It’s been a fast-paced 5 days in Hanoi, which by the way has lived up to my expectations of the city. If you thought that Saigon was crazy and full of motorbikes, Hanoi is about 2 notches above it, both in craziness and number of motorbikes. Sure, back here we see individual motorbikes go up on sidewalks to avoid traffic, but imagine a SEA of them on the sidewalks. I also saw a car up on the sidewalk at one point in a particularly nasty traffic snarl.
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| Like a Vietnamese version of Morgan Freeman in Bruce Almighty |
Last September 2 marked the 65th Independence day of Vietnam. Apparently, the man responsible for this was Ho Chi Minh, who had an Emilio Aguinaldo-like role but is revered like Jose Rizal. A quick trip to the Ho Chi Minh Museum confirmed this significance. Uncle Ho, as he is so affectionately called much to my amusement, pretty much built modern-day Vietnam, with his roles in the struggles against both the French and the Americans, as well as leading Vietnam into unprecedented economic growth into this day and age.
I was therefore half-expecting a spectacular display of national pride as I woke up that morning. Although I didn’t exactly get what I was looking for (my search would have been more fruitful in say, North Korea), I did discover a few nice touches to Vietnam along the way.
The Man with the Violin
After having breakfast, I went to Pau’s hotel to see if they were already up and about. Upon being informed that they had not yet come down from their room, I decided to get an early start and do a bit of Independence-Day sightseeing. The first choice destination was the city cathedral as it was only a 2-minute walk from the hostel. So sleepily I went, trudging along the backpacker-infested alleyways of Ngo Huyen. What greeted me there upon arrival however, ensured that all sloth left in me was melted away.
Seated on the hard concrete right in front of the cathedral gate was an wizened old man in a cowboy hat with a violin in hand and a crowd in the other. They were all seated around him in a circle, singing what appeared to be an old Vietnamese song about Uncle Ho. As foreign as Vietnamese is to me, I recognize Uncle Ho’s name when I hear it, and I can only assume that the words ‘we,’ ‘love,’ and ‘you’ were there at some point. He’d change songs every so often, stopping to teach the words to those in the group who didn’t know the lyrics, mostly the younger ones.
Ho two, as I had mentally referred to him by that time (he looked like…guess who?) also catered his entertainment to the foreigners passing by, inviting them to sit with him for a spell and promptly proceeding to play their respective national anthem. One woman in particular stood out as she did just that - stand to attention - as Ho two started playing the first few notes of Das Deutschlandlied.
Watching him play so enthusiastically and spurred by national pride (he did not ask for a single cent from anyone during the 45 minutes or so that I was there) made jealousy pull at my heart strings, as I longed to see that same thing in my beloved Philippines, perhaps with Ang Bayan Ko or even seasonal melodies such as Pasko Na, Sinta Ko sweetly wafting through the wisps of air at Luneta, rather than La Bamba at a cheesy restaurant (I used to request that ALL the time as a child. I have no idea why).
I’m sure that these people still exist here, hidden as diamonds in the rough along the streets of Manila. I take it upon myself to find them, maybe just to listen to them play, maybe to sing along a bit, and maybe to give them an affectionate pat on the back and tell them how much that meant to me.
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