The dubious political views of a cock

From the peaceful farms and riverlands of the Mekong Delta I was whisked back to Ho Chi Minh City. The honking, hooting traffic now replaced the evening courtship of squawking frogs ("ekk! ekk!"), and the cockerels who had started shouting at 3.30am. Most of them had been diplomatically cock-a-doodle-doo-ing, apart from one foolish cock who insisted on singing "Duterte! Duterte!" I felt quite embarrassed for him, and could only hope his cry wasn't representative of wider cockerel politics. The geckos, I was pleased to note, still called each other Hector ("Hector! Hector!") as they had in Cambodia. Gecko conference calls must be confusing, but at least the roll call would be quick.

My next stop was Hoi An, the ancient port about halfway up the coast of the country. I took the seventeen hour-long train journey up the coast from HCMC, and this time I ensured I booked a bunk-bed. (Related: how not to travel by train in South East Asia.) Travelling horizontally through a country with nothing to do except read, window-gaze and sleep, remains my favourite way to travel, and this journey proved to be no different. The train was much like the Hogwarts Express, with private carriages - the only difference was that we had bunks rather than seats - with a lady appearing in the doorway every now and then saying, "Anything from the trolley, dears?" 

And so to Hoi An, possibly the most beautiful town I have ever visited. Those of you familiar with my fondness for soft and pleasant lighting schemes will understand how scenes such as these pleased me. 






This is a town with a beautiful vieille ville overflowing with museums: over 800 buildings in Hoi An have been UNESCO-protected, many of them built at the time of the Chinese and Japanese settlements at the time of the traders, then passed down through several generations, finally resting with the Vietnamese. There are private houses one can visit, with solid dark timber and delicate mother-of-pearl inlay, which have survived centuries of seasonal floods, and the families still living upstairs. There are great assembly halls, one built by each ethnic community, adorned with intricate dragon-themed water-fountains symbolising power, peaceful courtyards with miniature bridges across the fish ponds shaded by fragrant jacaranda trees, and brightly-painted red and gold pillars holding up green glazed interlocking roof-tiles.  


Mother-of-pearl inlay in a wooden column at Tan Ky House. Note the birds designed in each stroke of the charcacter


A detail of the dragon fountain at Quảng Triệu, the Assembly Hall of the Cantonese Chinese Congregation 

Hoi An is famous for its tailors: there are as many as 500 clothes-makers packed into a small area. Coming home with handmade garments was high on my to-do list for Vietnam. I shopped around on my first day and ordered a decent selection of clothes. When I returned this afternoon for the adjustments I liked their work so much that I found myself adding another dress and skirt to the order. With the bespoke shoes I have ordered from a leather shop I should be relatively fly. 

One thing that has struck me is how very hard the people work here. The tailors don't take a day off, and if you want a suit in 24 hours they'll do it for you (although you'll pay more than for a 48 hour deadline, and so you should). In the Mekong Delta the farmers are in the fields at 7am and work until lunchtime, when they go home to eat and take a nap. Then they're back in the rice paddies until sunset - around 5.30pm in December. School is from 7am to 11am plus 2pm to 5pm for secondary school kids; only one shift for primary schoolers. It's a long day, but they have to fit around the sun.

Hoi An is a pleasure after hot and honking HCMC. The weather is cooler up here, the beer is cheaper at around 17p a glass, and, most importantly, this is the one of the hotbeds of both fine and everyday Vietnamese cuisine. When I arrived somebody kindly pointed out the best bánh mì shop in town (the queues were witness to that), and I hastened thence immediately, weighed down with my backpack as I was. I could smell the freshly-baked baguettes as I approached - surely the best smell in the world - and I decided on a modest pâté sandwich to whet my Hoi An appetite. It came with pâté, certainly, but also melty belly pork, crispy roast pork, ham, and all the trimmings: coriander and other herbs, sauces chilli, soy, fish, and mayonnaise, fresh chillies and pickled, lettuce, and I suspect there was also a light layer of soft cheese, the good old la vache qui rit. It was most definitely worth the seventeen hour wait. 

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