About Hoi An:
Hoi
An interlude
Day
One
Wind
rushes through the open windows of our taxi. It smells of freshly turned earth
and the not too distant South China Sea. It rattles the high pine needles and
plays brittle melodies in the low, drooping eucalyptus leaves.
Cacti,
with their fleshy, plate-like extremities, band together like parade spectators
at the side of the road. Monet's haystacks linger in the background. Square,
cement houses have been painted in fantastic shades of periwinkle and aqua.
Beside these houses, inside three-walled, thatch-roofed shacks, rice is mashed
through hand-propelled grinders. It is this labor that generates the earthy,
boozy odor.
Although
our flight from Saigon to Danang was brief, and this bone-rattling ride will
soon be over, I devour the passing landscape as if it is a delicacy I have
never tasted before, and that I might never have the chance to experience
again. I have lived in Ho Chi Minh City, for almost a year, and its chaos has
come to define Vietnam for me: traffic, pollution, crowds, sharp cawing voices,
endless frustrations and never enough time or opportunity to escape from it.
Hoi
An, our destination, was once overpopulated and commercial, like present-day
Saigon. It was one of Southeast Asia's largest ports and even boasted a Dutch
East Indies Trading Company. But by the eighteenth century its neighbor,
Danang, took over as the area's main trading destination and Hoi An returned to
its peaceful, backwater existence.
Our
taxi leaves us at a simple, riverfront guesthouse, snug against the bridge on
Phan Boi Chau Street. The back terrace overhangs the river. The wind shushes
over the surface of the water, like the hem of a silk skirt trailing over a
polished floor. In Saigon, exhaust tints the sky a mysterious gold; here, the
air is clean. The sun is high and the sky is pale. The heat is unfiltered, but
tempered by a loose wind off the river.
It
is early in the afternoon. The fishing boats are out to sea, but a few women
propel crude, flat timber crafts upriver. They stand, one at each end, with
their feet planted wide to keep their balance, lazily thrusting bamboo poles
into the current. Their faces are shaded, hidden by conical straw hats.
After
a long, lazy nap, my friend and I head for the market which runs down the same
side of the Thu Bon River as our hotel, trailing the length of the town. Tarps
hang low between stalls to protect sellers and their goods from direct
sunlight. It is not a place constructed for our ease and our backs are
necessarily hunched.
Baskets
overflow with saffron and the ground is covered in a sheer yellow dust, as if
someone has shaken an abundant bouquet of spring flowers. We wait for the
shouting to begin. "You, you! Hello, you! What your name? Where you from?
You!"
Instead,
pigs snuffle quietly, trussed inside barrel-shaped bamboo frames. They look
bewildered, not only by their fate, but by life in general. One owner teasingly
starts the bidding at "one dollar," but otherwise we are left alone,
a little stunned at first that no one has accosted us with friendship in order
to procure a free English lesson. In fact, when I stop to buy lentils, the
women manning the stalls encourage my sad mutilation of their complicated,
tonal language. They know enough English not to have to tolerate this, but they
do not use it. In Saigon people often apologize for not speaking English, but
here they graciously assert their right to be spoken to in their native tongue.
We
are surrounded on all sides by goods and women. Young women with firm, high
cheekbones. Crones with little black stubs behind their puckered lips. Women
smoking, which is a rare sight in Vietnam. It is almost spooky, how few men
there are to be seen. Some can be found minding shops on Tran Phu Street, but
Hoi An's lifeblood, this market and its attached docks, is dominated by women.
At
the Cafe des Amis, we are led up to the second story balcony by a young
gentleman who appears to be no older than nine. We realize, though, that he is
probably fourteen. Like many children in this country, his expression is
world-weary and world-wise.
The
sun sets, but the pale blue light in the sky remains. A ferry glides up to the
docks, its roof laden with baskets and bicycles. Its bow is crowded with
passengers squatting side by side, shoulder to shoulder. If we were not in the
tropics, I'd think they were huddling together for warmth.
Inside
the cafe a stereo plays gritty, sensuous New Orleans blues. There is a small
side table covered with laminated reviews, praising the restaurant as one of
the best in the country. Instead of a menu we are given a choice: vegetarian or
seafood. The prix fixe is 35,000 dong, a little under three USD. The plates
continue to arrive long after we are full. We roll our eyes at the surplus of
shrimp and fish prepared with rice pancakes, papers and pastes.
My
friend wanders downstairs to request more drink so we can stall for time while
our appetites return. He finds our waiter in the kitchen, changed into a white
dress shirt and bow tie in anticipation of the dinner crowd. Oil sizzles in a
pan and the boy begins to chop vegetables; he is also our chef.
According
to one source, there are 844 buildings of historical significance in Hoi An.
Many of these cast their angular shadows into Tran Phu Street, a thin, winding
path that runs out of town through the pink interior of a Japanese covered
bridge, a relic of Japan's seventeenth century silk interests.
Some
of these buildings sell themselves as museums and you must pay a fee to enter.
Most of the others have been turned into shops. Not much has been altered both
in and out of these structures since they were built in the nineteenth century.
Hand-painted silk lanterns hang from dark, oily, timber beams. The weathered
timber floors slope as if rolling over a gentle sea.
The
majority of the shops offer custom tailored services or paintings. There is a
distinct sunflower fabric that has been stitched into a spaghetti strap
sundress and hangs in a front display in every tailor shop in town; and in
almost all galleries there is some sort of whimsical depiction of Hoi An's
coiling streets and sway-backed, tile roofs. Originality is so rare that I am
hypnotized by the stuttering displays.
It's
a strange commercial tactic that is evident in Saigon as well. If one person
sells a particular item in one area, chances are everyone else in the vicinity
will decide to sell the exact same thing. In Saigon, expatriates refer to these
places not by their given names, but by their wares: Food Street, CD Street,
Stereo Street, Antique Street, Stationery Street, etc.
This
business practice discourages me at first, but after tramping the length of
Tran Phu Street half a dozen times, I find myself admiring the flowered
sundresses. I am drawn to the crude pastel townscapes with their charming old
buildings. I am comforted by the familiarity of the merchandise here. I want
one of those dresses. I want one of those paintings and I begin scouting for
just the right one. I am in love with Hoi An and those two items will remind me
of this amazing place forever.
Day
Two
A
hallway tunnels through the center of our hotel, threaded by morning sunlight.
It is 6:30 a.m. My friend is at the market taking photographs and I wait for
him on the lower terrace. I order coffee. It arrives black, and because there
is nothing but sweet milk available, it remains black.
The
fishing boats ride the current out to sea. Their ragged engines scratch the
surface of the still water. (It won't be until our last day that one of the
hotel workers shatters my romantic "fishing village" illusions by
telling me that these picturesque boats are "no good for future."
They use explosives and now, "There only small fish. No big fish. All
die.")
When
my friend returns, we decide to spend the day visiting nearby ceramic and
wood-carving villages that we learned of last night from Mrs. Lan, a shopkeeper
on Tran Phu Street. Mrs. Lan should work for the local tourism department. She
had the opportunity to attend the university in Saigon, but returned to Hoi An
as soon as she finished. "I will stay in Hoi An forever," she told
me, "It is easy to be happy here."
Down
on the docks there are so many women wearing conical hats that from a distance
they appear to be one body covered in a roof of overlapping tiles. A teenager
offers us the services of his boat, but we tell him that we already promised
our business to another boy yesterday. The teenager becomes so excited that his
voice cracks. He tells us that the other boy is his younger brother. Together,
they lead us to the water's edge. We show them the names of the villages: Cam
Kim and Cam Ha. Without haggling, we settle on a price. The three dollars an
hour is just above what Mrs. Lan suggested and far below what we were willing
to pay.
The
brothers push off, and the older brother, with his floppy Jackson Five hat
bobbing in the breeze, takes out a Vietnamese-English dictionary and launches
the conversation. "Where are you from? I and my younger brother are not
from Hoi An. I and my younger brother are from the country by the mountain. The
people in I and my younger brother's country cut trees. There is no develop in
I and my younger brother's country. I and my younger brother come to Hoi An to
go school. I am going to be engineer. My younger brother is going to be English
teacher. My younger brother is going back to I and my younger brother's country
to teach."
Half
an hour later we are no more than a stone's throw upriver from Hoi An.
"How much longer to Cam Kim?" "Oh," says our leader,
"Cam Kim very far. Cannot go Cam Kim. If my boat, we go, but not my boat.
You understand? Not my boat. Cannot go. Very far. You come my house and
eat."
The
brothers are sweet, but our skin is turning red and we have little desire to
sit in a swampy riverside shack exchanging our native expertise in English for
one ready-made order of local color. We have our hearts set on ceramics and
woodcarvings. We ask I and My Younger Brother to return to Hoi An, where I and
My Friend rethink our strategy over wonton soup. Hoi An is famous for wonton
soup.
After
dousing one another in sunscreen, we return to the docks in search of a
motorboat to ferry us out to those "very far" villages. Our afternoon
captain is a middle-aged woman. She protects her body with long trousers, a
long-sleeved shirt, a conical hat, and a scarf that hides her lower face, as if
she is a virginal maiden or a camel trader from the Middle East. The bit of
skin revealed is the color and texture of mineral rich earth. The only time we
see more than just her eyes is when she lowers the scarf in order to wedge a
burly, hand-rolled cigarette between her chapped lips. She is not disinterested
in or excruciatingly curious about us, and if she speaks a single word of
English, she does not make it known. She simply sits in the stern of her flat
old boat, operating it by means of a splintery wooden throttle and a chain that
runs from the crazed engine to a metal ring attached to her big toe.
The
sun has faded all impurity from the colors that stain the river and its shores:
a Georgia O'Keefe desert superimposed over watery tropics. Sand-colored fishing
nets are strung up on bamboo poles over the dark, buried undercurrent of the
shallow river. They sag like four-poster hammocks beneath the low sky. Between
seven and ten p.m. the nets will be lowered into the water, but now, raised high
in the sun, they shimmer as if someone has been using them to pan for silver.
We
travel upriver. Our captain steers the boat around an outcrop of land and into
a small tributary. When we finally nudge the shore next to a fenced-in yard
where an army of men are building an already faded, already weather-beaten
fishing boat, she indicates that we have reached the wood-carving village of
Cam Kim. We cross a yard of trampled weeds where chickens scratch the stale
dirt. We come to a narrow lane, grown up on both sides with moist vegetation. A
sweet, purple iris-morning glory hybrid creeps through the leaves. Branches
extend lazily overhead, casting artful, shadowy mosaics over the path of
sunlight that spills down the lane.
We
search for woodcarvers, but all we find is an old man chiseling cliche statues.
A small collection of eagles that look as if they belong on U.S. coins gathers
dust on a shelf in his shop.
When
a group of children spots us wandering, they shriek and mob us as if we are
long-awaited celebrities. They pay particularly eager attention to my friend's
camera case. To humor them, he decides to take a few photos. He reaches for the
clasp and they lose their patience, hands extended, palms flat, using the full
force of their bodies to push one another out of the way. "Cay viet,"
they chant. Although we speak minimal Vietnamese, we know we are expected to
pay a price for being "rich foreigners."
My
friend protects his camera bag as best he can. He has the majority of the
attention, but one little girl remains quietly at my side. "Cay
viet," she whispers, using her finger to sketch in the palm of her hand.
Her request is earnest and persistent.
My
Vietnamese language teacher does her best to hide her frustration with my
inability to memorize the names of even the simplest objects. Every week she
asks me the word for table, and every week I say "I forget" in
English, because I forget how to say "I forget" in Vietnamese. But
miraculously, with the little girl at my side, I recall, "viet bi."
Ballpoint pen. The children in this poor village, so poor that we can't even
find it, don't want money. They want pens. (Back in the city, a friend will
tell me that the children in the countryside still use chalk on broken sheets
of slate to do their work in the classroom.) We distribute the two pens we
have, as fairly as possible among the shoving, frenzied mass. I give mine to
the persistent little girl. My friend organizes a foot race. The children don't
understand a word of English, but they do know what he's doing. Fortunately, he
is able to count to three in Vietnamese. When the winner receives her prize,
everyone--except for a boy who tripped--seems to agree that this was a fair
method. As my friend and I float away, the children huddle on the shore, waving
solemnly. Already, they've pulled the pens apart to see how they work--their
hands are covered in ink.
My
friend, who is an avid souvenir collector, is disappointed at not finding any
wood-carvers. We tell our captain that we're ready to try our luck at the ceramics
village. Puzzled, she points to the town directly across the river from us.
"Cam Ha?" we ask, hopefully. Even more puzzled, she responds,
"Hoi An." "Hoi An?" "Hoi An." My friend and I
stare at one another, incredulously. We have just spent almost two hours on
hard benches under blistering sun to travel in a circle that led us to a
village less than fifteen minutes directly across the river from Hoi An.
We
have dinner in a cafe across the street from Mrs. Lan's shop. There are four
tables inside the restaurant and two on the porch, although inside and outside
are separated by no more than a pair of round, vertical beams.
All
six tables are occupied by foreigners. But they aren't the exhausted,
antisocial cluster usually found in small Asian towns: little groups angry to
discover that they are not the first foreign face ever seen in these distant
parts. Those of us here are obviously too happy to have found Hoi An to really
care whether the presence of others will affect our own credibility as
adventurers.
I
consider a painting I saw on our way to dinner: a misty, out-of-perspective,
aerial portrait of Hoi An. It was only twenty-five dollars; I am deciding
whether I want it, and if so, where to start bargaining. The lanterns reflect
off the oily, wood walls and our faces shine.
Day
Three
We
decide to check out Cua Dai Beach. The ride is an easy twenty minutes and
bicycles can be rented for less than a dollar, but I fight traffic on a bicycle
every day in Saigon. This is my holiday--I want a motorcycle. Naturally, we
rent a Minsk. These dubiously made machines from Belarus are not pretty, but
they do the trick on Vietnam's poorly maintained roads. The beach seems from
another time and place. We are less than thirty miles from the China Beach of
R&R war fame, but that is not what I am thinking of--it's more like Coney
Island during the early twentieth century. At the end of the road there is a
small area of packed sand populated by clusters of tables, lounge chairs and
striped umbrellas. When we arrive, we are the only foreign faces in sight.
There is a not too energetic shuffle over whose chairs we should lounge in,
since every cluster is a privately owned business. We are informed that a table
is free if we order food and drink. We order beer and fresh seafood: grilled
fish and giant shrimp. Our waiter digs a cooler into the sand beside our
chairs; it looks like a half-buried treasure chest. He brings a plate of moist,
pink marine life for our inspection. We sniff and peer, as if appraising wine.
We nod. When he returns, the flaky fish has been grilled to a white perfection.
While
we eat, we watch a middle-aged couple dump a load of plastic tarps and long
poles on the hard sand off to our left. They have a bucket of beverages, two
stuffed straw bags, and a small, ceramic coal stove. They are obviously
intending to set up a restaurant. The woman pounds two stakes through one end
of the plastic tarp into the sand. The wind whips the other end over her head,
ripping the stakes free. She tries again, while the man stuffs two poles into
the shifting ground. Her stakes hold, but as soon as he constructs a crude
lean-to by attaching one end of the tarp to one of his poles, the wind billows
into the tarp, jerking the pole, and the poor man is nearly decapitated. They try
again; he is almost beheaded again.
Day
Four
We
have arranged for a car to pick us up on our final day at noon. Suddenly, that
morning, I panic. I realize that I must have the painting I saw two nights ago.
I'll pay full price if I must. I race down Tran Phu Street, regretfully passing
sunflower dresses since it's too late for me to have one custom-made before we
leave. But when I arrive at the gallery, I am told they have all been sold. I
mope back to the hotel. With little enthusiasm I glance into the shops as I
pass. Maybe I will find something I like as well. I don't. And when we finally
get to the airport, and are waiting to check in, I notice a foreign woman
standing in line. I'd seen her ambling around Hoi An. She is carrying a plastic
sack. Inside is a small cardboard tube. It is the kind of tube used by
galleries in Hoi An to protect artwork. Somehow, I am certain that she has my
painting in her bag. I inch closer, torturing myself. To make matters worse,
wadded beside the tube is a sunflower dress, and the woman is just my size.
About Da Lat:
Dalat Tapestry
You sleep with the shutters flung wide, the magnificent French windows drawn in, and when you wake, early, it is to a room steeped in clean, highland air. You have been living in Saigon long enough to have forgotten the purifying rebirth that a dewy morning kindles. You snuggle for a long moment under the heavy cotton sheets, breathing deeply, savoring each cool inhalation.
When you finally walk to the window it is with expectation, like the few giddy seconds that precede the opening of a gift. You lean against the sill. The view over Xuan Huong Lake is frosted with clouds of sweet mist that have diluted all color from the distant hills. At the same time, shadow and shape are illuminated. Grey and blue. Have there ever been so many variations of these two lonesome colors? The steam rises off your tea cup, fusing the room with the drowsy landscape.
But the sun is greedy and lifts its narcotic gaze, casting a tawny glance across the dark hard-wood floor. Its fingers are warm to the touch, melting not only the refined temperature in the room, but also the dense matte of the hills. They begin to recede. The greys become green. The blues become bold. With color comes the rest of the world. The low drone of the town is apparent. You notice a few brown needles in the tree outside your window. There are birds. A groundskeeper sweeps the drive below. Dalat awakes.
Your friends have dispersed, to play golf or to paraglide in the far hills, and the day belongs to you. You remain in the claw-foot bathtub, swimming through a limp, indefinable daydream. You wrap yourself in a white robe that hangs from a brass hook near the sink and curl into one of the damask-covered chairs. You lean back into the shadows while the bleached sunlight continues to warm the room. You read a few chapters of a good novel, but you do not give it your full attention. You do not want to take yourself too far away from this place. Eventually, you get dressed and make your way down the majestic stairs.
The Dalat Palace was built in the 1920s and has been recently restored to a style of French grandeur that even Napoleon and Josephine would have found desirable for a weekend retreat. It is late enough in the morning so that you are the only guest in the high-ceilinged dining room. You choose a table that is a mere breeze away from the doors that open onto the white stone terrace. Black, crepe butterflies hesitate in the entrance, skitter away. Through the palms and pines, down the vast slope of manicured lawn, you glimpse the lake.
You are served a plate of pineapples, apples, bananas and dragon-fruit. You break bread in honor of returning to the peaceful, familiar company of yourself, and scoop your knife into the shaved hives of butter piled in a silver dish. There is raspberry jam.
One of the many silent, solicitous waiters refreshes your coffee. You notice that it smells different here. It is not polluted by the grime and commotion of the city. It is not necessary for you to gulp it before rushing off to one of those may places that you always have to be. You hold the cup to your lips and when you finally let the liquid pass over your tongue, it is ambrosia.
As you walk around the lake, toward town, you think that you have never known a place where eclectic chalets--half Bavarian cottage, half South Pacific beach hut--wind down into vegetable gardens and flower markets. Nguyen Thi Minh Khai Street stretches flat past shops to the central market. You choose, instead, Nguyen Chi Thanh Street, a steady rise that will lead you to the peak of town. At the top you stop in a shop in Hoa Binh Square to admire the colorful blankets that are hand-woven in the nearby hills. You buy four and are prepared to leave when the proprietor invites you for a cup of coffee in the attached cafe. You were unaware of its presence, the aptly named Stop and Go. You are reminded of the weathered beach shacks that overhang the Pacific Ocean on the northwest coast.
You sit at a small table made from a slab of tree trunk balanced on two ceramic elephants. In the center of the table a horned conch shell serves as an ashtray. You look through the great pane windows down onto the market. Women in conical straw hats sell green-rinded oranges, marigolds, gladiolas and roses. You have been told that Dalat supplies the rest of the south with its cut flowers. Below, on a patchwork of corrugated tin roofs, a white cat lazily cleans its paws. The sky is overcast. Behind you a young man sits in the corner reading. The cafe is silent.
Early that evening, after a small nap and another bath, you accompany a friend back into town. It is already dark and a fragrant chill has descended. You pass families, couples, chatting quartets of teenagers. Everyone is wearing knit caps, jackets, parkas, sweaters. Nostalgically, you recall autumn at home.
You find the cafe that was recommended by another friend, the Maison Long Hoa on Duy Tan Street, just off Hoa Binh Square. The first thing you notice about Phan Thai, the owner, are his eyes, set like dewdrops of obsidian in his aging face. They glitter, and you believe he has never had a day when he has not shared laughter with a friend.
You and your friend share a dinner of vegetable soup, spring rolls, pork and rice. The food is fresh, grown and raised here. Phan Thai drifts away to greet new arrivals. They are French. It is obvious that this is his favorite language to greet new arrivals. You are not surprised. Dalat was "developed" in the early part of the century by Europeans and particularly French, who recognized its value as a retreat from the stupefying humidity of the Mekong Delta.
A woman stands on the sidewalk with a large basket strapped to her back. Your friend purchases the blankets that were hand-woven by her father. When he returns you finish your meal. You observe that the two men at the table next to you are drinking a pale pink liquid from cordial glasses. Your friend asks what it is.
"Strawberry wine," Phan Thai says. Among its other natural resources, Dalat is famous for its strawberries. "It is homemade, by my wife. This bottle is three years old." He shows you the business card of a winemaker in France who praised his wife's vintage. He tells you the name of an exclusive restaurant in Saigon whose manager purchased twelve bottles the last time he was there.
You order two glasses.
You are from the United States. Your friend is from Australia. Phan Thai stands over you and toasts the hospitality that your nations have shown to his countrymen over the years. You feel humbled.
But Phan Thai is already onto another track. He asks if you know who John F. Kennedy was. "His son has eaten here. Twice. With his girlfriend."
"Which one?" you ask, laughing.
Phan Thai says, "I wanted to take his photograph, but...I must respect." You understand. It is exactly because of this that people return to the Maison Long Hoa, the reason they recommend it to friends. This is not the sort of place where you come to see and be seen, as many notorious destinations are. Before you leave, your friend buys two bottles of strawberry wine.
You escort your friend across Hoa Binh Square to the Stop and Go. You have not been sitting there more than a few minutes when Duy Viet, the cafe's owner, brings his friend Vi Quoc Hiep to your corner. Vi Quoc Hiep owns an art gallery on Tran Phu Street. Duy Viet produces paper and pen. You sit, upright, like Mona Lisa, trying not to grin, while Vi Quoc Hiep squints, sketches, and finally renders...you...sitting stoically in the Stop and Go. (How much did he charge you, friends ask later, and you frown at their cynicism.) Duy Viet examines the drawing, critically, pronounces it a good likeness, asks why you didn't smile, then takes out his ink brush pen and adds, "Two blue eyes, what a surprise." He hands it to you. "A souvenir."
Vi Quoc Hiep must leave and Duy Viet takes his seat. Your friend asks if he would like to share some strawberry wine. Thimble teacups appear. You toast life. Duy Viet and your friend talk, quietly, their conversation absorbed into the soft old wood, while the town below is slowly stolen by the returning mist. Duy Viet sketches one of his poems for your friend to take home. The lights sputter and then fade. Never has one of Vietnam's many blackouts been more appropriate. Duy Viet lights one red candle for each of the three tables. When he returns, he carries a bottle of mulberry wine which he uses to toast in the wake of the strawberry.
"Do you play?" asks your friend, pointing to the guitar
"A little."
And Duy Viet fills the flickering night with a familiar, haunting flamenco that has befriended many a stranger in many a shadowy cafe around the world. You lean into the room, cradling your teacup, and another of Duy Viet's poems comes to you:
As a wind-orchid
I'm living in bluish mountains
high in the Highlands
Covered with clouds and fog
throughout the year
Carefree as a breeze on
a Fall day
elating confidences for
Myself to hear
By a winter's night, blooming
while the moon starts
rising to welcome Spring
The Fragrance of
wind-orchid
wafted high
in the Breeze
