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Entries in Vietnam (4)

Wednesday
Oct052011

Saigon Urban Market: Snake Liqueur and $89 Rolexes

Where the Hanoi market sprawls onto the streets, the market in the more cosmopolitan Saigon is contained in one pavilion.   It’s still hot and humid, and bears all the market smells.

Now called the Ben Thane market, the French called it Les Halles Centrales and the building dates from 1914.  Here you can buy everything you might need for daily living. 

Real hawking goes on here.  One girl tried her best to sell me a fan.  When I resisted, but then later bought one from another vendor, she pursued me out the door to ask why I didn’t buy from her.   So, of course, she tried to sell me something else.

Bargaining’s de rigueur here, as it is in most of the country except in the more expensive Saigon shops where they have “fixed prices.”  If you’re shy about it, listen to the people next to you and you’ll catch on fast.  (Once in a museum shop in China I showed a little interest in a small jade foo dog.  “1800 dollars,” the manager told me.  As I started to turn away, “$1500,”   then, “Well,  it’s raining today—not too much business--$1200.”  I finally bought the piece for $320.  In some cultures, you bargain.)

 Ben Thanh Market

Ben Thanh Market

Olives and condiments

Coffees, some English, some Vietnamese. Does this say anything about tourist trade?

Knockoff watches - HIGHLY popular with my tour groupCoffee break?Soad fountain? Drinks in pineapples are popular

 Really into her work

 Snake liqueur...

 Reputed to be Vietnamese Viagra

 Counting the day

 Rough day

 Bicycle rickshaws awaiting shoppers

 Ready for rush hour

 

Sunday
Sep182011

Hanoi's Marketplace Tumbles into the Streets

Travelers love markets.  One senses the vitality and gets a glimpse into the culture of a country from the hubbub of its marketplaces.  And of course, the more exotic, the more fun. 

I always think we have to temper this with the idea that these markets tell us something of the inner city but can't really describe the whole country.  It's a little like going to Los Angeles' Grand Central Market downtown and thinking you understand the culture of America.  And a Farmers' Market in a suburban area will give you a much different picture. 

Still, inner city markets are fascinating.  So, here are some of my favorite pictures from the market area in Hanoi.

 

Dong Xuan Market - Old Quarter of HanoiDong Xuan Market - Old Quarter of Hanoi

Produce salesman

Poultry...Meat...and fish sold on the street

Produce

Vietnamese sidewalk cafe

Vietnamese sidewalk cafe

Vietnamese sidewalk cafe

Stuff

Name says it allMy favorite

And next time, we’ll visit the Saigon market which has a slightly different flavor.

Monday
Aug222011

Dylan—and Me—in Vietnam

It was our first night in Saigon, hot and muggy, befitting the Tropics.  And we were at an historic Dylan concert.  To my generation--now you know, I’m over 30—this was the land of war and upheaval, and Bob Dylan’s songs became anthems for the ‘60’s anti-Vietnam war movement.

“Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times They are A-Changin’” were to became chants of that movement, even though Dylan himself has said he never wrote them for that purpose.  Today I think they are as much a part of the American songbook as “Yankee Doodle” or “Stars and Stripes forever.”

Despite it’s commerce and commercialism Vietnam is still not the Free World.  Dylan, we were told, was prohibited from singing those very songs at this concert, held outdoors on the grounds of a university. It was his first appearance here---and quite possibly his only one—and part of a Far East engagement.  We weren’t sure if the young Vietnamese  would even know who Bob Dylan was, would understand the historic nature of this night, or if they had much exposure to American music.  About four thousand people showed up, but the venue was only half full.

It was a heavily international crowd, split between Asians and Westerners.   I met two very sharp young American women who were in the country to teach English and they fully understood the significance of this appearance.  Two young Vietnamese girls giggled their explanation that they were great fans of the singer.  An older couple from New Zealand had made this a deliberate stop in a several-nation tour just to be at the concert. And then there was our group of 60-ish attorneys and tag-a-longs (that would be me) who were reliving their college days.

Most of the crowd stood in the mosh-pit, but some of us dished out more money for chairs and tables in the VIP area, where there was even some waiter service for the beer.   We swayed to about 18 songs over two hours.  We had been told “no cameras,” though everyone else seemed not to get the message, and my cell phone was inadequate, so I have no video the historic night.  (Sorry).

Now, we interrupt thus narrative for a disclosure:  I have never been much of a Dylan fan.  Part of the reason is I could never understand him, and this night was no different.  A second reason is that there is a tangential family relationship.  My first cousin married his first cousin.  It was sort of ‘local boy makes good’ to me, and that doesn’t carry much mystique. After all, how can someone whose relative married into my family be an icon?  When my cousin heard that I’d been to the concert, she asked, “Did you talk to Bob.”  “Of course not,” I said, “he doesn’t talk to anybody.”

And that was true.  He didn’t say a word all night, except to introduce his band.  He played the electric guitar, the keyboard and the harmonica, decked out in a black outfit and his signature hat.  His mood seemed good-natured; he was enjoying his work.  A lot of his tunes were more recent works.  But I noticed that the longer he sang, the older he became.  In other words, the classic Dylan raspy sing-song comments and vocal inflections came out.  To my aging ears, now we were talking Dylan.

There were souvenir booths all along the area’s perimeter, and they were sold out of official tee shirts before the concert began.  So I had to do a lot of sprinting around to get my hands on some souvenirs which seemed almost as important as watching the performance.

But as I finally relaxed in my lawn chair and was taking some notes, a very young Vietnamese waiter who had been bringing us beer, squatted down beside me and said sweetly,

“When I see you, I remember my Grandmother.  She was a writer, too.”  I gritted my teeth.

And then Dylan played his last song:  “Forever Young.”

 

For more information about Dylan, visit:

Bob Dylan - Wikipedia

Bob Dylan - Bob Links - 2011 Tour Guide

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Bob Dylan | Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan on Facebook