A Late Night in Hanoi

Sifu Duc and I, with my new uniform. The man takes on a whole different aspect when wearing his own.

                The weekend after I met Sifu Duc and the other students, I was invited to a formal class in a larger park near the center of the city. After bowing out early from dinner with a friend and doing my best to ignore her advice that I could get mugged, stabbed with a needle full of AIDS, or otherwise assaulted in that park at night, I struck out into the busy streets of Hanoi to navigate my way to Lenin park with nothing but a puny hotel map to guide me. I called Linh, Sifu’s one English-speaking student that I knew of, and confirmed I would be attending. He told me where to meet him at the park, and thinking I had some idea of where that was, I assured him I’d be there.

                Upon reaching the park proper (having performed several death-defying road crossings, no small feet in that city, especially alone and especially at night) I realized that it was absolutely gigantic, and I would not simply be able to look around and pick out some rather conspicuous martial artists, as I could at the park near my hotel. Instead, the place stretched on and on down a main road of the city, and was bustling with people taking evening strolls, attending public dance or aerobics classes, listening to concerts, etc. Linh and I exchanged a dozen or so frustrated phone calls in attempts to find one another. I was 45 minutes late by the time I found him at yet another gate from the one I had been pacing around; he insisted on driving me via motorbike the last 100 yards or so.

                And it was bumping along on the back of a snarling motorbike that I pulled up to a class full of kung fu students; all neatly dressed in black robes with sashes of various colors; I could pick out yellow, blue, white, and red. The men wearing red sashes, in their general bearing, were obviously the highest ranked, and when I saw sifu approaching I knew this to be the case.

                Sifu Duc was an entirely different man in a traditional Chinese kung fu uniform; a phenomenon I’ve noticed with many of my teachers in the past. My Aikido teacher, Bill Gleason, seems to grow feet in height after changing into his Gi and Hakama. The contrast between an old cotton long-sleeved shirt and beautifully sewn silk robe was striking, and I couldn’t help but blurt out “sifu!” and give a traditional bow as he calmly approached with a contented smile. “Cha, cha!” he barked my name, waving a few other senior students to be introduced. He gave their names, and I babbled out my best “My name is Charles” and “Nice to meet you” in Vietnamese while bowing profusely. “Okay,” Sifu said insistently, thrusting a black bundle toward me.
                “He give you a uniform for tonight, and black belt.” Linh explained, putting a hand on my shoulders and pointing to a cluster of bamboo trees nearby. “Go and change into them.” Hearing “black belt” said that way, I failed to realize that black was the typical “no-rank” at this school (which was obvious from the other black-belt students, who had been sent off to a corner away from the class to practice nothing but arm-conditioning exercises), and objected as politely as I could, trying to explain that I was definitely not a black belt. Knowing what I know now, I hope in some ironic way my humility was not perceived as arrogance.

                Urged on, I jogged back to the bamboo patch, stripped down in front of an elderly couple walking a dog, and changed as quickly into my Kung Fu uniform. I enjoyed the feel of it immensely; it was very soft, light, and flexible. I could move easily in it without feeling restricted.
                I jogged back out to the class, where people were generally paired and working individually with one another. Most of the senior students were sitting crosslegged with Sifu by a bench. It looked to be a sort of intermission in the training. “Charles,  come sit down. You should drink some herbal mixture.” Linh said, while Sifu Duc let out a couple “okay” ‘s and urged me to sit across from him. Another senior student in a red belt, a much older gentleman probably around 60, poured me a glass of what looked like black kool-aid from a large pitcher and handed it to me. “It’s good herbs for Kung Fu.” Linh explained as I accepted and took a sip. The taste was like herbal tea and diluted Gatorade; I quite liked it.

At least one of the other senior students spoke English, and Linh translated readily for Sifu Duc, and so I managed to have a bit of conversation while sitting there, feeling official in my uniform and sipping herbal Gatorade. Sifu Duc, as he had at the tea shop, explained with a touch of pride my past experience with Aikido and Karate, and then, presumably, what he had been teaching me so far. He laughingly seized my sleeve and yanked it back to reveal the severe bruising on my forearms, which prompted a lot of good-humored laughter on the part of the surrounding red belts. I mimed the motions I was doing and shook my hands out melodramatically to simulate what I had been doing the last few mornings.

Linh explained that what we were practicing was Nam Hong Son Kung Fu, which a friend of mine later translated as “Great Western Mountain” or something to that effect. Given that Kung Fu is a Chinese style, I tried to extract from my companions whether this was some sort of Vietnamese Kung Fu or a Chinese style practiced by Vientamese, but never quite got the message across, and my companions continually responded that yes, indeed, they were from Vietnam, and we were practicing Vietnamese martial arts because of it. If anyone else has other information on Nam Hong Son, I’d love to hear more about it. It’s a beautiful style of martial arts with many spirited and talented practitioners.

Which brings me to my next point. While I conversed jovially with another English speaker, Linh rose and grab my shoulder “okay, enough talking, time for training.” I apologized quickly in Vietnamese to the fellow I was speaking to, and, feeling a tad sheepish, rushed off after Linh to where the other “blackbelts” were training.

We started immediately with arm-conditioning exercises, which drove my pulped forearms yet further down the road to path to complete annihilation. I continued despite the pain, and could clearly see the exercise in willpower which comes with such training; it took all my concentration to keep on striking; enough that Linh had to call me several times to get my attention. My partner, a middle-aged gentleman, was probably too polite to stop me.

We then began learning Khai Tam Quyen (a rough approximation of the spelling), which was translated to me as “first form”.  The movements were strong and slow, involving a lot of deep front stances and horse stances, and featured primarily one block and one strike executed while moving forward or standing still. The rudimentary basics were absolutely hammered upon, as they should have been, and I was caught dozens of time with awkward footing or a shallow front-stance, having to readjust after a loud reprimand from Linh. We repeated the form with the sort of endless rote repetition that is important for developing body memory. My legs were trembling by the time we were given a break, but I kept right on practicing; it had been years since I had been taught a form, and I had no intentions of losing this one, not while it was momentarily fresh in my head. After all, when would I likely find myself in Vietnam again?

I drilled the form relentlessly until told rather sternly that we were taking a break, and I should too. I nodded reluctantly and instead did some stretching exercises, trying to take control of my breathing, enjoying the glowing heat from my body. There is an curious, very natural and powerful feeling which comes from the correct practice of traditional forms, which I still have not found elsewhere. It is an awakeness, an aliveness, a complete “whole body-feel” which I still have yet to find in practicing non-traditional martial arts or other sports. It is not the same exhaustion and soreness, but an invigorated state; the circulation feels strong and movements well-coordinated. Tom Bisio explains the difference between traditional movements and some more westernized or sport-related movements, and how these would result in such a difference in feeling; interested readers should check out his book, A Tooth From the Tiger’s Mouth, which I reviewed in part in an earlier post.
        After our short break, we began learning a choreographed partner exercise of alternating attack and defense. My partner was the older red-belt who had poured my herbal Gatorade earlier that evening. He was a genuinely friendly and cheerful fellow, excited to be training with me, and to speak to me in the few words of English he knew. He taught me one “side” of the exchange of blows and blocks, and repeated it with me for nearly an hour.  The movements were smooth and performed at first with a sort of Taichichuan-like slowness, though as we gained trust in one another’s blocks we began to execute our kicks and thrusts with more realistic snap and force.

A fellow student and I performing the first kata later that week

I was interested in the way these “kata” were performed by the higher level students, in stark contrast to the way that Japanese martial artists practice. The Japanese (in my experience, in Karate and Aikido, especially in sword practice) way of training kata is a stoic practice of concentration and precise form. The most emotion a practitioner will show is a piercing kiai; all the attention is on the details, the angles, etc. It is clean, sterile, and precise. As we continued, our Kung Fu kata showed a vitality and emotion that would not have been tolerated in a dojo. The movements were loose and relaxed, not imprecise, but adaptive; in that if I took a larger step back than usual in one step, my older partner would throw his kick just a tad deeper to reach me, giving a different cry as he did so. There was an almost musical rhythm to the movement, and it was alive with almost theatrical emotion. As I landed a kick on my partner’s chest at the end of the movement, restraining it so as not to injure him, he made an melodramatic and astonished face, cried out “Owwwaahhh!!” and, stumbling back as though I had absolutely nailed him, fell to the ground and performed a neat back-roll to his feet. Others around us were doing the same with each strike, acting things out as though they were in an action movie.

As a martial artist with a primarily traditional Japanese training background, I was baffled by this type of attitude; it seemed so exaggerated, so fake, so superfluous to me, yet as I took the time to think about it, I realized that these men were actually adding a degree of realism to the training; a degree of emotional substance which might otherwise be missing. Students learn what effect they might expect from a solid hit, and how to relax and adapt if receiving one of great force. At the same time, it adds a vitality and enjoyment to the practice that keeps minds engaged and bodies moving with a precise martial rhythm. I think this may be some of what Bruce Lee was explaining in his lecture on “emotional content” , and what military psychologists have called “tactical performance imagery”. By adding a little imagination, you can get a lot more from a training exercise without losing the reality.

Sifu Duc came over next and critiqued our kata and Khai Tam Quyen, then had us practice some of the real-life applications of movements from the form, demonstrating these at full speed on one of the higher-level students. I was thoroughly impressed by the power and timing of the movements, how seemingly meaningless adjustments in the angle of an elbow or knee turned an opponent’s balance on its head. Sifu Duc took me aside and showed me a few counters to a knife thrust, and also how to jam an opponent’s kicking leg to imbalance them and cut off their changes of landing a blow. After going back and forth with these movements a few times, he waved a hand toward the rest of the class behind us. “Okay, okay.” He explained, and I bowed and rejoined the class, who were by this point all standing in neat rows facing the front of the little courtyard in which we practiced.
        I positioned myself as far back in the ranks as I could, with the most junior students, and followed along as we performed a few rounds of calisthenics, which, though not particularly difficult on their own, were agonizing after a couple hours of hard training. They kept my muscles, especially in the legs, from getting tight and cramped, though, and I was grateful for it the next morning.  Sifu Duc led the class with the type of authority I recognized from watching Kung Fu movies in my younger years, and the faded-black tone of his well-worn uniform added yet more authority to his demeanor; I knew now that the talented yet otherwise unimposing martial artist who had been tutoring me in the park on early mornings was not some local martial artist, but a well-known master in the Hanoi martial arts community. Linh explained this to me thoroughly the next morning when I asked.

Though I didn't understand much at all of Sifu Duc’s lecture, I watched as he paced back and forth before the class and spoke with an earnestness so palpable I felt I understood him outright. From his facial expressions, gestures, and so on, it was clear he was discussing the mission of the martial artist, the drive to develop one’s self, and the moral and ethical codes associated with studying the martial arts. Shortly thereafter the group recited a chant in Vietnamese which I later learned was the oath of the Nam Hong Son school. We then bowed as a group and ended the class with satisfied applause. My fellow students, the youngest around my age, began to slowly disperse, and I was quickly rounded up by Linh and Sifu.

“Sifu says you should hold on to the uniform. You can have it temporarily while you’re here, its alright.” Linh said, gesturing again to the bamboo patch. “Go and change, we should have tea.”

It was at least 11pm by this point, so I figured another hour or so of conversation and fun couldn’t hurt. I rushed back to the bamboo, changed with little concern of who was watching, and before I knew it was on the back of a motorbike speeding down the nearby main road—along the side, and… against oncoming traffic. With professional ease, Linh hopped the motorbike up onto the sidewalk, and, following Sifu Duc’s silver vespa, we made short work of a kilometer or so to a nearby roadside tea stand. There we sat for at least an hour, drinking tea and discussing martial arts. Sifu and I, through Linh, talked at length about Bruce Lee and his philosophies, his fame, and which of his “moves” we liked best. I demonstrated a sort of short-distance side-kick he used that I was particularly fond of. Linh explained to me that the name of the technique in Vietnamese was “Dragon horn”; it was appropriate that I liked it, he said, because I was born in the year of the dragon.

I forked up all of $2.00 to pay for our party’s tea (there were 6 or 7 of us, perhaps), and stood as the rest prepared to leave. I was mentally preparing myself for a rather long walk home, and checking my hotel map, when Linh bid my farewell and sped off on his motorbike, but Sifu gave a vigorous wave of his hand as he climbed aboard his well-groomed vespa “Cha, cha,” he called with a laugh “Okay, okay!”. I bowed gratefully and climbed aboard, and soon we were speeding down the main road (fortunately with traffic) at at least 50 miles per hour. I lost my bearings perhaps a minute into the trip, and spent the rest of my time staring dumbly at the cars, buses, motorbikes, and most of all pedestrians whizzing past us as Sifu wove deftly through the streets of Hanoi, still somewhat crowded at this hour. “Italy!” he explained while pointing to the motorbike. I nodded vigorously, and made my best Vietnamese attempt at saying it seemed like a good vehicle. I think I said something along the lines of “It’s delicious” or “It’s healthy”. Oh well.
        All at once, we reached my hotel, and Sifu Duc graciously dropped me off by the front steps. I thanked him profusely, and watched him speed off. I headed up the stairs, head spinning from an overwhelming evening, and was asleep before I hit the pillow. In 5 hours or so, I’d be back at Ho Giam park for morning training.