Hawking loyalty

The best place to feel the power of the communist regime in Hanoi is the marketplace or the mausoleum. And the policeman is the standard b...

The best place to feel the power of the communist regime in Hanoi is the marketplace or the mausoleum. And the policeman is the standard bearer of Ho Chi Minh8217;s legacy. In the market first.

Walking down the street of the Old Town area, a hawker walks up to a journalist with the ubiquitous straw hats. The hat costs one dollar. The journo is trying to haggle in French-sounding English to a hawker speaking English-sounding Vietnamese.

All seems well, when a green uniform with red lapels walks up and thrusts the entire bundle of hats in the unsuspecting hack8217;s hand. The hack looks stumped, the hawker has fled. In the meanwhile, the Indian Prime Minister8217;s cavalcade passes by, and like a good citizen the journalist stands by to wave. Only to realise that the hats are still in hand. The policeman looks pleased at the service he has done to the country that has stood by Vietnam through war and war.

The journalist at this point decides to take matters into her own hands instead of hats and crosses the road to look for the hawker. As soon as she finds the girl who had fled without the straw topis, she hands them over and walks on. She enters a shop to find a tap on the shoulder. The policeman and the hats are back. He is furiously gesticulating, threatening dire consequences for India-Vietnam relations if the hats are not taken, gratis.

Once again, the hats are on the journalist, the hawker has fled and the policeman is pleased. By now the journalist is the laughing stock of the entire market, her colleagues are holding their stomachs not hats trying to keep the laughter at bay. And the journalist is feeling like something out of the Bible, bearing stuff that she wants to get rid of.

Once again the young hawker girl is found and this time the Indian pays her two dollars for a hat. The cat and mouse game starts again, with the macho policeman demanding why some of the hats had been returned and others paid for when he had given them as a gift.

By now, the journalist has decided to bid goodbye to India-Vietnam relations and get on with telling the green uniform a truth or two about market economies and how they have nothing to do with heavy-handed policing. All this is said in English and he no relation to Ho understands only Vietnamese. End result: he thinks the journo likes him and waves his arms around saying in translation that she can take anything from the shops without paying and treat it as a gift from him.

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This may be good for inter-country relations, but for the journalist it spells the end of shopping. Instead she does the touristy thing and goes uptown to see Ho Chi Minh smiling under the red light in the mausoleum. She is charging up the city to see the only other embalmed person, apart from friendly neighbour Mao Zedong. Only to be accosted by green uniform with red lapels. Not the same man in uniform, but obviously the behaviour is uniform: macho.

Keep quiet, she is told, and keep your hands off your back. Walk in state is the next command. Not having been part of Princess Diana8217;s funeral, it seems like a hard thing to do. A cross between a march past and a fox trot is achieved to the lack of satisfaction of the communist regime which observes strict standards in the presence of the revered late Ho Chi Minh.

It seems safest to leave and make the escape to the fledgling democracy of Indonesia.