We’ve just set off on our first far-away adventure since Covid struck. Rather perversely my thoughts turn to our last big trip to Vietnam. I somehow didn’t have the heart write about it then. Now I do. So while I gather my thoughts about Madrid, and as we move on to Buenos Aries, I look back on Hanoi with so many good memories. I cannot say that the information in the practical stuff still holds. But I leave it there – just in case. 

Hanoi, Vietnam March 2020.

They are everywhere. Ladies selling from the back of bicycles, from hand-carts, from hand-held plastic baskets, from wire trays hanging from shoulder poles. They sit in doorways and on kerbs, resting heads wearily on hands. The shoulder pole ladies seem to bounce as they walk, but it’s not them, it’s their baskets that spring, bobbing on their poles; laden with fruit and vegetables, weighing scales, and bags. They stop to rearrange their produce, replenishing and squirting water from punctured plastic bottles. It’s not just about the aesthetic – balance is all important. Then they move on, trawling for customers.

Others sell flip-flops piled on high, mountains of clothes, and trays of trinkets –       face-masks tied to edges, jostling for space with scrunchies, pens, socks and scissors, bracelets and baseball caps.

Theirs are long hard days. Early mornings, tiring afternoons and sometimes punishing evenings. It depends on how much is sold, how quickly. They sleep in shared digs – up to ten women per room for a few cents a day. Most of their earnings (perhaps $20 a month) go to supporting their family. A family that they see once a month or so.