Outdoors

Everyone who ever traveled to Hoi An knows that as early as the 16th century, it was well renownead as a frenetic and animated trading port and a popular stopover for both foreign traders and travelers. Crews of trading ships from East Asia to Western Europe turned the port city, as a special exception of history, into a rendezvous and centre promoting the exchange of East – West cultures and interaction of generations of people from countless nations. This international communication lead to a noble way of life, highlighting the feelings and sentimental attachments in the code of conduct handed down through many generations and forming the social identity of the people of the ancient port city.

Evidence of this uniqueness is partly visible in the outer appearance of the streets with old, moss-encrusted architectural works with their ancient decorative patterns and in the extant names of the lanes. It can be found in the clubs and head quarters of the guilds of different styles and worshiping statues imbued with distinctive East Asian features of the glorious past. The beauty of the citys old streets expresses something that cannot be easily captured, with their native cultural depth that has been formed and nurtured from integration and creation, hence the particular and unmistakable colour of the city.

Isnt it the reason why Hoi An is always animated and busy, but not boisterous, sustaining its natural peace and tranquility in spite of the changes that time has brought. People of all ages and nationalities, who have mingled with the life of the town, weaved through the flow of its traffic, visited its old sites of interest, has a cordial talk with its people, and shopped here and there, will quickly realize the gentleness and elegance of the ancient town. This simple and plain cultural quality is just like an early morning mist shrouding the environment and social life naturally, unpretentiously, and exactly as the trading port is called in Vietnamese.

These days, on the evening of the 15th day of the lunar months, all homes in the city douse the electric lights and hang up their fancy lanterns of all shapes and forms. Loopahs and pumpkins, octagons and merry-go-rounds, all flickering from dusk till dawn turn the old streets into a glittering fantasy land, attracting more and more people onto the roads. One day as the viewers quietly walked on and on, contemplating the lanterns and the streets, I was one among them, mixing and mingling with them and making the mose of the lofty pleasures of contemplation, windows-shopping or enjoying the evening snacks and delicacies. At every corner, Hoi An was engulfed in an atmosphere of open-heartedness, rustic yet elegant, simple yet colourful, plain as the chracters of its soil and the virtues of its folk, something intermingled between the true and the false, between poetry and painting, between the present and the past between introspection and external settings. On such nights, you want to stay awake all night with Hoi An since wherever you go youll get some feeling of profound attachment.

I soon found myself in an old house, a very wealthy merchants home, built 400 years ago, still standing there intact as a historical witness to the city. With the exception of two brick walls, it was built of iron wood, glistening with the passage of time, decorated with vertical and horizontal wooden plaques, panels and couplets flowing calligraphy in the lounge, including this exceptionally interesting poem:

As the apricot blooms try to blossom before the others,
How beautiful those snow-white flowers on the distant mountains are
Contemplating the spectacular scenery,
who could realizeThe beauty of spring at the harmonious moment of heaven and earth

The private properties of the wealthy in Hoi An always includes a “back garden”, unlike other areas of the country. Often this area is doted with rare bonsai plants for the owner to enjoy during leisure times, feasting his eyes on the miniature landscapes and reciting poems.

Thuong Chua Cau – Ha Am Bon is the main axis that leads to the centre of the town. Along its side runs the Hoai Pho River weaving through the old streets. This name brought me some sweet nostalgia of the past. It was a Vietnamese articulation of the term “Faifo” given by the European merchants, implying an urban area with a trading port, or a “port city”, to be brief. The Chinese in Hoi An, however, pronounced it in their own way, transcribing it into “Hoai Pho”, to signify their longing for the ancient town. Either term accurately expresses what exist in Hoi An.

And like the feelings invoked by the name “Hoai Pho”, those who travel along the ancient streets of Hoi An seem to go back against the flow of history, into the depth of its cultural layers. There, in the 17th century, it was a prime center for trans-shipment and distribution of commodities of the South. Besides aloes and gold, its fine arts articles accounted for a high percentage of the exports of the Dai Viet. The “Phu bien Tap luc” (Miscellaneous Annals – Revised and Amended) by Le Quy Don records: “Hoi An has so many commodities on display and on sale that one cannot remember them all. There are silk and silk products, medicinal herbs and pharmaceuticals, cosmetics and costumes, high-quality paper and stationery, glass and fans, pins and needles, furniture and pottery, copper and silver wares, tea and dried foods, candies and cookies. It goes on and on”.

Thus you may see that as early as the 17th century, the handicrafts produced by private house holds and guilds developed well. The artisans of a craft would be living in the same communes, such as carpentry at Kim Bong, ceramics at Thanh Ha, mental casting at Phuoc Kieu, textile at Minh Huong. It is quite well known that the ancient houses and monuments of the town with delicate carvings were made up virtually by the clever hands of Kim Bong and Phuoc Kieu artisans, that is, these workmen made no small contribution to the formation of the cultural values of these old streets. Later, they were recruited by the Nguyen Court to construct the ancient capital of Hue.

So where are these renowned artisans today? I immediately felt some touch of nostalgia when I suddenly recalled the verses of late poet Vu Dinh Lien:

People in the days of yore,
Where are you now?

Embroidery, one of the traditional crafts in Hoi An, is being restored and developed, and is cherished by many people. Hoi An embroideries are really gentle and graceful, as elegant as its young girls with subtle movements and delicate tasteful lines. The colours are fantastically vivid. I stood there, astounded and stunned, contemplating the products of their producer. Possibly both!

Gastronomy constitutes another distinctiveness of Hoi An culture, with tea from Phu Thuong, cinnamon from Tra Mi, cane-sugar from Dien Ban, noodles, half-done beef, and ambrosia from the Quang region. In particular, the herbs from Tra Que are quite indispensable spices for discriminating connoisseurs of fine food. According to old folks in town, these spicy legumes, a variety of aquatic weeds take from a lake and planted on the promontory of Tra Que, provides micro-quantum elements, which produce a particular aromatic taste cherished by so many people, perhaps thanks to the growers own secrets to their cultivation.

Hoi An has so many exotic things! So exotic yet so popular!

People say visiting Hoi An is like a homecoming, back to the old scenes of trading boats moored at the riverbanks, back to the roots that embrace the whole course of history and glory of a most frenetic trading port, and back to a place of peace and benevolence, imbued with immense humanity and profound values.

The writer Nguyen Ngoc, born of Quang Nam Province, has come to settle down in Hoi An after traveling to all corners of the country, seeing the town as his “native land”. Its attraction means the magnetism of the “native land”. In the age of the vibrant and frenetic industrial civilization of today, more than ever, the appeal of the “native land” seems to be the call of the innermost recess of the human heart.

Visiting Hoi means not only coming back to the old villages and ancient streets but returning to mean tracing the footsteps of the ancient Viet people of Sa Huynh Culture. Staying in Hoi An can lead to seeking Prophet Trang Quynhs old oracle “Hoanh Son nhat dai, van dai dung than” (literally, the Long Range may be a place for eternal habitation), in order to realize and reflect upon the far-sightedness and the undaunted will of our ancestors. You will be lead to understanding the origin and development of Hoi An as a trading port, and to contemplate it as a heritage of all humankind and the pride of the Vietnamese nation, which has won the admiration of friends from all corners of the globe who are coming ever larger numbers, like coming back to their “native land”.

Toil and water mix on a raft trip; A Salmon River run offers something for the whole family, with berry picking, campfire singing, cave exploring, even pedicures.

By John Muncie

When the cool, deep shaft of the abandoned copper mine ended in a wall of rock, guide Mike Thurbert turned to the group and said, “Turn off your flashlights.”

We were about 100 yards into an Idaho hillside. The lights went off as instructed and, in a moment of solemnity, 19-year-old Thurbert quietly asked us to contemplate the phenomenon of utter darkness. For that instant, each of us was an island, alone in the black tunnel.

Then somebody made a spooky ooooo-ing sound and, to squeals of laughter, all the flashlights clicked back on, most of them shining up under chins, turning faces into grotesque Halloween masks.

Solemnity is in short supply on a river rafting trip full of kids.

If you’re wondering what a walk in a copper mine has to do with river rafting, you’ll probably wonder the same about blackberry picking, hurtling down sand dunes, Wiffle-ball and toenail polishing.

Our white-water rafting trip on the Lower Salmon River had as much to do with old-fashioned family fun as it did with running rapids. It was the warm and fuzzy things — singing around the campfire, eating meals together, inventing games, telling bad jokes, debating big issues with know-it-all adolescents — we remembered long after the white-water thrills faded.

My wife, Jody, and I chose this particular adventure for family reasons. Friends of ours, the Fullers, had researched the trip — four days, three nights on the Salmon and Snake rivers starting in Idaho with the Outdoor Adventure River Specialists, or OARS, rafting company — and asked whether we wanted to join them. John Fuller teaches science to our 14-year-old son, Sam, and Fuller’s son, Woody, is a pal of Sam’s.

Our trip began on a Monday, when we took a bus from Lewiston to the Pine Bar put-in point on the Salmon, 62 miles upstream from our eventual destination, Heller Bar. We pushed out into the river around 11 a.m. Our little flotilla consisted of three rubber rafts, three wooden dories, a big paddle raft and three inflatable kayaks.

Barry Dow, 57, a 30-year veteran of the Salmon, Snake and Colorado rivers, was our trip leader, but the rest of the seven- person crew seemed surprisingly young. In fact, three of them were in their teens. When we questioned them about their backgrounds, we discovered that rafting seems to be in their genes.

“My mom was pregnant with me when she was on the river,” said Thurbert, whose father was a river guide. Thurbert, who made his first ex-utero rafting trip when he was 3, piloted the passenger- powered paddle raft on this trip. His instructions were both counterintuitive — “Always lean into the wave, always lean toward the rock!” — and straightforward — “Listen to what I say and, when in doubt, paddle.”

Eric Shedd, 19, had a similar story. His parents were river guides and met on a rafting trip. “My mom says I was less than a year old when I was first on the river.”

The prize for the strongest river ties went to Zak Sears, 18, who made his first river trip when he was 6 months old. Sears pointed downriver and said his father was at the next campsite guiding another rafting trip. Then he pointed the other way, smiled and said, “My sister’s 250 miles upstream and my brother’s about 150 miles.”

Tossed into the drink

The first three days of our trip were on the Salmon, a 425-mile river that begins in the mountains of central Idaho and ends at the confluence of the Snake River near the Oregon-Washington border. The Salmon is the longest free-flowing river left in the Lower 48. For rafting purposes it’s divided into the Middle Fork (the upper part), the Main and the Lower Salmon.

Each has its charms and its advocates. Depending on water levels, our part, the Lower Salmon, usually has fewer and less difficult rapids. We faced only a couple that count as Class III. (Class IV and V rapids are scarier and more dangerous; Class VI is considered unrunnable for a commercial trip.)

The lack of big white water might make the Lower Salmon a little tame for thrill-seekers, but it was perfect for our band of youngsters and their parents who wanted to get them acquainted with river rafting without the dangers of big water.

“This is nothing,” said veteran rafter Jim Eisch, 40, of Tampa, Fla. Eisch brought his daughter Kelsey, 8, son Jimmy, 11, and father, Ted, 69. “But I didn’t want to make them so scared they didn’t want to do it again.”

If we could have fast-forwarded a trip tape to the last day, it would have shown Jimmy grinning widely after his third back flip off a raft and saying, “I don’t want to go home. Next time I’m going on a 17-day trip!”

With kids as young as 8 on the trip, danger was on every family’s mind. Before we put in, the guides gave us several safety lectures, explaining what we were to do if we went overboard in a rapid — or “went swimming,” as they say in river parlance.

There was a lot of information to absorb, involving, among other things, head-patting signals, throw ropes, flip lines and the “La-Z- Boy” float position. All of it washed out of our heads when, separately, Jody and I were thrown from our kayaks at the Class III Bunghole rapid on the second day.

Disoriented after getting tumbled in the opaque wash cycle of Bunghole, we quickly bobbed to the surface. In less than a minute we were within grasp of a raft or dory, and in less than three, we were back aboard our kayaks paddling.

The important things, it turns out, were not only procedures but also the vigilance and unflappable nature of our crew as we got tossed overboard and forgot all our lessons. That and the bright orange life vests we always wore.

The inflatable kayaks — like beach rafts with sides — gave the most heart-pounding ride. It’s just you and a little bit of plastic careering through the rapids. When the waves of white water curl up and attack, the key is to paddle hard. “No lily dipping,” guide Marci Whittman told us before we set off the first day. “No tea-and- crumpet maneuvering.”

Two days later Sam wiped out at the start of the most technical (river-speak for dangerous) of the rapids, Eye of the Needle, sending him swimming through the churning water.

At the bottom of the rapid, he happily climbed back in his kayak. The guides were impressed. His mother was unnerved. Sam had a blast. “That was great,” he said.

But the best ride, as far as we were concerned, was in the dories. Even Sam and 15-year-old Adam Mowery agreed. “The dories were awesome,” Adam said.

Because the wooden boats are rigid, they don’t bend to the waves, making the highs much higher and the drops like a mini roller coaster. And for the best ride of all, the guides let us ride the bow. That means wrapping your legs around the prow, grabbing onto a rope and riding the boat a like bucking bronco.

Follow the sun.

Aside from the occasional white water, river days were soothing stretches of lazy rocking and leisure, framed by spectacular scenery of golden hills and deep gorges. At the start, trip leader Dow had suggested we leave our watches behind. The sun became our clock, and the plaintive note Dow blew on his conch shell our call to meals.

We would pack up and push off after breakfast each morning, then spend two or three hours on the river, sometimes falling overboard for a swim to cool off. We would stop at a sandbar for lunch and more swimming or games, then return to the river for a few more hours.

We usually pulled up around 4 or 5 in the afternoon, which left plenty of time for onshore activities. The first day set the tone. A couple of dads tried their luck fishing while the rest of the adults sought relief from the 95-degree-plus heat and the kids horsed around at the water’s edge. Later, somebody started a Wiffle-ball game. When wind blew the ball into the river, 13-year-old Amy Fuller yelled, “Seventh-inning stretch!” and everybody jumped into the cool water.

Eventually, big clouds boiled up, bringing shade and relief, thunder and a few drops of rain. By morning it was clear and dry.

The first night, before we got down to the business of family fun, Dow discussed the dangers of onshore life. It was pretty tame stuff — poison ivy, hornets, the rare brown recluse and black widow spiders, and the rarer rattlesnakes. “This is important,” Dow said solemnly. “Don’t harm the animals. This is their home. We’re visitors.” Some of the parents hoped the guides’ reverence for the river and its residents would rub off on their children.

“My kids are city kids,” said Susan Mowery, the Indiana mother of Adam and his sisters, Anna, 12, and Abbi, 10. “I want to show them there’s more to life than Disney World.”

Guide Matty Wilson, 28, aglow in the orange campfire light, pulled out a guitar and, with fellow guides Sears and Thurbert, sang folk and pop songs, some so old that even the parents recognized them.

Soon the fire went out, leaving a soft night breeze, the sound of guitars, a big moon trying to shine through the clouds and a group of contented parents watching their children do something besides playing video games.

That was just one of many special shore-leave moments. At that campsite, many of us had our toenails painted. Whittman, an art teacher in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, when she’s not a guide, set up a salon in her raft. At the back end was a studio where the girls and some of the younger boys painted rocks and made sand art. In the middle, she painted toenails.

Having science teacher John Fuller along on the river trip was an extra treat. For Fuller, facts are fun, and it wasn’t long after our departure that he got trip leader Dow to talk about the river and its flow. At the time, it was running at a mild 7,000 cubic feet per second, or CFS, but during floods, it ran more than 100,000 CFS. Dow pointed out driftwood trees high on the banks and said, “Imagine the river that high. It’s like a wild animal.”

Fuller’s favorite moment on the trip, scientifically at least, came at a blackberry patch just below the mouth of the copper mine. He watched in awe as one guide tossed a berry 50 feet into the mouth of another guide. And it gave him an idea for a science lab, involving the physics of tossing grapes (in the absence of blackberries).

There was no need to teach the physics of fun; the kids on the trip were experts. By the second day, increasingly confident in their new surroundings, they were jumping off the rafts into the water to cool off. By the third day, they were swimming down a Class III rapid. Water splashing fights routinely broke out.

On Thursday afternoon as we approached Heller Bar, our destination, no one wanted the trip to end. That night guides and clients met for a farewell dinner at a restaurant near Lewiston, even though two families had to alter their travel plans to make it.

During toasts and testimonials, Dow rose and spoke for the guides, saying, “We hope the river spoke to you and gave you a special gift, because it does to us.”

As we left the restaurant, families were exchanging e-mail addresses and Whittman was painting the few remaining blank fingernails left on the little girls.

Months before, when the Fullers had pitched the family rafting idea, Woody, with teenage disdain, called it “the dumb trip.” Afterward, he had a new name for his rafting adventure down the Lower Salmon River.

“Now,” he said, “it’s the great trip.”