Where would I be without guides? Those wonderful people who hold my hand and steer me through this glorious land, imparting knowledge and wisdom with occasional flashes of magic. They are the bridges between cultures, the epic storytellers who breathe life into buildings, weave the past with the present and the future and remind us of our connectedness to each other.
They come in many forms. From the hotel receptionist who patiently walks us through maps, explaining routes and making suggestions to the Australian gem, living in Vietnam and knowing enough of the language and the culture to be able to weave her (and my) way through situations and opportunities. From the husband and wife team who take turns to ensure my every need is catered for, to the college student eager to learn and practice his theory on a real live person. From the cyclo riders who know every nook and cranny to the drivers who are persuaded (eventually) to take dirt roads because there may be something interesting further down the road.
There is one aspect that unites each of these individuals. Their absolute love of their country, whether birth or adopted, combined with a real desire to share it with me, shines through every connection and each experience. Always with a smile, always with great politeness. And occasionally with a somewhat quizzical look.
For you see I’m not quite the typical tourist. I don’t always want to go where everyone else is going. I’m a bit of a one for the unchartered territory, the road less traveled, the adventure of the unknown. I like to go off with no real knowing of what lies ahead, and simply be in the experience of whatever shows up in the moment. It’s not always easy to accommodate a maverick, particularly when there’s already a well-trodden path and there’s no obvious reason to do anything else.
So some of the guides shrug their shoulders and go with the flow, whilst others are a bit more recalcitrant, assuming that I have had a slight lapse, figuring that they know best, and doing their utmost to persuade me to stay on the straight and narrow. It requires much patience and some real negotiation skills to be able to take a left turn here and there.
It is only when I am entirely on my own for a few days, that I begin to appreciate another aspect to the guides. They shelter me from some of the excesses of those who would take advantage of tourists. On my own the price of a cup of coffee doubles in a flash, the hawkers eye me up and down and follow me incessantly, inviting me to examine their wares and buy some token gifts. It’s not that it is unpleasant – indeed I rather enjoy being cajoled here and there among the market stalls (though I will admit to being extremely annoyed at the coffee), it’s simply different. Another way of interacting, where language barriers require more effort on my part, where my smiles make connections, and where I can lose myself in an instant if I am not paying attention. And it reminds me to be ever more grateful when my guides show up.
There comes a point where I hit a low point. I’m cold, wet and very tired. It’s dark outside and still raining. I’m on my own in a strange, noisy city, with no desire to move. Yet my hotel room seems unappealing at this moment in time. I don’t want to sit for hours staring at four walls and getting ever more morose. It’s a moment of crisis.
The guide had previously suggested I walk out to the bridge, because it is lit up at night and makes for a wonderful picture. At first I am reluctant for I can’t quite see the appeal, particularly since it is raining so hard. Then I remember I’m here for a purpose. A deep breath and a call to the adventurer within me. An invitation to take this opportunity and see what life has to offer. Donning waterproofs and a smile, I venture out into the unknown.
The bridge itself is lifeless, no lights, no mystery – it’s just an ordinary bridge, with people passing over it. I must have misunderstood my guide. Very disappointing; it’s not even worth one photograph, so I contemplate retreating back to the relative warmth of my room.
My eye is caught by a flash of colour. Looking closer I see what I am meant to see. Everywhere in Hue, life has taken on a whole new energy with the coming of the rain. It is business as usual; for nothing stops the ebb and flow of life. But now this life is conducted under shelter, and the inventiveness of people shines out from beneath the raindrops: wary tourists peek out from behind discarded banners and tarpaulins that cyclo drivers have commandeered;
ghostly figures whiz by on motos and bicycles, plastic coverings flapping in the wind as they attempt to cover both mode of transport and themselves.
I am mesmerized by this new vista, a town of blue and purple plastic, of unearthly shapes and reflected lights glistening in the wet. My camera is kept busy as I see new possibilities and for one happy hour on a cold dark evening in Hue I find the magic in the rain.
A Note: I discover next day that the bridge is only lit at the weekends. It’s a good job I didn’t know that, otherwise I might have stayed in and missed this amazing adventure.
Despite the teeming rain, the pagoda is beautiful. A glorious spot perched on the banks of the Perfume River, a labyrinth of buildings, shrines and a temple where the monks pray. The tourists are here in droves, mostly clad in the ubiquitous raincoat that has mushroomed in the city with the coming of the rains. Purples, blues, whites and greys dot the paths as we trudge towards the temple. A sign requests that visitors remove their shoes before climbing onto the dais and that they remain silent since this is a place of prayer, but in the chaos it mostly goes unread. People are milling around and a monk tries very hard to keep the floor dry – pointing at dripping umbrellas and raingear whilst muttering incomprehensibly. I stand at a doorway off to the side to offer my gratitude and prayers. The monk espies me and beckons me to the inner sanctum. I bare my head and kneel before the three buddhas. As my hands join in preparation for devotion the monk kneels besides me and rings the bell. It is a moment of utter bliss. A moment when the bell tolls and the sound keeps ringing through my bones, through my very dna. Opening me up to the power of prayer, inviting me to vibrate at higher and higher frequencies. The monk whispers a word of gratitude to me, for coming to his temple to pray and I bow in equal gratitude.
But I have lost the moment of peace and tranquility for as I was praying so the cameras were clicking, and suddenly I had become the subject of several people’s photographs. A moment in which I understood what many individuals have had to endure, as tourists click away. It makes me ashamed, it makes me want to cry and it makes me angry. That these people show no respect for this place of worship. Whether or not they are religious, whether or not they follow Buddha, surely it is utterly appropriate to respect the wishes of those who have come to pray. This may be an ancient relic, but it is also a living breathing place of prayer and it is our duty to honour that.
As I walk away, another takes my place. And instead of praying, she simply kneels down, turns around to face the camera and poses with a smile. I am reminded of the Buddhist concept of letting go. Of simply being and allowing all thoughts, all emotions to pass through me so that I do not take them on. I focus on the blossoming lotus and float back into peace.
It is a place that has haunted me for years. I was only a young child at the time of the Vietnam conflict and did not really understand what was happening on the other side of the world, but certain impressions and images stayed with me throughout my life, and non more so than the Cu Chi tunnels. I remember reading a book about them and being both horrified and intrigued at the stories; a people who were so determined to protect their way of life that they dug down deep and hid themselves in the belly of the earth, coming out only to attack or to find supplies.
The tunnels are peaceful now. Echoing to the voice of the guide and the questions of the tourists who visit. Some like me are simply curious, others are returning, perhaps for the first time, to a place where they fought and their friends died. It is a deeply moving and humbling experience.
First port of call is a video showing – a old flickering movie accompanied by dramatic music and a stilted commentary. Flashes of gunfire, bombers carpeting the earth, death screams fill the room. What starts off as surreal takes on a more serious patina, as the story unfolds from a different perspective. It is all too easy to see only one side of a conflict, to read only the words that come from the western point of view. Here we have a chance to hear a different story. It may well be equally biased, and yet it does redress some of the balance. Walking in the other person’s shoes gives a whole new viewpoint. I come to realize that these people are proud of their achievement during the war, which incidentally to them is the “American War’. The resistance was strong, the impetus to protect their way of life such that they were willing to lay down their lives. Women and men doing all they could to banish the invaders. It was a bloody time.
Moving on from the video into the reality through the forest it is hard now to imagine what it was like forty years ago. There is a tranquility to the place, a place where nature has reclaimed her place, filling the bomb craters with greenery, replenishing trees to hide what went on below. I would have walked straight past the first tunnel entrance had not the guide stopped to showcase it. Cleverly camouflaged beneath fallen leaves it is an engineering marvel. And tiny to boot. The guide shimmies down with ease, but when I try later, my large western frame can only make it as far as my hips before getting stuck.
Further on we are shown the many traps used to stop advancing troops. Today they can simply be admired for their ingenuity; I can only imagine, and try not to, the horrors when actually trapped in one of these – a slow and very painful death. It was a time of vicious guerilla tactics that caused so much suffering on all sides. I can appreciate how this was such a different experience for those who were sent to the front. No clear front line, no rules of engagement written in a handbook that everyone follows. The rulebook was thrown out, the front line turned into anything that moved. Stuff of nightmares.
It is when we actually enter one of the tunnels, widened to accommodate the western frame, that the true nature of this life unfolds. Dry dark and airless – the tunnels stretch for miles. I can barely walk bent double and after a few minutes resort to crawling on hands and knees, pausing every few minutes to steady my breathing and contemplate the experience. Claustrophobia hovers at the edges of my mind, bearing down upon me with the weight of the earth above. Voices from the past whisper their messages. The air closes in and I find it hard to breathe.
I’m glad to see the light of day and scramble out to breathe in fresh sweet air. I spent barely five minutes underground – I cannot begin to appreciate what it was like for those who spent hours and sometimes days cooped up in there – simply to stay alive.
It is later in the trip as I reflect upon my time in Vietnam that I realize how little animosity there is. In discussions with my new found friends, it seems that the country is young and most have no memories or actual experiences of that time. Even so, it is remarkable to me how little bitterness I experienced, how willing the Vietnamese are to forgive and move on, welcoming all into their homeland with a smile and a genuine desire to care for their visitors. Those who do remember, have put it behind them, and live very much in the now. Those who guide us round these memorials are proud and welcoming, eager to bridge the gaps and reach out in friendship.
I think we have lot to learn about forgiveness from the Vietnamese.
Space and time take on a whole new meaning in her world. Tucked away in a corner of the market, she is almost invisible. She has claimed a spot, not much bigger than three feet square; leant up against the next-door stall, sheltered by a motorbike, she sits on a tiny stool with her basket of onions and garlic, plying her trade to those who care to stop.
Someone stops to inspect her wares. Garlic is checked for freshness, onions picked out one by one. Money exchanges hands and another satisfied customer moves on. She counts her money and her blessings.
I’ve been looking for the faeries. Shy and fey, they have remained hidden thus far. The dragons have been much more in evidence, particularly since it is almost Chinese New Year – Tet. The dragon is a predominant figure in Tet celebrations and so figures of it have proliferated all over the country, popping out of hedges, roaring out from roadside shops. And all the while the faeries have stayed quiet, watching and waiting for the time to show themselves.
I keep on searching, taking long walks in the evening sunset, peeking behind trees, looking underneath leaves and turning suddenly just in case they are playing hide and seek with me. They remain hidden.
Until I find myself on the shores of Lac Lake in the Central Highlands. After a glorious drive through the mountains of this region, we have come to rest by the shore. As the sun begins its final descent towards the horizon, I sip my ca phe sua da gazing out across the lake. A field of waterlilies dance in the evening breeze, dipping their faces into the blushing water, stretching upwards for one last kiss of sun rays, embracing each other as they celebrate another day.
I see my faeries, riding the lilypads, their faces sparkling in the sunlight. Their joyful smiles beam out across the lake as they scream with pleasure on their personal fairground rides. One slides off, disappearing under the water, to be replaced by another, who clambours over the lip of the pad and dances across its surface. They clash together mingling into one large blob of merriment before disentangling themselves and shimmying across the waterlily. It is a mesmerizing sight. As darkness falls, they give one more twinkle and merge into the depths. Enchanting.
I’ve never been to Tiffany’s. But at this moment in time I wonder if the service there can get any better than the service I am receiving now.
Out here on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City a daily ritual is taking place. Families are partaking of breakfast, in alleys, on sidewalks, wherever there are breakfast sellers, there are people sitting eating a leisurely Vietnamese style breakfast. The city is alive with people at breakfast. Wherever there are people, there is food, Wherever there is food, there are people.
I have heard many warnings about not eating from the street vendors. It does seem counter-intuitive at first, to be eating food cooked outside in what appears to be dirty conditions. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. People take great pride in their outdoor kitchen. They are constantly sweeping and cleaning, washing out the plates and cups, sweeping the floors and replenishing ingredients with fresh ones on a regular basis. It is the most hygienic place you could imagine. Health and Safety would find nothing to complain about – except perhaps the occasional omission from a passing motorcycle.
We have ventured out to an alley corner where a family are ensconced. They are delighted to see us, remembering Selene from a previous visit and immediately set to, creating a space for us along the alley, pulling out tiny chairs and a small table for us to sit at.
I don’t really know what a traditional breakfast is, but it’s made more difficult by the fact I don’t eat meat. Still with the help of Selene and some good old fashioned pointing, we establish that I can have rice and vegetables. Selene asks if I want an egg, but we realize they don’t have any on the stall. Still, this is Vietnam. No problem. Within seconds one of the young girls has disappeared across the street and comes back a few minutes later with one precious egg. Anything is possible it seems. And what is so delightful is that there is no wastage. I only want one egg, and somewhere in the maze of streets there is someone who is willing to sell one egg at a time. The egg arrives and is lovingly cooked in the wok – a perfect yolk, just right for me. Placed artistically on top of the rice and vegetables, voila my breakfast. It is absolutely delicious. The family fuss around us, ensuring we have all we need: chilli soy, hot milky coffee and a plateful of breakfast. Our belongings, cameras and bags are placed on stools by the side of us so they do not touch the floor. As the world goes by, we devour our street breakfast, making slurping noises of appreciation.
It’s a breakfast I am sure Tiffany’s would be proud of.
A traditional game on long journeys is I Spy. In Vietnam that game takes on a whole new meaning, particularly when applied to the motorcycles and vespas that constantly pass by.
It is no surprise that in a land where the motorbike is the vehicle of choice, everything and anything can be transported by this two-wheeled juggernaut. An afternoon past-time is to sit in one of the many cafes, drinking ca phe sua da and spotting the most unusual cargoes as they flash by.
I think I’ve seen it all: from a family of four, squeezed together like honeybee birds in the early morning, to large televisions precariously perched behind the driver as he maneuvers one handed through the traffic. Roosters in cages, fruit piled up high. Flowers bundled so lavishly the license plate is barely visible. Even my large suitcase made it on to a moto, my guide generously transporting it from one hotel to another, balanced precariously on the back seat where I usually went, whilst he drove one handed, the other maintaining balance as he rounded corners and wove his way through the traffic. It made it to the other end. Just.
But even I have to blink twice as we sit waiting for a ferry to cross the Mekong. The usual throng is making its way past, bikes and motos, people and animals, all on a journey to somewhere. Then a moto flashes by and I can hardly believe my eyes. A second one follows and I just manage to get my camera ready and point and shoot as the third and final one whizzes by. It is not until later that night as I download the images that I realize I now have a precious reminder of the day the sheep went to market.
What makes it ever more amazing is that there are also four sheep on the front of the moto. I’m still trying to work out how they all got on there – and presumably they were well trussed up so they didn’t struggle. Four faces peek out in different directions – four expressions ranging from boredom through incredulity and anxiety to curiosity.
Four faces I shan’t forget in a hurry.
I spy with my little eye something on a motorcycle beginning with S.
A chance meeting. A gift in the moment. A memory to treasure. An appreciation of these gentle loving people.
We are driving through the Mekong Delta towards our next destination. The trip is full of surprises and wonders as we cross tributaries, meander through small villages and admire the countryside. It feels more like the Delta I was imagining here. A life lived upon and alongside the river; a life of lushness and bountiful food. Every parcel of land grows something, every family engaged in activities to sustain themselves and others. It is a beautiful trip.
Somewhere along the way, we stop for a drink. Fresh iced sugar cane juice with a squeeze of lemon to soothe our dusty throats and refresh us for the rest of the drive. Whilst waiting for the drink to arrive, I meander off and find myself face to face, or rather face to waist, with a beautiful old woman, walking along the street. I am captivated by her radiance and respectfully request a photograph, pointing to my camera. She nods graciously and so I oblige. She smiles once more and moves slowly towards her home, placing her stick with care upon the uneven ground.
Our group sits by the roadside enjoying our drinks and watching the world go by. Kids play in the afternoon haze and life putters by on motos and bicycles. This is slow time.
As we prepare to leave, I espy the old lady coming out of her home again. I am compelled to walk towards her to offer my gratitude for her spirit. I don’t have the words, but somehow I know she will understand. She comes straight up to me and embraces me; her frail arms wrapped around me with surprising strength, then strokes my face as if I am some long lost daughter who has returned home. She looks deep into my eyes with a smile full of love and warmth – a smile that touches my soul. I kneel beside her and simply look into her face. A face that emanates wisdom, a face of incredible beauty. Something passes between us, a knowing and an understanding beyond any words. It is a moment of utter bliss and total connectedness.
The guide translates that she is 87 years old and has been ill but is now recovering. I place my hands over hers and give her some healing reiki. Without explanation she knows and receives the universal healing energy. When I am done I wrap my arms around her and feel her strength even as I feel her bones rubbing against the cotton material of her blouse.
We touch foreheads and once more look deep into each other’s soul. It is with great sorrow that I stand up to leave, towering over her as I thank her for her spirit.
I know that I will always remember this moment and this beautiful sage. She holds a special place in my heart and I am so grateful for the gift of her presence in my life. It may only have been for a short while but I will not forget her. She has shown me the spirit of the people of Vietnam and I am forever changed.
Hoi An Hustle
by Joanne de Nobriga on February 27th, 2007
After the tranquility of the Central Highlands, the hustle and bustle of Hoi An comes as a surprise. Wandering the streets, I am unprepared for the upfront soliciting that emanates from every direction. As I step into the market place so the banter begins; moto and cyclo drivers calling for my attention, every shop owner inviting me in to view their wares. Women descend on me from all directions, taking turns to grab my arm and entice me to their particular stall. “ Hello, where you from. You come look, If you like, I give you good price. Lucky, lucky today. You buy, give me luck. You first customer.”
She appears from nowhere and sits down quietly whilst I peruse some postcards, smiling gently at me, as I make my choices. Mesmerised, I watch as she takes a reel of white cotton and threads it through her fingers. I think she is going to show me something like the cat’s cradle, a game I used to play as a child, but instead she twists the thread into scissors and right there on the main street, she plucks a few hairs from my chin. I’m so amazed, I offer no resistance, sitting placidly whilst she tells me and half the world, what she can do for me. Upper lip, chin, legs. Stop there, I don’t want to know any more. Before I know it she has taken my arm and is guiding me firmly down the alley towards I don’t know where. I find myself in her shop and whilst meekly protesting that I would rather do something tomorrow, she points to a massage chair and I find myself lying down submitting myself to the full thread plucking moustache routine. The door is wide open as the world wanders by and the walls are so thin, everyone who cares to can hear our conversation.
It hurts. And it works. I’m not entirely sure how for my eyes are watering too much to pay attention to what she is doing. Her fingers move deftly along my skin, scissoring the threads and somehow plucking out hairs as she goes. She tells me to feel my lip and I gingerly stroke my skin, imagining it to be red and bloodied. Instead it is baby soft and hairless (not that I had that many you understand but I have been traveling for a while and those sort of beauty treatments normally go out the window).
Finally it is over and I can breathe again. She wipes my teary eyes gently with an amused expression, then her eyes focus in on my eyebrows. She tells me they need help – she pluck them good – make them right. This time I manage to resist and escape from the chair before she has time to pin me down. Or suggest another part of my anatomy. A Brazilian takes on a whole new meaning in this neck of the woods. We giggle together, exchange money, I take her picture and she kisses me before I leave. Best of friends, sisters in intimacy. Somehow, although she has well and truly bamboozled me, it only makes me smile, for she has treated me with care and with love.
The next vendor is hovering at the door. It’s time to go.
Space and time take on a whole new meaning in her world. Tucked away in a corner of the market, she is almost invisible. She has claimed a spot, not much bigger than three feet square; leant up against the next-door stall, sheltered by a motorbike, she sits on a tiny stool with her basket of onions and garlic, plying her trade to those who care to stop.
I’ve been looking for the faeries. Shy and fey, they have remained hidden thus far. The dragons have been much more in evidence, particularly since it is almost Chinese New Year – Tet. The dragon is a predominant figure in Tet celebrations and so figures of it have proliferated all over the country, popping out of hedges, roaring out from roadside shops. And all the while the faeries have stayed quiet, watching and waiting for the time to show themselves.
I see my faeries, riding the lilypads, their faces sparkling in the sunlight. Their joyful smiles beam out across the lake as they scream with pleasure on their personal fairground rides. One slides off, disappearing under the water, to be replaced by another, who clambours over the lip of the pad and dances across its surface. They clash together mingling into one large blob of merriment before disentangling themselves and shimmying across the waterlily. It is a mesmerizing sight. As darkness falls, they give one more twinkle and merge into the depths. Enchanting.
Out here on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City a daily ritual is taking place. Families are partaking of breakfast, in alleys, on sidewalks, wherever there are breakfast sellers, there are people sitting eating a leisurely Vietnamese style breakfast. The city is alive with people at breakfast. Wherever there are people, there is food, Wherever there is food, there are people.
I don’t really know what a traditional breakfast is, but it’s made more difficult by the fact I don’t eat meat. Still with the help of Selene and some good old fashioned pointing, we establish that I can have rice and vegetables. Selene asks if I want an egg, but we realize they don’t have any on the stall. Still, this is Vietnam. No problem. Within seconds one of the young girls has disappeared across the street and comes back a few minutes later with one precious egg. Anything is possible it seems. And what is so delightful is that there is no wastage. I only want one egg, and somewhere in the maze of streets there is someone who is willing to sell one egg at a time. The egg arrives and is lovingly cooked in the wok – a perfect yolk, just right for me. Placed artistically on top of the rice and vegetables, voila my breakfast. It is absolutely delicious. The family fuss around us, ensuring we have all we need: chilli soy, hot milky coffee and a plateful of breakfast. Our belongings, cameras and bags are placed on stools by the side of us so they do not touch the floor. As the world goes by, we devour our street breakfast, making slurping noises of appreciation.
