What an extraordinary three days in Hué, the former capital of Vietnam – the seat of the Nguyen dynasty (pronounced “nya-waan” in English, or “nia-mhán” in Irish); the location of Vietnam’s forbidden city; remnants of royalty, rule, power and modest fortunes. It is steeped in a history that the current regime tries to dissolve, evident in a lack lustre effort of heritage conservation in many truly interesting places and spaces. Perhaps history is all too recent in Vietnam, and is still very much being lived and written out. The proverbial ink is not dry on History’s text yet.
We spent three utterly sodden days in Hué! Rain couldn’t stop play however, despite the onslaught of the wet season, I found a magic in the fluvial furrows created in the street debris, a sense of freedom as I donned an industrial rain cape and hopped onto a push bike and joined the masses of people in the traffic that wended through the warren of ancient laneways and onto the busier roads of the city.
I recalled a sense of exhilaration when I first rode with the (cycling) pack as a student in the Netherlands, face to the wind and cold, and joined a community of biped movement on wheels. I got a similar sense of exhilaration, albeit tinged with an apprehensive tang of imminent danger as I set off, cycling rain poncho flapping in my wake, into Hué’s hectic traffic. After an initial nervous wobble, I merged with motorbikes, vendor’s carts, cars, buses, occasional truck, into a fun of movement……and felt surprisingly liberated!……despite rain relentlessly pounding my face and Ilona’s arms clutching my waist for dear life, as she side-straddled the pillion seat. In spite of the constant rain, continuous wet feet and shoes, vain attempts to dry damp and increasingly stale clothes, I can only describe our stay as the absolute opposite of pathetic fallacy (and don’t know whether a word exists to describe that!)…….perhaps “singing in the rain” was penned to suit this time in Hué. We had the most delightful time!
History, or rather ‘Herstory’ came alive for us through the surprising chance encounter afforded to us, by a twist of booking fate in our AirB&B accommodation reservation. We ended up being hosted by a daughter of the last emperor of Vietnam (Bao Dai) who abdicated in 1945 to avert certain bloodshed given the inevitable support for political change at that time (brought about by Ho Chi Mihn), and a son of a former Vietnamese Premier (the Premier was somewhat of a prodigal father, who left our host, at the age of three, with the grandmother, for political reasons).
I teased this info out of our host, on the hunch that the dignified humility I immediately felt when we were warmly welcomed into their modest but subtly grand home (in a very French sense of old, sturdy but ornate quality furniture and decor), was somehow different to other Vietnamese homes we had visited. I asked him (through Google translate!) how the families of the former royalty were treated after the war. He paused uncertainly to take stock of my question, and to size me up, then told me that his wife was of the royal family. In answer to my question, he said they were treated “mixed”; they were spared their lives but ostracised and faced many hardships.
Their stories are somewhat suppressed, although over the course of our three day stay with them, they generously shared many fascinating stories and insights with us, relating to Vietnam’s turbulent past. I have a much better understanding of twentieth century Vietnam, the political alliances and the former deep divide between North and South Vietnam; all which shapes contemporary society and the healing process that continues into the twenty-first century.
Our host’s daughter and two grandchildren were staying also for a few days during their school holidays (who fortuitously were the same age as Ilona and Tadhg, and became instant playmates). The daughter acted as translator for her parents, but more so, is our newest friend. She is a truly interesting and beautiful person, and we spent many hours sipping tea and conversing, late into the evenings.
I felt overwhelmed by a sad irony when we took her (the daughter’s) kids (our host’s grandkids) out with us on an excursion on the third day. We went to visit Hués Royal Art Museum, housed in a crumbling down former palace of the last Emperor.
It contained scant remnants of more opulent times, with limited or little information or interpretation given. Our host’s grandchildren have no knowledge of their family heritage, as their parents choose not to impart any info to them yet, lest it militate against them. So these two kids wandered through the lonely dank rooms of their forebearers, accompanying a random kiwi family on a tourist escapade to (in their eyes/words) just an old building. They were completely oblivious to the haunting screams of their ancestor’s ghosts in their attempt to remain unforgotten. The four kids happily vacated the crumbling mansion and high-tailed it outside to the rambling gardens after a cursory dash upstairs and downstairs, as Daniel and myself continued reading the scraps of written information on interpretive boards. I tried to appease a disquiet surfacing within me.
I found the four kids out the back pursuing an all-the-more-interesting thing to do: cracking stones in an attempt to fossick for hidden treasures captured in ancient rocks (as my kids often do, mainly at the beach in NZ). It is such a bitter irony that these kids’ family treasure remains locked tight within sealed lips. No doubt, in due course, they will be told and the stories will not remain suppressed.
It all made me a bit sceptical about whose story is written and what stories get passed on. Although much of the Forbidden Palace is now a UNESCO world heritage site, they retain and restore buildings, but seem to make no attempt to document the stories of the people and witnesses who lived through it all. History is selective – usually written by the victors, not the vanquished.
Hué cuisine is quite specific and unlike that of the rest of the country. It has intense strong flavours. Other areas of Vietnam balance the five tastes, whereas in Hué cooking, one flavour dominates the dish. Our host cooked for us, and we sampled rice shrimp cakes, pork soup (both for breakfast! – two weeks ago it would seem unimaginable that I would eat that as a first meal of the day); chicken with Asian basil; noodle soup amongst other fresh delights.
So, nothing dissolved or dilute about Hué, despite all the rain.
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