I had hoped to steer clear of American politics in these riffs, but I can feel the tension all the way from Da Nang. Though I am half a world away, I'm increasingly nervous as the clock ticks down to fifth of November. I cannot ignore my homeland. To pretend nothing of consequence is happening feels improper. So I try to stay well-informed. Still, when I learn too much, I end up attached to a haze of anger, fear, and sorrow. It follows me when I teach, when I drive my motorbike, when I talk to others, when I lay down to sleep at night, everywhere I go, and I suppose many of you understand what I mean. My gut tells me it's my duty to know as much as possible and to act accordingly. Again, I suspect many Americans feel the same. We've been told so much is at stake this time, and I believe that's true. Still, the hypocrisy, the cold calculations in the face of horrific suffering, and the betrayal of empathy endemic to politics makes me froth at the mouth. It's sickening.
Akira Kurosawa, the legendary Japanese filmmaker, tells us, "to be an artist means never to avert one's eyes." I try to live these words as much as possible, though it's important to remember Kurosawa wrote them long before the dominance of social media with its algorithms and artificial intelligence actively working to hijack our dopamine and stuff our heads deeper and deeper into toxic rabbit holes. So while I do think it's imperative that we pay attention to the world, even when it's uncomfortable to look, I also think it's probably healthy (at least for me) to take an occasional break from the madness. My usual escape starts on two wheels with a full tank of gas and a backpack containing a camera and raincoat. The most recent journey took me on a boat to the Duy Hai seafood market outside of Hoi An.
Every seafood market in Central Vietnam has its own unique personality, and Duy Hai is a decidedly working class place. All business. Fast paced. Most of the trade is wholesale, many kilos of merchandise purchased by restaurants or shipped in bulk to other markets. Tourists are almost nonexistent, save for the occasional photo tour, possibly because most of the sales usually take place between 4:00 AM and 6:00 AM. The boats come in. There is a rush. And then it's over. If we're in the middle of a good run, many fishermen never leave the boat. As soon as the load is out, they undock and head straight back to the sea.
On the southern side of the wide mouth of the Cua Dai River, far from the Old Town, the popular beaches, and coconut groves where tourists pay to watch locals spin the famous bamboo boats like tops, the docks of Duy Hai are built for big ships carrying heavy loads. On the early mornings of busy days, vessels will line up and bob in the water while they wait their turns to unload their catch in plastic boxes, stack it on carts, and push it up an inclined dock to the road at the top. There, blocks of ice are shaved and shoveled onto the boxes while they wait to be re-stacked in refrigerated trucks and delivered to customers. While the crews wait, a few men shuttle small loads of product in basket boats to the edge of the water below the docks, where dozens of buyers wait, often hip deep in water, to inspect the catch and make bids. Most of these buyers are women. In fact, once the fish is out of the boats, most of the workers are women. Very strong women. I almost always fall in love more than once every time I spend a morning there.
Because a) I don't have room on my motorbike, and b) I might be spending another night in Hoi An, I can't really buy anything. Although the dockworkers and vendors graciously tolerate me bumbling around with my camera and seem to genuinely appreciate that I try to avoid getting in the way of those for whom speed is so important, I'm certain I inadvertently slow down some small part of the process from time to time. Last year, as an attempt at some tiny compensation for any loss I might cause, I started to buy breakfast (shrimp and thick noodles) for a group of 3-4 old women whose bodies have become too fragile to contribute to the well oiled operation and whose pockets are too small to buy and sell onsite. Each bowl of hearty food sets me back 15,000 Vietnam Dong. Multiplied by four, that's 60,000, or a little over $2.00. The women take a break from scavenging to sit down, eat, and talk about life, and I feel better about any snags I may have caused to the Duy Hai machine line. Because I've not given away money (I pay for breakfast and start taking pictures long before any of the grandmothers spot me), my work still feels authentic. It seems, at least to me as though I'm simply doing my part for the elders. If you have followed my Instagram or Facebook feeds, there is a good chance you've seen photos of at least a couple of these beautiful women.
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