Many years ago, I celebrated New Year’s Eve in Hanoi. It began when I met a distinguished elderly gentleman on a bench by the lake in the heart of the city. He was retired, but proudly told me that he was an academic who had concluded his professional career as a professor. With New Year’s Eve approaching, he promptly invited me to his home to celebrate the happiest day of the year.
Here is an excerpt from the book I later wrote, Buddha’s Children – A Journey Among People (2006):
New Year’s Eve. I am about to experience the Vietnamese at their very best. The Thirty-Six Streets are dressed for celebration, and in the distance the bells of St. Joseph’s Cathedral chime. The weather has grown cooler in recent days, and the willow trees flutter briskly in the north wind. Moisture from the mist has formed a slippery film on the streets, and the wise old men walk, if possible, even more slowly than usual. Some use their walking sticks like antennae. At street corners, frozen women squat beside open cardboard boxes selling warm clothing, while the masses hurry in both directions, burdened with dangling parcels, bundles of vegetables, and bushes of pink blossoms.
To give a fair description of the Thirty-Six Streets is impossible. No two buildings are alike, and the ornamentation points in every direction. Had the inhabitants been as eccentric as the architecture, the district would be in revolt. The building mass—yes, a mass it truly is—resembles dominoes standing on edge. In many cases the façades are no more than three meters wide, yet the height may reach fifteen, twenty, even twenty-five meters.
The Thirty-Six Streets began taking shape nearly a thousand years ago. The craftsmen who streamed in from the countryside belonged to different guilds, and thus the streets became guild-based. Coppersmiths, basket weavers, papermakers, silversmiths, hat makers, silk sellers, woodcarvers, firewood vendors, noodle makers, butchers, fishmongers — all created their own streets. Many of the street names begin with “Hang,” meaning shop. In Hang Bac, jewelry shops stand side by side, for “Bac” means silver. And in Hang Gai — Silk Street — silk ripples all the way onto the pavement. Time passes, but in the Thirty-Six Streets traditions die slowly.
In earlier times, as today, merchants were taxed according to the width of their shop façade. The narrower the façade, the lower the tax. Thus arose Hanoi’s thousands of domino houses. The shop faced the street. Behind it lay the storeroom, and behind that the extended family lived — often ten or twenty people.
Hanoi is home to four million people, and many have crowded into the Old Quarter. In 1954 each inhabitant had 5.1 square meters at their disposal. In 1992 the space had shrunk to 4.2 square meters; in 2004 to 3.9. I wonder what it looks like in Professor Thach’s home?
As I while away the afternoon wandering through this dreamlike district, I inhale the scents of Tet. Vietnamese cuisine, developed and refined over two thousand years, stretches collectively toward a new pinnacle. Peering into gateways, I see children dressing up — little girls in bright silk dresses, boys in freshly pressed trousers and white shirts. In Fish Street No. 32 I glimpse an old woman lighting candles on the family altar, and from No. 44 I hear a monotonous communal prayer. Outside every house stand slender bamboo poles decorated with red paper strips. The red color is meant to frighten evil spirits and ensure that the transition into the new year is as painless as possible.
Yes, this must be it — a five-story cream-yellow façade adorned with oval balconies and green shutters flung wide open. On the ground floor I am greeted by two scooters, three motorbikes, a toolbox — and Professor Thach.
“I knew you would come,” he says with a smile.
Inside, the festive table is set with countless bowls and dishes. Only the food is missing. We are twelve at table, and all except myself belong to the immediate family. At the far end of the room sits the Kitchen God, a porcelain figure cloaked in robes. Ong Tao, as the Vietnamese call him, holds a central place in most Vietnamese homes.
As Tet approaches, he is showered with fruit, sweets, and other delicacies, for the god is about to travel. A week before the holiday begins, he journeys to Heaven to report to the Jade Emperor on the family’s conduct during the past year. It is important that the report be favorable, and therefore he must be appeased. At times he is tempted with a glass of rice wine, a splash of vodka, or a shot of whisky. Then he becomes especially benevolent, and all the unpleasant things he has witnessed within the family fold are suddenly forgotten.
“Ong Tao left us a week ago, but tonight he returns,” whispers Mrs. Thach.
New Year’s Eve. I am about to experience the Vietnamese at their very best. The Thirty-Six Streets are dressed for celebration, and in the distance the bells of St. Joseph’s Cathedral chime. The weather has grown cooler in recent days, and the willow trees flutter briskly in the north wind. Moisture from the mist has formed a slippery film on the streets, and the wise old men walk, if possible, even more slowly than usual. Some use their walking sticks like antennae. At street corners, frozen women squat beside open cardboard boxes selling warm clothing, while the masses hurry in both directions, burdened with dangling parcels, bundles of vegetables, and bushes of pink blossoms.
To give a fair description of the Thirty-Six Streets is impossible. No two buildings are alike, and the ornamentation points in every direction. Had the inhabitants been as eccentric as the architecture, the district would be in revolt. The building mass—yes, a mass it truly is—resembles dominoes standing on edge. In many cases the façades are no more than three meters wide, yet the height may reach fifteen, twenty, even twenty-five meters.
The Thirty-Six Streets began taking shape nearly a thousand years ago. The craftsmen who streamed in from the countryside belonged to different guilds, and thus the streets became guild-based. Coppersmiths, basket weavers, papermakers, silversmiths, hat makers, silk sellers, woodcarvers, firewood vendors, noodle makers, butchers, fishmongers — all created their own streets. Many of the street names begin with “Hang,” meaning shop. In Hang Bac, jewelry shops stand side by side, for “Bac” means silver. And in Hang Gai — Silk Street — silk ripples all the way onto the pavement. Time passes, but in the Thirty-Six Streets traditions die slowly.
In earlier times, as today, merchants were taxed according to the width of their shop façade. The narrower the façade, the lower the tax. Thus arose Hanoi’s thousands of domino houses. The shop faced the street. Behind it lay the storeroom, and behind that the extended family lived — often ten or twenty people.
Hanoi is home to four million people, and many have crowded into the Old Quarter. In 1954 each inhabitant had 5.1 square meters at their disposal. In 1992 the space had shrunk to 4.2 square meters; in 2004 to 3.9. I wonder what it looks like in Professor Thach’s home?
As I while away the afternoon wandering through this dreamlike district, I inhale the scents of Tet. Vietnamese cuisine, developed and refined over two thousand years, stretches collectively toward a new pinnacle. Peering into gateways, I see children dressing up — little girls in bright silk dresses, boys in freshly pressed trousers and white shirts. In Fish Street No. 32 I glimpse an old woman lighting candles on the family altar, and from No. 44 I hear a monotonous communal prayer. Outside every house stand slender bamboo poles decorated with red paper strips. The red color is meant to frighten evil spirits and ensure that the transition into the new year is as painless as possible.
Yes, this must be it — a five-story cream-yellow façade adorned with oval balconies and green shutters flung wide open. On the ground floor I am greeted by two scooters, three motorbikes, a toolbox — and Professor Thach.
“I knew you would come,” he says with a smile.
Inside, the festive table is set with countless bowls and dishes. Only the food is missing. We are twelve at table, and all except myself belong to the immediate family. At the far end of the room sits the Kitchen God, a porcelain figure cloaked in robes. Ong Tao, as the Vietnamese call him, holds a central place in most Vietnamese homes.
As Tet approaches, he is showered with fruit, sweets, and other delicacies, for the god is about to travel. A week before the holiday begins, he journeys to Heaven to report to the Jade Emperor on the family’s conduct during the past year. It is important that the report be favorable, and therefore he must be appeased. At times he is tempted with a glass of rice wine, a splash of vodka, or a shot of whisky. Then he becomes especially benevolent, and all the unpleasant things he has witnessed within the family fold are suddenly forgotten.
“Ong Tao left us a week ago, but tonight he returns,” whispers Mrs. Thach.
Once again the altar is covered with everything that can be eaten and drunk. At the god’s feet lie coins and banknotes, and from the newly lit incense sticks white spirals of smoke drift upward.
The ancestors, too, are expected at Tet — but only for a short visit. Once a year they are summoned back to the family fold; on the altar lies a drum used for the purpose. Photographs of several deceased relatives fill an entire shelf. One shows a man in a long robe and silk hat seated in an elegant chair carved with dragons. An ancestor, perhaps?
The ancestors, too, are expected at Tet — but only for a short visit. Once a year they are summoned back to the family fold; on the altar lies a drum used for the purpose. Photographs of several deceased relatives fill an entire shelf. One shows a man in a long robe and silk hat seated in an elegant chair carved with dragons. An ancestor, perhaps?
Of all Vietnam’s beliefs and traditions, ancestor worship is perhaps the most important. “Birds have nests, humans have ancestors,” the Vietnamese say, and tomorrow, on the first day of the year, they will honor them with a festive meal.
For many years after the revolution, the Vietnamese were told that Tet was a feudal invention, Professor Thach explains. Rather than appeasing the Kitchen God and the ancestors, they were to venerate Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, and Ho Chi Minh. “Every time the New Year approached, party officials went door to door telling us to replace the old ceremonies with scientific Marxism. But now you see what is happening. Everything old, everything we love, has come back to life.”
The meal begins. For three hours we sit at the table while one dish follows another. When the feast is over, we calm body and soul with fragrant green tea.
As midnight approaches, millions of homes from the Chinese border in the north to the Mekong Delta in the south are seized by solemnity. Fireworks are forbidden, but thousands of loudspeakers pour out recorded explosions. Before the noise erupts, the family gathers at the altar in prayer. Welcome, Kitchen God. Welcome, ancestors.
At the stroke of twelve, Hanoi explodes in gongs, cheers, and cries. The Year of the Rooster has arrived, and the evil spirits that hate noise are driven over hill and mountain.
But one question remains: who will be the first visitor of the new year?
The Vietnamese care deeply that the first person to enter the house brings good fortune. A beggar would be a bad omen, a destitute neighbor likewise. It is not uncommon for visits to be arranged in advance.
Professor Thach has been standing guard by the door.
“Mister Norway!” he suddenly calls out. “I invite you to be our xong dat!”
“Our first guest of the new year! Come! Rise!”
Mrs. Thach takes my hand and gently leads me across the threshold and out of the house.
“Now you may turn around,” the professor commands.
Solemnly I step back inside and become the family’s honored xong dat. They welcome me as if I were Jesus Christ, Buddha, Emperor Le Loi, Ong Tao, Confucius, and all other great figures combined.
“Was this not a good start to the new year?” the professor asks, beaming.
“Yes!” the family answers in chorus. “A splendid start!”
For good measure, the son-in-law opens a new bottle of rice wine and fills the small glasses.
We toast. And before us lies the Year of the Rooster — blank and unwritten as a sheet of white paper.
For many years after the revolution, the Vietnamese were told that Tet was a feudal invention, Professor Thach explains. Rather than appeasing the Kitchen God and the ancestors, they were to venerate Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, and Ho Chi Minh. “Every time the New Year approached, party officials went door to door telling us to replace the old ceremonies with scientific Marxism. But now you see what is happening. Everything old, everything we love, has come back to life.”
The meal begins. For three hours we sit at the table while one dish follows another. When the feast is over, we calm body and soul with fragrant green tea.
As midnight approaches, millions of homes from the Chinese border in the north to the Mekong Delta in the south are seized by solemnity. Fireworks are forbidden, but thousands of loudspeakers pour out recorded explosions. Before the noise erupts, the family gathers at the altar in prayer. Welcome, Kitchen God. Welcome, ancestors.
At the stroke of twelve, Hanoi explodes in gongs, cheers, and cries. The Year of the Rooster has arrived, and the evil spirits that hate noise are driven over hill and mountain.
But one question remains: who will be the first visitor of the new year?
The Vietnamese care deeply that the first person to enter the house brings good fortune. A beggar would be a bad omen, a destitute neighbor likewise. It is not uncommon for visits to be arranged in advance.
Professor Thach has been standing guard by the door.
“Mister Norway!” he suddenly calls out. “I invite you to be our xong dat!”
“Our first guest of the new year! Come! Rise!”
Mrs. Thach takes my hand and gently leads me across the threshold and out of the house.
“Now you may turn around,” the professor commands.
Solemnly I step back inside and become the family’s honored xong dat. They welcome me as if I were Jesus Christ, Buddha, Emperor Le Loi, Ong Tao, Confucius, and all other great figures combined.
“Was this not a good start to the new year?” the professor asks, beaming.
“Yes!” the family answers in chorus. “A splendid start!”
For good measure, the son-in-law opens a new bottle of rice wine and fills the small glasses.
We toast. And before us lies the Year of the Rooster — blank and unwritten as a sheet of white paper.
