November 2003
 Our
Man In Hanoi has come to a conclusion that he is sure many
wiser, more experienced men have reached before; If you’re
going to get married, then don’t do it in Vietnam….. ‘In
triplicate please sir’ – ‘Yes and you’ll have to get that
translated of course’ – ‘We only open Tuesday and Thursday
from 2:00 till 4:00…but not this Thursday,’ and ‘You’ll
need to see a doctor to show you are sane…but of course
you don’t actually have to go, a photo will do’
These are just some of the comments we’ve heard in
the last fortnight or so as we fight our way through the
bureaucratic jungle that is the justice department of Hanoi.
It seems we’re just not jungle people
are to our shame, after over a year in the country, we lack
the most useful jungle tool of all, a decent command of
the language. On the plus side though, all the officials
we’ve dealt with have been very civil and suppose
you can’t really expect a country that has only been accepting
foreign visitors for a relatively short period of time to
be adept at joining then in holy matrimony. In fact you
can almost see embarrassment on their faces at the multiple
red stamping, photocopying etc that is required. I’m sure
we’ll manage to hack and wriggle our way through eventually,
but some of the requirements would be almost laughable were
they not so time frustratingly time-consuming. Take for
example The Certificate of Non Impediment. This is a integral
part of the marriage process and involves me having to post
notice, on a board in the British Embassy, my intention
to marry. So as to prevent bigamy I suppose. Now really,
if I did already have a wife, what are the chances of her,
in the next 21 days, wandering down Hai Bai Chung Street
in Hanoi, Vietnam, happening across a nondescript three
storey building, by some chance whim entering said building,
taking the lift to the third floor where the embassy is,
again on a whim entering, perusing their by no means prominently
displayed notice board, and……. YOU B*****d!? (Sharon if
you are reading this, it’s just an example and I’m really
in Spain, ok?)
If I were already married, and my poor ill-treated wife
did go to The British Embassy in Hanoi she would, unfortunately,
see none of the Gurkha soldiers that I have so come to associate
with renewing my passport etc. Whenever I see one of those
guys I’m overcome with awe such are the legends and mystique
that surround them. What I’d really like to do is sit down
round a campfire and over a shot of army issued rum, ideally
served in a tin mess-cup, have a real good chin wag. But
I’m a bit shy and while there are plenty of campfires in
Hanoi, I don’t suppose these elite wariors are allowed to
drink on the job. So I’ll just have to make do with some
of the many anecdotes told about them. Maybe the one about
how rapidly morale in the Argentinean army plummeted during
the Falklands war when word got out that a boat-load of
the little Nepalese guys with the big kukris were on there
way (kukris by the way are the long knives they carry, and
like the swords of samurai, once drawn they always have
to draw blood.) Or my personal favorite related in
Tim Bowden’s excellent biography of the Tasmanian combat
cameraman, Neil Davis, entitled One Crowded Hour. I quote
from one of Neil’s letters that make up the majority of
this biography
The
Gurkhas were not trained as paratroopers, but were asked
if they would be prepared to jump from a Hercules C130
transport aircraft into combat against the Indonesians
if the need arose. The Gurkhas had the right to turn down
this request because they had not been trained for this
combat role.
Now the Gurkhas usually agreed to anything, but on this
occasion they provisionally rejected the plan. But they
next day, one of their NGOs sought out the British officer
who had made the request and said they had discussed the
matter further and would be prepared to jump under certain
conditions.
‘What are they?’ asked the British officer.
The Gurkhas told him they would jump if the land was marshy
or reasonably soft with no rocky outcrops, because they
were inexperienced in falling.
The British officer considered this, and said that the
dropping area would almost certainly be over jungle, and
there would not be any rocky outcrops, so that seemed
alright. Was there anything else?
Yes, said the Gurkhas. They wanted the plane to fly as
slowly as possible and no more than one hundred feet high.
The British pointed out that the planes always did fly
as slowly as possible when dropping troops, but to jump
from one hundred feet was impossible, because the parachutes
would not open in time from that height.
‘Oh,’ said the Gurkhas, ‘that’s alright then. We’ll jump
with parachutes anywhere. You didn’t mention parachutes
before!’
If any one has
any more good anecdotes relating to these fine men then
please send them in and let me share them with our readers
Getting back to
my impending marriage, I can at least count myself lucky
that I didn’t get up early last Saturday morning after a
stag night I can’t remember and board a 9 hour bus to a
Northern province bordering China, there to wed my true
love. This bus did a head on with a truck coming the other
way and left a good friend with a broken leg, plaster completely
encasing one leg and doctor’s orders not to move for ten
days. To really rub it in he was the only one injured on
the entire bus….no one else got even a scratch. Luckily
it’s a clean break and should cause no long term problems
but, well liked as he is, I’ve yet to see anyone who knows
him say, “Oh that’s terrible” without just a little grin
on their faces.
Anyway, I’ve got several sheafs of paper to fill out in
triplicate along with passport photos to get and The justice
department to visit early tomorrow morning (if tomorrow’s
a Tuesday or a Wednesday) so if you’ll excuse me…..
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