Ao dai I

By Abby Mercado
I had a brief moment to relish its feathery feel on my skin before the
image on the full-length mirror smiled back at me. Even with its next-to-skin
contours, I managed to move with ease around the tiny dressing room,
crammed with endless yards of fabrics waiting to be transformed. I took her
offer to wear the pair of red high-heeled shoes, on standby, to complete the
look. And I obeyed her summon to do an impromptu fashion show for my
Vietnamese Vera Wang.
Motorbikes have replaced the vintage bicycles roving the dizzying
lanes of Vietnam in an imitated manner. But many women of Hanoi are still
buttoned up with their traditional dresses reaching far below their ankles,
even when speeding away with the new king of the road. I have imagined
myself in one of those flattering Vietnamese outfits of silk tunic and loose
trousers, way before I even knew the name for it. Welcomed by sights of
women in ao dai on Vespa around Hanoi, I felt my fantasy within reach.
As reality would have it, my chosen dress did not fit me exactly as it
did in my dream role as an Asian starletat least, not straight away. There is
that long winding road to stardom to be had. While Vietnamese women have
a tiny frame like many Filipinas, most of the dresses have been tailored to fit
the Western tourists. My knight in shining armor turned out to be a
Vietnamese lady of my age, armed with pins and a measure tape.
Come back tomorrow same time its perfect. She assured me in
her high-pitched, rapid yet delicately spoken English.
My first-owned Vietnamese dress was in tomato red with green
bamboo piping and white lotus buds embroidery.

How high you want? My lady couturier asked me about the slit on
one side of the dress.
She looked disappointed as I motioned just above my knees. I
explained that I am going to wear the dress in the Philippines. After the final
touches the following day, I could almost hear the directors Ready for
take! as I stepped into my new dress, and out of the shop with a realized
fantasy.
My desire to wear this becoming attire has been so persistent (nothing
like my fleeting movie star fantasy), that when I had the opportunity to
volunteer overseas, I indicated Vietnam as my first option for assignment.
I would like to wear an ao dai at work, every day. I expounded on my
answer without attempting to hide my real agenda.
I ended up volunteering in Namibia (where the prevailing traditional
outfit in my area is an African imitation of the Victorian dress, worn with a
petticoat and a head accessory resembling a cows horns), with a weak
motivation for volunteering, and a lesson learned on honesty.
To say that my ao dai obsession might have been triggered by seeing
too many reruns of Good Morning Vietnam on late night TV when I was still
in high school, would not be accurate. I was too caught up catching up with
Robin Williams rocking it from the Delta to the DMZ.
I remember Miss Saigon though, a Broadway hit made even more
popular in Manila with its overwhelming cast of Filipino performers in lead
roles. It was my first live encounter about our neighbor Vietnam as I watched
the play in the front row, my lips in sync with all of Kims solos. My
recollection of the show, however, does not include women wearing the
Vietnamese dress. They were mostly bar girls in skimpy bikinis. Whether it
was the idea of Filipinas being the main stars of the show, or that our
supposedly reserved Pinays were performing in undergarment-looking

costumes that gained the play astounding media mileage, topped my

boundless teenage dilemmas. Most especially since my childhood idol and
the plays Kim, Lea Salonga, finally had to show some skin and do kissing
scenes for world-class fame. I was heartbroken.

Today at 33 and having

lived, loved (and heartbroken for real), traveled to London and experienced
more West End musicals, I had only admiration for the Filipinas and Filipinos
of Miss Saigon. I am more baffled now about the rumor then on the trouble
that the costume designers had to go through with the flimsy dress. It was
meant to make Lea feel more covered in her evident two-piece underwear
number. I thought the white see-through dress just made her look even more
provocative.

And that, to me, is the only explanation I could think of to

rationalize my fantasized starlet role in ao dai.

As I arrived in imperial Hu from immortal Hanoi, and was met by the
hotel receptionist-- a gracious, soft-spoken young Vietnamese lady in her
traditional dress-- I noticed that hers was styled differently from all the
Vietnamese dresses I have drooled over in the street markets of Pho Hang
Trong and Pho Nha Tho. The mandarin collar was missing and its fabric had
more sheerness to it. I quickly deposited my passport at the counter after a
quick scan of my room, and immediately planned on my exploration of what
seemed to be an entire industry of this much-celebrated dress.
The peculiarities between the two capitals only start with the
wardrobe, I soon discovered, as I ordered my first meal in Hu. The more
humid atmosphere, even in an open restaurant, no longer whiffs of boiling
poultry meat and entrails in huge casseroles, which is quite the usual in
many eateries in Hanoi. Gone are the rice noodles for pho bo with the
vermicelli floating in my orangey beef broth, as opposed to Hanois clear yet
extra tasty soup with its regular dash of MSG. Hus most fastidious Emperor
Tu Duc, who demanded 50 dishes by 50 cooks and served by 50 servants
each meal, is often credited for its majestic tasting cuisine. Reinvigorated by

Hus healthy cooking with a flavor that can only be traced to its regal
heritage, I was ready to embark on my mission.
I did not have to search far. Several travelers shops line the alleys
along with the more touristy dining places. My ao dai examining eye quickly
spotted the uniqueness in the designs of the national dress as exhibited by
the mannequins of each store, and in varying types of silk, too. Just like its
food, Hues fashion has that aristocratic air about its patterns and styles. The
normally tightly-buttoned Chinese collar is now parted into a low neckline
and extended upward before a sudden bend just along the nape. Being more
of a wash-and-wear RTW consumer, I am completely clueless on the textile
department. But I could tell that the ao dais of Hu were made from
different types of silk, maybe even a different fabric altogether. The
Vietnamese dresses in Hu appeared to be more flashy with their glittery
material. They also appeared to be trendier and thus less selective of
occasions where they can be worn.
I designed these. The others, they copy me.
My Paris-trained local couturier was quick to add she is married to a
French

man

after

instructing

her

daughter

in

the

nasal

language.

Understandably, I had to have another ao dai. This time, one with Hus flair
for noble elegance matched with Parisian vogue.
Inspired by the goddess-like outfits of young women roaming around
the city, my next ao dai is an all-white ensemble with lotus buds embellished
in black on each side of the top. Later on, I found out that the girls in white
long dresses are actually high school students in their uniform. Each time I
saw them rushing in the streets, I thought they were off to some religious
activity. That was what we in the Philippines had to do when our teachers tell
us to wear the white gala in high school, and always with the sheer white veil
covering the full-length of the face during mass. Still unlike the Vietnamese,
we would not have dared be seen riding a bicycle in our white dress, or in

any outfit, for that matter. For some really old-fashioned Filipinos, riding a
bike is considered to be misconduct by a proper lady. This is probably why
some of us still frown on the very few Filipinas hitting the road on motorbikes
to this day. I am, however, in awe each time I see the ladies moving their
way around the hyperactive streets of Vietnam in tight-fitting lengthy attires,
neatly styled hair and stilettos tipped on their trendy Italian motorbikes.
As I wandered around the town center in the city of the ancient Citadel
with more parcels at hand (a natural by-product of my ao dai store hopping),
I began to long for Hanois peaceful park. Hoan Kiem Lake offers the perfect
spot for some solitude from walking tours and pasalubong shopping, allowing
me to relax my worn out legs and abused bargaining skills. Despite the busy
life around Hanoi that seems to even quicken by the day, the lake seems
unaffected and stays calm. Sitting on the benches around Hoan Kiem Lake
would automatically put one in a meditative mode. The cold stone seats are
warmed by either young daters or more senior locals resting from their tai
chi sessions. Thanks to its ca phe culture, coffee shops are in every corner
and even right next to the lakewhere a seat and a ca phe sua da is always
ready to cool down a thirsty, sweaty traveler. With their slender lithe bodies,
I used to wonder where the Vietnamese get their energy for their fastforward movements. I found out the hard way. I couldnt have enough of the
iced coffee on my first day, I had palpitations by evening time and I did not
have to wake up for breakfast the following morning.
My nostalgia over Hanois Hoan Kiem Lake was instantly replaced with
veneration as soon as I came face to face with Hus Perfume River, as if
asking me to give it a chance and beckoning me to lose myself in the depth
of its mysterious beauty. It did not have to ask twice. One evening, I took a
stroll along the riverbanks to gaze at the bridges adorned with gaudy lights,
and ate every street food shoved into my hands (and mouth) by the most
persevering vendors.

When I recovered from my trance state over the Perfume River (and
slight indigestion from the grilled corn cobs, sweet pineapples and gallons of
sugarcane juice), I realized that the park next to the enigmatic river is home
to public sculptures by local and international artists, including some of our
very own Filipino sculptors. The Hu Cultural Festival was kicking off at the
time and Noel El Faroll has been representing the Philippines in
international symposia of sculptors in Vietnam for several years now. I was
invited to the opening ceremony and I offered a salute to our flag raised up
high with those of other 22 participating countries. Surrounded by sculptors
from different parts of the world, I thought it best to simply watch the
impassioned faces of the artists as they talked about their masterpieces. I
found myself resorting to the familiar No speak English whenever I am
asked about how my rock is shaping up.
It was also during this event when I felt singled out in my black kneelength dress with spaghetti straps and fine white stitches of Philippine flora,
in a place swarming with at least 50 female high school students. They were
dressed in their uniform of blinding white ao dais with long sleeves and
pantaloons, covering every inch of their skin (and yet leaving everything to
the imagination). We bowed our heads to one another and slyly smiled our
amusement at the distinction, as we did.
By the time I reached Ho Chi Minh City and finally witnessed Miss
Saigon offstage, the infinite rows of poorly-lit bars, tourist-packed cafs and
thematically-arranged shops reminded me that I was soon going back to
Manila. The women of Saigon are a walking replica of the Manila girls in their
smart attires as both women brave the smoky road to work on week days,
and spot the trendiest hangout places on weekends. I still saw a few cyclos
around, half the size as those in Hanoi. The motorbikes seemed to have
doubled, though, both in quantity and in speed. Yet, it was difficult to spot a
Vietnamese woman walking around in ao dai. It wasnt until I visited Ho Chi
Minh Citys French-styled Main Post Office that I saw some lady attendants in

their traditional dress, mainly to add color and character to the showcases of
souvenirs. It was hard not to buy from the post office shops, even with their
non-negotiable prices, with the commanding presence of Ho Chi Minh
emanating from his huge portrait hanging on the main wall.
Outside the hypnotic gaze of Uncle Ho, I was jerked back to my
committed task. I proceeded to Ben Thanh Market, a true haven for shoppers
who are highly skilled in haggling and making their way in the crowded stalls,
ranging from glassware and porcelain tea cups to fresh herbs and addictive
Vietnamese coffee beans. I inched my way to the textile section and tried to
make out the uniqueness of the customary dresses on display.
From the few dresses that I took time to examine closely, I saw a
mixture of the designs and styles also evident in the ao dais of Hanoi and
Hu. Yet to me, there was one thing unusual about the dresses that was not
visible to the naked eye. It was more of an impression they were trying to
impart. After days of encounters with heaps of this iconic Vietnamese outfit
ruling the stalls of Hanoi and Hu, I sensed it. Could they feel the fading
glory of their prominence in the cosmopolitan Vietnamese capital as I did?
Could

they

sense

their

nearing

natural

death,

revived

only

every

Independence Day to breathe out of the closet?

Designer shoes, denims and tops with international labels, and silk
transformed into everyday fashion instead of the traditional dress, are now
flaunting the window displays of the shops in Ho Chi Minh City. I did not feel
inclined to add another to my growing collection of Vietnamese dresses when
I was there. Ho Chi Minh City, however, had other mementos to offer its
foreign guests.
I visited Vietnam in May 2008, just before The Miss Universe
candidates had the license to parade their 36-24-36 silhouettes in ao dai. I
made a fearless forecast of another fashion comeback, similar to the one
revived by the Miss Ao Dai Beauty Contest in 1989 and the Best National

Costume Awardee in the Miss International Pageant in 1995. Already, I could

see the modern shops in Ho Chi Minh City dolling up their main window
mannequins with Vietnams traditional costume once again.
To this long-time ao dai aficionado, beauty pageants are not necessary
to accord a special place in my closet for my newly-acquired treasures. After
all, the ao dai is the most essential prop I would need to play Kim, singing
The Movie in My Mind.
-x-