Japanese Bridge, Hoi An
Our second visit to the World Heritage Site of Hoi An. The temperature in July was in the mid-30s (c) with a humidity level that wrapped itself around you like slow moving syrup and leaves you feeling as energetic as a wet rag. Our excursion into the ancient town in the middle of the day was not a particularly good decision and as we got off the shuttle bus in the town centre we realised this. We took the map out that we had been given at the hotel but it was so basic as to be useless. A voice interrupted us.
“Where d’ya wanna go love?” he asked in a familiar twang. We looked up and the large Australian man smiled. “I’ve been ‘ere nine days now. Know the place like the back of me ’and.” He winked and his weather beaten face looked even friendlier.
“To the old streets ..”.
“The old town, where the shops are and the Japanese Bridge”, my husband interrupted.
“Right on ye’er mate, just turn left and left again. And if you want a good place for lunch follow the river along past the bridge, keep left and you’ll come to a restaurant with black and white tablecloths called ‘Can’. We’ve been eating there regular since we’ve been here”. He indicated to the bar where a woman in sunglasses was sitting and she nodded in agreement and raised her beer bottle.
“Not been sick once ‘ave we luv?”
We thanked him and moved off in the direction he had indicated. Trying to keep in whatever shade was available. We came to the Japanese Bridge built in the early 17th century by Japanese craftsmen. The covered bridge was guarded by Vietnamese security personnel who demanded our entry ticket which we didn’t have. It was all too hard in the heat so we took photos and admired the treasure from the street.
I had read that the bridge doubles as a temple, with shrines to several deities located inside. One theory of the bridge's religious purpose is that it was built to subdue a world-spanning 'mamazu' dragon monster, whose head was located in India and its tail in Japan. The movement of the tail was believed to cause earthquakes in Japan. As Vietnam was located in the area of the mamazu's back, the bridge was intended to pin the mamazu down, thus preventing any earthquakes.
We continued our way along the river, the dark murky water hiding its secrets and looking very uninviting. Wooden fishing boats with a single sail had finished their morning’s work and were roped to a bridge which was adorned with silk lanterns evocative of the strong Chinese cultural influence which dates back to the 16th century. Then Chinese and Japanese traders built the commercial centre and Hoi An was a busy port. On the 14th of every month Hoi An celebrates this delightful aspect of its heritage by turning off all the electricity and the Old Quarter is lit only by the beautifully coloured and shaped lanterns.
Facing the river were small two- storey houses, most of them now shops with enticing modern paraphernalia and clothing hidden behind the intricately carved wooden facades. The old buildings have withstood 300 years of frequent flooding and battering.
The tourists descend in battalions; Japanese groups in matching hats with their tour leader wielding an identification banner to follow, Australian and American ex Vietnam veterans, the flotsam and jetsam of the backpacker brigade and families with small children staying at the local resorts. All are after a shopping bargain and the shop keepers will make sure they get them.
The restaurant was easy to spot from the description given by our Australian acquaintance, although we had been nearly fooled by similar tablecloths which had a yellow stripe at a previous eatery. The host was friendly and spoke reasonable English. He bustled around fixing a fan for our comfort. There was only one other couple eating so he had plenty of time to lavish on us. Cool drinks were ordered.
A village woman appeared at our table with a basket under one arm.
“Where you from?” she asked.
A common introductory phrase we had heard constantly from so many hawkers it had become annoying.
“Australia”. I replied.
“Ow yer goin’ mate? Fair Dinkum.” She shot back as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I wonder what she would have said in answer to our English companions.
She then pulled some cheap jewellery out of her basket, but we were in no mood to buy or bargain and finalised her acquaintance quickly. She had no sooner left when our next hawker arrived with another basket, not so quick on the repartee but less annoying. This chain of hawkers continued until we felt quite exasperated and thought of moving inside the restaurant. Fortunately the chain broke at this time and we were able to consider the menu and ordered char-grilled fish, which, we were assured, was snapper. Our fourth party member satisfied himself with garlic bread. He was still suffering from the ubiquitous gippy tummy.
The fish was presented with its head and tail intact, cocooned in banana leaves. Our host jumped to our assistance, and with skilful dexterity extricated the fish from its bedding. It took him more time to fillet the bones out, which he did, very professionally. We decided that this ‘snapper’ was a different species to the ‘snapper’ we knew but tasty anyway.
We continued on after our meal down to the market. This was ‘siesta time’, or whatever it is called in this part of the world. Stall owners were lying on top of their benches head to tail with the cuts of meat, the occasional fly buzzing among these unrefrigerated and uncovered delicacies. Other stall holders were sleeping on unmade cardboard boxes. A family had a whole four poster bed tucked in a corner and all were tucked in with cardboard coverings.
The wooden fronted shops were empty of tourists. We didn’t linger long the heat had entered our souls and we felt drowsy and unable to cope with shopping even when faced with displays of multi-coloured silk clothing.
“A shopper’s paradise” said my friend.
Perhaps, when the sky is not burning like a heated chilli chicken I will come back
Our second visit to the World Heritage Site of Hoi An. The temperature in July was in the mid-30s (c) with a humidity level that wrapped itself around you like slow moving syrup and leaves you feeling as energetic as a wet rag. Our excursion into the ancient town in the middle of the day was not a particularly good decision and as we got off the shuttle bus in the town centre we realised this. We took the map out that we had been given at the hotel but it was so basic as to be useless. A voice interrupted us.
“Where d’ya wanna go love?” he asked in a familiar twang. We looked up and the large Australian man smiled. “I’ve been ‘ere nine days now. Know the place like the back of me ’and.” He winked and his weather beaten face looked even friendlier.
“To the old streets ..”.
“The old town, where the shops are and the Japanese Bridge”, my husband interrupted.
“Right on ye’er mate, just turn left and left again. And if you want a good place for lunch follow the river along past the bridge, keep left and you’ll come to a restaurant with black and white tablecloths called ‘Can’. We’ve been eating there regular since we’ve been here”. He indicated to the bar where a woman in sunglasses was sitting and she nodded in agreement and raised her beer bottle.
“Not been sick once ‘ave we luv?”
We thanked him and moved off in the direction he had indicated. Trying to keep in whatever shade was available. We came to the Japanese Bridge built in the early 17th century by Japanese craftsmen. The covered bridge was guarded by Vietnamese security personnel who demanded our entry ticket which we didn’t have. It was all too hard in the heat so we took photos and admired the treasure from the street.
I had read that the bridge doubles as a temple, with shrines to several deities located inside. One theory of the bridge's religious purpose is that it was built to subdue a world-spanning 'mamazu' dragon monster, whose head was located in India and its tail in Japan. The movement of the tail was believed to cause earthquakes in Japan. As Vietnam was located in the area of the mamazu's back, the bridge was intended to pin the mamazu down, thus preventing any earthquakes.
We continued our way along the river, the dark murky water hiding its secrets and looking very uninviting. Wooden fishing boats with a single sail had finished their morning’s work and were roped to a bridge which was adorned with silk lanterns evocative of the strong Chinese cultural influence which dates back to the 16th century. Then Chinese and Japanese traders built the commercial centre and Hoi An was a busy port. On the 14th of every month Hoi An celebrates this delightful aspect of its heritage by turning off all the electricity and the Old Quarter is lit only by the beautifully coloured and shaped lanterns.
Facing the river were small two- storey houses, most of them now shops with enticing modern paraphernalia and clothing hidden behind the intricately carved wooden facades. The old buildings have withstood 300 years of frequent flooding and battering.
The tourists descend in battalions; Japanese groups in matching hats with their tour leader wielding an identification banner to follow, Australian and American ex Vietnam veterans, the flotsam and jetsam of the backpacker brigade and families with small children staying at the local resorts. All are after a shopping bargain and the shop keepers will make sure they get them.
The restaurant was easy to spot from the description given by our Australian acquaintance, although we had been nearly fooled by similar tablecloths which had a yellow stripe at a previous eatery. The host was friendly and spoke reasonable English. He bustled around fixing a fan for our comfort. There was only one other couple eating so he had plenty of time to lavish on us. Cool drinks were ordered.
A village woman appeared at our table with a basket under one arm.
“Where you from?” she asked.
A common introductory phrase we had heard constantly from so many hawkers it had become annoying.
“Australia”. I replied.
“Ow yer goin’ mate? Fair Dinkum.” She shot back as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I wonder what she would have said in answer to our English companions.
She then pulled some cheap jewellery out of her basket, but we were in no mood to buy or bargain and finalised her acquaintance quickly. She had no sooner left when our next hawker arrived with another basket, not so quick on the repartee but less annoying. This chain of hawkers continued until we felt quite exasperated and thought of moving inside the restaurant. Fortunately the chain broke at this time and we were able to consider the menu and ordered char-grilled fish, which, we were assured, was snapper. Our fourth party member satisfied himself with garlic bread. He was still suffering from the ubiquitous gippy tummy.
The fish was presented with its head and tail intact, cocooned in banana leaves. Our host jumped to our assistance, and with skilful dexterity extricated the fish from its bedding. It took him more time to fillet the bones out, which he did, very professionally. We decided that this ‘snapper’ was a different species to the ‘snapper’ we knew but tasty anyway.
We continued on after our meal down to the market. This was ‘siesta time’, or whatever it is called in this part of the world. Stall owners were lying on top of their benches head to tail with the cuts of meat, the occasional fly buzzing among these unrefrigerated and uncovered delicacies. Other stall holders were sleeping on unmade cardboard boxes. A family had a whole four poster bed tucked in a corner and all were tucked in with cardboard coverings.
The wooden fronted shops were empty of tourists. We didn’t linger long the heat had entered our souls and we felt drowsy and unable to cope with shopping even when faced with displays of multi-coloured silk clothing.
“A shopper’s paradise” said my friend.
Perhaps, when the sky is not burning like a heated chilli chicken I will come back