Christmas in Vietnam: The Ghost of Christmas Past
Christmas in Hanoi
Except for the eight percent or so of the Christian population, up until really a couple of decades, Christmas was hardly celebrated as a 'religious festival' in Vietnam. For this predominately Mahayana Buddhism nation, Christmas was seen as a rather strange, totally foreign (literally), tradition. However, as Vietnam opened up to global influences, the urban Vietnamese have increasingly each year embraced Christmas and the festive spirit as a mainstream celebration (arguably a superficial, sparkly one at that and still a normal working day, not a public holiday).Now on the run-up to the big day – which stretches back to mid-November – you can’t move for flashing fairy lights, Christmas décor tat, multi-sized Santa suits and Christmas carols muzak piped through the malls. Just a taster of Christmas Present in Ho Chi Minh City. But like any good Christmas tale and in true Hollywood style, I return to the ghost of Christmas past…namely, Hanoi, and some of the memorable, rather bizarre Christmases I experienced during my time living there in the early Naughties. Back then, Christmas in this more traditional and conservative city was for most Hanoians a quirky distraction, when the dour Hanoians were still getting used to foreigners like me parading around the Old Quarter in a minuscule “Sexy Santarina” outfit. A startling sight that seemed to attract far too much attention, especially from saucer-eyed local children, reducing me to taking refuge in the nearest international-operated restaurant (where I could at least conveniently grab a few cocktails).
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| Was Hanoi ever ready for a Sexy Santarina? |
Or seeing skinny-as-a-rake, suspiciously Oriental-looking Mr. Santa Clauses, whizzing down the streets on their motorbikes delivering sacks of toys to the dreaded office parties that had begun to infiltrate here.
I'm Dreaming of a .... Normal Christmas?
The main Christmas action in Hanoi, culminating in a yule-tide frenzy on Christmas Eve night, centred on St. Joseph’s Cathedral, built by the French to resemble a smaller version of Paris' Notre Dame and consecrated on Christmas night, 1886. Although a lapsed catholic, every year I planned to attend the Cathedral’s fabled Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. But never succeeded, as thousands of other souls also shared the same idea. For exclusive seats for the Mass, it was either invitation only, helped along by personally knowing the Catholic Bishop (my good connections obviously weren't good enough) and/or paying a King’s ransom for the hottest tickets in town.
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| St. Joseph's Catholic Cathedral, in normal, peaceful times, IE not Christmas Eve.... |
And if you were lucky enough to obtain 'tickets,' it was almost near-on impossible to get even 100-metres near the Cathedral’s magnificent wooden doors and front façade- the latter, mounted each year with nativity scenes of biblical proportions. It seemed Hanoi’s entire population congregated en-masse outside the Cathedral on Christmas Eve night, like moths drawn to a light, eager to catch all the sporadic Christmas excitement and if you were Catholic, strains of the Mass live-streamed broadcast by loudspeakers.
On this holiest night of the year, a decidedly unholy mass of motorbike and pedestrian gridlock out front, spilling over into the side-streets, would have bordered on the farcical, had one not been scared of being crushed to death. So much for “Peace and Goodwill to all Mankind.” When Christmas Day was over, I could finally enter the Cathedral in peace and view their surreal nativity scene, sheltering in a faux cave, bedecked with neon flashing lights. In the local nightclub I fled to - my alternative, "Plan B" form of Christmas Eve entertainment - their boxed nativity scene was even more surreal: embedded within a bar area totally decked-out in aluminum foil and fairy lights flashing in-sync to the beats of the DJ music.
My fondest Christmas memories however rest on the British Ambassador's official residence (well what did you expect? I am an Empress), a splendid Indochina-era villa restored to its former colonial elegance, ensconced in the capital's leafy French Quarter.
And during the five years I resided in Hanoi, it was here that two sets of stellar British Ambassadors and their wives were stationed here, not only approachable and decent Embassy staff, but fun-loving and sociable, too. Meaning they were perfect hosts for the regular events and functions hosted at the Ambassador’s Residence serving the vast army of British expats living in Hanoi. In fact, the British Embassy-led entertainment for their fellow countrymen was so good and sought-after, it was viewed with seething envy by other foreign nationals – their embassy offerings being far inferior, if any!
The week before Christmas, each year, the Ambassador’s household hosted an atmospheric Christmas Carol service out in the vast garden courtyard, to a select number of British expats. The local children’s choir belted out traditional Christmas carols conducted by a prolific British conductor, while staff repeatedly dished out paper cups of steaming mulled wine and plates of straight-from-the-oven mince pies and sausage rolls. For these legendary evenings, it was standing room only, the ranks swelled I’m sure with numerous foreign gatecrashers.Pah!
One year, the British Ambassador and his wife unexpectedly invited me, along with three other vetted “waif and stray” expats, to join them for Christmas day lunch. An incredibly generous and gracious gesture - and the true spirit of Christmas - for what should have been a private Christmas family reunion with their grown-up offspring visiting from the UK.
So, on this bleakly grey Christmas Day, I held court with the Ambassador’s family and guests within the villa residence, making sure to dress appropriately for the occasion and arrive punctually. Greeted by a master butler, I was led into the drawing room for pre-lunch tipples and Christmas gift exchanging, before sitting-down in the grand dining room for a quintessential British Christmas lunch and feast of festive goodies: succulent roasted turkey and potatoes, chestnut stuffing, chipolatas, Brussels sprouts, broccoli, thick gravy and cranberry sauce. This, all rounded-off with Christmas pudding, brandy butter and mince pies (what a Godsend that British Embassy diplomatic bag is, flown out from the UK!)
Fiendishly good, but even more remarkable, whipped-up by the Vietnamese house cooks, meticulously trained to replicate British culinary traditions (the same ladies, I deduced after a few Christmas sherries, responsible for those home-baked goodies at the Carol singing).
Although I was most respectful to make conversation with my illustrious fellow diners, I made doubly sure to wolf-down as many mouthfuls in-between as possible and spectacularly pulled it off, consuming so much food that I felt (and probably looked like) I was expecting twins. If things couldn’t get any better, we all indulged in that great British post-lunch tradition of Charades – just like the Royals back home.
Certainly beats Christmas lunch the previous year: an All-You-Can-Eat Christmas Day Buffet at the all-day dining restaurant in a well-known Five-Star hotel in town. Except it wasn't quite the promised all-you-can-eat as far as the roast turkey went. This Empress reduced to unseemly squabbling with the serving staff about being allowed three slices of turkey breast joining my plate of festive goodies. And my Hanoi Christmas Day rounded-off with that most Vietnamese, yet un-Christmas-like, of traditions, Karaoke!
On this holiest night of the year, a decidedly unholy mass of motorbike and pedestrian gridlock out front, spilling over into the side-streets, would have bordered on the farcical, had one not been scared of being crushed to death. So much for “Peace and Goodwill to all Mankind.” When Christmas Day was over, I could finally enter the Cathedral in peace and view their surreal nativity scene, sheltering in a faux cave, bedecked with neon flashing lights. In the local nightclub I fled to - my alternative, "Plan B" form of Christmas Eve entertainment - their boxed nativity scene was even more surreal: embedded within a bar area totally decked-out in aluminum foil and fairy lights flashing in-sync to the beats of the DJ music.
My fondest Christmas memories however rest on the British Ambassador's official residence (well what did you expect? I am an Empress), a splendid Indochina-era villa restored to its former colonial elegance, ensconced in the capital's leafy French Quarter.
And during the five years I resided in Hanoi, it was here that two sets of stellar British Ambassadors and their wives were stationed here, not only approachable and decent Embassy staff, but fun-loving and sociable, too. Meaning they were perfect hosts for the regular events and functions hosted at the Ambassador’s Residence serving the vast army of British expats living in Hanoi. In fact, the British Embassy-led entertainment for their fellow countrymen was so good and sought-after, it was viewed with seething envy by other foreign nationals – their embassy offerings being far inferior, if any!
The week before Christmas, each year, the Ambassador’s household hosted an atmospheric Christmas Carol service out in the vast garden courtyard, to a select number of British expats. The local children’s choir belted out traditional Christmas carols conducted by a prolific British conductor, while staff repeatedly dished out paper cups of steaming mulled wine and plates of straight-from-the-oven mince pies and sausage rolls. For these legendary evenings, it was standing room only, the ranks swelled I’m sure with numerous foreign gatecrashers.Pah!
One year, the British Ambassador and his wife unexpectedly invited me, along with three other vetted “waif and stray” expats, to join them for Christmas day lunch. An incredibly generous and gracious gesture - and the true spirit of Christmas - for what should have been a private Christmas family reunion with their grown-up offspring visiting from the UK.
So, on this bleakly grey Christmas Day, I held court with the Ambassador’s family and guests within the villa residence, making sure to dress appropriately for the occasion and arrive punctually. Greeted by a master butler, I was led into the drawing room for pre-lunch tipples and Christmas gift exchanging, before sitting-down in the grand dining room for a quintessential British Christmas lunch and feast of festive goodies: succulent roasted turkey and potatoes, chestnut stuffing, chipolatas, Brussels sprouts, broccoli, thick gravy and cranberry sauce. This, all rounded-off with Christmas pudding, brandy butter and mince pies (what a Godsend that British Embassy diplomatic bag is, flown out from the UK!)
Fiendishly good, but even more remarkable, whipped-up by the Vietnamese house cooks, meticulously trained to replicate British culinary traditions (the same ladies, I deduced after a few Christmas sherries, responsible for those home-baked goodies at the Carol singing).
Although I was most respectful to make conversation with my illustrious fellow diners, I made doubly sure to wolf-down as many mouthfuls in-between as possible and spectacularly pulled it off, consuming so much food that I felt (and probably looked like) I was expecting twins. If things couldn’t get any better, we all indulged in that great British post-lunch tradition of Charades – just like the Royals back home.
Bah Humbug
Want to read about Christmas yuletide tales? Well, click on here !
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