We have had plenty of opportunities to
talk to Vietnamese people, who all have English which puts our Vietnamese to
shame. One such conversation turns to the subject of marriage. Lots of
Vietnamese women, says our female confidant, (who we shall somewhat appropriately
call XX) want nothing more fervently than to get married and have children. On
the whole, however, a wife is expected to go out to work, return, do 100% of
the cooking and cleaning and take care of not only the children but the husband
and all of his family. The wife becomes the least important person in the
household, or arguably, the most important, but the least empowered.
XX doesn't want this for herself or even,
if she can help it, for her friends. She worries that in the struggle to shoulder
this immense workload, women begin to lose themselves, as they gradually lose
time to pursue any of their own interests. XX has no problem with marriage per
se, just with marriage to a Vietnamese man. It is not uncommon for there to be
domestic violence and it is not viewed with the same repulsion as perhaps it is
in the west. Even where the husband is very gentle, he nevertheless will not
expect to do anything for himself, and it is, at the very least, extremely hard
work. XX admits that some of her friends want this - they don't see it as
drudgery, and therefore perhaps they are happy. She passes no specific
judgement on either the system or those who, literally, marry into it, but she
doesn't want it for herself. She would choose to be single or to marry a
foreigner in preference.
I appreciate XX's strength of will, but
comment that it must be hard in a society which does not share such views. XX
agrees, noting that her family tend to assume that she will come round to it in
time, and cannot understand her reluctance. What she also says, however, is
that she has a group of female friends who feel the same, and who are also
resolved not to marry, or not to marry a Vietnamese man. Given this, and that
the greater significance given to male over female babies has created a deficit
of females to males, it looks rather as though there may be crisis in respect
of the dwindling supply of females.
I comment that it sounds rather like England
not so long ago, perhaps in the 1970's, until the emergence of the so called
'new man'. M enquires as to whether there might be a generation of young
Vietnamese men, who secretly want to cook and are willing to help clean, and
who might emerge as a potential wave of ‘new men’, to compliment this growing
trend among women. XX laughs. She doesn’t think so. Not for a while longer,
anyway.
Equality between men and women has long
been difficult. I am loath to point the finger at inequalities in Vietnam,
given that whilst the UK has theoretically moved on from such notions as the
housekeeping being the women’s realm, there is an uneasy swing the other way. I
have witnessed groups of women talking about their men in a way which would
cause outrage among both men and women who overheard it, were the tables to be
turned. Studies have been done in which a public scene is enacted, showing some
sort of physical abuse or threatening behaviour first, the man against the
women, and secondly the woman against the man. The first gets the public
approbation and the victim the help the scene deserves but the latter draws
only a curious stare, and in some cases, laughter. So we didn’t get it right
either.
Perhaps we never get it right. Maybe it is
all about a series of small adjustments, continual tweaking to keep things on
as even a keel as is possible over time. I will await with interest, the
emergence of the new Vietnamese man, and the next little wobble on our
tightrope journey of gender equality.
Later, after some very bad (i.e. not
existent) bargaining attempts in Benh Than market, we repair to a Bia Hoi
establishment. Bia Hoi is freshly made unpasteurised beer. You have to drink it
on the same day it is made and the place to drink it is in a shack on the side
of the road, or, as with the one we went to, a small, fairly functional
building about the size of a garage. As we approach the place I find myself
stepping back a little. Onto M’s toe, in point of fact. Outside the building
there are about six or seven people, all drinking bia hoi (which is served in
plastic flagons, 1 litre per person). All of them are men.
“Don’t forget your wife.” I say to M,
nervously, quoting Mr Binh from the Cu Chi tunnels tour, who tended to remind
the men of this in the same breath as endorsing the tour group not to forget their
sunglasses and wallets. M laughs and we cross the street. A very expansive and
friendly man sitting on the front step waves us in,
“Bia Hoi!” he says and gives us a beaming
thumbs up. I am probably a little over aware of this, but it seems to me that
he is talking largely to M, though he watches my chest closely as I follow M
in. My boobs, it would appear, are very welcome. Having said that, I must
follow it immediately with the fact that not one person, no matter how many
empty flagons of Bia Hoi were in front of them, made a comment, pointed or behaved
anywhere near as badly as a group of sober English men hanging out of a car
window. Besides, both the English comments and the Vietnamese gazes are largely
flattering. And I take a compliment where I can get it. There’s not that many
of them around.
As we walk into the room I see that I am
literally the only women there, not counting the servers, all of who are women. I
feel simultaneously pale and vulnerable, and like some sort of massive beer
swilling fishwife, who might, at any moment, launch into a hearty rendition of an appallingly rude song. Once we
are seated, however, and the Bia Hoi comes (it is light, refreshing and
delicious) I feel the atmosphere better. It’s full of good humour and animated
conversation. It is, I suppose, a pub. But you don’t always get such a great
atmosphere in pubs. Is it the short supply of Bia Hoi, perhaps, rendering it
always a novelty? The fact it is Friday evening? Or are Vietnamese people
simply always friendly and cheery, and what we are witnessing is a group of
them in one place, having fun? I am inclined towards the latter explanation
although there is the other obvious one – it’s the beer.
Flagon drunk, we stand up. I am determined
not to wobble. The beer is not that strong and I am a free, emancipated woman.
Unfortunately I have a case of the
hiccups. All the way home.
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