A Nation Spliced Together : Vietnam’s 2 Regions Differ Sharply in Tone, Texture

Tuesday’s 10th-anniversary parades and speeches will be beamed live to the United States from this former South Vietnamese capital, but the victors from the north will have to wait a few days to see the festivities in taped reruns.

The television systems in the two halves of the reunited country are totally incompatible, one built by the Americans and one by the Soviets. A signal sent from the south would have about as much clarity on a northern set as a signal from the United States.

North and South Vietnam have been spliced together now for a decade, but the 17th Parallel--the old demilitarized zone--remains a kind of Mason-Dixon Line for a people divided by everything from technology to temperament.

The north is a gritty land with gritty people, inured to hardship and steeled to a Spartan life by decades of war, sacrifice and poverty. The warmer south is more lush and relaxed, its residents still poor but on the whole better fed and housed and far more free-spirited.

“You still have two systems in this country,” a foreign resident in Hanoi said. “You can see it the moment you cross the 17th Parallel. People in the south live better because they still have private things--they still own their homes, some their own vehicles. There’s nothing like that in the north.”

So far apart are north and south that it was not until 10 months ago that the principal northern port of Haiphong received its first freighter loaded with rice from the south, the nation’s granary. Although the north has long been deficient in rice, authorities found it easier to ship southern rice to overseas ports and import Thai- or Philippine-grown rice for the north than to transport the grain within Vietnam.

No place better captures the texture of the north than Hanoi, which wears its austerity like an old, tight shoe. The streets are dusty and crumbling, the graceful French villas covered with green mold and yellow rot.

In the capital of the country that defeated the most powerful nation on earth, oxcarts compete freely with bicycles for space on most main thoroughfares. Motor traffic is a rarity.

The nights are eerie and dangerous, with tiny pin spots of light from vendors’ oil lamps providing the only illumination on most streets. Bicycles rarely have lights and routinely collide. For a pedestrian, simply trying to cross the street can be a harrowing experience.

Electricity is parceled out, with most homes in the city of 1.5 million people getting their ration only one night a week.

Hanoi is not getting itself dolled up even for Tuesday’s victory party. Authorities have strung some new banners glorifying the Communist Party and erected billboards downtown detailing the final 1975 military drive that vanquished the south, but that is about all.

By contrast, Ho Chi Minh City, the former Saigon, has rolled out the red carpet for the Communist victory celebration. Although many residents of this metropolis of 3 million have been chafing under Hanoi’s rule, a party is still a party. People gather by the thousands each night by the old Presidential Palace to watch marchers practice for Tuesday’s big parade.

This is what passes for a honky-tonk town in today’s Vietnam. Although things might seem pretty tame without the bars where thousands of GIs parted with their dollars during the war, Saigon--which is what most people here still call it--remains sassy enough to muster a little action.

The black market thrives, motorcyclists still roar through the city on Saturday nights wasting precious gasoline, and pedicab drivers quickly offer to arrange “a good time” for foreign customers.

A handful of the best restaurants from the old days survive, often manned by waiters who have made the rounds for two or three decades. Others are a bit new to the profession, like the fellow who introduced himself to a group of foreign journalists the other night as the local stringer for an American newspaper during the war.

“What do you do now?” one of the reporters asked. The man laughed sheepishly and began to clear the table.

Although American military personnel are long gone and the U.S. Embassy converted into the headquarters of a government energy exploration program, there are still a few reminders of the American presence.

Yellow Shell signs and red Esso tigers still lurk behind the barbed wire surrounding old service stations. Store marquees promise Chevrolets or Kodak film. Resuscitated Chevys, Fords, Dodges and an occasional American Motors Rebel--their tail fins glistening in the tropical sun--cut their way through the bicycles and pedicabs.

American slang appears to have left a lasting impression, too. If a visitor asks a southerner for a favor, he is likely to answer, “No sweat, no sweat.”

In Hanoi, where Soviet influence has been dominant for years, the response--if there is one at all--is likely to be “Nyet, nyet. “