.: Ahoy Hanoi :.

The veil.

We were in the vegetarian restaurant. The waiter, a strapping young lad who could possibly pass as a college student handed us our menus. Famished, we started discussing on what we should have for dinner on our first night in Hanoi, somewhat a little oblivious to the lad who was still standing there waiting for our order.

After a while, the lad said:

"I like that. That thing that you wear on your head. It looks very nice. Are you Muslim?" 

"Yes, yes we are Muslims. Thank you."

We managed to talk a little more with him. As we had thought, he is currently a student at one of the local universities. The waiter job is his part-time work. Not only does the job enable him to gain extra pocket money and working experience, the job also enables him to improve on his English and communication skills. 

Sometimes I wonder, if I could turn back time and go through it allover again, would I have been as resourceful as him when I was at his age?

The Tamarind Cafe, serving contemporary vegetarian cuisine.

Hope he is doing well there.

4.48pm, Malaysian Time

.: Fallen angels :.

Making a living. 

Both girls smiled shyly at me. One, was carrying a basket full of packets of tissue papers. The other, held firmly to the hem of her dress.

I called them to come nearer. 

Girl 1: Buy tissue? 

Me: Sure. Is she your little sister? 

Girl 1: Yes. 

The girls were barely 9. Yet there they were on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, selling packets of tissue papers. For a moment, I wondered why were they not in school, where were their parents, where do they live. However, due to language limitations, they were not able to divulge much details. The hardship that they face each day seemed to fade away when we shared a few moments together. 

The memories I have of my childhood were mostly filled with playtime, reading and watching cartoons. Thus I often find it difficult to understand how children in some parts of the world can be subjected to child labour. At such a young age, these children have to grow beyond their years and take on the responsibility of contributing towards the livelihood of the family.

As much as I want to believe that the girls, like other child labourers, do not have a choice in this matter, and that they have been driven to be in the trade due to circumstances, their sheer innocence, oblivious to the potential danger that may fall upon them, stifled me.  

The last few minutes of our encounter were spent on a couple of photography sessions. The girls loved seeing their faces on the camera, and they giggled at their own pictures. After having their fill of laughs, they both said their thanks and goodbyes. 

And with a heavy heart, I let them walk away. 

11.08am, Malaysian Time

.: Morning call :.

Ho Chi Minh.

I was woken-up by our neighbours. All sorts of amazing smells were coming into my room. Somehow rather, I had left the window open, the night before. 

Fascinated by the smells, I scrambled for my glasses and took a look at my cell phone. 4.30am? I took another look. Yes, 4.30am. When did my neighbours start cooking? How early did they wake-up from their slumber? Why am I still in bed asking all these questions to myself?

With my head still up in the clouds, I went to the balcony and peered over. A few aunties had set-up a few tables, right at their doorstep. Noodles, rice, meat and vegetables. A sumptuous spread. The tables were filled with a wide variety of food, just waiting for people to buy. Every now and then, I could see motorcyclists making a quick stop to grab a quick bite. 

Hearing all the chatter. Seeing the warm exchange of smiles. Smelling the wonderful aroma of each delectable-looking food. All of these reminded me of the morning and night markets that I used to frequent to when I was in Malaysia. 

I just had to experience it, the Vietnamese way. 

12.38 noon, Malaysian Time

.: Good morning :.

Vietnam.

A place to stay.

We need a place to stay.

The taxi driver brought us to a bustling neighbourhood. We saw children running along the streets, and adults handling their wares. Everyone spoke in Vietnamese. We were beginning to wonder whether the taxi driver had brought us to the right location. 

At a distance, we saw an old lady smiling at us. Dressed in her traditional attire, she gestured for us to come closer to her. Tired, hungry and feeling utterly restless, we had no idea who she was. We had just arrived in Vietnam and we didn’t know whether to acknowledge her or to just walk away. Upon seeing our hesitation, she started to speak to us in the little English that she knew. We could barely understand her English, but we eventually came to the conclusion that her nephew had sent her to pick us up. 

She brought us down a narrow alley. Occasionally a couple of motorbikes would pass by, and we had to give way. After walking for about 10 minutes, we reached our apartment. 

“You must lock house. People steal motorbikes. Must lock house,” said the old lady. 

And she left.

12.57noon, Malaysian Time