Hoi An

Twelve hours and two blissful sleep inducing Dramamine later, we arrive in Hoi An. Since beginning this trip, I have heard great things about this city. Situated on the coast, it used to be a primary trading port for the surrounding countries, providing the elite of Paris with all of their fancy 'oriental' goods, but since Da Nang has replaced Hoi An as a port of call, Hoi An has turned its designs on the clothes making industry. Thus, since having mercifilly avoided the bombs of both the Vietnamese and the Americans during the war, Hoi An's quaint historic shop fronts display every imaginable article of clothing, all of which can be whipped up in the material of the buyers choice, fit to size, in a matter of hours.

One of the (many) things I have yet to figure out about Vietnam, is how it can be Communist, and yet be almost, if not more, capitalistic than we are. Walking down the streets in Hoi An, marveling at the buildings that seem to be straight out of the set of an old Western film, I, along with every other tourist in sight, am constantly bombarded with the entreaties of the local craftswoman, "Hello. How are you? Where are you from? Would you like to come see my shop? No buy, no problem." "You buy something?!" "I think you buy something from me?" "Oh, beautiful eyes! You want to come see my shop?"

While all this might seem excessive, it is almost a necessity, because literally, every single shop on some of the streets in the center of town are exactly the same. On those streets where not every shop sells tailor made clothing, the tailor shops are interrupted by shops selling crafts and souvenirs, restaurants and the occasional convenience-esque store. Other streets cater specifically to the art connoisseur, providing shop after shop after shop after shop of paintings and prints. I have yet to figure out why it is that the Vietnamese cluster a million shops selling exactly the same thing in one area. I don't know how it can possibly be profitable for any but the most driven, who are constantly out in the street dragging customers in by the armload.

As I made my way into town for lunch on my first day, I was approached by my first of many woman, inviting me to see her shop. Although I protested that I was simply looking for something to eat before I decided what I wanted to do for the day, the woman kept insisting that after I ate, she would take me to see her shop. Knowing that I wanted to see what it was all about anyway, I finally relented, secretly thinking that I would probably lose her by the time I had found and finished my lunch. But to my surprise, not two seconds after I had finished my lunch at a little local cafe, the woman reappeared and led me dutifully to stall number 42, in the middle of the Hoi An cloth market.

The cloth market a huge warehouse structure filled with rows of separate workspaces containing a table covered with catalogues and L-shaped shelves containing hundreds of reams of material of different patterns, colors and textures. I was led to a stall in the middle of the room, sat down at a table, and was told that I could pick anything out of any catalogue, chose a fabric and they would have it ready for me by the following afternoon. I flipped through the catalogues somewhat unenthusiastically, not yet sure that I wanted to commit to a purchase. Noticing my lack of vigor, the woman came over to me and began asking me what I was looking for and explaining all of the things that she could make for me. Encouraged by her prodding, I began to explain the design for a dress I had imagined in my mind for years, that I had never seen the likes of, save for the few that came close, on ladies walking the famed red carpet in Hollywood. I have no clue if I would ever have the occasion to wear such a dress, or if such an occasion ever presented itself, if I would actually wear such a dress, but I figured that this would be my one chance to turn the image into a reality for the rock bottom price of $20. A few minutes later, armed with a ream of beautiful shimmering satin in a golden amber, I was being measured for my dress.

Soon after, I learned that not only do the woman of Hoi An sew, but they also massage, give manicures and 'thread.' I had heard from one of the girls I met from New Zealand that she had gotten her legs 'threaded' which, she explained, entailed a woman wrapping a piece of thread around each hair and pulling it out, a process which, to me, seemed would be excessively long and excessively painful.

Just as I paid the deposit, I was approached by an older Vietnamese woman touting her skills as a masseuse and picking up my hand and clucking disapprovingly at the sorry state of my nails (not carrying any nail polish remover, I had simply been letting the polish put on by the girl in the market in Saigon chip away). Dispute my protestations, she insisted on showing me her shop where she performed her magic. She led me to a little room in the back of the market where she continued her spiel, while sitting me down and bending down to inspect the two days growth of hair that adorned my legs. Not taking pausing to take a breath, she whipped out a piece of thread, doubled it over, twisted the edges and began running it over my shin, removing the hairs in its path as it went, leaving a smooth patch of skin that she told me would last two weeks. Explaining that I had told a Scottish guy that I'd met over lunch, that I would meet him in five minutes time, I tried to make my escape, but the woman wasn't hearing it. "Oh that man just went with the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, so he won't be there. You have time." Not believing that she could know the exact whereabouts of the man I had met over lunch, I protested once again, in response to which, she changed tactics and began imploring me to simply let her do my eyebrows - "I'll make you bea-u-ti-ful....". Realizing that I wasn't going to get out of there without forcibly removing the woman from my path, and admittedly having grown a little fond of this little woman, I gave in and for 20,000 dong (a little over a dollar) I had my eyebrows 'threaded' and left with a promise to return later during my stay for a manicure and a more comprehensive threading.

I met up with Steve, from Scotland, who, to my amazement, had actually been taken by the little boy to his hotel to get money for his suit, and spent the rest of the afternoon over iced-coffee talking about social work, our shared profession - if I can still claim a profession wandering out here on the other side of the world - and the situation in Scotland as it relates to English control (I had never realized before that Scotland is somewhat where we would be today had we lost the Revolution). He was interesting to talk to and having grown up hearing very few international voices, a few timesduring our conversation, I felt like I was watching a movie listening to this Scottish accent, not sitting across from a real, live Scot. Sad I know, but I've lead a sheltered life.

The following morning, I went to the market to try on my dress, which just needed some minor alterations, afterwhich I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the streets of central Hoi An to kill time until I was to pick up the final product. I have always bought art from the countries I've visited, usually something that grabs me that really embodies a certain feeling of the place that I've wanted to bring home. Since I've been in Vietnam, I've seen countless works of art, beautiful in their simplicity, depicting scenes with young Vietnamese woman wearing traditional Vietnamese dress, walking arm in arm down a city street, or Vietnamese fisherman setting their nets under the light of a full moon. While these prints have drawn me in for their artistic value, I can't help wishing that they were not scenes of Vientiane, but scenes of Thailand or Cambodia, countries for which I've formed an emotional attachment. I decided not to purchase anything, until, if ever, I find that sense of fondness for this country, whose essence still eludes me.

Walking back through the market, I stopped to watch the woman unloading fishing boats and sorting fish into baskets by size, their din of conversation filling the air and for a moment, I thought, maybe I'd caught a glimpse of what I was looking for. But only a glimpse it was, for just that moment the woman I'd been watching clean her net, looked up and saw me standing there and yelled, "You want ride in my boat? Come ride in my boat. One hour, you ride in my boat!" and turning from her, I noticed an older woman motioning to me to take her picture (for which I knew she would ask a fee)." Vietnam can't just be about money....