Got development?

There probably aren’t many people who would disagree with the notion that I come from a “developed” country (Canada) and that I live in a “developing” country (Vietnam). That’s certainly the consensus from the Vietnamese I meet in an ordinary day: when they find out where I’m from, they inevitably nod sagely and say “Yes, Canada. It’s a developed country.” I should note my underlying suspicion that their response would be the same even if I answered “East Belugastan,” but that’s neither here nor there. The underlying assumption is that the two nations (Canada - or even East Belugastan - and Vietnam) are fundamentally different, that one has somehow reached the end point of “development” (if not “history”) while the other one has a long way to go. But I’m not so sure, and my doubt stems from an epiphany I had while vacationing on an island in the gulf of Thailand.

I’ve been going to the same beach on Koh Phangan for almost ten years now. It’s a pretty idyllic place, really: a lovely little cove inside a National Park, difficult to access except by the daily water taxi, electricity for only a few hours in the evening when the bungalow operators turn on their generators so guests don’t have to eat their dinner in the dark. So there I was one morning, looking out over the Gulf of Thailand, sipping my cup of instant coffee. My eyes wandered over the Tetrapack of UHT milk provided for those of us who aren’t fond of undiluted instant coffee, and I noticed with a start that it was another quality product from the Foremost Friesland corporation. The same corporation that eventually purchased and then shut down the dairy cooperative that used to be one of the central features of the economy of my home town of Vernon, BC, Canada.

Vernon was a pretty idyllic place to grow up, really. It’s in the middle of British Columbia, at the center of three lakes (Kalamalka, Okanagan, and Swan), and ringed by mountains that include the 3000-meter Silver Star, where the Canadian National Cross Country Ski Team often trains. The region is blessed with a mild climate and ideally suited to agriculture such a fruit growing, apiaries, and dairies. When I was growing up, the local economy was still dominated by three cooperative institutions: the North Okanagan Creamery Association for the dairies, the Vernon Fruit Union for the fruit growers like my dad (we had an apple orchard), and the Vernon and District Credit Union founded by folks like my dad who refused to deal with the corporate banks from “back East.” These cooperative institutions functioned to ensure that credit, inputs, and expertise were available to all their members, and to make sure that farmers got a fair price for their produce. The Fruit Union even had the best and the cheapest grocery store in town, where my mom would go every Saturday morning to stock up on food for the week. I know I’m idealizing it a little, but all in all, it seemed to function pretty well.

But the neo-liberal revolution would take care of that. The wave of “structural reforms” that began in the 1970s did away with many of the laws that had made the cooperatives possible. At the same time, barriers that had limited international currency flows were eased, then erased, subjecting the local economy to unprecedented levels of direct foreign investment by both corporations and individuals. By the early 1980s the Fruit Union had closed its doors, too, a victim of a combination of international competition and lack of access to the radically altered systems of food distribution that had come to dominate the market. As for the Creamery Association, it was dismantled and its assets eventually purchased and stripped by the Foremost-Friesland Corporation.

Of course, there were gains as well as losses. We got our first shopping mall in the early 1980s, followed quickly by McDonalds, Burger King, and all the usual American chains and franchises. Strip malls spread along all the major arteries. With farming now unprofitable, orchards were transformed into luxury housing developments for an influx of foreigners (Germans, mainly) keen to retire or purchase second homes in what was, it had to be said, an area of spectacular natural beauty. Land prices skyrocketed, impoverishing those with lower incomes. Those areas that weren’t “developed” as housing were “developed” as golf courses. Both were environmental disasters in a semi-arid climate with limited water resources. Nor did anyone notice that the increased pollution from all the new developments was turning the shining emerald and sapphire hues of Kalamalka Lake – the name means “lake of many colors” – a sadly pedestrian blue. Today, the place where I spent the first 18 years of my life is only vaguely recognizable to me.

Let’s summarize the elements here: agricultural economy with collective institutions; collective institutions are dismantled, their assets privatized, and eventually sold to multinational corporations; increased foreign direct investment flows bring McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut, property developments, and golf courses; the poor get poorer, and the environment is degraded. Sound familiar? True, Vernon has yet to get its 77-storey skyscraper, and Hanoi has yet to get its ski resort. Nor has the Canadian Communist Party ever played a leading role in much of anything. But if we put aside these divergences, and a roughly ten-year head-start, it sure looks to me like these stories of development were written by the same author. Especially when you remember that in Vietnam, Foremost Friesland brands itself as Dutch Lady. Whether I’m in Canada, Vietnam, or even Koh Phangan Thailand, I just can’t help noticing that the development in my morning cup of coffee tastes exactly the same.

why is there so much meat in my phở?

Before I go any further, I should point out that the comments that follow apply only to real Hà Nội phở, not Sài Gòn phở, and especially not that strange hybrid stuff they sell at Phở 24. Anyway, given that I've been eating phở in Hà Nội now for almost ten years now, I think we can assume I know what I'm doing. I know where to get good phở bò, phở gà, the gristliest sốt vang, the softest quẩy (and we all know that's not easy in Hà Nội).

One of the things I learned early on was the precise ratio of meat to noodle necessary so that there was enough meat for each mouthful, but never too much left over at the end. But for the last few months, no matter which of my favorite local shops I go to, there's always meat left in the bottom of the bowl. There it sits, bereft of noodles, only a few slivers of spring onion to keep it company.

This intrigues me. We all know that inflation has been hitting Vietnam hard over the last two years, and the rising price of phở has been one of the clearest indicators. But at the same time, it would seem that consumer expectations are rising too, and that phở shops are competing on perceived value. Particularly given that I've been noticing increased amounts of meat in my phở over the last six months while the price has remained constant, I'm wondering if this isn't in some sense the local equivalent of the McDonald's Super Value Menu: increased "value" to keep customers coming back despite the economic downturn. If I were an economist, I'm guessing I could find something extremely profound in all of this. But as it is, I guess I'll just keep ending up with leftover meat in the bottom of my bowl of phở every morning.

encapsulation

For me one of the most insidious aspects of "Development" is what I'll call encapsulation, or the creation of barriers to human contact. Of course, this process is most advanced in that most advanced of all nations, the US. Gated "communities" of people who spend their days "telecommuting" to work, leaving their home briefly to drive their SUV to get money at a drive-through bank, then food at a drive-through restaurant, before finally returning to their cosy cocoon to watch the latest film to arrive from Netflix. I exaggerate, of course, but not by much.

One of the things I've always loved about Vietnam is the way my day is filled with human contact. Granted, it's not always a positive experience, but it is real and it is human, and that for me far outweighs the occasional frustration at the market or an overpriced xe ôm ride. But I can feel it changing. And perhaps one of the reasons I dislike cars so much is the way they promote this process of encapsulation. Motorbikes (and even more, cycling or walking) have always struck me as a particularly human form of transportation. You make eye contact with the people around you, and a left turn involves a complex but almost instantaneous process of negotiation with the oncoming riders. Above all, though, you're a part of your environment, open to the possibilities inherent in the crowd of people eating tiết canh on Hai Bà Trưng street, the smell of nước phở simmering on Lò Đúc, or of the hoa sữa trees on Nguyễn Du.

A car is different. It is a capsule, inhabited by isolated individuals with no connection to the world around them and even less responsibility. You see this very clearly in the love of blacked-out windows, or conversely in the sense of shock we experience when we encounter a convertible sports car with the top down, and realize that cars in fact contain real humans who occasionally make eye contact or even smile at the people around them.

But convertibles are the exception that proves the blacked-out rule. The other evening as I walked out for a plate of cơm rang, I watched a new BMW 5-series creep along Nguyễn Bình Khiêm street, both driver and passenger (presumably husband and wife) engrossed in separate conversations on their iPhones, oblivious not just to the minor traffic jam they were creating, but also to each other. Call me lạc hậu (it's okay, everyone does), but I still prefer the motorbike to the car, the real to the virtual, talking to the person next to me rather than someone on the other side of town. But then again, maybe it's just that BMW 5-series owners are particularly boring. Here's to enjoying real life and real people wherever and whenever we can.

a day without horns

I don't know about you, but I never use my horn. In the course of an average year, driving most days, I use my horn two or three times. Actually, that's not absolutely true. Sometimes, when someone behind me in traffic is using their horn in a particularly egregious manner, I let them pass me and then follow them, matching them honk for honk until one of us has to turn off (have you ever wondered who the asshole behind you was, honking exactly in time with you? Well, now you know). But aside from this particular circumstance, I really don't see the need for honking. It doesn't get me there any faster, or safer. And when I see people honking at pedestrians or nguoi ban hang rong, the gesture seems less futile than downright disrespectful. About the only explanation I have for it is that it's a uniquely Vietnamese form of self-expression. But are these really the kinds of expressions we want to make?

Hence, my proposal that the Hanoi People's Committee declare one day a month a "day without horns." It's not without precedent. In the runup to the Beijing Olympics, the Chinese government had a variety of initiatives aimed at modifying everyday behavior. The eleventh of every month, for example, was "queuing day" (get it? the two "1"s look like two people standing in a line). So why not a "day without horns?" People might start to realize that honking or no honking, it really makes no difference in terms of speed or safety. But it does make a difference in terms of noise pollution and stress levels. And maybe we could find other ways to express ourselves. Like smiling and waving. Singing songs. Blowing kisses to fellow drivers. The possibilities are endless.

development's not all bad (maybe)

I was drinking beer via Skype with thầy Thư a few weeks ago, and he commented that my blog posts are painting a resolutely bleak picture of the course of development in Hanoi. This gave me pause. I like to consider myself a relatively optimistic person, not just able to see the glass of bia hơi as half full, but also able to rest contentedly in the knowledge that a full glass is but a shout of "bia em ơi!" away. So I set myself the challenge of finding an example of positive change in Hanoi in the last year.

This will probably come as a shock to no one, but my example revolves around bia hơi. Over the last four years or so, bia hơi's have been closing at an alarming rate. This sort of change is driven by the same skyrocketing land prices that are closing places like Cafe Lâm, combined with the aggressive enforcement of policies intended to eradicate street commerce. My sentimental favorite, the Việt Hà on Lý Thường Kiệt opposite the Melia closed long ago, followed by the Việt Hà on Tông Đản (moved to Hàng Bài and since closed at that location, too), and recently by the great old bia hơi Hà Nội Vân Hồ. For a while, it seemed all we were left with were the cavernous beer gardens along the lines of Hải Xồm. Perfectly fine, of course, but not exactly what I think of when I think of "real" bia hơi.

For "real" places like the bia tươi Heninger place at 60 Lý Thường Kiệt, which depend entirely on sidewalk seating, policies against street commerce were a virtual death sentence. For a few years there, I assumed it had closed entirely. But last summer, I happened to meet an old friend (Ricky, I wish you well wherever you are) who suggested that we celebrate our reacquaintance at the same location where we'd shared far too many beers back in the early 2000s. My first few sessions there last summer were still punctuated by impromptu street comedy. The informer would call, the servers would rush out, chairs, tables, and half-eaten plates of chả nhái would be whisked away, and bemused customers would be left standing on the sidewalk as the police arrived, grumbled, and eventually left empty-handed. But now, even this perfunctory attempt at enforcement has ended, and on any night of the week the tables and little plastic stools (we're talking old school here, no chairs allowed; and let's not even mention the toilet) flow out to occupy a good third of the block west of Quán Sứ. And this is not the only example: the Việt Hà on Hàm Long has retaken control of the street opposite the lovely Catholic church, there's a nice cluster of small sidewalk bia hơis down at the end of Hoa Mã... I could continue this list of revitalized bia hơis far longer than I should.

So while we've lost many of the real bia hơis forever, those that managed to survive the lean years of 2004-2007 now seem to have been able to renegotiate their right to carry on that great Hanoi tradition: selling beer on the sidewalk. The question remains, though: why this positive development? I tended to chalk it up to the inevitable waxing and waning that characterizes Vietnamese law enforcement: laws are made, for a time enforced, and then relaxed as ordinary people reassert their own notions of justice and equity. For my friend Thư, though, the answer was to be found in the current financial crisis, and a conscious government decision to relax the enforcement of laws that might restrict even further the ability of ordinary people to make a living in hard economic times. In the end, we differ primarily in our idea of where the impulse is coming from, I'm a little more bottom-up, he's a little more top-down. But the way I figure it, my analysis holds out a more hope that an improving economy won't necessarily bring the end of sidewalk bia hơi as we know it. Maybe I'm an optimist after all.