A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 8

  My grandmother often went to the market to sell rice and buy provisions for the family. She took the girls with her, to teach them how to buy and sell, and how to bargain with decorum. She did not approve of boys going there, saying that we should stay home and read books instead. But I can still see myself walking on the dike with her group of market goers, while the Lichee Field below was still wrapped in morning mist. Market days were the life of the countryside and thinking of them brings back fond memories of my youth. Grandmother was usually dressed in an old tunic of black gauze over black trousers. On her feet, she wore a pair of flat wooden clogs. Behind her came two or three members of our household carrying full baskets of rice. Although close to sixty, she walked at a fast pace and I had almost to run to keep up with her. Along the way, she kept up a steady flow of conversation with other market-going villagers, her ringing voice and laughter rising above the chatter of the group.

  Market days were common to Kim Bai and a dozen or so neighboring villages. Five of them took turns to hold the market, according to a sequence which Kim Bai villagers had put in rhyme, so as to better memorize it. It ran as follows:

  The first day, the market meets in our village,

  The second day, it moves to Mai,

  The third day, to Quan,

  The fourth day is the turn of Chuong,

  The fifth day, that of Dong.

  The sixth day, the market returns to Kim Bai,

  The seventh day is again Mai’s turn,

  The eighth day, Quan’s,

  The ninth day, the meeting is at Dong, not Chuong,

  For Chuong is where the market goes on the tenth day.

  On the eleventh day of the lunar month, the same ten-day cycle started again, and again on the twenty-first. As all lunar months have thirty days, there was no problem of dealing with the odd day out. Every day, it was market day at one of the five villages.

  I know little of Quan, except that a foremother of ours, many generations ago, came from there. Dong, or Cat Dong by its full name, had a strong tradition of scholarship like Kim Bai, and could boast of several holders of the doctorate in the past. One doctor named Ha Ton Quyen was a poet of note, reached a high mandarinal rank, and, under the reign of Emperor Ming Mang (1820-1840), undertook an unusual diplomatic mission. He was given a ship and ordered to sail to Batavia, today’s Indonesia. Outwardly, it was for trade, but his real task was to see whether the Dutch and other western powers had any design on our country. At that time, parts of south and east Asia had already fallen under European domination, although our country was still spared. The Vietnamese court could see the threat coming. Other ships were sent to Penang and Calcutta to keep an eye on the British and a diplomatic delegation went to France and England. However, no action was taken following those missions, and the country was hopelessly unprepared when French warships moved in to bombard our ports, some decades later.

  Mai was a big village serving as the seat of a canton. Its people had a fierce temper and a tradition of opposition to authority which, at times, verged on lawlessness. Folklore had it that they could be found among rebels and bandits who appeared during periods of insecurity. Under the French regime, the villagers of Mai were known for their illicit activities in brewing rice brandy, then a government monopoly. Now and then they got into trouble, but for most of the time the police turned a blind eye and let them go about their business, provided it was conducted in an unobstrusive manner. Everyone in our region knew that when women from Mai, carrying baskets on their heads, went through one village after another shouting “Who wants to buy cakes?” they had in fact rice brandy undercover in the baskets. People bought their brandy, not only because it came from a neighboring village, but also because it was quite good and strong. Moreover, it was cheaper than the legal brandy, which was heavily taxed. Finally, Chuong was the colloquial name for Phuong Trung, the seat of our canton and a wealthy place, with many brick houses and wide brick lanes running deep into its hamlets. All the dozen or so villages in our group, whether large or small and having their own markets or not, were relatively well off. Their land was fertile. When the harvest was poor on account of the weather, our region suffered from scarcity, not from famine. Even in 1945, when over one million people died in north Vietnam, out of a population then of twelve million, it escaped the terrible calamity.

  Once or twice a month, the market was held on a bigger scale and called “main market.” It was there that my grandmother used to go, often to buy provisions in preparation for a family festival. She would bring home basketfuls of fruit, vegetable and other produce as well as chickens, ducks, even pigs if it was for an important occasion. A main market day brought a festive atmosphere to the village. People looked forward to it, the women in particular, for market crowds were predominantly female. It was women who did the selling, the buying and the bargaining. Men worked in the fields and would go only on special occasions such as required by the buying of seeds or farm implements. Country markets were also places where people met, exchanged chit-chats and gossips. Women made more use of such opportunities than did men, who had other venues for social contact. For women, the market provided the only regular setting for social life outside the family circle. Young men, too, looked forward to main market day, for girls from the village and neighboring places would be there. Even when work in the fields was demanding, they would take a few moments off, quickly go home to change into better clothes and drop in on the market. There, buying a cake and a cup of tea, or inquiring about various wares that the girls were offering for sale, they would try to strike up a conversation and make new acquaintances. Otherwise the segregation of the sexes gave young people scant opportunity to meet.

  Markets in our region offered a variety of cakes, savories and other snacks. To me, a market trip would be incomplete without tasting some local delicacies. Crab noodle soup, rolled rice cakes to be eaten with a spicy fish sauce, deep fried balls of dough, all looked so inviting, but my grandmother would not always let me have them, as they were exposed to flies and other insects. I could buy cakes that were steamed and under wrap. There was a good choice of rice cakes stuffed with a filling of meat, vegetable or sweet bean paste. I often had banh khuc, a cake which had no meat, only flour, vegetable and some bits of fried spring onion. Khuc is the name of a spinach that grows wild in the fields. Boiled and mixed with flour, it made the cake green and gave it a delicate aroma. During the war, my mother used to make banh khuc for sale at the market. Every morning I woke up to the smell of steamed cakes wafting out of the kitchen. I do not know how much money she made. In any case, the cakes never went to waste; when not sold, they were a welcome addition to our evening meal.

  In the winter, I liked to have a kind of sandwich made of two rice wafers with a filling of sweet millet paste. Described like that it may not sound very appetizing and in fact, it was quite cheap. But I was especially fond of it. The thin wafers were grilled over a bed of charcoal and became crackers the size of a dinner plate. The sweet millet paste was piping hot on a cold morning. Its color was a beautiful gold. The wafers crumbled in my mouth. Moreover, millet had always carried a special connotation for me. It evoked the fleetingness of time and the impermanence of wealth and fame. Whenever I had it, it brought back to mind one of the favorite stories of my childhood, “The Dream of the Golden Millet.”

  A scholar who had failed more than once at the examinations stopped one day at an inn. He met a Taoist priest and their conversation soon turned into a monologue by the scholar complaining about his adverse fate. The owners of the inn were cooking a pot of millet. The priest who had said little finally handed the scholar a headrest-of the hard kind made out of bamboo and used by country people-and told him to have a nap, he would feel better on waking up. As soon as the scholar lay down and let his head rest on the bamboo, he found himself being successful at the examinations and entering a mandarinal career. His whole life unfolded. He married, had several children, his career brought him great fame and honor
. Then his own sons graduated and had brilliant careers themselves. Grandchildren came to his family in abundant numbers. Step by step, he reached the ripe old age of eighty and prepared himself for the final journey home, when he woke up suddenly. He realized that he was still in the same inn, with the priest seated next to him. The golden millet in the pot was still not cooked.

  Of the five markets, the most picturesque was that of Chuong, the seat of our canton. Built on a piece of land between the dike and the Hat River, Chuong market had numerous shade trees. This together with its position on the river bank meant that it remained cool in summer. It started to fill up quite early in the morning. Sitting on a root of banyan tree, I watched line after line of villagers making their way on the dike towards the market. The bamboo poles on their shoulders bent into arcs by the weight of the baskets on both ends. In spite of their heavy loads, the villagers marched gingerly, while chatting all the way. Country girls liked to chant folk poems and I can still hear them telling about the hard work they had to do all year round, except for Tet, the New Year season:

  The first month, I stayed at home to celebrate the Tet.

  The second month, I raised silk-worms,

  To make cloth for selling at the market in the third month.

  The fourth and fifth months were taken up by the rice harvest.

  The sixth month, I sold the fruit of the longan and the lichee.

  The seventh and eighth months, I sold sweet corn and other produce of the fields.

  The ninth and tenth months were again harvest time, this time the main

  harvest.

  At the end of the year, I got married to a scholar,

  Who did nothing but eat and rest!

  On the other side of the river, groups of people were waiting to be ferried across. They were also chatting noisily and calling for boats. The Hat River at that place was about twenty meters wide but the water was shallow and only waist-deep. When the market was not meeting, people simply pulled up their clothes and waded across. But that was not possible on market day, especially with heavy baskets to carry. So the small boats did a brisk trade. Very soon, all was people, produce, noise and activity. The countryside burst into life on main market day. To fully take part, one had to be there early, because the rush of activity did not last very long. After three hours or so, people started to leave. Villagers used to say, “Either you go early to market, or you do not go at all.” A market emptying was a melancholic sight. It reminded me of the emptying school ground on the last day of the school year, when it was finally time for friends to say good-bye.

  Every year on the tenth day of the first month, a big festival was held at the Chuong market. Nowadays, Vietnamese celebrate the Tet over three days, but traditionally it was longer and lasted seven days. In our region, the practice was to extend it even a little more, so that it ended with the Chuong Festival. This was the first public festival of the year and also the most important. People came from all villages in the region and even from places farther away. Everyone wore their best clothes. There was of course a lot of things to eat, as all the dishes each village was famous for were on sale. Competitions were organized, the two most popular being rice-cooking for teenage girls and for young men. The girls had to light a fire in the open and cook a pot of rice in the fastest time, while carrying a one-year-old baby who was not a member of their family and keeping him from crying. As an added difficulty, each girl was given a toad which should be kept inside a circle drawn in the ground. The baby was not accustomed to the girl and did not like the presence of the crowd the toad also was frightened and wanted to jump back to its pond. It was, therefore, not easy to keep the two of them still while the rice was being cooked. The competition, so the elders said, was to test the mettle of the girls who would soon become housewives and should be able to deal with the multiple problems of running a household. The crowd enjoyed itself greatly, but the competitors had a hard time keeping the fire on while the baby cried and the toad jumped. Once, however, I saw a girl who remained in control throughout. Somehow, she managed to pacify the baby despite the noise, the crowd and the smoke. As for her toad, it was so sluggish that it refused to move even when prodded. Her rice was kept boiling, while she chatted merrily with her friends.

  The men also had their rice-cooking competition. True, cooking the family meal was not their responsibility and the kitchen was female territory. But they had to know how to do it. What would happen if mother, wife and sister were away? Moreover, did not our Master Confucius say that “gentlemen must have all-round skills?” On a bank of the Hat River, a row of rice pots was arranged on their tripods with firewood at the ready. The young men started from the opposite bank in their small boats which were just big enough to hold them. They had to use their hands to paddle and reach the other bank. There, staying in their boats, they must with their wet hands strike matches, light a fire, and keep it going as their boat swayed and drifted away. It might take them up to one hour to cook the rice in those conditions. Few could avoid falling into the chilly waters. But they all had a good time and were given the rice they cooked to bring home. The winner, in addition, received a pair of live ducks. Other games were played, such as “human chess.” The “chessmen” were teenagers, boys on one side and girls on the other, all smartly dressed, the boys in blue or green tunics and the girls, their young faces made so much more mature and attractive by make-up, in orange or pink dresses. Very much in demand too were the astrologers and fortune-tellers. New Year was the time when new resolutions were taken, new decisions made; many people needed to get from them assurance and encouragement. Last, but not least, a traditional Vietnamese opera was performed. Libretti were based on romances from Vietnamese and Chinese history. Actors and actresses wore splendid costumes and heavy makeup which indicated whether they were heroes or villains. Green-faced traitors met their death at the hands of loyal servants of the King whose faces were painted red. All sang, danced, and mimed to the accompaniment of drums, wind and string instruments. There was much to do and to enjoy. But the main reason for the Chuong Festival was social. It was for meeting and talking, most of all for seeing and being seen. A folk ballad ran:

  On the tenth day of the New Year,

  Let us go and enjoy the Chuong Festival.

  There in the crowd,

  Everyone will have eyes only for himself.

  After the festival, the nice clothes were folded and put away in the trunks. People got ready to resume their normal lives. Tet was over.

  We worked or studied only in the mornings. Afternoons were free for reading, playing games or going out as we pleased. Our village, and indeed the whole canton, was safe territory for us, as nearly everyone knew who we were. My grandmother never worried about where we went. Most afternoons, we boys roamed the countryside, each armed only with a stick to keep dogs away. Often we visited other villages for a game of soccer. We played on all sorts of grounds, from bare fields cracked by drought to grassy pastures full of water puddles after the rains. Twisted ankles because of potholes were frequent occurrences and it was quite usual for both teams to retire at the local herbal medicine man after a match, for injured players to be treated.

  Birds and fish abounded in the country. Most families in our village had a pond, where fish were raised to provide a secondary income. Our own pond lay beside the main path leading from the village gate to the Communal Hall. From the edge of the pond, an old fig tree spread out in a most unusual fashion, for it projected itself horizontally towards the middle of the water, instead of upwards. Its trunk and branches were convenient places to sit and fish while keeping watch on village activities. I never had any success with fishing there. Not that I lacked patience; I could spend a long time sitting still. But somehow fish never took my bait; whereas my two younger sisters and even my brother Dong, who had just started school, caught them easily. We also took potshots at birds, using slingshots. Great care was taken in finding a forked stick of the right shape, made of guava-tree wood
, a very tough wood with a beautiful shine similar to that of the crepe myrtle. I never brought down any bird that way. However, I was quite good at catching young birds in their nests before they could fly and raising them. I was especially keen to go after a small species of sparrow which had black feathers, a black beak and a lively chirp. Some became tame and could be let out among the trees of our compound. They would stay there and, at nightfall, would return to their cage.

  Our region enjoyed security, but the memory of attacks by bandits was still alive and village defense was tight. Each village had a number of guards chosen by rotation among the young men. Armed with staves and using bullhorns to sound the alarm, they patrolled the hamlets at night, pounding their staves on the brick lanes to manifest their presence. In case of emergency, every villager-male or female, young or old-had to join in. Village rules set down in detail the rewards given to guards and other citizens for the capture of outlaws, as well as the compensations they received in the event of injury. If a person was killed while defending the village, he would be buried with all due rites and his family would receive a pension.

  Our family owned two guns and employed a permanent guard. We knew that our village was safe, as otherwise my great-grandmother and grandmother would not have stayed there and we children would not have been sent there for the summer vacation. Still, people kept talking about robberies and bandit attacks which took place not so long ago. As soon as darkness fell, all gates were closed and the village became a fortress. At no time when I was there was Kim Bai attacked, but trouble did happen to neighboring villages separated from us by a few kilometers. It was frightening in the night to suddenly hear the grave and dramatic call of bullhorns being blown repeatedly. The whole village woke up and the menfolk went to defend the gates. On some occasions, rescue parties were sent to help our neighbors. If they were not, we made as much noise as possible with our drums, gongs and bells to frighten off the attackers. All of a sudden, the memory of insecurity in times past came back to us. We were grateful to be inside our impregnable wall of bamboo, but I often thought of the shopkeepers out in the market place. They were either Chinese migrants or Vietnamese coming from other places to open their business. Not being members of our community, they were not allowed to settle inside the village enclosure. Of course, being so near, they could expect to get help quickly. But how exposed they must have felt when evening fell and the village gates were shut. As for us boys, we were determined to defend our ancestral home. Contingency plans were drawn up in case our compound was surrounded by bandits. Perhaps we treated these preparations more like a game, but the underlying fear was real enough. We made bows and arrows of bamboo and spent a lot of time in practice shooting. The pomelos in the garden, which were as big as coconuts, were ideal targets. We succeeded in piercing and spoiling many of those delicious fruits. More difficult targets were the nuts of the areca palm, which village people chewed with betel leaves. The bunches of small nuts were perched on top of the tree, which had just a long slender trunk measuring up to seven or eight meters high. To drop a bunch was considered by our group the highest mark of bowmanship.