Hoi An, Central Vietnam – So amidst our adventure, we have a break! It seems a strange concept to consider something a holiday while travelling, but somehow it seems apt and the best way of describing four days at the beautiful Victoria Hoi An Beach Resort. Imagine a sun-kissed sea, with gentle rolling waves, a lone wooden fishing boat gently “phut-phutting” towards rich shoals of barren sea, the distant Cham Islands poking through the mist of the horizon, an infinity pool that lazily reflects the tall coconut palms, a gathering sunset with pinprick lights at sea where the local fisherman hunker down hopefully for a night’s toil in their bobbing boats, a room which opens onto a panoramic vista of breaking waves, where within 10 paces you can be rolling in the surf, an emerging sunrise with the sympathetic dragging sound of a water buffalo combing the beach with a hand-crafted wooden rake in tow, the nightly folklore stories left on our pillow alongside a single red rose… Disney right? Probably, but we were there… The stuff of dreams!
Hoi An is a gem, a former French colonial town of winding streets, beautifully balustraded upper floors, cascading Morning Glory flowers. At its centre, a vibrant and visually embracing local market, vendors who chase you down to get a sale and curiously ask “Why won’t you buy?” in an emotional onslaught against your wallet. Street vendors cooking on open charcoal stoves, creating wisps of enticing and appetizing smells. Traditional artisans making colourful silk lampshades, custom shoes, tailoring silk dresses. The magnificent 40km uninterrupted perfect white sand of of Cua Dai Beach effortlessly stretching between Hoi An and Danang. Wonderful… the resort allowed Nicky her guilty pleasure of BBQing herself to a gentle medium rare, while I relaxed into reading stories of a rich cultural past.
Vietnam has an incredible history of war, far more involved and complicated than I had any sense of. “The Eaves of Heaven: A Life in Three Wars” by Andrew Pham is a remarkably poetic description of one man’s life, his struggle to emerge through constant conflict, a lifetime of plenty followed by famine, and the cycle repeated. It’s compelling reading and beautifully written. He unravels a political landscape that is not only imposed externally by frequent invaders, but how internal struggles between factions supporting diverse ideologies ripped his country apart, where so often the enemy was within, where corruption and personal gain undermined the integrity needed to survive.
OK – Rant Alert! “Agitated from Surrey”: What is the POINT of amazingly BEAUTIFUL places when you have to share them with TOURISTS?? Time to name names… The Australian middle-aged-lady who loudly-and-aggressively criticised a young Vietnamese girl for not understanding her exact culinary requirements – why should anyone cook your omelette with one-hand tied behind their back while whistling “Waltzing Matilda”? The gentleman who abused a modest culture, not only wearing socks with his sandals, but tucking his long-sleeved shirt into the heaved-up waistband of his skimpy shorts, helpfully not buttoning his shirt to allow us all to see his undulating fat at rippling distance (where are the Fashion Police?) The French monsieur who dismissively mis-understood a waitress and berated her language skills – graciously she responded (with an almost English sense of understated wit) “I understand No Sir”. And what about the MUZAK? As Nicky so eloquently remarked, this “elevator music” is enough to make you take the stairs; I helpfully re-phrased this “…or an open lift shaft”. PLEASE please let Karen Carpenter rest-in-peace… [Breathe in, hold, count, one… two… three… relax. And again…]
So the stuff of dreams… or a developing nightmare? I wonder. Since 1975, Vietnam has generally been at peace - so what of the next invasion? Of a tourist army determined to transplant a false ghetto of imposed culture? How can the traditional Vietnamese values and heritage be held preciously? It’s an unseen war playing out as we speak…
This morning it was a Frenchman. He rudely refused to understand the waitor's perfectly good French, getting his wife to "translate" for him... "Voulez vous des oeufs?" He grunted "Non". I wanted to shout Merci!
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