A Vendor's Delight

Vietnam is hard to like. It is a country where everything is for sale all the time and where the people all have just the right price.

My first experience of Vietnamese capitalism comes early, on the night train from the border to Hanoi. I purchase a hard sleeper, which entitles me to a top bunk and mere inches above my head, but I take the wrong one in the wrong cabin. The righful owner eventually comes along and the conductor kicks me out. He leads me down the hall, barely stops to show me the proper place and brings me to another empty compartment.

What are we doing here?, I think.

Sitting down, he taps the long bottom bunk with a big grin and writes 70,000 VND (Vietnamese dong) on his palm.

"No," I turn without further conversation, take my top bunk with no head room.

This is just the beginning. In Hoi An, famed for its silk merchants, I shop for a suit and get the same response from most vendors.

"It your lucky day, I make good price for you!"

They even get upset when I make to move on. "Why you not buy from me?! I make good price!" Comparison shopping must be a foreign concept here.

In the end, the woman who gets my business charges much higher than the average rate for a full suit, but the product is higher quality and fits like a glove. I visit her store before all the others and she lets me go only with "I hope you'll be back." Turns out, I am.

She is the exception, not the rule and Nha Trang sees more of the same. Brad, a bulky Australian with Elvis hair and tatoos all over, and I head for the big, white Buddha in town and avoid vendors all the way. Brad has a way with them, especially motorbike drivers.

"You need motorbike?

"No, but d'you want my sandals? They're crap."

"Where you go?"

"To China, we're walking." And we keep walking.

At our destination, an Italian couple and kids selling postcards join us. While Brad tells a girl that he can't buy from her because he's an alcoholic and has no money, I am faced with a little boy, maybe 2 or 3 years old. He has big, round eyes, a downturned chin and a pudgy hand that asks a silent question. He barely looks at me as he stands there. I also notice that he wears Adidas flip-flops.

"No."

The kids work out that there is no money here and go back to their game, a version of hop-scotch, in the dirt. We watch and listen to their high-pitched screams. Brad says off-hand that he wants to take a picture of the sunset.

"I bet we could get you one," says the Italian girl and motions to the kids with a grin.

"Good price?"

"Yeah, just for you."

A fit of hysterics ensues. It's true: the kids will offer the best picture if we ask, bring us to the best spot in Nha Trang to take it - for a price. Only the sale matters. If these kids think they can make money off the sunset, they will come in with the hard sell no matter the cloudy day.

I begin to think that this behaviour is reserved for tourists. I sit over my meals and conclude that the Real Vietnam, the one where people have kids and talk to neighbours and live their lives, is beyond my grasp. I determine that commerce for the average Vietnamese person is a stately affair, a polite give-and-take.

But it isn't. On a local bus to the Cambodian border, vendors get aboard, thrust products under local noses and disembark at the next stop. One industrious salsman brings a portable loudspeaker and a microphone to say his piece. The only difference is that the language is Vietnamese, not English. At least they do the same for everyone, I think.

The thought is small comfort, though. Vendors here walk by and offer a product and then again five minutes later as if they didn't hear no the first time. They come right aboard the bus. They stand next to a restaurant table. They ask and they ask and they ask. "I make good price just for you!"

By the end, I have had enough. I arrive in Chau Doc and pay for a room at the most expensive hotel in town. I shave, put on a white dress shirt and smooth out the wrinkles. I flash a smile in the mirror, go down to the bar and delight in spending all my remaining Vietnamese dong on service with a smile.

"Your drink, sir."

"Thank you very much!"

From the patio, lights across the Mekong twinkle and blink. Palm trees wave in a thick, slow breeze and cars honk at each other in the street. I stand up to go. It is time to leave this country.