My Hanoi Taxi Driver

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Marguerite Duras aged 14, taken in French Indochina, where she lived until age 19.

Welcome to my travel memoir!

Looking for Duras weaves three strands of memoir into one: my lifelong infatuation with the French writer Marguerite Duras, a journey through Vietnam and Cambodia tracing her footsteps and a musing on mothers and melancholy. It’s based on a number of trips I made to the region between 2009 and 2011 which for the sake of narrative I’ve combined into one journey. Some people’s names and places have also been changed.

All chapters are published here on Substack. Read in order here.

Hoan Kiem Lake Hanoi.

1.

        My Hanoi taxi driver is not Mr Friendly. There’s no ‘where are you from, where are you going, welcome to my country’ repartee as he throws his short, middle aged frame into the driver’s seat.

           ‘French quarter?’ he asks via the rear view mirror, checking his order slip from the taxi desk.

           ‘Yes, thank you, you have the address?

He responds in the affirmative, nodding his head and waving his arm as we pull out from the airport kerb. The chaos of honking, beeping and yelling quickly fades as he gets busy on his various phones — running a second business I presume. His fast paced chatter is not a bother. After the long flight from Sydney I’m happy to sit back and take it all in.  

         In the soft light of dusk an endless parade of giant billboards passes by. Beside the road, huge factory buildings with names like Sanyo and Panasonic take up acres of land. On the four-lane freeway local buses, cars and lorries vie for road space, while darkly-clad, full-helmeted motorcyclists dart in between. At a roundabout it all slows to a stop to allow a stream of traffic from another big road to nose its way in. A slim, khaki uniformed policeman stands idly in the middle of it all, giving a casual arm signal for the swarm of pedestrians to cross.

        Through the crush and on again, now the land on either side is bare and flat except for the billboard ads showing off the country’s modernity. I always forget that Vietnam is a Communist country and there’s little sign of it so far. Automobiles, baby formula, cleaning products, skin whitening creams —they want you to want it all!

        Closer to the city on either side of the carriageway, tall shophouses with their shop front downstairs and residence upstairs, line the parallel streets. The buildings are so narrow they remind me of a childhood storybook where giant giraffes live in skinny houses and poke their heads out the top windows. Two men squat like ducks high up on an unfinished structure looking out at all the buses, trucks and taxis funneling off the freeway into the smaller streets of the city, where garlands of liquorice black wires dangle from rickety electricity poles. 

        Soon we are squeezing our way into the busy laneways of what must be the old French quarter, where throngs of people are out walking, bartering or eating outdoors on tiny, low plastic stools. Dozens of motorbikes are parked on the sidewalks while street vendors carry the makings for an evening meal, carried in baskets on a pole slung across their shoulders.  Rickshaws are dodging motorbike riders, who in turn are dodging occasional cars and taxis, while pedestrians have the advantage over them all. A night market is in full swing and down one laneway, crowds of Vietnamese youth have commandeered the street for low-table beer drinking and snacking.  A few tourists are about but it’s definitely a local crowd.

        At first I can’t spot my hotel’s narrow frontage but my Mr Not So Friendly has obviously been here before. When I see the sign for myself, I thank him for the ride. He lets me out with a grunt and the hint of a smile, and drives off taking another customer on his phone. I have arrived!

***

        The Classic Street Hotel can’t be more than ten feet wide. It has an elevated reception area open to the street and a tiny downstairs sitting room with elegant carved-wood Chinese chairs arranged among antique pots and statues. As I ascend the steps, the unusually tall guy behind the small desk is Mr Truly Friendly and in the nicest way explains he has let my room out as he thought I would be arriving earlier. We work out I had given him the wrong arrival time, but it’s all good — they have a cheaper room they can give me for the night. Mr TF shows the way, carrying my small heavy red suitcase.

         ‘Books,’ I tell him, ‘I’m a writer.’

         ‘Oh,’ he smiles and says nothing more, not, ‘oh that’s a good life, are you here for a festival, are you famous in your country, where can I buy your book?’

          ' I am on a pilgrimage to the sites of my literary hero, the French writer, Marguerite Duras, ' I add, half expecting a flash of recognition when I mention her name.

          'Oh,' he repeats in a neutral tone. I notice the slant of the stairs and hang onto the polished wood railing so I don’t fall backwards. He opens the door to my room. It is windowless, airless and has no bathroom. 

           ‘Share bathroom downstairs near kitchen,’ He tells me as he leaves.

        I don’t mind. I’ve been stuck for hours in the middle of the middle row on a Boeing 747. It’s been a windowless day.              

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Read next chapter here.

Photo of MD age 14 from the cover of The Lover by Marguerite Duras, published by Harper Collins.