My wife and I stopped the other day at some hole-in-the-wall near our house for breakfast, a nice hot bowl of pho bo chin (beef soup with soft flat rice noodles, served with brisket). We sat on small plastic chairs at plastic tables; at the next table were three white-bearded men eating, laughing, smoking and drinking rice vodka. They might stay there for a couple of hours, the food long since gone, but there is plenty more rice booze in re-used plastic bottles stacked along the walls, and the water pipe sits next to a big box of lung-searing tobacco.
While waiting, I had my motorbike filled up with gas and washed until it gleamed. The total for all this activity was $4.60. Had we wanted, we could have continued down the road a bit, put the motorbike into a full-service garage, enjoyed breakfast at the Intercontinental and spent more like $75, plus plus (i.e. paying the value-added tax, or VAT).
There is a modern economy in Vietnam, a place where most foreigners in the country live, where apartments cost $4,000 a month fully furnished and cars come with drivers, vegetable are organic and grown in Da Lat to be shipped to gourmet stores, and practically anything is available, from imported Italian extra-virgin olive oil to Frosted Flakes.
And then there is the other economy, hidden in plain sight. That lady riding by on her age-encrusted Chinese-made bicycle warbling something in a sing-song voice? She is selling fresh roasted sweet potatoes, or bread, or herbs door to door. That guy wandering down the street with a wooden box dangling from his hand? He comes to your house when you arrange, to shine your shoes. (I have found that this is almost guaranteed to make it rain within the hour.) It’s a place where a lot of people walk, where the bills exchanged are only small denominations, where people live on $100 or $200 a month in cash income and everybody gives a little to get a little, every day.
Riding my motorbike along the street in Hanoi’s crowded old quarter one day, I hear the dreaded “flop flop flop” from the rear tire, and realize I have yet another flat. I pull over to the side of the road, and instantly a woman is on her feet, pointing to a nearby corner. What is there? Just another old guy sitting on his motorbike, smoking thoughtfully. It turns out he plays a vital role in the local economy.
He watches me as I roll the bike along, hopping off his perch as I draw near. “Put it up on the stand,” he orders, being a bit too old and frail to do it himself. I do as he tells me, and then have a seat while he rummages around for the tools of his trade – some hand-made tire irons, a bowl of dirty water, tube patches and glue. No need to take off the wheel. He extracts the tube from the tire, pumps it up a bit, and finds the hole by pushing the tube through the bowl of water until he sees the tell-tale bubbles emerging.
Meanwhile, another guys rolls up on his motorbike. He is also a tire repairman, and when the first guy proclaims the hole too big to patch, the second one immediately scoots away to buy a new one. It’s nighttime, and the crowds in the old quarter are thick. A few tourists, each clutching a copy of Lonely Planet, wander by trying to figure out where to get a drink or dinner. Why do they all carry water bottles with them? For one thing, it seems unlikely that you would die of thirst in the middle of a dense urban area with a store every ten meters. If you need a drink of water, you can buy a bottle anywhere. For another, my guess is that most of this bottled water is just tap water. Anyway, they all carry big bottles of water, sport pants with multiple extra pockets, lug large backpacks with half of their personal effects and wear that grim expression of tourists everywhere. Am I going the right way? Am I being cheated? Is the food here safe? Does this person who just said hello to me want to sell me something?
The second repairman comes back with the new tube, and the old man sets to work. Now he does have to take off the whole wheel to install the new tube. While we watch, the second tire repair guy starts chatting with me, the usual things – where are you from, how old are you, are you married, how many kids, etc. Having satisfied himself that he knows me well enough by now, he reaches under the seat of his motorbike and pulls out a bottle of the local moonshine.
Vietnam is awash in ruou gao -- rice wine distilled into spirits -- but you would never find it in the modern economy. You can buy Johnny Walker Blue Label for $200 or Bombay Gin, Chivas or Absolut, but most Vietnamese men stick to the local hooch, which is made in backyards all over the country. It is clear or murky, colorless or yellow or brown, made with a vast range of unspeakable additives and flavorings. I’ve had some shots that made my tongue fall asleep, and others that were poured from bottles containing dead bees, geckos, sea horses or goat reproductive organs. It’s so cheap that sometimes I have a few slugs with breakfast in one of the local eateries and they don’t even bother to charge me.
Repair guy number two unscrews the cap, wipes off the bottle top with a grimy hand, and passes it over. A few gulps later, we are both feeling fine, and the tire is repaired. I pay the bill, and ride away into the Hanoi night, glad to the soles of my feet not to be a tourist.