Ruins & Music

One thing I like about Hue that makes the city stand apart from Saigon is the amount of historical monuments and ruins dotting the region. A short walk away from our hotel is the 'Forbidden Kingdom' of the Nguyen kings, the last reigning dynasty in Vietnam. Our first weekend in Hue we took a bus ride to My Son, the religious center of old Champa. The ruins here are magnificent, and it is such a shame that most of them were destroyed in the bombing during the war. The Champa build with intricately stacked red bricks in which carvings of Hindu gods reside in hidden niches. It always amazes me to see palaces and temples carved out of stone in an era in which modern stonecutting tools and machinery had not yet been invented. What labor it must have taken to build the entire religious complex in My Son; what amazing dedication. Stepping into the hallowed out buildings makes me shiver--there is a certain sense of frozen time hanging in the darkness: the smell of mildew, the soft buzz of insects hiding in the thick forest that gently envelopes the ruins as if protecting it from further damage. I'd learned about the linga and yoni in Religious Myths & Rituals class at UCR, and it was amazing to see the Champa versions of these Shiva shrines in real life. Vietnam often conjures up pictures of Chinese style palaces and pagodas, but here, lying quietly on the slopes of a mountain, sits a relic of a kingdom whose cultural allegiance lies with India.

In class, we have been learning about the Nguyen kings of Vietnam. Gia Long and Minh Mang, two of the most well known and influential rulers in the history of modern Vietnam, were just names on paper--old figures whose contributions to the country are now remembered between the pages of a textbook. Yesterday we took a visit to Minh Mang's tomb, a massive mausoleum spread out between the curling embrace of a lake. Seeing a still living monument to a king who lived hundreds of years ago brought him to life. We saw the courtyard where detailed statues of mandarins, horses and elephants stood eternally watchfully. I imagined how it must have been like back in the days, when the tomb was still being built and scores of workers, officials, and overseers carefully directed the construction. Housed in a pavilion overlooking the courtyard was a large stella on which was written a dedication from Minh Mang's song, Thieu Tri, to his father. The characters were done in Chinese-style Nom script. You wonder as to the relationship between father and son, two kings who both contributed to the building of a nation.

After the visit to the tomb, we hopped into a 'dragon boat' to lazily float down the Perfume River back to Hue. A light breeze rifled through the boat as we made headway, and along the riverbanks rose the green mountains of Hue. We passed by sampans anchored along the riverside--floating hammocks with a sheet of tin nailed over one end that served as homes for families. Laundry in primary colors waved at us from the sampans, hanging on invisible cords. We waved at the families and the children playing along the river.

When we arrived back in Hue, a party of musicians specializing in traditional music climbed aboard. The women were bedecked in colorful ao dai in white, purple and blue, their moon-shaped hats twinkling with sequined flowers and swirls. The men pulled on their own hats and costume in blue and white. Earlier, two weeks ago in Hoi An, we had also witnessed a traditional concert. The songs in Hoi An were cheerful and upbeat, and they made you want to tap your feet and jump up and dance along. The songs and music played yesterday were of a different beat. There was a certain mournful quality that was hard to ignore, even as the women clinked tiny teacups together and tapped wooden, branch like tambourines. Listening, as I did in Hoi An, I wondered as to the content of their songs. What songs were they singing? Were they songs that dreamed of Hue, of family, ancestors, and country? One appeared to be a love song, with a duet between a female singer and a male musician. Traditional songs are both different and similar to the popular songs we heard at karaoke a few days ago. The melodies of course, are products of their time. Yet the way the songs are sung, the lyrics perhaps, seem similar. I cannot understand or read them, but I get the impression that the songs have to do with Vietnam herself: whether it is extolling her beauty or speaking of the roots that continually draw her people back to her. Or perhaps I'm just being too sentimental.