French Colonial Charm : Dusk Whisks Hanoi Into a Vanished Era

When dusk obscures the peeling paint and louvered windows shut behind seedy, crowded rooms, Hanoi becomes a place of surface magic, a charming French city from a vanished era whisked into the last decades of the 20th Century.

Under Hanoi’s dim street lights--there are no bright ones--it would hardly be surprising to pass a colonial gentleman decked out in white linen or to hear Edith Piaf singing melancholy ballads about the French Foreign Legion.

Hanoi is probably the best preserved city in Southeast Asia, if not all Asia. Only the Burmese capital of Rangoon and Phnom Penh in Cambodia offer competition. With its lakes, extensive parks, tree-lined boulevards and homogeneous architecture, Hanoi could also be among the loveliest--if it could afford paint, plaster and some basic engineering.

Case of Shabbiness

By day, it is quickly evident that Hanoi is suffering from a bad case of shabbiness, a seemingly common ailment of Communist cities from Prague to Peking.

And talks with officials make clear that old Hanoi is being preserved not by intention but by default: While booming, capitalist Asia has bulldozed its past and put up skyscrapers, Hanoi lacks the resources to follow suit.

The explanation for underdevelopment one hears again and again is war--against the Japanese, French, Americans--and the current threat from China. The military is seemingly the only thing in Hanoi that is not neglected: The recent parade marking the 40th anniversary of the Communist state featured thousands of troops marching smartly before tanks, howitzers and missiles all coated with shiny, green paint.

Planned for 150,000

Besides the buildings, Hanoi has inherited its sewage system, water supply and electrical plant from the French, who left after the battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954. The archaic infrastructure shows its age.

The colonials planned Hanoi to accommodate 150,000 people. Today, 1 million live in the inner “French city,” with another 1.5 million in newer suburban areas, where industrial zones and sooty apartment blocks have risen.

Hanoi’s streets overflow with pedestrians and swarms of bicyclists; passengers jam a French-era tram that clangs its way through the heart of the city. A first-time visitor, having heard cliches about the “ant-like activity” of the North Vietnamese, is surprised to find much of the colorful anarchy of Asian alleys as well as purposeless meandering, bicycle cruising and sitting for hours at hole-in-the-wall tea shops.

Other recreation consists of strolls in the parks, where kiosks sell ice cream and beer, and watching local or Soviet films at packed movie theaters. There are 23 hours of television each week, and American rock is finding its way into the ears of Hanoi youth, mainly via copied cassettes.

For the foreign community, chiefly diplomats and aid officials, public pleasures are sparse. The East Bloc favors weekly dances at tourist hotels; Westerners gather on Friday nights at the Australian Embassy’s Billabong Bar or at Hanoi’s few private restaurants.

One longstanding “in” place is a four-table eatery atop a reeking tenement frequented by rats. The owner deserves credit for managing to assemble Australian beer, tapes of American pop music, Bulgarian wine, posters advertising heavy-duty Czech trucks and an ambitious menu that includes crepes flambe and duck a l’orange.

French Bread Sold

Such French favorites are unlikely to appear on the tables of most Vietnamese, although crusty French bread is sold all over town--one of the last colonial legacies still with the common folk.

Among the older, educated Vietnamese, including virtually everyone in the top leadership, French is still spoken, French literature is read and days at French lycees are remembered. Youths today prefer to study Russian and English.

“We have received a great deal of culture from the French,” said Vu Can, editor of the important Vietnam Courier magazine.

Can, unlike members of the younger generation, can tell you which of the yellow stucco, green-shuttered, red-tiled buildings housed what colonial office or French dignitary. Many of these buildings will probably not survive the century. Now, a few drab modern buildings have begun to appear in the inner city. And the Soviet influence is beginning to show: The gray, Russian-built mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh is a transplant from Moscow’s Kremlin wall and Red Square.