Wandering Hoi An
Lanterns floating down the river © A. Harrison
The paper lantern floated down the Thu Bon River, a soft light against the darkness. Dozens of other lanterns—red and yellow and blue, orange, purple—in every combination of every colour imaginable danced along the current.
In the old area of Hoi An, coloured lanterns adorn every house, and at night the soft glow of candlelight settles over the town. Every full moon, the electricity is switched off, and a procession winds through the candle-lit streets to the river, where the lanterns are then set free. I stood and watched the flickering lights float down the river. They slowly drifted out of sight, and I wondered how far they went and where they would finally sink or maybe come ashore.
Lightning flashed across the sky, and a distant rumble sounded. The humidity rose even higher. It took only a few minutes for the deluge to begin. The wet season is an interesting time to visit Vietnam.
A sign in an alleyway © A. Harrison
The maritime importance of Hoi An dates back to as early as the 2nd century BCE. The town rose to prominence in the 16th century, and for the next two hundred years proved one of Vietnam’s most important trading ports. It has seen occupation by the Chinese, Japanese and multiple European nations. These different influences are visible throughout the old town, especially in the temples and those houses built by merchants who came to trade but instead set down roots.
Towards the end of the 18th century the Thu Bon River slowly silted up; although this eventually led to the end of trade, it helped preserved the town, so that in 1999 it became a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
I found the best way to discover Hoi An was to simply wander. Within the old town – which is little more than a maze of a few streets – are temples, museums and preserved traditional houses to visit; yet with some 850 buildings heritage-protected, the best feel for the town comes from the places which are free to all. As with everywhere in this country, the ‘real’ Vietnam is to be found in unexpected places, such as a back street, or by turning down an unexpected alley, or talking in broken English to an old lady selling Chinese scrolls. Try a stroll as dawn breaks and the heat of the day is yet to swap the town. Sitting on a corner sipping a Vietnamese coffee is a perfect way to watch to watch the city wake up.
In hidden nooks and crannies, I found art galleries, cafes, gastronomic gems, ceramics for sale, shops filled with lanterns, and, of course, the silk for which the town is famed. There are woodworkers and carvers, artists at work, and craft shops. Plus, there are always cold drinks for sale, which is important no matter the time of year. In this part of Vietnam, it is either hot and dry or hot and wet.
The Old Town starts at the Japanese Covered Bridge—the Lai Vien Kieu, which means ‘Japanese Pagoda’. This gracefully arching bridge of brick and timber dates back to the early 17th C, but has been rebuilt several times due to flood and fire. At one end is a statue of a dog (the zodiac year in which the bridge was started), and at the other, a monkey (the year the bridge was finished.) The stream under the bridge is quite tiny, a reflection of how much the river has silted up over the centuries. Halfway across the bridge is a small temple dedicated to Tran Vo Bac De, God of the North, who controls the weather.
Just a picturesque street © A. Harrison
The unique influence of the Chinese and Japanese traders (many of whom became settlers) can be seen in the buildings here, especially along Tran Phu and Nguyen Thai Hoc. Most of the buildings are two stories, their roofs covered in tiles and presenting a unique skyline, the result of the amalgamation of Chinese, Japanese and Vietnamese styles. Inside, a large interior room is topped by an upper gallery. The rooms are a wonder of hand-carved woodwork, with exquisite inlays and rich detailing. The main room opens onto a sun-drenched (or rain-filled!) outer courtyard.
The best-known house is Tan Ky, 101 Nguyen Thai Hoc. Across the road, at no. 80, is Diep Dong Nguyen House. It once functioned as a pharmacy, and the original cabinets and cases can still be seen. At no. 4, Nguyen Thai Hoc is the Phung Hung House, where the descendants of the original builder still live.
Many of these houses are now cafes or shops, such as The Reaching Out Tea House at 131 Tran Phu. Everyone working here is either deaf or vision impaired; the cafe is an oasis of calm and quiet when the streets are full of tourists and chaos.
The entrance to Reaching Out Arts & Crafts © A. Harrison
In Nguyen Thai Hoc (next to Tan Ky House) is their retail shop, Reaching Out Arts & Crafts, which is also adjacent to their workshop. Both are set in restored buildings. The business was established to employ disabled artisans, allowing them to live independently while practicing their craft. The items for sale are exquisite, from coffee sets to bed linen, jewellery and hand-crafted papers to lacquer ware, and I could wander through the workshop and watch the items being made. Much of the work reflects traditional Vietnamese craft, such as using material sourced from ethnic hill-tribes.
Then, of course, there are the tailors. Hoi An is a clothes-shoppers heaven. Everyone has their favourite stall, and hotel concierges have good recommendations. Clothes can be made in 24 hours, but it is best to have a fitting. The easiest way is to have a dress or outfit which fits perfectly and have it copied.
Hoi An is also a foodie’s mecca. Try the white rose (dumplings of prawns in clear rice noddle), cao lau (rice noodles with fresh greens and croutons), morning glory sautéed with garlic, and banh xeo (crepes filled with prawns, bean sprouts and greens).
Restaurants abound, and any guidebook or Internet search raises a plethora of them. Not to be missed, however, is Mr Hi at Hi Restaurant, 1 Nguyen Phu Chu, which is a short walk across the bridge. On a bend facing the river are a series of food stalls. Hi Restaurant is at no. 15. Mr Hi greets everyone as his wife cooks the most amazing meals on a small gas burner. Beer costs 50 cents, and the three of us reached elegant sufficiency for around 10 Australian dollars.
At night, the town takes on a life of its own. On the far side of the river are the night markets. Lanterns, of course, are for sale, plus everything a tourist needs: cards, hair clips, pearls, clothes, war memorabilia. Whole stalls are devoted to selling lanterns of every colour and shape, and the shopkeepers are experts in packing them flat for travel.
With the fat drops falling from the sky warning of the coming deluge, in a sudden burst of frenzy, stallholders spread their tarpaulins over their stalls. We made a dash for the restaurant, and a few minutes later, glass in hand, stood on the balcony watching the downpour. Despite the torrent, people still bustled through the markets, and music from one of the stalls drifted up to us.
Across the river, the old town wavered in the storm. I could still see a few lanterns on the river. The lanterns of the town flicked, and it seemed as if the old town of Hoi An was floating away, back to a forgotten time.
Simply wander © A. Harrison
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The Literary Traveller
After dinner I sat and waited for Pyle in my room over the Catinat
So opens The Quiet American. Not until the novel’s ending do we realise Fowler already knows Pyle to be dead, although he pretends to himself Pyle may have escaped the doom Fowler himself helped arrange, if only by proxy.
Throughout the novel runs Greene’s love of Vietnam, and of Saigon. Even in the midst of war he paints the beauty of the laneways, of the rice fields stretching to the horizon, or the mountains and her rivers. He expresses a love of the Vietnamese people and their gentle ways, although it is at such odds with the violence slowly descending from the north as the French War of Indochine fails and the Vietnam War looms.
The novel’s themes, however are constant. Overall, it is a question of futility — can one’s actions really change anything, let alone prevent a war. Pyle’s actions may hasten it, Fowler’s cannot prevent it. Yet, knowing this, Fowler can still baulk at the impersonal methods used by Pyle, and at his disregard for life as he seeks the best image to impress the people back home.
The Quiet American is typical Greene — understated, never defined. It is also a love song to Saigon, and the people who still live there. It reflects on a war that is finishing and one that is about to start, on the lives of the journalists who cover it, drinking champagne on the rooftop bar of The Majestic Hotel (which still stands) as bombs fall in the north. Just below the surface, but never forgotten, is the destruction to the lives of those cursed to live through such times; those people with no voice, such as the girls Greene immortalises, walking along the Rue Catinat in their white silk trousers.
