Gone Fishin'

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It is hard not to interact with people in Vietnam. Even if you wanted to be left alone, it is impossible to do so as a tourist here. For better or for worse, everybody is looking for your attention: the guy selling a watch on the corner; the massage ladies by the beach; the guy who wants to give you a ride to, well, anywhere. As a general rule of thumb, you begin to wave everybody away and look at every offer with scepticism.

Once in a while though, your gamble on a random encounter can pay off.

One evening over dinner on the second floor balcony of a riverside restaurant, we were approached by an aging man at our table. He claimed to be a waiter there, though we hadn't seen him working, and he asked us if we would be interested in a private tour. Immediately my scam alarm went off, but the man's kind face and his softspoken manner had us hooked. His name was Mr. Trung, and he would like us to see the fishing village that he had grown up in. He gave us a comment book filled with rave reviews, and even gave us time to talk about it over dinner. Still waiting for the punchline, we asked him what this tour would entail. A tour of a pottery village, fishing in the village next door, "and then my wife make lunch for you", replied Mr. Trung, "at my house". He seemed so kind that we agreed, and he promised to meet us outside our hotel at 9:00 the next morning.

We had once again rented motorbikes from the kind lady across the street (our hotel once again tried to scare us into renting a car from them, saying the roads were "way too dangerous"), and sure enough Mr. Trung pulled up and had us follow him for the 20 minute ride out of town. On the way there, he stopped by the side of the road where a group of farmers were harvesting a small field of golden rice. "Would you like to help with the harvest?" he asked. We nodded yes and he immediately walked us into the field where the farmers were happy for some distraction with the goofy foreigners. Mr. Trung introduced us to the rice thresher; a rotating wheel covered in u-shaped knobs which stripped the grains of rice from their stalks. Ryan and I were then handed bunches of the crop, and instructed to place them against the wheel while pumping the pedal with our feet. The farmers cheered us to pedal faster as rice grains flew up into the canvas hood and collected in a pile on the other side. A little carried away, I almost stripped off one of my fingers. "Careful!" warned our smiling guide, "not too close!"

It was another 10 minutes up the road when we reached Mr. Trung's brother's house at the fishing village. We walked into the compound of closely knit wooden houses and encountered a day-care full of excited children. "Hello, hello, hello, hello!" they all yelled at once, practically knocking each other over in order to wave to the group of strangers. We all waved back, slowly walking to prolong their welcoming exuberance. Even after turning the corner we could still hear them screaming hello to the dismay of the lady who attempted to keep them herded inside the house.

We made our way down to the pier, which was actually just a concrete barrier with long "monkey-walks" made of bamboo poles to reach the front of the fishing boats. Mr. Trung explained how there had never been a concrete pier before, until a hurricane had caused the river to flood and decimated a lot of the houses in the village. The pier, as well as many of the houses, had two small shrines with many offerings placed inside them. "We must pray to the God of the river, and the God of the ocean", explained Mr. Trung, "for protection and the safety of the fisherman." Each house had an additional shrine inside it's main room as well, in homage to the spirits of ancestors who come to visit the families. This was the center, and most revered place within the home. "It is important to make the spirits feel welcome."

A man was fixing his net outside one of the homes we passed in the village. Mr. Trung took the opportunity to explain how much time was put into maintaining the nets. When the old fisherman asked him where we were from, his eyes lit up to discover that we were Americans. He began shooting at the sky, then pointing to himself. "Um, he was a soldier in the war", Mr. Trung looked uncomfortable. "He fought for the south." As Mr. Trung tried to steer the conversation back to fishing, the old soldier went from shooting down planes to jabbing the pilots with his imaginary bayonette. He insisted that Mr. Trung ask us if our family had fought in the Vietnam war. After explaining that our fathers had not, the fisherman looked disappointed and returned to fixing his net. He was apparently upset that he hadn't had the chance to "meet" our fathers.

Down by the mouth of a small canal, we picked up an extremely worn older man who led us down a small dock and into his narrow fishing boat. He was missing some fingers, a few toes, and most of his teeth. We packed some bamboo poles into the boat and stealthily made our way inbetween the rice fields. After passing underneath a bridge, we anchored to the side of a paddy and began what had to be the most ridiculous, and most fun fishing trip I have ever been on. We were fishing for the smallest catfish in the world. Tiny bits of shrimp were place on the hooks of our poles, which were then tossed into ideal parts of the canal by Mr. Trung and our boatman. We were then handed the poles and instructed to jerk up when the styrofoam bobber twitched. If you did it just right, you were rewarded with a fish the size of your middle finger. If you missed the bait being taken, the boatman would laugh for 5 minutes straight, which would set us all off in fits of hysteria. After an hour or so, we had attracted a number of onlookers on the road above us, all of whom would cheer if we caught one of the tiny puddlefish. Mr. Trung and the boatman were especially concerned with the women, doing everything they could to get them a fish. It was to no avail with Tracy however, who (a little bitterly) ended up empty-handed. We promptly made fun of her for the short cruise back.

Our next stop was right next door to the pottery village, where we each took turns at trying to make pots on the wheel. Women in their pajamas showed us how it was done, one kicking the wheel around and the other guiding our fingers to shape the clay. We were shown how they make roof tiles, how they knead the clay with their feet, and how the pieces are baked off. The village has many kilns. All of which are huge affairs that are packed full, sealed off, and fed with a heat so intense that they must wait 5 days before busting open the clay door. It seemed like they can produce a whole village worth's of roof tiles at one time. Once again the temples were ever present at every home, only this time to pay tribute to the God of the Earth.

After buying a few things to help out with the village economy, Mr.Trung had us motorbike back to his house. Here his wife had been working hard for the last few hours to prepare our lunch. Mr. Trung's son met us at the door, and proceded to pour water over our hands while we washed them in the basin outside. He was without a doubt the most gracious and well behaved 12 year-old I have ever met. Once at the table, we were immediatly offered huge glasses of "Trung juice"; a smoothie of carrot, mango, and orange juice that is served in a tall glass at an ice cold tempurature. We almost blew through 2 pitchers of the stuff before any food came out. Spring rolls, whole fried fish with lemon pepper sauce, veggies and tofu were all placed on the table seconds after thay had emerged from the wok. It may sound simple, but the meal was absolutely amazing. Stuffed and perhaps a little weirded out by the hospitality, we retired to the living room to enjoy some tea while the Trung family ate.

We relaxed, we wrote our praises to the experience, and we got our picture taken with the family who had showed us around and invited us into their home with such kindness. And what did we pay for this "off the tourist trail" experience? When we asked Mr. Trung, he only shrugged and said that we should pay whatever we thought was suitable. This concept completely threw us for a loop. We had done nothing for the last 2 weeks except barter and haggle for prices on EVERYTHING. What was a good price? What was expected? What was too cheap and thought of as offensive? After a good 20 minutes of tossing ideas back and forth, we ended up with a total, and then waited with our breath held for some sort of reaction. Mr. Trung approached us. "This is a lot of money for me and my family", he said. "You are very generous."

Happy with a tour that was finally unique and worth the money, we stopped on the way home to have a beer at a roadside bar by the river. We were the only table under the umbrellas, except for a group of teenage boys who were downing tall ones with their ice filled mugs. They made attempts to converse with us, but their English and our Vietnamese just wern't good enough to get any idea across. Until they tried a new concept......

"Cheers!" yelled one boy who raised his glass.

"Cheers!" we yelled back. And everybody was suddenly on the same page.

The boys moved to a table close to ours, and then proceeded to cheers us every 5 minutes. But the toast wasn't enough. They insisted that we finish our beers with every toast. It became a contest to see who could finish fastest. We bought rounds for each other, each mug disappearing in 20 seconds time. Two of the boys flew off to get everybody snacks. The owner of the stand was enthralled with how quickly her stock was flying off the shelves. The ladies were having none of it, and after 2 large bottles down I began to get worried about the drive home. I made a hundred apologies to the slightly rowdy group, but in the end nothing was understood except that we were backing out. We rode off feeling like touristy wussies. Amazing how when everything else fails, alcohol is always there as a last-ditch ambassador.

We spent the rest of the day cruising around on the motorbikes down by the sea. Away from the crowded beaches, we stopped and walked through the dunes where cows picked at little grass patches in the sand. Our last hours were diminishing in Hoi An, and while it had been an activity packed 4 days, it was nowhere close to being enough time. Another all-night 12 bus trip awaited to take us to our next destination; Nha Trang. We could only hope that there was a Mr. Trung there too.

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Photos

Village House
A typical house in the pottery village.

On the Monkey Walk
Bamboo bridges

River Color
Red is definetly the fashion choice this year for Vietnam's rice worker.

River Fishin'
Ryan, Tracy, and Mr. Trung try to find the perfect spot.

Village Path
An old woman walks the tight space between the houses.

Tracy Gets a Lesson
Notice the woman kicking the wheel to keep it spinning.

True Hospitality
Mrs. Trung's amazing meal.

Suzie's Catch
Suz proudly displays her 540lb marlin.

Ryan Spins One
Ryan makes....an ashtray?

Cows on the Beach
Never seen that before....