Up Past Curfew

Phuc Tan at 4am

There is a twelve o’ clock curfew in Hanoi, or so I’m told.  True, most respectable places of business do close their doors well before this time and the streets are almost devoid of people.  As for those places that do stay open, and for those people who do wander past curfew, I hold a bit of suspicion.  I don’t really know the penalty for operating past curfew; all I’ve seen in regards to this phenomenon are laughable scenes of bars having patrons walk around the block, drinks in hand, until the police have left; that, or restaurants, alerted minutes before the arrival of the police, quickly taking away everything on your table to make it appear as if they’re closing up.  My suspicion arises from the fact that these places and people, you know who you are, obviously have no problem breaking the law, albeit a small one; who knows what other liberties they’re willing to take.

I’ve only been in Hanoi for a month now, so those seasoned souls who have been here for years will probably laugh at the naivety of my perceptions regarding the dangers of living beyond curfew.  Having said that, there do seem to be lurking dangers that had never occurred to me when living in Saigon… namely gang rape.  A friend of mine, let’s call her Sheila was out with another friend, we’ll call her Jane.  It was past curfew and they were clubbing.  Jane got so drunk she could barely stand, so Sheila, with the help of a Vietnamese guy loaded her into a taxi.  Sheila was having a hard time giving the driver directions to Jane’s house so the good Samaritan, who helped load her in the car and claimed to be a police officer, got in and said he’d help get them home.  The Good Samaritan instead directed the man to a dark alleyway where a group of men were making rude gestures.  The men proceeded to grope Jane and try and pull her out of the car whilst Sheila screamed for help.  Apparently one of the men had a moment of conscious and started yelling at the others.  The cab took off and brought Sheila and her friend to her house.  The cab driver then tried to overcharge them.

So you see what I mean about these den’s that stay open late and the spiders that abide in them.  The other night I went to one.  Hanoi Rock City was closing for the evening having hosted a few bands playing decent covers.  I’d been drinking for the better part of the day and saw no reason to stop just because the bar had closed.  It was suggested that we go to Phuc Tan, which apparently never closes.  I was pretty much out of money but figured that would work itself out somehow.  Phuc Tan is a meat factory: full of sweaty scantily clad young bodies looking to hook up.  I don’t know why but the upstairs area we eventually shoved our way up to gave me the impression of a boat.  Something about the mouldy windows, musty scent, and the way everything seemed to be swaying.  This last part, I presume, was from the alcohol.

Phuc Tan again

After a series of nineties classics one of my female friends said that this club was situated right next to the Red River and that there’s a path that leads there.  I told her we must do this!  She then warned me that one of her male friends had been “molested” and that there’d been some weird naked guy shouting at her last time she’d taken the path.  I put the quotes on molested because I don’t really know what she meant and since she was smiling when she said it; it probably wasn’t all that bad.  We must do this, I reiterated and proceeded to convince the rest of our group to join us on our adventure...they all said yes.

It was a dark path on slippery wooden planks hovering over a lotus pond.  The railings, when they were there, were rickety things that offered very little stabilization.  It was a horrible idea.  I thought this many times on the way as the planks gave way to a muddy path I twice did a cartoon style wobble.  The kind of wobble that feels as if your legs are whirring beneath you circular fashion keeping you from falling.  There was lush vegetation to the left and right but again, very little visibility.  I stomped in the muck beneath me having once heard that you’re supposed to let snakes know your coming and they’ll probably get out of your path.

Our destination was full of mosquitoes but quite picturesque with the lit bridge in the background and the Red River beneath.  No naked man...no molestation...no danger at all really except that of falling.  When I was bringing my wife, who was having a hard time staying awake on the dance floor, home I was extremely aware of the possible dangers.  In my mind were the aforementioned gang rape story and other tales of people being stripped of their possessions and beaten.   Instead, I got a very good deal on a cab ride home.  In Saigon I never thought twice about my personal safety and regularly wandered about until sunrise...is it possible that these dangerous tales I’ve heard have been exaggerated?  Does curfew create a haven for deviants?  Is it just a matter of time before I too get into trouble?

The Gatekeepers

Most of us past our mid twenties will remember that famous scene from Ghostbusters where Sigourney Weaver, wearing that tawdry red dress charred from the apartment fire, asks Rick Moranis, “Are you the Key master?”

In reply he asks, “Are you the Gate Keeper?”

They embrace and begin making love in a half destroyed apartment complex while horrible scenes of slimy ghosts wreaking havoc take place below them.  After a few weeks of staying at my friend’s house here in Hanoi, I too have found the Gate Keeper.  Not in any sexual sense, good God I hope not, for my Gatekeeper seems to be about ninety years old.  Okay, maybe a conservative eighty, but I still don’t think he’d be any competition for Sigourney even with his own red dress.  Maybe I have a thing for Sigourney Weaver...I do really like the Alien series...especially when she’s clad in underwear shooting the Alien out of the airlock.

I digress.  My gatekeeper is an old Vietnamese man who is, not surprisingly, married to an old Vietnamese woman.  They’re an odd pair and really don’t seem to have much else to do all day than check on the gate.  Let me paint a picture of the alleyway: it’s off of Kim Ma, a major road, and there is a narrow passageway with peoples flats to the left and right; at the end of the passageway is a gate the opens to three or four other houses including our own. At night the gate is kept securely closed with a padlock; during the day it is merely a large metal peg that can be unhooked, via a small swinging opening, from either side.  The old couple, day and night, have taken it upon themselves to make sure that the gate is always shut. 

Periodically throughout the day the old man or woman will potter down to the gate, jiggle the metal peg, look out at the busy street through the bars, usually look disapprovingly at our house, and then potter on back home.  Even if the gate is left unfastened for only a minute, they are well aware.  Once I walked to the end of the road to throw out our trash, a thirty second journey, and on my return was met with a look of death from the old woman.  She gave me a good talking to and there was little confusion, despite the language barrier, what she was upset about. 

I can’t help but feel there is a little partiality to yelling at us rather than the other residents in the alley.  I’ve seen others leave the gate wide open and drive off without giving the old couple a thought.  When this happens I’m always worried that I’ll be blamed for the transgression; in fact, I sometimes close the gate for others fearing chastisement by my wrinkly neighbours.  Again, I don’t see them yelling at the others, just us.  Is it because we are the only people that allow this kind of treatment, is it just racism, are they in some way trying to be nice by showing how much they care about our safety?  If so, why do they also insist on looking through our rubbish?

 I think about this and I also think how I’ve never seen them outside of the gate.  I think of their age and wonder if they are more frightened of the world coming in, or that they might be forced out into the world.  The city’s changed rapidly over the past few decades, so much so they might not even recognize it.  I imagine that, in a way, it has changed to such a degree that they are actually living in a land foreign to them.  The only comfortable place is home, or rather that small area behind the gate; the gate through which they watch the world change.  The only contact they have with that changing world is probably us: the foreigners, no less strange than Slimer, who need to be told how life is lived behind the gate.