Hoi An

The noise in the market is unbelievable – there’s the beep of scooter horns with drivers who seem to think that they have the same right of way as the pedestrians, the constant chatter of voices, the calls in English to buy buy buy. It’s all under the shadow of a complicated network of tarps and as we walk into the sun, everything but the noise disappears in the glare. There are piles of spiky red rambutans next to gorgeous silk scarves and little tiny tins of Tiger Balm and hats and t-shirts with the likeness of Ho Chi Min. Everything is close and loud, but not aggressive or scary – this is the Vietnam I was seeking, right here in Hoi An.

The river is lined with cafes and restaurants, there are galleries and shopping, everything has been scrubbed and cleaned for us to spend our foreign currency in comfort, but there’s an appeal beyond the post-communist consumerism because the architecture is so pretty. There’s a mish-mash of styles — French, Vietnamese, Japanese, and Chinese — the colors are so diverting, especially when there’s a pile of immaculately stacked silks just beyond the threshold. Perhaps Hoi An has another five years, tops, before it’s completely transformed into one of those heritage towns that the bus tours pull into, disgorging white shoe tour groups for the day, but who knows, maybe there’s a state of stasis here that will last for the next few decades. The resorts in development along the coast between Danang and Hoi An will either change everything or never be completed and so far, if I have learned nothing about Vietnam, I have learned that it can go either way.