Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favorite things
- Julie Andrews
Het weerbericht juichte te vroeg, want de winter gaf zich niet zomaar gewonnen. Hij nam afscheid met een stevige sneeuwbui. De lente verstopte zich nog even; de eerder zo luidruchtige vogeltjes hielden hun adem in. Noors grut spijbelde en masse, teneinde nog twee dagen op de skipiste door te kunnen brengen. Zij hadden ongetwijfeld plezier, maar mijn humeur werd er niet beter op. De winter had wel lang genoeg geduurd, vond ik. Weliswaar komt de lente doorgaans pas in april naar Oslo, en ligt de stad in maart meestal nog begraven onder een dikke laag sneeuw, maar in mijn ongeduld had ik reeds afscheid genomen van de winter. Ik wilde geen ijs meer op de wegen. Ik wilde weer vaste grond onder mijn voeten voelen.
Het was sowieso een rare week. Het was zo’n week waarin het weer je steeds voor de gek houdt, waarin je niet weet of het nou warm of koud is, en je nooit de goede kleren kiest. De luchtdruk veranderde voortdurend. Ook de hemel deed raar. Volle maan viel samen met een zonnestorm, en de nachtlucht zag spookachtig bleek, met in de verte een rode gloed aan de horizon. Of er een verband bestaat weet ik niet, maar allerlei dingen gingen kapot. Zo hield onze televisie het opeens voor gezien. Op het scherm resteerde slechts een witte horizontale streep. Een dag later begon het modem als een gek te knipperen, en weigerde ons twee dagen internet. Ook mijn rugzak legde het loodje: het scheurde plotseling open. Zelfs de draagband van mijn laptoptas begaf het.
Ik had moeite me te concentreren. De coping strategie die ik aanwendde was een oude beproefde, mijn favoriete vorm van procrastinatie: ik maakte reisplannen. Verre plannen, nabije plannen; werkgerelateerde en niet-werkgerelateerde; concrete en onmogelijke. Ik droomde weg bij de spam die vliegmaatschappijen me als altijd deden toekomen, en vergeleek de prijzen van tickets die ik toch nooit zou boeken (op mijn werk deed het internet het nog wel). Ik maakte plannen voor de zomer, bestudeerde midden-Europese treintijden en las wandelweblogs. Tussendoor deed ik pogingen tot werken, hetgeen af en toe lukte - maar dan dacht ik weer aan de reizen die ik nog wil ondernemen voor mijn onderzoek, en dwaalden mijn gedachten weer af.
Maar de sneeuwbui zou een laatste stuiptrekking blijken. Geen winter zo lang en koud of er komt weer een einde aan. Zoals elk jaar moest hij zijn verlies erkennen. Ook de hemel kwam weer tot rust. De zonnestorm ging liggen, de maan kromp en het weer sloeg andermaal om, maar nu ten gunste van de lente. De nieuwe sneeuw was maar een paar dagen gegund. Overal kwam groen gras tevoorschijn. De wolken lieten zich verdrijven. De nieuwe lucht was fris, kraakhelder blauw, en zwanger van nieuwe geuren. Handschoenen waren niet meer nodig. We kregen een paar prachtige zonsondergangen cadeau: goudgeel, donkerblauw, violet en dieporanje, alsof Onze Lieve Heer met Zijn ecolinepotjes aan het spelen was.
Het beste bewijs van de op handen zijnde lente kregen we in een nietszeggende buitenwijk in Oost-Oslo, omringd door betonnen blokkendozen, een snelweg en een winkelcentrum. Ik zag het eerst niet, maar mijn lief wees me erop. ‘Kijk hier eens,’ zei ze, en ze wees naar een boompje dat naast de stoep stond. Ik keek, en ik zag iets heel kleins en moois. Op de takken zaten groene knopjes. Kwetsbare, jonge, groene knopjes. Onmiskenbaar.
Natuur is op haar mooist waar je haar het minst verwacht. Zeker nu, nu ze langzaam wakker aan het worden is.
Jupiter en Venus stonden zelden zo dicht bij elkaar als vanavond. Kijk maar naar buiten, dan kun je ze zien. Venus is de felste, maar ook Jupiter mag er zijn. Ze lijken wel een verliefd stel, zo close zijn ze. Misschien hebben ze ook wel lentekriebels. Dat zou kunnen. Het zijn goden, per slot van rekening. En die spelen graag.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Noorse lente (1): Smeltwater
Overal lag nog sneeuw en ijs: op de trap, de oprijlaan, de stoep, het plein voor de faculteit. Maar opeens sloeg het weer om. Het kwik kwam boven het nulpunt. De dikke northface pooljas ging de kast in, de nieuwe donkergrijze lange jas kwam eruit. Ook de wollen muts kon af. De zon beloofde het voorjaar. Zoals ooit een dichter schreef: "Weer gaat de wereld als een meisjeskamer open."
Je ziet het niet smelten, maar elke dag is er minder. De tuinen zijn nog wit, maar niet meer smetteloos. De groene cirkels om de boomstammen worden steeds groter. De oprijlaan is weer van grind, de weg al lang geen ijsbaan meer. Maar pas op: her en der liggen nog gemene stukjes ijs, die voordat ze in het niets verdwijnen nog graag een onoplettende voetganger doen vallen.
Snel gaat het niet. De bomen zijn nog steeds kaal, de bloemen laten op zich wachten. De lente is nog niet te zien, laat staan te ruiken. Maar ze laat reeds van zich horen. Ze klinkt als opgewonden kwetterende vogeltjes. Je hoort hun gezang als je door Grefsen loopt, langs de kapel, de begraafplaats, de tuinen. Je hoort ze in Kjelsås, achter het techniekmuseum, in het bos bij Maridalsvannet, waar niemand meer langlauft omdat de sneeuw te hard en oud is. Ze weten het, ze voelen het: de winter gaat het verliezen.
Maar het mooiste geluid is het geluid van stromend water. Het is een geluid dat we twee maanden niet gehoord hebben. Je hoort pas hoe mooi het is als je het een tijdje niet gehoord hebt. En nergens in de stad stroomt het water zo woest vrolijk onder het smeltende ijs uit als daar, in Kjelsås, waar het grote meer een riviertje wordt dat de stad in tweeën deelt. Het stroomt, beukt, danst en raast. Elke seconde klinkt er anders. Elke seconde heeft een nieuw geluid.
Je ziet het niet smelten, maar elke dag is er minder. De tuinen zijn nog wit, maar niet meer smetteloos. De groene cirkels om de boomstammen worden steeds groter. De oprijlaan is weer van grind, de weg al lang geen ijsbaan meer. Maar pas op: her en der liggen nog gemene stukjes ijs, die voordat ze in het niets verdwijnen nog graag een onoplettende voetganger doen vallen.
Snel gaat het niet. De bomen zijn nog steeds kaal, de bloemen laten op zich wachten. De lente is nog niet te zien, laat staan te ruiken. Maar ze laat reeds van zich horen. Ze klinkt als opgewonden kwetterende vogeltjes. Je hoort hun gezang als je door Grefsen loopt, langs de kapel, de begraafplaats, de tuinen. Je hoort ze in Kjelsås, achter het techniekmuseum, in het bos bij Maridalsvannet, waar niemand meer langlauft omdat de sneeuw te hard en oud is. Ze weten het, ze voelen het: de winter gaat het verliezen.
Maar het mooiste geluid is het geluid van stromend water. Het is een geluid dat we twee maanden niet gehoord hebben. Je hoort pas hoe mooi het is als je het een tijdje niet gehoord hebt. En nergens in de stad stroomt het water zo woest vrolijk onder het smeltende ijs uit als daar, in Kjelsås, waar het grote meer een riviertje wordt dat de stad in tweeën deelt. Het stroomt, beukt, danst en raast. Elke seconde klinkt er anders. Elke seconde heeft een nieuw geluid.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Kafka Airlines
It is very cold, minus ten around noon, but the darkness of December has fortunately disappeared. The sky is spotless blue, the snow in the garden shining brightly. We could go out, do as the Romans do, go skiing in the forest. But today is one of those lovely lazy Sundays that need nothing but a big brunch, a pot of green tea and classical music; one of those days that do not need clocks. Time to sit down, let my mind wander, and do some writing.
I realise there is a story that I have not told you yet. It wants to be told. It is a story about some of the discriminatory structures by which global society is organised, and about bureaucratic insanity. It is a sad story, but it has a happy end.
The last story I told you was about Phan Rang, the fascinating land of the Cham in southern Vietnam. We stayed there for a couple of days, then went back to Saigon by train. In Saigon, we borrowed a motorbike, navigated the crazy traffic, and explored the city. We visited two Chinese temples, as well as the excellent museum for traditional Vietnamese medicine. We enjoyed delicious noodle soup and soursop shakes, and had dinner and drinks with friends. And we did some serious last-minute shopping, for we were about to return to the world’s most expensive country. We brought home our luggage in two brand-new suitcases.
On Monday, we went to Tan Son Nhat international airport, and checked in for our flight back home. The Vietnamese Turkish Airlines employee at the check-in desk looked for Nhung’s Schengen visa. But Nhung did not have a visa, nor did she need one, for she is a registered resident of Norway. As the spouse of a Dutchman, the Norwegian immigration agency treated her as if she were an EEA citizen herself; hence, they refused to give her the passport sticker that other non-European immigrants get. Quite ridiculous, for she still has a Vietnamese passport, which has little value internationally – but as we know, bureaucrats have their own incomprehensible logic, which does not usually correspond to the logic of the rest of the world. So all she got was a piece of paper called ‘residence card’ (‘oppholdskort’), printed on a simple A4 with a single blue stamp and signature. It works fine in Norway, it has not caused any problems on intra-European flights yet, but it is hopelessly inadequate when travelling outside the Schengen area.
The entire ground staff of Turkish Airlines in Saigon got involved. Nobody knew what to do. These days, airline companies are responsible for returning people who do not have proper travel documents; accordingly, they have become extremely strict when it comes to passport validity and visas. Unfortunately, though, airline employees are not usually trained to recognise official documents, nor do they know anything about European immigration law. The other day, an Air China employee in Osaka nearly refused me entry to the plane back to Norway, as I did not have a ‘Norwegian visa’ nor an onward ticket to my ‘home country’. I am not kidding. My attempts to explain the lady something about Schengen principles were in vain, for her computer told her otherwise, and computers cannot lie. But I have a Dutch passport, not a Vietnamese one, so I got away with it. This was different. This was worse.
Anticipating the possibility that Nhung’s residence card might not be recognised internationally, we had brought a pile of papers – marriage certificate, police registration letter, certificate of university enrolment, legalised translations and so on. The papers were confiscated, copied, scanned and discussed by people who, ultimately, knew next to nothing about legal matters. We were waiting patiently – ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. My patience gradually gave way to anxiety. A man tried to call the headquarters of his airline company in Istanbul, but did not manage to get through. He tried to call the Norwegian immigration agency, but did not manage to get through there either. We had been among the first in line for the check-in. Now, the queue had disappeared, and the last people were checking in. Thirty minutes before boarding. I tried reason, I tried anger, I tried humour. I tried everything I could to convince them to let us board the fucking plane.
After more than an hour, in which he repeatedly tried to make phone calls but did not manage to talk to anybody who knew anything, the man sighed. ‘I can let you board the plane,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know what they will do in Istanbul. I cannot guarantee that she will be allowed to board the plane to Oslo. In that case, you will have to buy a flight ticket back to Vietnam, which is very, very expensive. Do you agree to pay for this yourself?’ He looked at me, waiting for my answer. I had little choice but to agree. Unlike the Air China lady in Osaka, he did not make us sign any contract, though.
Relieved, we finished the check-in process. We got back our pile of papers, then passed through the security check. Next, we had to pass immigration. I went first, and got my exit stamp. Nhung followed me. But something was wrong. The immigration official stopped her, called a colleague, and discussed with him. I could not hear what they were saying. I was standing on the other side of the border. Nhung was taken away to a room. I wanted to go back, follow her, but I was stopped. There was nothing I could do. She did not even have any cash to bribe the official.
I waited anxiously. Ten minutes lasted an hour. I assumed that this had something to do with the residence card as well, but I did not understand why these people were making a problem, for Nhung had checked in and received her boarding pass. If they did not allow her to leave the country, I could not stay with her, for I had already left the country, and my visa was single-entry. I tried hard to control my breath.
She came out of the room. From where I was standing, I could see her. She walked back to the desk. She seemed remarkably calm. Having grown up in Vietnam, she is much more used to bullying officials than I am, and has learned not to show any emotion in their presence. At the desk, she got an exit stamp, then walked in my direction. She greeted me quietly. We were on the same side of the border.
Apparently, she had not been stopped because of the residence card, but because her passport was only valid for another four months. It should have been six. In fact, she had tried to get a new passport in Hoi An, but it would have taken at least ten days, which we simply did not have. So we had decided to apply for a new passport at the Vietnamese embassy in Oslo after returning to Norway. No problem, we thought. The Vietnamese immigration officials, however, thought otherwise. They gave me the worst ten minutes I have ever experienced.
When we arrived at the gate, boarding had already started. We boarded the plane. I thought I would feel relieved, but I did not, for I did not know what was going to happen in Istanbul. Turkish Airlines know how to make good food, but this time my stomach did not appreciate it. A cartoon movie provided some temporary distraction, and I managed to catch a few hours of restless sleep. When we arrived in Istanbul, we did some shopping and had a coffee, then went to the gate for our connecting flight. The words of the man in Saigon still sounded in my ears. They may refuse her.
We were first in line. We were stopped. The airline employee started searching Nhung’s passport for a visa. We gave him the residence card. He looked at it with a surprised expression, somewhat annoyed, as if he was being fooled. He called his superior, then continued to let other people board the plane. People stared at us, some compassionately, others indifferently or mildly amused. Nobody asked us what was going on. The man’s boss arrived. Just like him, she obviously knew nothing about Norwegian residence documents. She looked at the paper with an empty look on her face. I tried to explain the situation, but her English was poor. Inside me, I felt fresh anger and anxiety coming up.
The woman tried to make a phone call to Norway. Unlike her Vietnamese colleague, she actually managed to talk to somebody. She explained the situation in an incomprehensible mixture of English and Turkish, that must be hard to understand for the person on the other side. Any misunderstanding could be fatal, so I still felt nervous. She told the person that Nhung’s surname was Nhung; I overheard it, and corrected her just in time. After several minutes of mutual misunderstandings and repeated sentences, she finally received confirmation that Nhung is, in fact, a legal resident of Norway. She seemed somewhat surprised, but let us board the plane. I could hardly feel relieved. I felt empty, and exhausted, and became an easy prey for this winter’s influenza virus.
This happened one month ago. Today, everything is fine. We are happy to be at home. Home is here, in snowy Oslo. Home is where we can be safe together. Despite the cold weather, I enjoy being back in quiet and beautiful Norway. I also enjoy being back at my university, sharing thoughts with friends, studying classical Chinese, working on my dissertation. I do not want to leave Europe any time soon. And I certainly do not want to think about papers for a while.
I realise there is a story that I have not told you yet. It wants to be told. It is a story about some of the discriminatory structures by which global society is organised, and about bureaucratic insanity. It is a sad story, but it has a happy end.
The last story I told you was about Phan Rang, the fascinating land of the Cham in southern Vietnam. We stayed there for a couple of days, then went back to Saigon by train. In Saigon, we borrowed a motorbike, navigated the crazy traffic, and explored the city. We visited two Chinese temples, as well as the excellent museum for traditional Vietnamese medicine. We enjoyed delicious noodle soup and soursop shakes, and had dinner and drinks with friends. And we did some serious last-minute shopping, for we were about to return to the world’s most expensive country. We brought home our luggage in two brand-new suitcases.
On Monday, we went to Tan Son Nhat international airport, and checked in for our flight back home. The Vietnamese Turkish Airlines employee at the check-in desk looked for Nhung’s Schengen visa. But Nhung did not have a visa, nor did she need one, for she is a registered resident of Norway. As the spouse of a Dutchman, the Norwegian immigration agency treated her as if she were an EEA citizen herself; hence, they refused to give her the passport sticker that other non-European immigrants get. Quite ridiculous, for she still has a Vietnamese passport, which has little value internationally – but as we know, bureaucrats have their own incomprehensible logic, which does not usually correspond to the logic of the rest of the world. So all she got was a piece of paper called ‘residence card’ (‘oppholdskort’), printed on a simple A4 with a single blue stamp and signature. It works fine in Norway, it has not caused any problems on intra-European flights yet, but it is hopelessly inadequate when travelling outside the Schengen area.
The entire ground staff of Turkish Airlines in Saigon got involved. Nobody knew what to do. These days, airline companies are responsible for returning people who do not have proper travel documents; accordingly, they have become extremely strict when it comes to passport validity and visas. Unfortunately, though, airline employees are not usually trained to recognise official documents, nor do they know anything about European immigration law. The other day, an Air China employee in Osaka nearly refused me entry to the plane back to Norway, as I did not have a ‘Norwegian visa’ nor an onward ticket to my ‘home country’. I am not kidding. My attempts to explain the lady something about Schengen principles were in vain, for her computer told her otherwise, and computers cannot lie. But I have a Dutch passport, not a Vietnamese one, so I got away with it. This was different. This was worse.
Anticipating the possibility that Nhung’s residence card might not be recognised internationally, we had brought a pile of papers – marriage certificate, police registration letter, certificate of university enrolment, legalised translations and so on. The papers were confiscated, copied, scanned and discussed by people who, ultimately, knew next to nothing about legal matters. We were waiting patiently – ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. My patience gradually gave way to anxiety. A man tried to call the headquarters of his airline company in Istanbul, but did not manage to get through. He tried to call the Norwegian immigration agency, but did not manage to get through there either. We had been among the first in line for the check-in. Now, the queue had disappeared, and the last people were checking in. Thirty minutes before boarding. I tried reason, I tried anger, I tried humour. I tried everything I could to convince them to let us board the fucking plane.
After more than an hour, in which he repeatedly tried to make phone calls but did not manage to talk to anybody who knew anything, the man sighed. ‘I can let you board the plane,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know what they will do in Istanbul. I cannot guarantee that she will be allowed to board the plane to Oslo. In that case, you will have to buy a flight ticket back to Vietnam, which is very, very expensive. Do you agree to pay for this yourself?’ He looked at me, waiting for my answer. I had little choice but to agree. Unlike the Air China lady in Osaka, he did not make us sign any contract, though.
Relieved, we finished the check-in process. We got back our pile of papers, then passed through the security check. Next, we had to pass immigration. I went first, and got my exit stamp. Nhung followed me. But something was wrong. The immigration official stopped her, called a colleague, and discussed with him. I could not hear what they were saying. I was standing on the other side of the border. Nhung was taken away to a room. I wanted to go back, follow her, but I was stopped. There was nothing I could do. She did not even have any cash to bribe the official.
I waited anxiously. Ten minutes lasted an hour. I assumed that this had something to do with the residence card as well, but I did not understand why these people were making a problem, for Nhung had checked in and received her boarding pass. If they did not allow her to leave the country, I could not stay with her, for I had already left the country, and my visa was single-entry. I tried hard to control my breath.
She came out of the room. From where I was standing, I could see her. She walked back to the desk. She seemed remarkably calm. Having grown up in Vietnam, she is much more used to bullying officials than I am, and has learned not to show any emotion in their presence. At the desk, she got an exit stamp, then walked in my direction. She greeted me quietly. We were on the same side of the border.
Apparently, she had not been stopped because of the residence card, but because her passport was only valid for another four months. It should have been six. In fact, she had tried to get a new passport in Hoi An, but it would have taken at least ten days, which we simply did not have. So we had decided to apply for a new passport at the Vietnamese embassy in Oslo after returning to Norway. No problem, we thought. The Vietnamese immigration officials, however, thought otherwise. They gave me the worst ten minutes I have ever experienced.
When we arrived at the gate, boarding had already started. We boarded the plane. I thought I would feel relieved, but I did not, for I did not know what was going to happen in Istanbul. Turkish Airlines know how to make good food, but this time my stomach did not appreciate it. A cartoon movie provided some temporary distraction, and I managed to catch a few hours of restless sleep. When we arrived in Istanbul, we did some shopping and had a coffee, then went to the gate for our connecting flight. The words of the man in Saigon still sounded in my ears. They may refuse her.
We were first in line. We were stopped. The airline employee started searching Nhung’s passport for a visa. We gave him the residence card. He looked at it with a surprised expression, somewhat annoyed, as if he was being fooled. He called his superior, then continued to let other people board the plane. People stared at us, some compassionately, others indifferently or mildly amused. Nobody asked us what was going on. The man’s boss arrived. Just like him, she obviously knew nothing about Norwegian residence documents. She looked at the paper with an empty look on her face. I tried to explain the situation, but her English was poor. Inside me, I felt fresh anger and anxiety coming up.
The woman tried to make a phone call to Norway. Unlike her Vietnamese colleague, she actually managed to talk to somebody. She explained the situation in an incomprehensible mixture of English and Turkish, that must be hard to understand for the person on the other side. Any misunderstanding could be fatal, so I still felt nervous. She told the person that Nhung’s surname was Nhung; I overheard it, and corrected her just in time. After several minutes of mutual misunderstandings and repeated sentences, she finally received confirmation that Nhung is, in fact, a legal resident of Norway. She seemed somewhat surprised, but let us board the plane. I could hardly feel relieved. I felt empty, and exhausted, and became an easy prey for this winter’s influenza virus.
This happened one month ago. Today, everything is fine. We are happy to be at home. Home is here, in snowy Oslo. Home is where we can be safe together. Despite the cold weather, I enjoy being back in quiet and beautiful Norway. I also enjoy being back at my university, sharing thoughts with friends, studying classical Chinese, working on my dissertation. I do not want to leave Europe any time soon. And I certainly do not want to think about papers for a while.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
The land of the Cham
Early January. We say goodbye to Hoi An, to our family, and to the chilly weather. The night train brings us south. We skip touristy Nha Trang, and visit one of the country’s most fascinating provinces, Ninh Thuan. Few foreigners spend time here, as the tourist infrastructure is not very well developed, but it is well worth a visit. This is one of the driest, hottest and windiest places in the country. Instead of wet rice paddies or lush forest, the landscape is made up of rocky hills, cacti and low, thorny shrubs that can survive in this climate. Vineyards, shepherds and goats complement them. If it were not for the litter scattered around everywhere, one might be tempted to call the landscape biblical.
The second Cham temple is located fifteen kilometres south of Phan Rang, and somewhat difficult to find – kudos to the Lonely Planet for giving an adequate route description. The best way to get here is by motorbike or xe om (motorbike taxi). On the way, we pass through poor Cham villages, surrounded by litter as the state does not take care of garbage collection in this area. Cows and pigs are eating the plastic, children play in the dirt, and diseases spread easily. In places like this, there is little or no money for education or healthcare. Meanwhile, the provincial capital is filled with large government buildings and Pyongyang-style monuments, built by megalomanic local officials maintaining strong personal ties with construction companies. One of the problems of Vietnam is that the central government is too weak, and provincial governments have too much freedom to decide what they spend their money on. Thus, shitty provincial capitals turn into hideous concrete parks, while no money is spent on waste disposal or basic education – especially if politically marginal ethnic minorities are concerned.
On the way back to Phan Rang, we pass through a Cham village called Bau Truc. It is famous for its pottery, and sometimes visited by tour groups. We visit one of the shops. The owner is an old, friendly Cham lady, who has given demonstrations of her pottery skills in places as far away as Tokyo and Kuala Lumpur. She is a good salesperson, and we leave her shop with a small religious statue. She is also a good story-teller, who proudly shares her cultural heritage with visitors.
We take the national highway back to Phan Rang, pass through the city, and continue north for another twenty kilometres or so. The wind is very strong, and driving here is not exactly fun, as the road is used by many large trucks and buses. Finally, we arrive in the village of Ba Thap, which literally means 'Three Towers'. Two of the three are still standing, and they look impressive, even though they are not built on top of hills, but in a large field. According to my book on Champa buildings, these are the oldest remaining Cham towers, dating from the ninth century. They have been restored professionally, probably by Unesco, judging from the logo on the bricks. Unlike the other two places we visited today, however, they are not actively used. Whereas all tourist buses going from Saigon to Nha Trang pass by this place (you may have seen them from your window), none of them ever stop here.
The towers are surrounded by high walls, and a gate, which is locked. When we ask the neighbours, we are told that the person who has the key does not live here. We have little choice but to climb the gate, which turns out to be fairly easy. The towers are inhabited by bat colonies. Both have beautiful roof constructions. One of them also has fantastic carvings of Garuda, the mythical god-bird. Around the towers, cows are peacefully maintaining the grass, but aggressive dogs prevent us from entering the second tower.
We go back to our hotel, which is located on Ninh Chu - a lovely, little-visited beach, with several affordable resorts. Our second day in Phan Rang is devoted to swimming, sunbathing and relaxing. It is clear that this place has great tourism potential. It is also clear that the place has much more poverty than other areas in Vietnam - judging from housing conditions, the waste problem, and even child labour. The Cham deserve better. The problem of tourism, however, is that it is not usually the local people who benefit most. It is a so-called 'double bind'.
In any case, anybody who is interested in the great architectural and religious traditions of the Cham, had better visit this province. Its landscape and cultural heritage are very different from many other places in Vietnam, but it is a fascinating place nonetheless.
Once upon a time, the Cham owned one of the great empires of Southeast Asia, stretching from present-day Cambodia to north-central Vietnam. They traded with India, Java and China, and had great military, maritime and agricultural knowledge. Today, however, they are one of Vietnam’s most impoverished and marginalised ethnic minorities, while in Cambodia, their number and influence greatly declined because of the genocide committed against them by the Khmer Rouge. In Vietnam, there are currently about one hundred thirty thousand Cham people (0.17% of the population). Despite their poverty, traces of their great history remain. Throughout the southern and central parts of Vietnam, a number of impressive Cham temple towers (dating from the ninth to the fourteenth century) are living testimony to the artistic and architectural genius of the ancient Champa kingdom.
A significant proportion of Cham people today follow an adapted version of Islam. Historically, however, they have worshipped Shiva as their main deity, as well as deified kings (who were probably considered incarnations of Shiva); those who do not follow Islam continue to do so. Naturally, Shiva’s son (Ganesha), wife (Parvati) and bull (Nandi) were also popular, as well as a range of other Hindu deities and divine creatures. As elsewhere, the worship of Shiva was intertwined with fertility cults. Great symbols of divine fertility, and of the unity of male and female, are the so-called linga and yoni, usually made of stone. They represent a male phallus and female vulva, the unity reached through sexual intercourse, and, ultimately, divine reproduction. Most Cham temples still have their linga and/or yoni, some of which are decorated with elaborate carvings.
On previous occasions, I have visited the temple complexes of My Son and Tam Ky in Quang Nam province, as well as the lovely tower in Nha Trang. I have also visited the excellent Museum for Cham Sculpture in Danang, and seen the Champa collection of the Musée Guimet in Paris. For some time, I have had the wish to visit the heartland of Cham culture. Today, that wish has come true. Some of the greatest Cham temples can be found here, in Ninh Thuan province, around the city of Phan Rang. Unlike the towers in Central Vietnam, these are still used for worship. Most Cham people live in this area, and they continue to use the temples for their religious activities. Even those who follow Islam still take part in traditional festivals and rituals.
One of the most impressive Cham temples - perhaps even one of the most impressive religious places I have ever visited - is located near the train station of Thap Cham, six kilometres west from Phan Rang. It is called Po Klang Garai, and was built to honour and worship a legendary king from the past. The king is said to have reconquered land from the Khmer, unify different mini-states, and designed dams and irrigation projects for his people. The temple, which has been restored, is located beautifully on top of a high hill, offering great views of the surrounding countryside. Inside the temple are statues of Shiva and his bull, as well as an altar where offerings are placed. Every year in April, thousands of Cham come here to celebrate their traditional New Year ceremony.
The second Cham temple is located fifteen kilometres south of Phan Rang, and somewhat difficult to find – kudos to the Lonely Planet for giving an adequate route description. The best way to get here is by motorbike or xe om (motorbike taxi). On the way, we pass through poor Cham villages, surrounded by litter as the state does not take care of garbage collection in this area. Cows and pigs are eating the plastic, children play in the dirt, and diseases spread easily. In places like this, there is little or no money for education or healthcare. Meanwhile, the provincial capital is filled with large government buildings and Pyongyang-style monuments, built by megalomanic local officials maintaining strong personal ties with construction companies. One of the problems of Vietnam is that the central government is too weak, and provincial governments have too much freedom to decide what they spend their money on. Thus, shitty provincial capitals turn into hideous concrete parks, while no money is spent on waste disposal or basic education – especially if politically marginal ethnic minorities are concerned.
In order to reach the temple of Po Ro Me, you have to leave the concrete road, and drive the last 500 metres on an unpaved path full of stones, which is a bit of an adventure. But it is worth it. Po Ro Me is not as large as Po Klang Garai, but equally impressive, and even more mysterious. The landscape is wild, rough, deserted, beautiful. The temple is built on top of a pyramid-like construction, and offers great views of the landscape. It is currently in the process of being restored. Inside is a peculiar stone relief, consisting of a carving of Shiva with a long beard and hat, as well as a female statue (possibly a deified queen) and two small bulls. Next to the temple is a large stone linga.
On the way back to Phan Rang, we pass through a Cham village called Bau Truc. It is famous for its pottery, and sometimes visited by tour groups. We visit one of the shops. The owner is an old, friendly Cham lady, who has given demonstrations of her pottery skills in places as far away as Tokyo and Kuala Lumpur. She is a good salesperson, and we leave her shop with a small religious statue. She is also a good story-teller, who proudly shares her cultural heritage with visitors.
We take the national highway back to Phan Rang, pass through the city, and continue north for another twenty kilometres or so. The wind is very strong, and driving here is not exactly fun, as the road is used by many large trucks and buses. Finally, we arrive in the village of Ba Thap, which literally means 'Three Towers'. Two of the three are still standing, and they look impressive, even though they are not built on top of hills, but in a large field. According to my book on Champa buildings, these are the oldest remaining Cham towers, dating from the ninth century. They have been restored professionally, probably by Unesco, judging from the logo on the bricks. Unlike the other two places we visited today, however, they are not actively used. Whereas all tourist buses going from Saigon to Nha Trang pass by this place (you may have seen them from your window), none of them ever stop here.
The towers are surrounded by high walls, and a gate, which is locked. When we ask the neighbours, we are told that the person who has the key does not live here. We have little choice but to climb the gate, which turns out to be fairly easy. The towers are inhabited by bat colonies. Both have beautiful roof constructions. One of them also has fantastic carvings of Garuda, the mythical god-bird. Around the towers, cows are peacefully maintaining the grass, but aggressive dogs prevent us from entering the second tower.
We go back to our hotel, which is located on Ninh Chu - a lovely, little-visited beach, with several affordable resorts. Our second day in Phan Rang is devoted to swimming, sunbathing and relaxing. It is clear that this place has great tourism potential. It is also clear that the place has much more poverty than other areas in Vietnam - judging from housing conditions, the waste problem, and even child labour. The Cham deserve better. The problem of tourism, however, is that it is not usually the local people who benefit most. It is a so-called 'double bind'.
In any case, anybody who is interested in the great architectural and religious traditions of the Cham, had better visit this province. Its landscape and cultural heritage are very different from many other places in Vietnam, but it is a fascinating place nonetheless.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Holidays in Hoi An
The Thu Bon River delta has been an important cultural and commercial centre for centuries. Throughout history, the hot, rainy climate and regular floods have provided the population with natural abundance and fertile soil for agriculture, even though they have also caused inconvenience and suffering. The first capital of the Champa kingdom, Tra Kieu, was located in this area, while nearby My Son served as its religious centre. Their port, Dam Chien (present-day Hoi An), was one of the largest in ancient Asia. The Cham were a seafaring people, after all, who engaged in international trade and piracy. It was here that Indian religious and artistic elements were first introduced to the country, and Champa civilisation developed.
Due to a series of wars, in the late medieval period the Champa kingdom fell into decay, and gave way to northern invaders. The Chinese-influenced culture of the Red River delta gradually spread south, where it incorporated and transformed local traditions. Thus, by 1400, Hoi An had become ‘Vietnamese’. Despite the political and cultural changes, however, it continued to be a trade centre of great economical significance. In the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth century, the port town was an important international trade hub, where merchants from different parts of East and Southeast Asia met.
For instance, until the Tokugawa shogunate implemented its isolationist sakoku policy in the seventeenth century, many Japanese traders visited Hoi An. Their influence is visible in some of the old houses, and in the famous temple bridge allegedly built to tame a dragon that caused earthquakes and volcano eruptions in the home country. In addition, large parts of the population of the town were Chinese. The powerful Chinese merchant clans built their own houses, temples and community halls, which can still be visited today. In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese were the first Europeans to do business in this town, which they called Faifo. Later, the Dutch East-Indies Company repeatedly tried to arrange a trade agreement, but their attempts were not successful.
In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, Faifo / Hoi An was struck by several natural and man-made disasters. Most devastatingly, the river became more and more shallow; as a result, large ships could no longer get access to the port. By the time the French confiscated the land, Hoi An had been more or less forgotten, and commerce had spread to nearby Danang (which the French called Tourane). Later, during the war, Danang would become one of the most important American military posts. Meanwhile, freedom fighters took refuge in the ancient Cham towers of My Son, some of which were severely damaged by US bombs.
Hoi An was one of the few places in Vietnam that was not bombed during the war. It remained a small, unknown provincial town until well into the 1990s. At the time, very few foreigners had seen the beautiful old town or the lovely nearby beach . But the ‘hidden gem’ could not remain hidden forever. Some of the first foreign visitors wrote lyrically about the place in a popular guidebook called Lonely Planet (an overrated yet highly popular series of travel guidebooks that combine sarcasm, cultural essentialism and lyrical mythmaking about ‘hanging out with the locals’, and exercises great influence on the development of tourist infrastructures), and soon the number of visitors increased rapidly.
In 1999, Hoi An was given world heritage status (and money), and the houses and temples of the old town were restored – but also, perhaps inevitably, transformed into tailor shops, restaurants, bars and souvenir shops. Backpackers were followed by wealthy package deal tourists, new hotels and resorts were built, and within a couple of years the old town changed completely. It became a little gentrified Asian amusement park, where few locals can afford to spend time – so much for ‘hanging out’ with them. Today, prices in the most popular restaurants are several times what they used to be a couple of years ago. A cocktail in a trendy bar now costs about as much as seven meals in a local eatery.
As a result of the rapid changes, some successful entrepreneurs have become very rich, but many others have not. Hence, income gaps have widened dramatically. In fact, many of the wealthy owners of hotels and restaurants are Hanoians – people with capital, who can afford to invest in real estate in the old town or near the beach. By contrast, many local people moved to Danang as they could no longer afford living in Hoi An. Thus, mass tourism, increasing income gaps and domestic migration have contributed to inflation, the erosion of social cohesion and the loss of traditional rural and urban landscapes. This development is not limited to Hoi An’s old town: the once-gorgeous beaches between Hoi An and Danang are turning into yet another hideous jungle of concrete and neon letters. All of this is part of the mixed blessing called ‘progress’.
When our plane arrived at Danang International Airport, construction workers were just removing the letters from the old terminal building. We were taxied to a brand-new, large building we had not seen before. Danang is desperately trying to attract foreign tourists to stay (i.e., spend money) at one of its myriad new beach resorts, and the construction of an impressive new airport building is part of its strategy. So far, few (if any) airline companies are offering international flights to and from Danang, but the city government seems pretty convinced that this will change in the near future.
We took a shared taxi from the airport in Danang to Hoi An (for some reason, no shuttle buses operate on the route yet). It was cloudy, wet and a bit chilly, and unfortunately the weather would remain pretty much the same all week, with the exception of one sunny day. But we were happy to be back in Hoi An and spend time with our family, whom we had not seen for a year and a half.
It was Christmas, so we went to a church service. Vietnam is in name a communist country, but its population has always remained highly religious, including many people who are not affiliated with a particular religious institution. The dominant religious traditions are so-called ‘ancestor worship’, Mahayana Buddhism, the Chinese traditions (Taoism, Confucianism, yin-yang practices), as well as the cults of national heroes and local deities. In addition, however, a significant proportion of the population is Christian – official statistics suggest approximately six to eight percent, but the actual number may be higher. In fact, Vietnam is one of the countries in Asia with the highest percentage of Christians (only the Philippines, Lebanon and South Korea have more). Traditionally, most of these belonged to the Catholic Church. In recent years, however, as in other Asian countries, Evangelical churches have gained quite some popularity.
The church we visited was one of those American-style Evangelical churches with a neon cross on top of the roof. The lyrics of songs were projected on a large screen, the music was electronic and had a loud beat (clearly adjusted to Vietnamese preferences) and the members of the choir were bad singers, but they did wear beautiful red-white dresses and candles. The church was completely packed; there must have been several hundreds of people, many of whom probably do not usually come to church services. We had to sit on plastic stools in the back of the church, and we considered ourselves lucky, for many others had to stand. Most of the attendants were in their twenties and thirties, but there were many children as well, reflecting Vietnamese demographic developments and suggesting significant church growth.
The service lasted way too long. The first hour and a half or so were mainly devoted to singing songs. Silent Night and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing were the only traditional Christmas carols passing by; the others were Vietnamese versions of American songs (with alternative, religious lyrics) such as White Christmas and Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, as well as Vietnamese-style folk songs, performed by solo singers. In fact, it sounded more like some sort of music festival than an actual church service, and the police officials and Party officials standing outside the church to report the contents of the service to the authorities must have felt very bored. Eventually, we did get to listen to a sermon – as far as I could tell, it was mainly about the notion of wealth, and about how to achieve true happiness. As expected, political or social critique was absent.
Except for the church service, our week in Hoi An was mainly devoted to social activities. We spent a lot of time with family and friends, and my language skills – while still limited – improved quite a bit. We also did a bit of shopping. Vietnam is still relatively cheap, so it is a good place to pick up new glasses, a coat or a pair of shoes, especially if you live in the world’s most expensive country. We did not do any sightseeing, but we did enjoy the occasional motorbike ride around the rice paddies, which brought back happy memories.
So what do you do, when you spend Christmas with family? Exactly: eating and drinking. Hoi An has fantastic food, and we enjoyed our stay to the fullest. For breakfast or lunch, we could choose from many different kinds of noodle soup – pho, bun, or one of the local specialities, mi quang or cao lau. Other simple but delicious streetfood includes chao (rice porridge), com ga (chicken rice), banh xeo (savory pancakes) and springrolls. For dinner, we could choose from different kinds of fresh seafood, such as crab or fish, eaten with rau som (mixed fresh herbs and lettuce), rice crackers and nuoc mam (fish sauce). Or, alternatively, eaten in soup, with noodles and vegetables – so-called hotpot (lau). I also love the clams steamed with lemongrass and chilli, the fish-filled tofu, and of course hoa chuoi – banana flower salad with shrimp, mint and peanuts. Three of my all-time favourite dishes, in fact. Washed away with the local beer Larue (with ice, of course), cold tea or fresh fruit juice.
Yes, did I mention the fruit? Fresh tropical fruit is one of the great delights of any visit to Southeast Asia, and Vietnam is no exception. Banana, coconut, custard apple, dragonfruit, guava, jackfruit, kumquat, lime, longan, mango, mangosteen, milk fruit, nashi pear, papaya, pineapple, pomelo, rambutan, sapodilla, soursop, starfruit, sugar cane, watermelon… The list is endless, the variety of flavours amazing.
We know that Hoi An will always be a home for us, no matter how fast she changes, and no matter how mixed our feelings about those changes. It will always be the town where my wife spend her childhood, the town where we first met, the town where we got married. There will always be fresh fruit, herbs, fish sauce and seafood waiting for us. And, last but not least, there is the sea, and the beach, with all its memories. The town is like that sea – ever-changing, yet timeless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)