Those days in Mui Ne

Chinh slices open the last baby squid, the knife glides effortlessly through its soft white flesh. He arranges it on the plate with the others, prodding at the spongy blob. Satisfied with its positioning, he sprinkles a mix of salt and chili, and pauses to survey the presentation. His index finger rests on his chin. In Chinh, I see an artist, adding the final touches to his creation, a painter stepping back to assess subtle dabs of colour on a canvas, a photographer rearranging a rogue strand of hair. His auntie spies him and sees a man wasting time. Hanh is holding a large wok filled with steaming vegetables, and she scolds him, hurrying him to clear the bench space.

Under fire from his auntie’s staccato verbal assault, Chinh is thrusts the plate at me.

‘Table in corner,’ he instructs.

I amble over with the plate of raw seafood and two sets of chopsticks. Chinh follows, carrying a small ceramic pot, filled with smoking black coals. He sets it down in the middle of the table, atop a thick wooden block.

‘Not touch, is hot. You know how to do?’ he asks, and the couple nod, familiar with the trend of cooking your own food at the table. Chinh watches as they place a squid on the grill, and then grin in amazement as it sizzles loudly. Satisfied, he leads me back to the kitchen, ‘come, more to do.’

It is my first evening working at the My Hanh restaurant in Mui Ne, a burgeoning coastal town in southern Vietnam. Most other twentysomething travellers, also on their summer holidays, are drawn to Mui Ne for the hedonistic thrills of kitesurfing and paragliding, careering a jeep across sand dunes, or cheap partying in the growing number of resorts and clubs. I arrive in Mui Ne seeking rest and relaxation, having farewelled 2007 in Ho Chi Minh City, to the soundtrack of fireworks and car horns.

Mui Ne’s most expensive and lavish resorts, which are growing by the year, are concentrated in the centre of town and provide access to the whitest beaches and proximity to the reddest sand dunes. The further the town expands, along the palm lined coastal road, the cheaper and more basic the accommodation becomes. I find a quaint bungalow near the edge of town, where the tourist strip peters out, and blends with semi constructed buildings and overgrown vacant plots of land. The room has a ceiling fan, wooden deck, and beachfront view, perfect.

Mui Ne harbour, Vietnam

On the shoreline outside the bungalow, basket boats are scattered. Resembling oversize seed pods, the vessels are strewn across the sand, and lead a trail all the way to the harbour. Known locally as thung chai, the basket boats are constructed from bamboo, and reinforced with a mixture of resin, tar, and animal waste. Lightweight and sturdy, they comfortably fit two crew, though require only one, and float easily on the water’s surface, moving with the rhythm of the waves. Basket boats are favoured by independent fishermen, and after each venture, can be easily dragged ashore. Trust amongst the Mui Ne fishing community appears to be high, for all the basket boats are left unmanned, with ropes, paddles, and netting inside.

Nearer the harbour, the thung chai multiply, and in between them, wooden stakes and taut ropes present a hazard for any unsuspecting travellers. The thick, weathered ropes stretch out to the shallows, holding in place more traditionally shaped wooden fishing boats. The ropes rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the waves. I step over them carefully, not wanting to provide comic relief for the fishermen onshore who are sifting through their hauls. Further out to sea, dozens of large fishing boats are jammed into the bay, having returned from the morning’s expeditions, and will provide meals for locals and visitors alike.

Thung chai: The basket boats of Vietnam

On my first evening in Mui Ne, I visit My Hanh for no other reason than its proximity to the accommodation. Typically, I tend to avoid the dining recommendations found in guidebooks, and especially in Asia, prefer to eat street food, or discover my own favourite spots. My Hanh resembles most other restaurants found throughout South East Asian coastal towns, with a décor of plastic chairs and tables and walls covered with laminated pictures of local attractions. A glass cabinet sits at the entrance, filled with bottled water, fruit juice, soda, and packets of cigarettes decorated with hideous bodily deformities and cancers. A Christmas tree remains at the front of the shop, while lunar New Year decorations hang from the roof. Inside, the intergenerational family are working with typical Vietnamese efficiency and fervour, chopping, frying, boiling, serving, washing, and repeating.

A table close to the entrance is the ideal position to people watch. At other tables, couples and groups of friends sit together. The couples fumble with their chopsticks as they try to feed each other, and their feet caress under the tables, while the groups of friends share jokes and order more rounds of beer. I am content with flicking through a dogeared travel catalogue from 2003 and savour the quiet pleasures of solo travel. The vegetables are still sizzling when the meal arrives, and steam races towards the ceiling from the mound of rice on the plate. I peel my arms from their resting place atop the clear plastic table covering, unwrap a set of chopsticks from the paper covering, and begin the first of many meals at My Hanh.

My Hanh restaurant, January 2008

After three days in Mui Ne, I have exhausted the tourist sights, yet have not tired of the idyllic atmosphere. Each morning begins with the gentle lapping of the morning tide, and in the evenings the ocean sparkles under golden sunsets. In between, I wander the markets, through the thick air of raw fish and exotic fruits, lie in a hammock and read, or beachcomb, picking up seashells and examining the smoothness of driftwood. I have dined at My Hanh for at least one meal each day, and with little else to do, hang around afterwards to talk with the family. Chinh and his auntie Hanh manage the restaurant, and three generations of the extended family live in Mui Ne. With each visit there is someone new to meet, a sister, auntie, or cousin, who has come to visit or to lend a hand. The operation of the restaurant is a family affair, as most things are in Vietnam.

Ha is one of the youngest in the family, in her early twenties and studying at university. As with many young Vietnamese, her dreams extend far beyond working in the family restaurant. Sensing an opportunity, she asks for help with her English studies, if only for the remaining days I will be in Mui Ne. I agree, and then consider what else to do with my time.

‘Can I work with your family in the restaurant?’

Evenings are the busiest time at My Hanh, and working there, while tutoring Ha in English would be something of an unofficial cultural exchange. I offer to wait tables, serve meals, wash dishes, whatever is needed. Ha giggles at the unusual offer but agrees, perhaps too shy to refuse.

I return that evening at 5:00pm, and approach Chinh.

‘What you do here?’ he asks.

‘I’m here for work, did Ha tell you?’

‘No, is just joking,’ he says looking genuinely confused.

‘No, it’s no joke. I will work here,’

Chinh hesitates for a moment, then holds out a tea towel.

‘Ok, clean tables there,’ he says pointing to a recently vacated table.

‘Ok boss,’ I say with a smile, and grab the tea towel.

The collective stare of the family weighs heavily, as I gather the empty drink bottles, wipe down the tables, and return to the kitchen with a pile of dirty plates and cutlery.

‘Here boss,’ handing them to Hanh, who is washing up, ‘next job?’

Over the course of the evening, my novelty factor gradually decreases, and I am absorbed into the nightly operations of My Hanh, becoming a part of the soundtrack of knifes on chopping boards, shouted instructions, and sizzling woks. Throughout the evening I serve meals, clear tables, and wash dishes, though my favourite task is waiting tables. Most of the customers are international tourists, and when I arrive to take their order, the surprise and confusion on their faces is delightful. Many assume I am married into the family, while others seem too shy to ask. In fact, one of the sisters is married to a European, and lives with him in Germany. One night, a German couple place their order in German and are surprised when I say I do not speak it.

‘Ze menu iz in German, see?’ I look down and see them pointing to the menu, typed in Vietnamese, English and German.

‘Oh, I’ve never noticed. Well, one of the sisters in married to a German, but I’m just here helping out for a few days.’ The explanation only confuses them further, and they stare blankly, like a couple of confused puppies.

Hanh and Chinh working hard in the kitchen at My Hanh restaurant

At the end of each evening, after the last customers have departed, and all the tables have been cleared, the family sit together for a meal, and I am invited. Over dishes of noodles and rice, and whatever squid remains, we share stories about each other’s lives and families. These are the scenes that linger, the moments that shape you, as a traveller and a person. The experiences that are yours alone, and that exist only because of chance encounters and curiosity, and they are to be savoured. Hanh speaks of her sister in Germany, and her eyes show how much she misses her. She snaps from a moment of melancholy and jokes that she will find me a Vietnamese woman to marry. The suggestion is met with laughing approval from everyone else. I change the subject and ask more about life in Vietnam, and about to Hoi An and Hue, my next destinations. Chinh assures me they are both nice places to visit, and I will be welcomed, as I have in Mui Ne. Ha clarifies some pronunciations in her English studies, and I fumble over some basic Vietnamese words, failing terribly, to everyone’s amusement.

‘Stay here and you learn Vietnamese,’ Hanh says, and I wish I could.