Hiển thị các bài đăng có nhãn Hanoi. Hiển thị tất cả bài đăng
Hiển thị các bài đăng có nhãn Hanoi. Hiển thị tất cả bài đăng

Thứ Tư, 18 tháng 6, 2014

Riding for Inspiration

(Vietnamese title: Đi xe máy như một cảm hứng, from the book "Xe máy tiếu ngạo")

The motorbike, more than just a means to travel and leisure, is a symbol of freedom, youth, and the inspiration of the open road. Of course, the big-engine bikers now roaming the vast highways of the world must appreciate those riders that came before them, who, through the ways they rode, and the reasons they rode, turned this machine into a cultural phenomenon.



Although it may not be the exact birth-point of this trend, one place to start is with Che Guevara, who at age 23 journeyed across Latin America accompanied by his friend Alberto Granado. Their trip, far from two South American boys on a joyride, became a journey through which they discovered their ideals. Over nine months, they covered a distance of some 8,000km, riding their 500cc Norton across a series of countries with a shared language and a continuum of cultures. After a first attempt in early 1950 on a motorized bicycle, the motorcycle voyage important here began in January of 1952, using a well-worn ‘39 model that they named La Poderosa (“The Mighty One”). From their experiences, Che would write the famous Motorcycle Diaries, recording what he saw and heard, as well as his vision of a struggle for social equality. Che became a symbol of revolutionary youth, and his motorcycle journey came to be regarded as the wellspring of his universal dream, in which all young people might engage, provided they invest a bit of material and a great deal of heart. Granted, they were forced to abandon their bike in the middle of the trip after it broke down, but even so, the spirit of this most liberating of vehicles set the tone for the rest of their adventure. We still wonder at these committed revolutionaries, who resolved to set out on the road carrying little but themselves, and yet who managed to achieve great distances, and great things, out there on the road of history. Who knows how much of this destiny was inspired by their old rattletrap bike, so unlike the thundering legend born from the minds of historians and the weavings of our popular imagination.


Che on a his bike in 1950

Che's La Poderosa 

 The travels of Che and Alberto were meant to get them a firsthand look at the society of the mid-20th century, a corner of the world at the outset of the Cold War, when the US saw Latin America as their “backyard.” The pair gave medical treatment to patients with leprosy and tuberculosis, both considered incurable at the time. They did this without fear or care for their own suffering, treating the sick without gloves or quarantine, even playing soccer with them. Their revolutionary inspiration would go on to sweep the continent in the years to come. When their bike broke down, the patients that Che and Alberto treated fashioned them a simple raft to float down the Amazon River. Che had left behind a romance and the swell life of a future doctor in order to further his commitments. Che’s girlfriend sent him 15 dollars in order to buy a swimsuit for her should he happen to visit the US (and come to the US he did! Here is Miami, the end of the road)[1], but Che gave the cash to a poor farming family he came across. That is something truly too romantic, to imagine riding our motorbikes from Vietnam to Japan with money in our pocket to buy a kimono in Japan, but could we imagine ourselves giving away that cash on the street instead? Che and his friend were not aiming for urban luxury, but for “the people at the bottom of the city, the beggars. Our noses would breathe the same air as the miserable.” The motorbike was the first object of a roadtrip that was at once ecstatic and, in its time, as yet unaware that it bore early witness to the most important story of the twentieth century: people’s liberation.


The cover of Che's book


Che with Alberto on the raft Mambo-Tango

Verso, the publishing house that first brought out The Motorcycle Diaries, called it “Karl Marx’s Das Kapital meets Easy Rider.” At another time, in another sense, Easy Rider[2]— an American film made in 1969—also dealt with the subjects of youth and rebellion.  The final years of the Sixties marked a sharp change in the lives of  young Westerners, with its hippy movement, rock music, drug use, and protests against the war in Vietnam. Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper starred as the film’s two protagonists, clad in leather jackets, an American flag emblazoned across Fonda’s helmet and chopper as they travel across the Southwest and Deep South of the USA. The pair embody an “On the Road” generation a la Jack Kerouac, and they are looking to find something beyond the empty materialism which, to them, embodied the conventional American Dream of the era. The film seems merely to depict the misadventures of two drug dealers bound for the South, but it also affords us a look into America’s dark corners and insecurities. The tagline of the film expresses its spirit of hopelessness: “One man went looking for America and couldn’t find it anywhere.”

Audiences fell in love with this movie for the realism with which it treats these rebels’ lives outside the law, their hallucinations and shattered inspiration. This in the context of that simultaneous corruption of old values and explosion of new needs which defined the “baby boom” generation (the generation born after WWII, when the birthrate surged). More than that, this generation demanded acknowledgement and a confirmation of its own values in an era when America was bogged down in the quagmire of Vietnam and the escalation of the Cold War.

Che's journey map . The blue line was by motorcycles. The red was primarily by planes.
'
One scene from the movie in 2004 based on the book  Che's 'The motorcycle diaries'  with actor Gael García Bernal as Che and Rodrigo de la Serna as Alberto.

It was not random that the motorcycle became a defining feature of this youthful generation’s way of life. From Jack London’s ragged “iron heeled” shoes[3]  at the beginning of the 20th Century, to the automobiles of Jack Kerouac and the other Beat authors in the years 1947-1950, to the motorcycles of the new generation, all were chosen on a shoestring budget, but with more than enough passion. Now, admittedly, the Harley-Davidson chopper featured in Easy Rider was by no means cheap. In fact, it was a top-of-the-line model, a rare species of machine in the same class as a yacht or a sports car… After the commercial and artistic success of Easy Rider (which grossed 42 million dollars), there were countless movies, songs and lifestyle products inspired by the film. All of them, however, partook of a common denominator: the imagine of a lone outlaw riding his bike into the distance. All of this, however, remains difficult for Vietnamese audiences to interpret, given the fact that for nearly all of us, the motorbike is the main vehicle for everyday, routine getting-around.



Above all, out of all our means of transport, the motorbike remains the cheapest and most mobile. Try to imagine how it would have been if Che had used a car instead: perhaps his rendezvous with destiny out there on the road would not have been quite the same as what took place when he rode that rusty motorcycle. The look of a rider exposed to dust and fumes, wind and fog, rain and snow, is absolutely different from that of one who sits behind a steering wheel. The motorbike’s route also weaves more readily through the curving narrow streets and sharp corners of life, from the indigenous villages of the high Andes to the vice-filled backlots of Lousiana, places that a four-wheeled car restricted to highways just cannot access. For the real-life motorcycle journey which inspired revolutionary ideals, as much as for the purposeless joyride in the movie, it was the longing for free horizons that first inspired their youthful protagonists. The changes they experienced on the road were just what they were expecting. Their lack of concern for accidents and risks stands in exact opposition to our modern consumer society, which strives to sell its members the very latest solutions for safety and convenience. The funny thing is that both Che and Easy Rider would become highly commercialized icons, exactly the opposite of what launched either onto the road. Today we can see Che everywhere, on posters, t-shirts, and coffee mugs. Easy Rider became shorthand for a style of life and fashion similar to that of the English rock stars splashed across the era’s entertainment pages. The idea of finding life’s values somewhere “out there,” and of a life that asks people to confront notions of their own dignity, freedom and happiness, faded beneath all of that beautifully-branded printing and display.

Even Barbie becomes a easy rider.

In Vietnam, there’s still one form of seeking inspiration through the motorbike ride, and that’s the phượt, i.e., the far-ranging camping trip. You can still find them wandering the mountain roads, the youths of Hanoi or Saigon who have veered away from the 6 million other bike riders piled into their respective cities, joining together in small groups for a few days of exile. Sharing in the same global-culture symbolism of the motorbike discussed above, they head out in search of vast landscapes, wild and unclaimed, things that the big cities of Vietnam don’t have.

Many Western tourists, appropriately enough, are introduced to Vietnam in the manner of Easy Rider, according to the old Vietnamese traveler’s maxim, “Wherever you stop is your home, wherever you fall is your bed.” Of course, every traveler seeks out the truly extraordinary, but some of them do so with pen in hand, checking off the bullet points of a “must-see,” list, the so-called “Bucket List” having become a familiar concept in today’s society. Clever tourists also embrace this practice in order to efficiently ply the roads of Vietnam as highlighted by the Easy Rider touring brand in Sapa and Dalat[4]. For Westerners, one of the good things about this kind of travel is that they don’t need to fuss over the Vietnamese repair manual for their ride. There is no need to communicate; the Vietnamese mechanics who handle the vehicles take care of everything. Truly an “easy” motorbike for cross-cultural exchange!





Let us return to the urban youth of Vietnam. They also want to try out their ability to conquer nature, of course at a very “modern” level, something that city-dwellers have lost. Those very beautiful, bright and swanky bikes, often custom built, costing hundreds of thousands or a million dollars and sold to actors Tom Cruise or Jet Li to ride, seem incapable of sharing in those legendary bike journeys past through this dusty world of life. Among the crowds of motorbike riders, often frantic, often flaunting the laws of traffic and the code of civilized conduct, dragged into a chronic fatigue day after day, month after month, on their ordinary commuter’s motorbike: how many of these people think of the two wheels beneath them as a source of inspiration?


(c) Nguyen Truong Quy
Translated by Jacob O. Gold



[1] Che’s final stop on his grand tour was a stint as a dishwasher at a Miami hotel, in order to raise money for a return ticket to Buenos Aires. This detail of Che’s biography closely mirror’s Ho Chi Minh’s own brief sojourns in Boston and New York City.
[2] In the original Vietnamese, the author follows the English with his own loose translation of the film’s title in parentheses:  “tay lái dễ chơi”; loosely rendered back into English “easy-playing handlebars”
[3] This is a reference to Jack London’s socialist-dystopian novel of 1908, The Iron Heel.
[4] Established in 1994, Easy Rider Motorbike Tours allows tourists to travel various popular routes through Vietnam, alone or in groups, on the back of a motorbike piloted by a tour guide. Since its popularity has grown, many imitators have sprung up (often started by former employees of the original), leading to bitter rivalries among various “Easy Riders.”

The "life" of a motorbike (Đời xe máy)

Up to this point in my life, I’ve been through four motorbikes. I’m certain I won’t be stopping there; nor do I want to stop! Motorbikes these days are far more affordable than they used to be. With the globalized production of consumer goods, things aren’t made to last, and bikes don’t run well for very long, because the faster they break down, the faster people go buy new ones, and the faster that producers can turn around their inventory. And so, your new bike will only chug along for a few years before breaking down and “asking for some cash.” Inevitably at this point, every time you look down at the street, it will seem to be filled with an endless parade of beautiful people, gliding past your window on the latest models.

The word-of-mouth when talking about a rich person, though, is, “he’s already bought one.” “One” here refers to a car, but never to a motorbike. Too bad for the motorbike, which was also worth a fortune back in the day. To tell the truth, where I’m concerned, a motorbike is still worth a fortune. Should I happen to lose a bike, heaven forbid, I would really be shocked. To lose a bike is to lose money, to lose something that has stuck with you for some time, but also, it foretells the succession of days to be spent finding enough money to buy a new bike, and then fretting over which type of bike to buy. And many are the lengthy stories about legal procedure: you have to report the loss to the police, worry over the registration papers, and depending on which district you live in, you’ll have to go out to Hà Đông, or up to Lý Thường Kiệt, or across the bridge to Gia Lâm[1] (in Hanoi, vehicle registration is assigned according to your area, and at different locations)…

I am also like many of my acquaintances, who’ve a mind to buy a bike that’s inexpensive, safe and doesn’t guzzle gas. Although it’s not necessary that the bike be super-durable, frugality is clearly the order of the day. The only time I’ve deviated from this thinking was two years ago, when in a fit of inspired spontaneity I bought a Vespa PX150. This was the most advanced of the “classic” Vespas. I call it a “classic,” but in fact it was manufactured between the years 1980-1990. And I call it “advanced,” but at that time they were basically loud, heavy boxes of metal.

Why I bought that bike I no longer remember, I only know that it looked fun-loving, like a sign of good taste. The only drawback was that the bike’s hand-clutch bike caused me no end of fear and misery, whether from near-deaths on the road or the impossibility of getting the thing started. This bike also needed constant paint touchups to look nice and new, otherwise it would start to get scratched and dusty until it looked like nothing short of scrap iron on wheels. I also remember that first day when I drove it from the place where I bought it back home; I had to sweat over the machine for half an hour in order to re-start it after once stopping in the street. I felt helpless before this dead hunk of metal, the reason being I did not yet know the machine’s tricks. I felt as frustrated as a boy whose girl has suddenly gone all sulky on him, and when he asks why, she says, “you of all people should know!”

But the bike did have some strong points. First of all, it was very elegantly designed, manly and modest. Driving it wasn’t as zippy as a newer bike, but you had to hand it to them, they knew just how to arrange the seat and handlebars so that your back didn’t hurt every time you sat down. You’ll notice the Honda motorbike, for example, with its seat sloping to the front; whenever you hit a bump in the road, it always throws your body forward as though you were planning to leap from the bike at any moment. The Vespa seat was always flat, horizontal, allowing the driver to sit up as straight as an English nobleman taking tea. Secondly, it made the owner stand out, for better or worse. Thirdly, one didn’t have to register it[2], and thus avoided wasting three days going to apply for a license plate. Fourth, it was cheap. I spent less than twenty million but I still owned a bike from Italy—the country of motorbike prestige. And yet I could throw the motorbike on the sidewalk without locking it up and come back later to find it intact. Thieves also couldn’t carry it off because it was too heavy!

The person who sold me this bike was also a mechanic familiar with the Vespa PX. He told me that I could expect to ride it for up to a year; if I kept it past that and continued to maintain it through the years to come, then I might as well become a member of the Vespa fan club. Driving a very... “vintage” bike like this, the clatter of the engine starting might deafen the neighbors, and one is never sure whether bystanders are looking on in hate or pity, admiration or derision. All the same, those who love the special music of the vintage motor are a class unto themselves. Just like the kind of people who go nuts for pre-war music, a vintage bike suggests a sense of the past recreated, of black-and-white movies like Roman Holiday with Gregory Peck driving Audrey Hepburn through the cobblestone streets. The motorbike is a site of time past, both a preserved cultural space and a means of dwelling there. Vintage bike lovers still preserve their machines, even if they only retain the outer shell with a new or reprocessed engine. Maintaining a vintage bike may invite a million headaches, but it is not without its mechanical pleasures: removing this, grinding down that, feeling out the calibrations of various metal components from the pre-digital era. Just looking at how the entire structure comes together is a thing of beauty.

 But my temperament was not patient enough to stick with the upkeep. I panicked as the frequency of repairs began to mount, so as the deadline of my “challenge” approached I started planning the resale. The guy who bought my bike was none other than the guy who sold it to me. And my only mementos are a few photographs and the original ignition key that I forgot to return with the bike.

After all, only one’s earliest bikes, or one’s most bizarre, are significant enough to remember. Now, however, one scooter follows the next, each carrying us quietly, safely onward (just as we would have it; uneventful transit being our greatest wish), leaving us truly unabsorbed by those aggressively tricked-out bikes, whose custom exhaust pipes scream like they’re trying to burst the eardrums of everyone in town. Today’s bikes idle meekly in the shadow of the automobile; there’s a single playboy about town who wants to ride on a mere $7,000, cheek-and-jowl with the two-wheeling masses flooding the streets in an endless congestion. The life of a motorbike is no longer the measure of “social mobility” that it once was.

Nguyen Truong Quy
Translated by Jacob O. Gold



[1] These are various locations across Hanoi: the western districts, the center of town, and east of the Red River, respectively.
[2] This is because motorbikes with engines under a certain size do not require registration. 

The Wandering Motorbike (Preface)




Title: Xe máy tiếu ngạo (The Wandering Motorbike)
Author: Nguyễn Trương Quý
Translator: Jacob O. Gold
Center for Southeast Asian Studies
University of Michigan Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Translator’s Preface

            Nguyễn Trương Quý was born in Hanoi in 1977. A graduate of the Hanoi University of Architecture, Trương Quý’s successes as an essayist and, most recently, an author of short fiction, seem to derive from his application of an architect’s sensibility to the pages of his prose. Each essay seems a guided tour through spaces of nostalgic memory, social description, wide-ranging cultural references, and bitingly humorous invention. A true architect, his decorative motifs, as much as his supporting thematic columns, stand in service to a balanced whole. And just as an architect designs buildings that will join the living fabric of the cities in which they are built, Trương Quý’s works are inimtately bound up in the life of the rapidly-evolving city that inspires them: Hanoi.
            Trương Quý began to make a name for himself by publishing essays in various online and print publications, and his first essay collection, Tự nhiên như người Hà Nội (“As Natural as a Hanoian”— a half-joking reference to Hanoi’s sense of its own culutral refinements), was released in 2004. This was followed by Ăn phở rất khó thấy ngon (“It’s hard to find a good bowl of ph”—that is, Vietnam’s famous beef noodle soup) in 2008, and Hà Nội là Hà Nội (Hanoi is Hanoi) in 2010. Xe máy tiếu ngạo was published in 2012. This translation project is the first time that any of Trương Quý works have appeared in English, or any other language outside of Vietnamese. Trương Quý has also translated several English-language works into Vietnamese, most notably, Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire in 2011. The author’s first collection of short fiction is slated for publication sometime in 2013.
            The concept behind The Wandering Motorbike is simple yet effective: use the motorbike as a guiding theme through which to explore the changes that have taken place in Hanoi, and in the lives of its residents, over the past thirty years. It must be mentioned here that the motorbike is perhaps the most iconic feature of Vietnamese modernity. There are over 2 million registered motorbikes in Hanoi, and more than twice that number in Ho Chi Minh City (also known as Saigon). Before the economic and, to some extent, social liberalizations of the Dổi Mới (Renewal) Policy were launched in 1986 (paralleling Deng Xiaoping’s similarly sweeping reforms in China), Hanoi was a city of bicycles, streetcars, and oxcarts on the road, dispensaries and ration books in place of grocery stores, and little if any access to consumer goods. Trương Quý belongs to the generation that came of age just at the cusp of Vietnam’s massive socioeconomic transformation. He is old enough to remember what came before, and young enough to be excited about what the future holds for Hanoi (he seems particularly fascinated with the projected completion of Hanoi’s first subway line several years from now). Trương Quý’s intermediate historical perspective means that he can more impartially weigh and compare the past and the present: on the one hand, savoring the simple pleasures that stood out among yesteryear’s material deprivation, while on the other, jabbing at the frivolity and conspicious consumption that seem endemic to today’s new wealthy classes. At the same time, this is not a collection of charicatured social types. Trương Quý is a master at conveying the compact, yet acute, daily dramas of children and parents, husbands and wives, boyfriend and girlfriends, office workers and their bosses. He also takes advantage of the inflows of global media now available in Vietnam. In addition to quoting from Vietnamese novels, poetry, and cinema, Trương Quý muses upon Easy Rider, Roman Holiday, The Wild Ones, and, interestingly, The Motorcycle Diaries, whose protagonist, Che Guevara—as Trương Quý reminds us— has become as much a fixture of Western t-shirts as the pages of Marxist hagiography. And of course, the super-protagonist of Trương Quý’s work is the city of Hanoi itself: its famous boulevards and twisting mazelike alleyways, its famous cafes and scenic lakes, its Old Quarter and its nouveau riche proto-suburbs.
            Bringing this book into English has a second layer of significance for me, the translator. I came to Hanoi for the first time in 2007, working for a year at the official English-language newspaper, The Việt Nam News, through a fellowship organized by the university from which I had graduated the previous year. At that time, my only knowledge of Vietnamese came from the Pimsleur language-learning discs that I had listened to before heading overseas. After my fellowship posting ended, I did not return to Hanoi for four years, although I did work as a journalist elsewhere in Southeast Asia. This past summer (after having completed the Advanced Vietnamese course sequence here at Michigan), I finally had the chance to return to Hanoi, expressly in order to initiate this translation project. The introduction between the author and myself was made by Michigan’s stellar Vietnamese instructor, Nguyễn Thủy-Anh, who is also my advisor on the independent course dimension of the project. My first sojourn in Hanoi had been absolutely wonderful, and for those four years I had honestly been pining for a city that I fell in love with (the fragrance of milk-flowers, described in the sample chapter, was a particular sensory touchpoint for these emotions), yet never knew if I would see again. It was doubly thrilling, then, both to return to Hanoi and be able to speak Vietnamese with everyone there. I was not just returning to the city, I was rediscovering it on a deeper level. With every chapter that I translate here in Ann Arbor, that process of rediscovery advances that much further. My hope is to transition this project from a purely academic and personal challenge into actual matter for publication in Vietnam.

Notes on the Translation Itself

            The essay form employed by Trương Quý is known as the tản văn, or “meandering writing.” The essay form in general has a long history within the greater tradition of Vietnamese letters, and its sub-genres are varied and eclectic. Even before mass print culture exploded with the adoption of Quốc ngữ (Romanized) script during the French colonial period, Vietnamese authors were composing travelogues, religious works, poetic anthologies, and so on. Even today, a newsstand in a major Vietnamese city will carry dozens of daily broasheets, literary journals, and the newer Western-inflected glossy magazines. The tản văn form in particular has its roots in the journal culture that arose early in the last century, when Vietnamese intellectuals were grappling with how to define their identity, and their sense of nationhood, under the paradoxical effects of French domination, which wounded national pride and yet helped forge, and only in part through opposition, a modernized, unified concept of “Vietnam”.
            True to its “meandering” name, a tản văn essay stems from a long-held Vietnamese aesthetic sensbility in which the units of expression, be they paragraphs or phrases, are valued as much for their individual poetry as for their service to the continuous whole. To the active reader, these become like movements in an orchestral work—it soon becomes easy for the mind to establish its own connections. This form is also perfect for the narrative “vehicle” of the motorbike, which, as Trương Quý often mentioned, allows the rider to zoom freely, and with unprecedented speed, from one part of the city to another. What is especially fun about translating, and hopefully, reading Trương Quý’s tản văn is that, in their playful stream-of-consciousness unfoldings, they also reveal a great deal about the author himself. In this book, one is transported to Hanoi, and has enjoys the opportunity of becoming well-acquainted with one of its sharpest citizen-observers, Trương Quý.
            There are several features of the Vietnamese language that present special difficulties for the English-language translator. The toughest of these to handle, but also the most interesting for an American student of Vietnamese, are the instaces of what linguists call “reduplication.” The basic forms of these simply involve following a word with an appended, similar-sounding attachment, to emphasize meaning or for euphonious effect. For example, if mạnh means “strong,” then mạnh mẽ means “very strong.” However, there is a more unique form of reduplication in Vietnamese that could be called “abstract onomatopoeia”. This is where word-pairs don’t “mean” anything in themselves, but can describe objects, actions, sounds, conditions, or feelings, to name a few, all with a multi-shaded range of meanings. These are a class of terms that a fluent speaker understands implicitly, but requires a careful process of internalization for the foreign language learner. Some of the many examples in Trương Quý’s work: Lănh nhăng means that something is vague, unspecified, but also subject to manipulation or avoidance. Chễm chệ can refer to a swaggering, even teetering motion, but also with shaded meanings of haughtiness, or the rocking of a royal palanquin. Uể oải connotes reluctance or boredom, absent-mindedly doing something. Chênh vênh means that something is slightly protruding, or creating an edge of some kind. Here are some more examples from Wikipedia that have not occured so far in Trương Quý’s work:

       loảng xoảng — sound of glass breaking to pieces or metallic objects falling to the ground
       hớt hơ hớt hải- (also hớt ha hớt hải) — hard gasps -> in extreme hurry, in panic, panic-stricken
       lục đục — the sound of hard, blunt (and likely wooden) objects hitting against each other -> disagreements and conflicts inside a group or an organization
       
        As a translator, one realizes that the Vietnamese language has created incredibly compact, richly descriptive terms that English, for all of its extensive vocabulary, cannot easily convey, especially because each of these terms calls up an entire bundle of physical, kinetic, affective and associative properties. The best that one can do is to find the mot juste based upon the context in which the reduplicative phrase is used, or provide an explanatory footnote.
      As a translator, I have made the decision to use footnotes extensively in my work. In this world of hypertext websites and multi-tasking media players, I felt that my readers could handle, and would ultimately appreciate, a bit of non-linearity. This is especially so because I am at the service of the author, Trương Quý, and it is my foremost responsibility to deliver his thoughts, and as best as possible, his style, to an English-language readership. There are many references to Vietnamese artists and writers, cultural features, locations in Hanoi, as well as Vietnamese idioms, the understandings of which are all crucial to the fullest appreciation of these chapters. Also, I couldn’t help but want to share some of the author’s wordplay and his neologisms with my readers.
      Another interesting feature of written Vietnamese what I would call its range of grammatical personalities. Between the 1st and 11th centuries BCE, Vietnam fell directly under Chinese imperial rule. Over the subsequent centuries, Chinese culture— especially the written culture of statecraft, religion, and the literary arts—continued to exert a profound influence on the culture of Vietnam. Under French colonization (as well as Vietnam’s subsequent participation in the Communist bloc of nations), the patterns of written Vietnamese took on a more “westernized” grammatical structure. What this means from a practical standpoint is that written Vietnamese is like an accordion. Depending on the effects that one is aiming for, the language can contract into the ideographic style of literary Chinese, or expand into what is almost a calque of Western grammatical parts. Classic Chinese also provided Vietnam with a high-literary, or more formal, register, especially in terms of vocabulary, known as Hán-Việt  (Sino-Vietnamese). Sino-Vietnamese and “common” Vietnamese can, often do, exist side by side in the same sentence. On average, Vietnamese sentences remain more compact than English ones, requiring fewer “in-between” connector words in order to deftly express equivalent ideas in English. This also presents something of a challenge for the translator in terms of finding the proper balance and tone of the author’s phrasing.

      Finally, there are the cultural barriers between Trương Quý and myself. I am not from Vietnam, or a Vietnamese-American, but I have spent time in Vietnam, and have continued to assiduously study Vietnamese culture and history here in the US, especially in the context of my work here at Michigan. Thanks to my interactions with the author, the advising of Vietnamese lecturer Nguyễn Thủy-Anh, and my own experiences, readings, media consumption, and inner contemplation, I am try my best to create a genuinely Vietnamese space in my mind through which to engage this author’s work. I hope you enjoy my efforts so far!

Thứ Bảy, 8 tháng 2, 2014

Five bars for expats in Hanoi's Old Quarter

VietNamNet Bridge – Having a cocktail and talking with a few new friends is how to enjoy the nightlife of many expats and foreign tourists in the Hanoi Old Quarter.
Unlike the conceptions of many Vietnamese customers who usually go to a bar to release stress, dance and drink, foreign visitors go to bars to not dance but only just to listen to music, enjoy a few glasses of beer and talk. Below are several bars managed by expats and favored by expats in the Old Quarter.
1. Rockstore, 61 Ma May
Rockstore can be regarded as a typical western-styled bar in the Old Quarter, ran by Olivier Waryn, a Swiss man.
Opened in September 2013 and thanks to its soothing décor, open space with rock style, the new bar has quickly become a destination for many foreign tourists and expats in Hanoi.
The bar is a two-story yellow house in France architecture style. On the 1st floor is a bar serving alcoholic beverages such as wine, cocktails, mocktails, beer ... and lounges for small groups.
The second floor is designed for big groups and some billiard tables. The highlight of the bar is bent lampposts.
If other bars only open from afternoon to evening, Rockstore opens all day. But just when the night comes, visitors will understand how Rockstore is.
The bar has performances of DJs or rock bands in all evenings. In addition to drinks, the bar offers some Vietnamese cuisines like bun cha, spring rolls...
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters 
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters

2. Fat Cat Bar, 25 Ta Hien
Fat Cat Bar is also managed by Waryn Olivier and a French friend. Compared with Rockstore, Fat Cat is smaller but its décor is very special.
The combination of a lively bar and a gently lounge creates a comfortable atmosphere at Fat Cat Bar.
Most of the customers are foreigners. They can gather around the bar inside or sit outside the door to sip a glass of beer and talk for hours. If they like sitting, they can climb up to the loft.
Fat Cat Bar regularly organizes music parties with different themes. The favored drinks here are beer and cocktails. If you want to call a special drink, it would be a Fatcat cocktail.
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters

3. Finnegan's Irish
The name Finnegan's Irish apparently derives from the famous novel “Finnegans Wake” by the Irish writer James Joyce. Located on the 2nd floor of No. 32 Luong Ngoc Quyen stret, Finnegan's Irish is in European classic style with wooden and leather furniture in brown - black colors.
It is not too wide but Finnegan's Irish takes advantage of maximum light and space to create different spaces. If you go there alone, you can sit at the bar, if in a group, you can select a suitable table, otherwise you can call a beer and take the glass to the balcony to enjoy watching the streets.
In addition to alcohol drinks, Finnegan's Irish also serves tea, coffee and snacks. In particular, the bar regularly organizes events associated with international football tournaments.
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters 
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters

4. Funky. B
Funky B (formerly called Funky Buddha) is a bar located at No. 2 Ta Hien, known for house, trance and techno music. With unique music style, this place is a very popular address of foreign tourists and the foreign community in Vietnam.
Compared to many bars in the Old Quarter, Funky B is fairly large with two bars of two different styles. The bar near the door is somewhat "ordinary" while the inside bar is more impressive with a bird-cage wine rack. If you do not like the bustling atmosphere with DJ music, you can sit at the bar near the door to drink and chat with friends.
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters 

5. Spy Bar
Spy Bar at No.12A Nguyen Huu Huan Street is similar to Finnegan's Irish in design but visitors can still find here unique features. The bar is small, with several long benches for groups and high stools at the bar. You can go upstairs if you want a more private space.
Spy Bar has live music and mini gameshows in Friday evening. Drinks here are quite cheap, VND20,000-40,000 ($1-2)/beer bottle, VND15,000-20,000/a cup of coffee and tea.
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
 hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters 
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters
hanoi bars, expats, old quarters 

Pha Le
(http://english.vietnamnet.vn/fms/travel/94346/five-bars-for-expats-in-hanoi-s-old-quarter.html)

Thứ Bảy, 19 tháng 5, 2012

Do and Don't in Hanoi #1

Today I have an idea: why don't I make a list that help you know something should and should not do if you come to my city - Hanoi. I'm aware that there's plenty of guide books already, but  advice from a resident like me could be more updated and helpful for you.These suggestion from what I want to do everyday: Where to eat, how to order, how to avoid some crisis or conflict... in a quite chaotic city like Hanoi.

The first thing is traffic. I think most travelers are scared of traffic in Hanoi. So it comes naturally to the  #1 in my Do & Don't list.

DO:
- Cross the street where has traffic light and crosswalk. Sometime it's not useful, because some naughty vehicles still go under red light! However, you have not any better choice.
- Cross the street where has bridge for pedestrian. There few crosswalk bridges in Hanoi.
- If you see any Vietnamese prepares to cross the street, catch up and follow them immediately. Everyone in Hanoi is congenitally genius in crossing the street!
- If you don't see any sign that the vehicles are about to slow down to allow you go across, you simply wait for another chance. If the traffic is too crowded, it means they have to go slowly and it's become the chance for you!
- Go further to find the way to cross the street.
- Get a taxi. The price for a very short distance is cheap. Of course you must watch if driver cheat you to get much more money than real cost.
- Catch a motorcycle driver ("xe ôm"). If the distance under 2km, the price is around 20,000VND (~1USD). Almost drivers are friendly and enthusiasm.

DON'T:
- Stop in the middle of the street suddenly. I know you will be very, very frightened by traffic, but normally the traffic will slow down and give priority for pedestrians to cross the street. You feel the traffic could hit you at any time, but they will avoid you if you walk fast and confidently.
- Move without steady speed. You shouldn't run suddenly. Drivers may lose their speed control.
- Feel so scary or angry. Vietnamese are usually friendly with foreigners.
- Hesitate to ask Vietnamese people. Not so many Vietnamese speak well English but they know body language enough to show you the way. Except some women carry the burden in Old Quarter or around Hoan Kiem Lake. They are cheaters! (They will give you to try carry the burden, take photos and ask you money without your agreeing).
- Forget a map. If you have a map, you can show your wanted place and ask people which way to get there. And you will be sure it's hard to lose your way unless you go to the place out of the map :-).

Have a good walk!