There were only two places I felt I really had to see this day; the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and the Ethnic Museum. Whatever else I had time for was gravy.
The Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum is a gigantic granite structure where Bac Ho (Uncle Ho) is kept preserved—against his express instructions in his will, he wanted to be cremated—inside a glass sarcophagus. It’s something of a pilgrimage site for the Vietnamese, and I felt no visit to Hanoi would be complete without taking a peek at the old corpse.
It’s only open from 8:30 to 11:30 each day. So I strolled out of the hotel at 8 and hired one of the motorcycle taxi guys who have been pestering me since I first showed up here. I had no idea what the going rate was, and when I asked the driver what it would cost to drive me out to the mausoleum, he just shrugged and asked: “What you pay?”
Yeah right. How about you name your price, Bub? He held up two fingers. Dollars? He nodded. Given the price of things around here, six bucks for a nice meal for instance, that seemed a bit steep. But I wasn’t in the mood to dicker, and the ride all the way out there certainly was worth two bucks to me, so I hopped on.
On the way he introduced himself as Khang, and seemed to indicate that he wanted to take me around all day to see the sights. But his English was about as good as my Vietnamese, and I wondered what good it would do to hire a guide with whom I couldn’t really communicate, so I declined. But as I later found out, he wouldn’t be put off so easily.
We arrived at the mausoleum to begin the long process of getting prepped to see the old man. First they tell you to leave any bags at the initial checkpoint and give you a little chit for them. But they tell you that you can keep your camera, so I pulled mine out. Then they line you up, two by two, and march you into a little auditorium where you get to see and listen (in Vietnamese) to a video hagiography on Ho before being ushered out to another checkpoint, where they take your cameras. So why didn’t they just take them in the first place? Who knows?
Then it’s back into the two by two line, with white uniformed guards walking up and down making sure that everyone’s hat is doffed and no one is slouching with their hands in their pockets, chewing gum, picking their nose, etc. I was briefly pulled out of the line to empty the contents of my pockets, but I guess the few coins, handkerchief and a comb didn’t represent any immediate threat.
Finally you enter the mausoleum and ascend some steps before entering the presence of the great man’s remains. You walk fairly quickly around three sides of the sarcophagus, and come within about 8 feet of the body, so you do get a pretty good look.
The rumor is that they have about four different wax dummies that they put out, some are in storage, some are back in Russia for restoration. But if the Uncle Ho I saw was wax, it was a pretty damn good copy. Sure looked like a real dead guy to me. And having spent a summer working at a cemetery, I’ve had a gander at more than a few dead guys.
Anyway, once you’re through, you’re through. You can go on to view a replica of Uncle Ho’s rural stilt house, but having slept in a couple already, I felt I knew enough about that to give it a pass.
Good old Khang was waiting for me at the exit, and started rattling off a list of places he’d be happy to take me. But I didn’t really know how long I’d be at the Ethnic Museum, and I didn’t want him waiting for me outside while I hurried through, so I told him he could drive me over there for another couple of bucks, but then we’re done, OK?
His face fell. He indicated to me that he’d wait for me, one hour, two hour. But Thuan had told me to give the museum a half a day, so I told him no, really, Ethnic Museum, then finish! He was not a happy guy.
But I hopped back on and fifteen minutes later I was hopping off at the entrance to the museum. And who was rolling up on a rented bicycle just as I was hopping off? Why it was my old buddy Juergen!
It’s a fascinating museum, just as Thuan had promised. Vietnam has a long history of peoples migrating in and out of the country. And today is has 54 separate minorities divided into 5 different language groups: Viet, Kham, Tibeto-Burmese, Thai, and Chinese. The Viet make up about 85% of the population, and the rest of them are scattered around the country, mostly in the highlands. But they are certainly not a homogenous group.
Two stories of well-labeled displays and dioramas tell their stories, and in the back of the museum are outdoor, walk-through exhibitions of their architectures. Very impressive, especially the towering, sail-like community house of the Bahnar people, who come from the south central highlands near Kontum. That the roof survives the yearly cyclones that sweep through the area is a testament to the rugged cross-bracing inside.
It didn’t take me long to find the restaurant. I know how to read a map, you see. But the place was closed for renovation, and I was forced to wander around some more until I stumbled upon an Italian place that gets a good mention in Lonely Planet. And the food was pretty good.
Then it was off to the Military History Museum. It’s not that interesting, sort of a compilation of military hardware from the 3rd century B.C. to today. And a lot of it is pretty banal.
There’s the tin cup used by some general in the fight against the French. Apparently he used it to drink his own urine in order to keep fighting when he got thirsty. There’s the overcoat worn by another general, as well as his binoculars and fountain pen. Other displays show common household items used by various obscure officers over the years. An oil lamp, a walking stick, a pair of spats. Big whoop.
It was only when I got to the stuff involving the American War that my interest was piqued a bit. But just a bit. Lots of pictures of the glorious and patriotic forces of liberation smashing the wretched soldiers of the puppet regime in Saigon. And bits and pieces of crumpled American airplanes, along with unexploded shells, pieces of uniforms and other hardware pulled from wrecked airplanes and helicopters. There’s a whole section on the progressive American protestors rallying against the oppressive Johnson and Nixon administrations. But even-handed it is not. Nor did I expect it to be, to be sure.
There’s a huge monument in the courtyard made up of shards of wrecked B-52s, F-4s, and F-111s, which is kind of artistic in a gruesome sort of way, and there’s a Mig-21 on display. But the whole thing doesn’t really add up to much of an educational experience. So I lasted about an hour.
Ah well, by then it was raining again. So I slogged back to the hotel to assemble this report, and now I’m off to get a bite to eat and pack for the junk cruise.
So, um. That’s it.