Hoi An
Share Article I took a bus to Hoi An. We passed through Da Nang, a mess of glass and brass mega resorts swallowing farmland with miles of beachfront developments creating imaginary golf courses faster than speeding high finance and rabid speculation.
I am on the street early. A winged shadow caressed my forehead. A black and orange butterfly fluttered in front of my eyes. Touched, grazed, blessed by Psyche. Magic.
I am a prime lens on a 35mm tool. I capture soft light inside the old city. I slow down, feeling free, curious and open wandering. Before noise and lightning bolts of laughter’s language fills the air. Tourists sleep off heavy European food and distilled beverages. Streets are empty.
A young woman under a bamboo hat shovels sand. It takes her 21 gestures to fill up a wheelbarrow. No more, no less. 21. Blackjack. She pushes it down a street to a new home project. She dumps it. She repeats the process. All day. Every day. Her Tao.
I walk to the river near an ancient Japanese Bridge built in 1593 and sit near two elderly women. They’re surprised to see a foreigner sitting alone with coffee. Black with ice. I smiled. They smiled and whispered strange man alone has a camera it’s so early for him to sit here with us. We shared humanity, silence and morning light.
We communicated without words. I see their lives, childhood, growing up here, families, surviving wars, and meeting every morning for conversation, walking and tea.
Supporting each other they walk through quiet streets, past yellow walled homes with red tile roofs protecting long deep brown wooden interiors. Ancestors whisper stories from the 15th-19th century when Hoi An was the major port in Southeast Asia and the first Japanese settlement in southern Vietnam. Ships unloaded cargo and loaded high-grade silk, paper, porcelain, tea, sugar, molasses, medicines, elephant tusks, Sulphur and mother-of-pearl.
Now 400 tailors measure, cut, sew, iron, hang, and sell threads.
Women in teddy bear floral pajamas play badminton chasing a shuttlecock. Pajamas make utilitarian sense. Cotton is cheap and easy to wash. You sleep in them, get up, cook, eat, talk to your pajama neighbors, sweep dust, yell at your kids because they are spoiled brats and terrorized since escaping the birth canal, go to the market, buy food, admire new pajamas, return home, eat lunch, talk to your pajama neighbors and take a nap. Pajamas have a warning label on the collar. Remove Before Sex.
Pajamas are cool. One size fits all.
Residents stretch and talk. A leather-faced canoe woman set up her small clay figurines under a tree. The two women finished their tea, gestured goodbye, held hands and walked across a wooden bridge taking care of each other.
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Nature is my inspiration, said Eric, a sculptor from Europe. He has a gallery with an elegant hard gray marble sitting Buddha in the central window facing the street. Eric is 45 and thin with a deep lined brown face and brown eyes. He sits below a large leafy tree surrounded by his huge marble flowers, Buddhas, Jesus, bowls and delicate petals. He drinks milk. I drink green Chinese tea.
I’ve been depressed for three months. I feel sad and empty now. I haven’t had any new ideas for a long time.
He’s had his gallery for four years. The landlord wants the place back I need to find a new space for my gallery, he said. He has a workshop six kilometers outside town near Marble Mountain. I lived in a Swiss forest for thirty years. Nature is my teacher. I studied with a Hungarian master. I have to go now. Goodbye.
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I wander along the river and stop at a food stall. A young German eating noodles shared his story.
I was in Ladakh in India. The Dali Lama visited a remote monastery on an unannounced visit. They shut the door when he came in. His bodyguards tried to keep him moving. He spent time with the local people and no one knew he was coming.
I’ve been to Tibet, he said. The people are resilient. They will survive anything.
Tibet is magical, I said. Tibetans have a deep spirit and ecstatic humor.
He looked at the river as blue boats ferried people back and forth.
This place is a little Disneyland, I love Mali and Ethiopia, it’s what happens when countries and governments save historical places and they become well known to tourists. Governments develop them with monetary and cultural motivation to capitalize on a place with potential profit. Local people often get squeezed out. Others adapt and make a decent living.
Tourism = money = tourism.
