One-Two-Three-Cheers!
One-Two-Three-Cheers! Another glass of beer shot back. The only thing left is the melting ice which clinks around as everyone puts their empty tumblers on the table. We are five rounds in at this point, sitting at a table with nine Vietnamese men of various ages. Five rounds in and we have no idea what we are doing here.
We woke up, still a bit groggy. We arrived to Hanoi late last night after a very tiring fifteen hour bus ride from Laos. Our first mission of the day, food! After we finally composed ourselves, we headed out in search of a local supermarket, one of the first things we do in any country to acquaint ourselves with prices. Today we happened upon a large chain market. Walking down a brightly lit aisle we marvel at all the the shiny products signed with words that we can’t comprehend. Random wandering lead us to the “French aisle”, a massive aisle filled with different cheeses and breads on one side and wine on the other. Later research revealed that Vietnam was colonized by the French for some sixty years leaving a lasting influence. Setting aside the local cuisine for a later meal, we opt for the comfort of Roquefort, Emmental, pitted olives, a baguette and two bottles of sparkling wine from the Dalat region of the country.
Sitting in a park, sipping wine from plastic cups and sampling cheeses. We could have been anywhere else in the world but the honking of a thousand scooters quickly reminded us that we were still in the Vietnamese capital. Pulling out the guidebook, we started looking for activities around town that wouldn’t break the bank. Cycling to the outskirts of the city to a temple in the rural areas piqued our interest.
Biking twenty-seven kilometers on a humid Hanoi day is no easy task. After an hour or two and an endless series of rolling hills, we made it to the area of where the temple was supposed to be but there was nothing in sight. Building up motivation we continued cycling down the dirt road, now sparsely speckled by a few trees and even fewer houses. Having ridden ahead, I pulled over alongside a fence to wait. A few minutes later and we had regrouped. We jumped off our bikes, leaned on the fence and decided to rest for a while. Within seconds we heard a sharp whistle come from behind us. Instinctively we turned around, looking in the direction of the sound. There stood an older Vietnamese man of medium build motioning for us to come over. We looked at each other for a brief second and without a word spoken decided to join him.
“Xin-chao!” we blurted out almost simultaneously as we approached the man. His response consisted of a sum of words that we didn’t quite understand. Smiling and nodding we followed him to a large porch where a group of Vietnamese men were sitting on plastic lawn chairs around a circular red velvet draped table. As we approached a few of them retreated, coming back seconds later with some flimsy stools. They offered us the lawn chairs and settled into the stools next to us. Before taking a seat we made our rounds, shaking hands, repeating “Xin-chao” while trying to explain our country of origin.
Not soon after the rounds of Bia-Ha-Noi started to be poured. As we surveyed our surroundings, we noticed that a bit of drinking had already been done. There were five crates of empty tallboys scattered around the table which created a sense of uneasiness within. With a glass half filled with ice and the other beer, someone announced “Mot-Hai-Ba-Yo!” This was our cue to tip back the glass and so we did. A few minutes of chatter and it was time for round two, three and then four. In between rounds the men took turns hand feeding us food with chopsticks, an experience that was very new and yet a gesture that filled us with comfort.
At some point during all this, a younger man emerged from the house. He came around and greeted us with a “How are you?” In the minutes following, we bombarded him with questions.
“What’s going on here? Is it someone’s birthday?”
With his broken English, the man asked us to follow him. He lead us down a graveled pathway that led to a house. As we approached we could hear laughter from women, a first as we had seen none earlier. We entered into a large dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn shut and the room was illuminated with a single lamp. The women sat on the floor lining the perimeter of the room, while a single bed rested in the middle. On the bed lay an elderly man, moaning quietly. We approached him with our translator. “He is old and he is dying. This party today is for him”.
In an instant we realized what was happening. Today was a celebration, a celebration of the man’s life. His family and friends had gathered to spend their last moments with him. But rather than mourn they had chosen to make this a joyous occasion.
Not knowing how to approach the situation, we walked over to the bed and sat on the floor. I held the old man’s hand and mumbled the only prayer I knew, the Gayatri Mantara, a Hindu hymn that is supposed to purify the chanter and the listeners.
“Om bhur bhuva swaha,
tat savitur varenym,
bhargo devasya dheemahi,
dhiyo yonaha prachodayat, swaha”
We sat there quietly for a few minutes looking at the man’s peaceful smiling face. The room was silent, with only a few whispers in the background. To our relief one of the ladies came up to us. She started speaking slowly in Vietnamese with the hopes that we would follow. From her hand motions we had gathered that the man had fractured his hip and at his age was not able to heal. The lady thanked us and then led us out of the room.
We sat down at the table, this time a bit somber. “Do you understand?” said our translator after taking a sip of his beer. He poured us another round and announced “Be happy!” to the group. It’s pretty hard to be sad when everyone else around you is filled with joy. Within minutes we were smiling again, now with the thought that we still had not found the temple and that we had to bike back another long twenty-seven kilometers inebriated.
