The wakeup call never came.
Instead, a blood curdling scream from the concierge woke us. We scrambled out of bed.
Washed and fed in good time for the 7.15am pick up, there were suspiciously few Europeans in the lobby, in fact, precisely none. The tour had gone. The receptionist sent us scurrying through the morning rush hour, to find the ferry terminal, where the boat was waiting.
We crossed Dien Bien Phu Street, confident that the surging traffic would part around us. Slow and deliberate movements are required.
Besides, no-one has insurance anyway and by western standards, no-one is worth suing.
The boat was leaving as we arrived at the quay side. We scrambled unceremoniously aboard and headed for the floating market.
Most, we were assured by our skipper, are generated exclusively for the tourists but Cantho’s floating market is an authentic wholesale establishment. 6km upstream the motley armada of craft loomed out of the morning haze. 50 foot boats bring produce from farms far afield and wait in the market for up to two weeks to empty their holds. Local traders live aboard 30 foot boats and come and go as stock requires. 12 foot sampans flit from boat to boat delivering food and drink and purchasing stock for stalls and restaurants in the city.
Sampans criss-cross the water way, powered by 50cc engines mounted in an elevated hinge on the stern quarter, connected to the propeller by a 12 foot drive shaft. They have no rudder and direction is controlled by lifting the propeller from the water and swinging it to the desired position. The effect is routine but it was none the less, hair-raising to encounter the spinning blades. As with many things here, the potential for grievous injury is everywhere but strangely the risk is never realised. I watched in amazement as blades were swung within inches of a child’s head on a neighbouring sampan. The child did not flinch and the driver seemed equally unconcerned.
Other sampans are rowed in the traditional fashion, using two oars operated from a standing position, requiring impeccable balance. Large swells surge across the river in the wake of passing dredgers. The sampans rise and fall violently but so sure-footed are the oarswomen that they do not even adjust their stance to compensate.
Wholesale vegetables and tropical fruits change hands at the market. The river flows by, carrying discarded cabbage leaves, pineapple crowns and newspaper. The surface is choppy with activity and in parts the sunlight is reflected as the rainbow colours of spilt diesel drift by.
We ate pineapple on the roof of a neighbouring boat and stared incredulously at each other as the row boat taking us into the heart of the market pitched and bucked wildly on the passing waves. The lady rowing us expertly through the chaos had one hand on the oar and another on her beautiful two year old daughter.
The child was already learning to tie knots with the sling back of her mother’s shoe and the ropes used to secure the boat.
Instead, a blood curdling scream from the concierge woke us. We scrambled out of bed.
Washed and fed in good time for the 7.15am pick up, there were suspiciously few Europeans in the lobby, in fact, precisely none. The tour had gone. The receptionist sent us scurrying through the morning rush hour, to find the ferry terminal, where the boat was waiting.
We crossed Dien Bien Phu Street, confident that the surging traffic would part around us. Slow and deliberate movements are required.
Besides, no-one has insurance anyway and by western standards, no-one is worth suing.
The boat was leaving as we arrived at the quay side. We scrambled unceremoniously aboard and headed for the floating market.
Most, we were assured by our skipper, are generated exclusively for the tourists but Cantho’s floating market is an authentic wholesale establishment. 6km upstream the motley armada of craft loomed out of the morning haze. 50 foot boats bring produce from farms far afield and wait in the market for up to two weeks to empty their holds. Local traders live aboard 30 foot boats and come and go as stock requires. 12 foot sampans flit from boat to boat delivering food and drink and purchasing stock for stalls and restaurants in the city.
Sampans criss-cross the water way, powered by 50cc engines mounted in an elevated hinge on the stern quarter, connected to the propeller by a 12 foot drive shaft. They have no rudder and direction is controlled by lifting the propeller from the water and swinging it to the desired position. The effect is routine but it was none the less, hair-raising to encounter the spinning blades. As with many things here, the potential for grievous injury is everywhere but strangely the risk is never realised. I watched in amazement as blades were swung within inches of a child’s head on a neighbouring sampan. The child did not flinch and the driver seemed equally unconcerned.
Other sampans are rowed in the traditional fashion, using two oars operated from a standing position, requiring impeccable balance. Large swells surge across the river in the wake of passing dredgers. The sampans rise and fall violently but so sure-footed are the oarswomen that they do not even adjust their stance to compensate.
Wholesale vegetables and tropical fruits change hands at the market. The river flows by, carrying discarded cabbage leaves, pineapple crowns and newspaper. The surface is choppy with activity and in parts the sunlight is reflected as the rainbow colours of spilt diesel drift by.
We ate pineapple on the roof of a neighbouring boat and stared incredulously at each other as the row boat taking us into the heart of the market pitched and bucked wildly on the passing waves. The lady rowing us expertly through the chaos had one hand on the oar and another on her beautiful two year old daughter.
The child was already learning to tie knots with the sling back of her mother’s shoe and the ropes used to secure the boat.
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