Bound for Vietnam (26 page)

The side wall of my room had two big windows which opened only a couple of feet from the main street. They were covered by wooden shutters, fancy wrought-iron grilles, cotton curtains and even pelmets, but they had no glass. Someone, the window fairy or the Malaria Police, closed the shutters at dusk to keep the mosquitoes out. Double doors led in from the verandah. The walls were wood panelled up to head height all the way around. The ceiling was also wooden and from it rotated an overhead fan. The floor was covered with green floral tiles and I was given enormous plastic shoes to walk on them – obviously footwear designed for men. They were huge on me.

The Hotel Rules were better than the comics: ‘No bicicles motor bikes animals and even prostitutes explosives stinking inflammable things not allowed in room. Please respest local custom bare legs arms shoulders not polite.’

Having established myself and arranged the room to suit me, I had a rest. Restored, I went for a walk. Hoian was easy to get around on foot. Once you left the three main streets parallel with the river that were the core of the town, you were in paved lanes that were only accessible to foot traffic anyway. The town meanders along the banks of the river and so did I, walking alongside it on a road that was fringed with red flowering flame trees. Many sampans, some waiting for customers to ferry across the water, were moored along the river’s edge. Very old, wood and stone houses with moss-covered tiled roofs and wooden shutters, and wooden-fronted shop houses lined the narrow streets of this amiable town. Fortunately most of Hoian escaped damage in the American and second world wars. I saw one house that had a lean-to which must have been the wash-house attached to its front – a copper boiled on a wood fire beside it.

Cows wandered freely through the streets of Hoian, leaving the evidence of their passing that had to be avoided when walking. Lumbering bullock carts also rolled through the town, but hand carts that were pushed and pulled by people-power seemed to be the way that most goods were moved. I saw an inordinate amount of shops that sold only herbs and medicines. The Vietnamese seemed to be as addicted to self prescription as the Chinese.

I was happy to discover that Hoian had plenty of good, small cafés with extremely cheap food and English menus. Even if they were ambiguous at times, the menus at least gave you an idea of what you were likely to be offered. Sometimes, however, something in your interpretation or theirs was lost and the dish turned out to be a novel experience. At Lilly Lye’s café in the main street, I had a great meal of rice, eggs and meat with delicious, hot, fresh-squeezed lemonade – the cheapest drink you could buy here, apart from tea – followed by frozen yoghurt mixed with strawberry jam, peanuts and chocolate. It all cost about a dollar.

Later I walked to the end of the street where an immense covered market was in full swing. At its front, under tarpaulins and with mud underfoot, were the vegetable, produce and fruit stalls. I asked a woman for bananas. She didn’t have any. Taking me firmly by the wrist, she trundled me around the market until she found someone who did. Then she waited to see that I made a good transaction before we parted.

Further on, the street was lined with touristy shops that offered much antique porcelain, mostly blue and white Chinese or Vietnamese of the Ming and Ching dynasties. Sadly, it was poor-quality stuff that had been made for the export market and a great deal of it appeared to have been buried, or immersed in water, and was almost worthless. There were also a lot of fakes or, more politely, recent reproductions. The main street also contained several shops where gold jewellery was sold by weight and was cheap at eleven American dollars a gram.

One day I watched from Lilly’s café as an old woman set up her rival portable restaurant on the pavement opposite. She trotted up with two baskets on her shoulder poles in which reposed the entire dining establishment. Under a rickety piece of straw matting that was held up by two crooked bamboo poles attached to the wall, she laid out her stock in trade, arranged three tiny stools and was in business, cooking and serving on the ground. At night she went more upmarket and produced a low table, more stools and a lantern. There were always customers by her side. Nobody seemed to eat at home. Small cafés and portable stalls lit by lamps and candles were dotted all along the streets at night.

The next morning was overcast but not cold. I breakfasted at Lilly Lye’s café on omelette, hot lemon and French toast. From the footpath of the café, I watched two little old nuns dressed in pale grey
ao dais
and straw conical hats, toddle down the street holding each other by the hand. They were followed by a bevy of beautiful teenage students, immaculate in spotless, white flowing
ao dais
carrying their books to school. Nurses and female doctors dressed in white also passed en route to the hospital. The
ao dais
, the national costume, has graceful lines that suit the slim figures of Vietnamese women. It consists of soft material made into wide-legged, white or black trousers that are topped by a fitted tunic that flows out from the hips, and high heeled sandals called
guoc
.

I walked about all day enjoying this lovely antiquated town. I was back in ‘You are very beautiful’ territory and was told this frequently. I knew it was only my novelty value and a good paint job, but I can still take a lot of it. In what was previously the French Quarter, one family invited me into their house as I went by. We sat on the balcony and they gave me strong black coffee and pieces of dried, sugared coconut.

In the market I tried to buy a new light bulb for my emergency lighting kit. Even though I took the broken one along as a sample, I had no joy. I was wandering off when a young girl from a stall I had enquired at caught up with me. Taking me by the hand, she dragged me behind her through the maze of stalls to a shop that sold electrical items where the defunct bulb was exchanged for a functioning model.

Across from my hotel room I found a small tourist operator. Well, he actually found me, he practically hijacked me off the street, but he did it so agreeably that I did not mind. Mr Nuygen helped me buy a train ticket to Natrang, a reputedly lovely beach resort. When I looked at my receipt, I saw that it was a plain sheet of paper with an amount of money written on it. Underneath, he had added, ‘You’ve paid enough money.’

I had wanted to go back to Danang by river and sea, which I knew was possible, but the only way I could do this was to hire a boat all to myself, and the cost was exorbitant.

The charming tour operator then asked me if I’d like to see the local pottery factory which was ten kilometres away on a dirt road. We negotiated a price for me to ride pillion on his motorbike. As soon as I climbed aboard the motorbike, it started to drizzle and by the time we returned it was pelting down. I looked like a drowned rat. But the ride had been worth it. We bumped through a series of small cheery villages that edged the river. The hard-packed earth around them was swept immaculately clean and palm and banana trees, greenery and plants in pots separated the small houses. Approaching the tiny potting village, brick kiln after brick kiln and heaps and heaps of bricks announced their trade. All the bricks for the district were made here from local clay. As my friend manoeuvred his bike along diminutive lanes to worm our way deep into the depths of the village, the bike’s handlebars grazed the walls of the close-set houses and now and then clean and contented pigs grunted and snuffled at me from little bamboo styes.

The potters were a toothless old mother and her middle-aged daughter. The latter worked squatting on the ground, while the old woman stood and operated the potting wheel with one foot, swinging her leg rhythmically across it and not working a pedal as was usual. The potting was very skilful, but the small figurines and pots they made were only fired in the biscuit and not glazed. Children – and such beautiful children – crept up in ones and twos until I counted nine of them standing in a row before me, drinking me in, highly entertained.

Then it was back on the motorbike. I paused to think, Could this be me? I, who had sworn never to set foot on one of these Chariots of Dire unless it was with someone who was at the very least a blood relative and certainly never in Asia? Not only because the risk of an accident was high, but because of what happened to you in Asian hospitals!

Hoian’s delightful post office was only a short walk from my hotel. It was the most comfortable old post office I have ever seen. Decorative urns containing ficus trees flanked the entrance door to welcome you. Inside four carved wooden armchairs with finials and knobbly legs – just like mine – had been placed convivially around a wooden table on a ceramic tiled floor. A carved bench, partitioned into four sections so that the people next to you couldn’t see what you were writing was in front of that. The furniture was the same as the Trung’s in Hanoi – a hybrid of oriental and European styles. The walls were decorated with imitation flowers and real hanging green plants and in one corner there was even a basin where you could wash your hands. The two telephone booths were fitted out with a chair, an electric fan and a vase of plastic flowers for you to contemplate while chatting. But there were IDD facilities, and a computer-operated phone that told you how long you had spoken. You could even buy a toothbrush here, if you should get the urge for one while making a phonecall. They were displayed under glass-topped counters along with the postcards and envelopes.

The post office staff were friendly and accommodating. By now I was becoming blase about this again. Two tiny girls about six years old helped me post my card and then stood, one at either of my shoulders, when I sat down to look at the pack of local postcards that I had just bought. The little ones gave each other a delighted commentary, exclaiming excitedly as they recognised each place. A third small girl sat quietly in the chair opposite me, saucer eyed, absorbing me. She seemed particularly fascinated with my feet. Finally she leaned forward and ever so gently passed one of her little fingers back and forth across my ankle. I realised then that she had never seen panty-hose before. She smiled up at me and when I did not bite her, greatly daring, she picked up a piece of the material between her finger and thumb and rubbed it. A look of sheer rapture came over her face. Her little friends joined her in this occupation. Wow! she seemed to say to them. Look at this! They peeped at each other and tittered, then excitedly discussed this phenomenon.

In one of the main streets of the town, I found the 200-year-old former home of a Chinese merchant that had been faithfully preserved as a shrine for ancestor worship. Tan Ky house, in which the merchant’s family still lived, lay behind a massive old stone wall that enclosed a typically oriental garden. The house was wonderful. Approached through a gateway covered by a stone arch, it was a combination of Javanese, Chinese and Vietnamese styles and material that the merchant had acquired in his travels. It was constructed entirely of wood, most of which was heavily carved. Huge columns made from whole Javanese trees supported the roof and rafters and beams crossed the wooden ceilings and overhanging verandah. There were no interior walls, only carved wooden screens that were fenestrated on the top half to allow the breeze through. A large ornate altar held pride of place in the main room. It was decorated with hefty, 200-year-old blue and white Chinese jars and delicate bowls that held the daily offerings of fruit, rice and flowers. Flickering candles and burning joss sticks had been placed before photos of some of the ancestors. Before photos were available, wooden boxes inscribed outside with the ancestor’s name and containing his CV and some personal memento, such as his seal, were placed on the altar.

The present owner of the house was the original merchant’s great-great-grandson. A gracious man, he offered me a chair and served me home-made lotus flower tea and delicious dried coconut snacks while he told me the history of his house. Explaining ancestor worship, Tan Jai said that the Vietnamese worship their ancestors inside their houses, but are Buddhists outside. The outside god does not come inside the house, he said.

There were many attractive pieces of antique porcelain in the house, and in a back room, I was shown the porcelain collection I had heard about. Some of it was for sale, but most of it had been recovered from a sunken ship and was water damaged; some pieces even had sea shells stuck to them. Unfortunately, only a few of the bigger bowls were worth buying, and they were too heavy to be a practical consideration. They were also expensive, but Tan Jai told me that up until two years ago they would have sold for a mere couple of dollars. The story of my life. Now it was too late. I visited the Fuk I En temple. Outside it old ladies sat selling incense and candles. I had been surprised to find how active religion was in Vietnam and how many private homes and shops contained altars, or had spirit houses in front of them. When I asked what people had done during the hard-line communist rule, I was told that religion had remained alive but had become clandestine. Near the temple is an extremely archaic-looking, Japanese covered bridge which was known to exist in the sixteenth century. It is said to have been built by the Japanese community in order to link them to the Chinese across the creek.

Three mornings later it was still raining. Winter had now arrived. Everything was damp and my clothes wouldn’t dry. Down the street strode a loud, but very bad, drum band of young boys in uniform. They were followed by lines of marching high school kids. Behind them there was a van that bore a huge sign warning against the dangers of AIDS, and a megaphone on its roof blared out a harangue. I sat on my balcony and wrote postcards to send for Christmas until it stopped raining. Then I went out without my umbrella. Murphy waited until I was well away and then arranged for it to pour, and I was forced to buy a purple mushroom rain-cape like everyone in South Indo-China seemed to have. I felt like a well-wrapped parcel in it, but at least I was dry.

That evening when I came out of my room in search of my dinner, I found that the rain had stopped, but all the lights in town had gone out. The only dim flickerings around the streets came from little kerosene lamps. I had noticed many of them for sale in the market and I had soon learned why. The power failed in Hoian with monotonous regularity. It had gone off every day since I had arrived, sometimes for hours, even in the Hoian hotel which had its own generator.