Xin chào from Phan Rang in South Central Vietnam. I’m typing this after an extremely wet scooter day, and while this is only my fourth full day, it feels like double that. In a good way!
I’m in Vietnam to speak at a four-day conference in Huế, but I decided to turn a four-day commitment into a three week trip. It seemed like the right thing to do, but already I feel like I’m running out of time. The conference is on religious tourism and pilgrimage, which might not sound like it belongs on my page, but ... what is travel but a pilgrimage?
Hai Việt Nam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
Titled “A sense of faith builds a sense of place,” my talk looks at the important role backpackers play in slow tourism. If, by chance, you’re in Huế next week, come along!
A few years ago, I was in some bar talking to some guy. The guy, he was aghast at my plans for a motorbike trip to the north of Vietnam. He compared it to Burma, Cambodia and Thailand’s predominant Buddhist faiths, Vietnam? No, no, no, no way man—he wasn’t going. “They’re all godless communists, why would you go there?” he said.
As we were not travelling together I wasn’t too fussed, but his thoughts were curious. He wasn’t, as far as I could tell from his behaviour over the hour I’d been talking to him, a religious guy at all. At all. And yet here he was getting all biblical on me. People can be odd.
First meal off the plane. Half hole-in-the-wall half motorcycle repair shop. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
When I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City the other day, I got a xe ôm from the airport to my hotel in Phú Nhuận District. I’d not stayed in the area before and wanted to explore somewhere new. I spent the first day in meetings and catching up with friends, but the second morning, I went for a wander.
Leaving my hotel, I walk down Trần Huy Liệu for about half an hour, past the coffee shop by the dozen, till I reach Lê Văn Sỹ. There I take a left, walking south to Chợ Nguyễn Văn Trỗi, a thriving fresh produce and a million-other-things market. After a walk through the shopping maze, I grab a street side coffee and continue south to the “river.”
Demarcating Phú Nhuận from downtown District 1, the Thị Nghè Canal, was once one of the city’s most polluted waterways. Now that’s saying something. Thanks to an almost US$400m World Bank project an enormous reworking was undertaken starting in 2002, and taking a decade to complete. A ten-year length this story blames on “unyielding clay [and] crooked Chinese contractors.” Cough splutter.
It is amazing what you can do with almost half a billion dollars. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
As a part of the process, some 7,000 houses, most belonging to the urban poor, were razed. Those with title had a chance at subsidised apartments, but many ended up landless, pushed to the periphery of town. Out of sight and out of mind and all that. Today, grass lawns and frangipani replace the grounds where the houses once stood. Lining both sides of the waterway, bench seats with canoodling lovers dot the lawns. Fishers dangle lines (no thanks!) and, by the lawn, on both sides, coffee-shop-lined roads run.
There’s also houses of worship. As I reach the canal, on my left sits Chùa Pháp Hoa, a large Buddhist temple with attention-grabbing cannon-ball flowers. Known for its bright lanterns, the name Pháp Hoa means “magic flower,” but I’m not sure if that refers to the lanterns or the flowers.
A little further east, on the south bank of the canal, lies Chùa Chantarangsay, a Khmer Buddhist temple. Walking around its grounds you could close your eyes and open them again only to find yourself in Phnom Penh. Further east still, lies Công Lý Church, one of a few in the area.
Love me a cannon-ball flower. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
After the church, I backtrack a little, and head to a cafe. My plan is to pull up a red plastic chair and have a coffee while life rolls by. Clearly the hang-out for a bunch of old guys, they eye me warily like I am spoiling the scene, but return my smile and wave me to sit. I speak exactly three words of Vietnamese—and those badly—so it doesn’t take long for our chat to dwindle. Not deterred by my lack of lingo, through sign language a decision surfaces—I have to arm wrestle each of them. No, I don’t understand either. My elbow still very sore from my motorbike accident a couple of weeks ago, I lose three times in quick succession. This seems to please them.
Coffee downed and elbow killing me, I bid my farewell and start back up Nguyễn Văn Trỗi towards my hotel. I don’t get far before I reach Jamiul Muslimin Mosque, with a bunch of devotees milling around out front. Leaning against her scooter, a young woman who is curious why I’m not in District One, chit chats me for a spell. She’d love to visit Indonesia she says, almost squealing when I tell her I live in Bali. We must look quite the couple—her head-to-toe in black and not a bead of sweat on her, me a dishevelled mess. The mosque closed, she tells me to come back later in the day, and I tell her to come to Bali. She says maybe once she gets married. As I’m not about to propose, I take my leave.
The Land Of The Godless Communists indeed.
This was the second of eight coffees along the walk. Photo: Stuart McDonald.
Almost back to the hotel, I drop in for a quick bowl and another coffee and it is time to collapse. Where did the day go? All I’ve done is walk around the block—it is so good to be on the road again.
Also, when you’re next in Ho Chi Minh City, rather than busy yourself on tours and ticking off sights, just go for a walk—you might be pleasantly surprised.
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Couchfish: In The Land Of The Godless Communists