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Hoi An: Vietnam’s once thriving port is now a quiet tourist town

By Jack Souther The coastal town of Hoi An embodies the very best of both old and new Vietnam. Unlike Hue and so many Vietnamese cities that were devastated by bombing, Hoi An was miraculously spared the destruction of war.
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A Branch of the Thu Bon River in Hoi An, near the fish market.

By Jack Souther

The coastal town of Hoi An embodies the very best of both old and new Vietnam. Unlike Hue and so many Vietnamese cities that were devastated by bombing, Hoi An was miraculously spared the destruction of war. Many of the original 18th century buildings in the old town still stand among a scattering of ultra modern hotels and superb restaurants. Upscale boutiques and souvenir shops cater to tourists only a few blocks from the sprawling central market where local buyers and sellers in traditional bamboo hats carry on business just as their forefathers did centuries ago. Best of all, the streets are free of traffic and, with a population of about 80,000, Hoi An is small enough so that almost everything is accessible by bike or on foot.

We began our trip in the old capital city of Hue, 200 km north of Hoi An. Between the two towns the fringe of coastal lowland that borders most of Vietnam is broken by a spur of the Truong Son Mountains that extends eastward to the ocean near the city of Danang. The coastal road climbs from the watery flatlands around Hue and crosses the Mountains through Hai Van Pass before descending to China Beach and Hoi An in the south. The views are spectacular. At the top of the pass we stopped, pushed through a scrum of waiting hawkers, and climbed up to an old battle-scarred fort strategically perched on a rocky promontory high above the parking lot. Originally built by the French and later used as an observation post by American troops, it has a commanding view of the surrounding mountains and coastline.

South of the Truong Son Mountains the coastal road skirts the sand and surf of China Beach where battle weary American soldiers were once sent to recover from the stress of combat. It is still a beautiful stretch of pristine coastline but if development goes ahead as planned China Beach is destined to become Vietnam's answer to the Riviera. Spur roads lead from the highway to the edge of the sand where signs extol the grand hotels that will someday grace the beach.

We rolled into Hoi An in the early afternoon and checked in to the luxurious Hoi An Hotel. Despite its four-star rating, tree-shaded dining patio, and immaculate rooms with balconies overlooking the pool, the Hoi An Hotel is both affordable and central. Located in the middle of Old Town it’s only a few blocks from the riverfront and a pleasant 5 km bike ride from the surf and sand of Cua Dia at the southern end of China Beach. Any thought of going for a swim in the ocean was scrapped when we heard the roar of giant waves crashing onto shore long before we even got to Cua Dia Beach. But the broad expanse of palm-shaded sand is an inviting place to hang out. I bought a snack from one of the women selling fruit on the beach and, with a palm tree as a back-rest, settled down to just watch the waves and enjoy a brief interlude of private contemplation – a rare luxury in most of Southeast Asia.

Hoi An is linked to the sea by the Thu Bon River and for centuries it was a port of call for ships from around the world. By the 15th century, traders from Europe, America, and other parts of Asia were flocking to Hoi An to purchase everything from tea to elephant tusks. But mostly they came for silk. The legacy of this far-flung trade is an eclectic mix of people who have brought their crafts and entrepreneurial skills to the city’s modern tourist market. The boutiques and souvenir stalls are a shopper’s delight — pick out your material in the evening and a master Hoi An tailor will have a custom-made silk garment ready for you by morning. But for me the most fascinating part of Hoi An is down by the river, in the central market where the locals shop.

It was still dark when I left the hotel at five in the morning and made my way down to the river, but the street was already crowded with merchants and buyers headed for the market. Push- carts piled high with merchandise clatter over the cobblestones. Motorbikes, their drivers hidden beneath stacks of produce, weave around groups of farmers carrying baskets full of vegetables. Restaurant owners with empty baskets hurry to bargain for the day’s supplies. By the time I got to the edge of the market the merchants, large and small, already had their wares spread out along the curb and piled into the stalls of the inner market.

Hoi An’s central market sprawls across two city blocks. Small merchants, those with only a few items to sell — a pile of beans, some hot peppers, a melon — squat on blankets along the perimeter road. The inner market, protected from the sun by a conglomeration of tin coverings, is a labyrinth of narrow aisles winding past stalls packed so closely together it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. I wedge myself aside to let a motorcycle deliver its load of shoes to one of the stalls. A young woman, her face covered with a cloth, lies fast asleep among her piles of tomatoes and carrots, another strips the flesh from an animal carcass and piles the meat in neat bloody piles at the front of her stall. I make my way past counters piled high with chickens and ducks, some ready for the pot, others still awaiting their fate. But the real action is at the dock where fishermen are delivering the night’s catch.

In the late 19th century the Thu Bon River began to silt up and larger vessels were diverted to the deep-water port of Danang. But the fishing fleet of small shallow draft boats continues to use the Hoi An docks. At six in the morning the scene is one of utter bedlam. While boats jockey for wharf space their baskets of fish, squid, clams, and crabs are passed ashore. As soon as a basket hits the dock it disappears under a canopy of bamboo hats as buyers swarm over it to call out their bids. Baskets of tiny silver fish are still flipping as they are carried off to hotel kitchens and family soup bowls. No one paid the slightest attention to me and my camera.

By seven o’clock it is all over. The fish are distributed and the market settles down for the day. As I head back to the hotel the sleeping girl, now wide awake, is busy selling three batteries worth of tomatoes to a customer. Using an ancient, Libra-style balance she puts the tomatoes on one side and three flashlight batteries on the other. In Hoi An’s central market it’s business as usual.