, orange and purple. Then everyone stands and people begin to sing. It is a strange scene, but also a quiet one, somehow, which is rare in Hanoi, or urban Vietnam more generally.

At the end of mass, people quietly leave, and speak in hushed tones. They walk home pensively, or get back on their motorbikes, which were parked along both sides of the plaza. Traffic gradually returns to its usual high decibel levels, punctuated by the impatient bleep of motorbike and car horns.