nicholas in vietnam

Yesterday I went to the temple for the day. In the evening I met Hannah in town and we went to a Jazz club.

The main hall in the temple has a triple-vaulted roof, although it is not very high. Lying on your back on the plastic woven mats you can see the intricate carvings on the ceilings and that the underside of every tile was printed with the symbol of longevity. Some carving is new and some is older; it is hard to tell. Outside is a patio courtyard with longan and grapefruit trees bearing unripe fruit; the weather is changeable. At the end of the opposite building is a hemicircular well-pool where tilapia gape like carp between the waterlilies. Hopping everywhere through the gardens were tiny toads. On the walking meditation, the children pointed them out to each other. Tailorbirds fretted in the vines about the door.

The altar at the end of the hall, where one feels an altar should be, is a cabinet of dark wood inlaid with highly intricate mother-of-pearl scenes of crags bristling with bamboo and birds and insects landing and leaving. Behind this is a huge painting of the Buddha in an orange robe, seated at the base of a massive tree by a river in the forest. Around his crossed legs the pink lotus petals bloom like a double gas-ring. His lips are cherry-red, and I don’t remember if his eyes are closed or open – it doesn’t seem to matter. My own eyes are drawn past his bare left shoulder into the deep forest painted behind. Halfway round the frame runs a line of red fairy-lights, the other half is dark. The offerings on the altar are a bunch of phasmid-green bananas and two boxes of biscuits.

To the left, in the shadows, is a far more elaborate triple altar, fraught with red-bronze curling dragons and spreading phoenix wings. At the front two painted statues of the baby buddha have been placed. Behind, against the wall sits the fierce, bearded Boddhidharma, first patriarch of Zen. Either side are two rather drawn-looking disciples and, in front, photographs of venerable monks. I think this is the altar dedicated to the ancestors. White vases with blue dragons hold sheaves of incense sticks.

Above a door with a bead curtain, in a white moon-circle on a black board, Vietnamese calligraphy reads 'no fear'.
Nuns in pearl grey robes invite the brass bowl bell, and people gather round to share their thoughts through the microphone. I get a summary translation from a bright-eyed man who has been here twice before. The thoughts are all very positive and enthusiastic, sometimes fiery. In western Buddhist circles people talk more about their difficulties. Under the fan, the hair of the old woman in front crackles like lightning from a plasma ball.

In the jazz club we order drinks because the music’s free. Posters of the revered ancestors of jazz decorate the walls. Above our table is a photo of Bill Clinton playing the saxophone with the caption ‘ Unfortunately, due to his busy schedule on his historic visit to Vietnam in 1999, we did not have the opportunity to welcome President Clinton at Minh’s jazz club.’

The band’s a quartet. Or, as Hannah assumes, a saxophonist with the club’s own backing group. The jazz doesn’t get the official thumbs up from her, but she says she’s enjoying not enjoying it. She enjoys this so much that she sometimes breaks out into sudden laughter or applause and her hair seems to curl tighter. The bit I like best is a drum solo which makes my face do involuntary Popeye impressions. ‘So much energy’ Hannah says of the drummer ‘if you could spend just a little bit less energy you’d be more cool’. I keep my face turned to the stage.

 The saxophonist is also expending a lot of energy, he’s in his forties and solidly built for a Vietnamese. He looks like little explosions keep going off inside him and about 60% of the blast force comes out through the sax, the rest of it manifesting through his body and making his fringe flap like a toupee. The other three are much younger: the drummer self-confident, the keyboard-guy chubby and careful and the female bassist, in the background, alternating between nun-like concentration and manifest boredom; she doesn't seem to want a solo. To the left, on top of an amp, a Yoda-sized Chinese laughing Buddha looks like he’s accompanying on the accordion. A little picture of Sakyamuni Buddha, like the huge one in the temple, stands on a small wall-mounted altar near the door. He has been offered a bottle of Gordon’s Gin.

I was glad to find a gecko on the wall of our apartment when I came in yesterday evening. It was less pleased to see me and dashed away to sit chuckling behind the wardrobe. When I arrived it was winter and there were no geckos; they are still much rarer than in any truly tropical city. I thought that birds were also terribly rare in Hanoi; because people used to shoot them, I was told.

  It’s true that there are fewer pigeons than in any other city I know of but, now that they have started singing, I notice more birds. The khaya trees around the sports field are so dense that it’s hard to see them in there but there are magpie robins and red-whiskered bulbuls, both bold singers, as well as two kinds of cuckoo. Tiny tailorbirds and prinias flit through the little trees and occasionally you even see a great tit.My friend Hụe told me that the big mauve blossom-trees are called student’s blossom because they flower at exam time. It’s quite true this year and I wonder how long the trees have been called that. Are current exams at the same time as the old Confucian ones which were the basis of the state, or is it a newer name?