At the end of the Giang River

(Baonghean) - The boatman didn't start the engine but leaned back, using both feet to propel the oars towards the middle of the river junction. He had a somewhat rugged and rebellious appearance, but upon closer inspection, his face was quite humorous. He showed no reluctance when I asked for a ride, even though the sun was almost setting. "Where do you want to go? I'll take you. No problem," he said curtly, as if to dispel any hesitation I might have.

A section of the Giang River. Photo: Nguyen's book.

It wasn't until I was sitting on the bow of the boat, out in the middle of the river, looking in all directions, that I could clearly see the strangeness of this legendary river confluence. While the Lam River flowed with a muddy red and turbulent like a waterfall after the floods upstream, the Giang River, right there, remained a clear blue and gently merged into the larger river, like a gentle hand wanting to comfort the elder brother returning after a fierce and arduous journey.

Some have poetically remarked that the Giang River is the crystallization of the tears of suffering and lamentation of countless lives in the southwestern region of Nghe An province, where the vast Pu Mat forest is located, hence its exceptionally clear waters. Regardless of the romanticized stories of those who visit the river, the reality is that the Giang River is intertwined with the historical tragedy of a family lineage whose legends remain to this day. This is the story of the "golden bamboo," a familiar tale associated with the Dan Lai people in Con Cuong.

I just want to add that, for hundreds of years, the Dan Lai people lived in isolation deep in the forest, transforming a lowland clan into an isolated ethnic group amidst ever-changing circumstances. And the undesirable happened: inbreeding brought this ethnic group to the brink of extinction. Why aren't the Dan Lai considered an independent ethnic group like the Thai or the Hmong? Because they completely lack distinct identity. Everything is a mixture resulting from migration and survival. Even their language has completely disappeared or changed from its original form.

No one can fully know what happened during the years the Dan Lai people fled evil from the Hoa Quan region of Thanh Chuong and hid in the wild forests and deep mountains. Surely, there was bitterness and cruelty that fate inflicted upon these humble people. Now, they have a meaningful life thanks to the State's investment of billions of dong to preserve their lineage, stabilize production, and provide a stable living environment. But perhaps, the anxieties about their origins will forever remain a source of regret for a lineage distorted by upheaval, almost unrecognizable. Even so, the Giang River, its verdant waters flowing year-round, remains serene, even when some believe it is the sorrowful tears of countless lives.

Children playing on the Giang River. Photo: Quoc Dan.

...The boat suddenly lurched. I turned my head to look at the young man rowing the boat with his feet, his toes spread wide. The boatman calmly lit his cigarette and said, "We're on the Lam River." The boat slowly moved upstream along the riverbank. It was called the Lam River, but the water was murky at this moment. Occasionally, the boat would bounce up and down, making me feel a little uneasy. I crouched low and crawled along the bottom of the tiny boat closer to the young man who was constantly pedaling like someone riding a bicycle on the road.

The man, named Tran Dinh Tu, is 30 years old and unmarried. Tu said he had only recently started fishing, about three months ago. Then he reached for his pith helmet and put it on: “I live in Hamlet 4, Thanh Lien Commune (Thanh Chuong District). Before, I was only used to farming. I got bored. Then I suddenly liked fishing, so I bought a boat, engine, and nets and went out to the river to learn from the fishermen.” The more than 10 million dong he spent on the metal bottom-fishing boat and fishing gear is quite a lot compared to the cost of living in the countryside, but for this young man, sailing is a pleasure. Even Tu willingly offered to carry me bobbing on the river while he was about to take the freshly caught fish to the market to sell, without any hesitation or worry about losing money.

Tú steered his boat alongside a larger vessel anchored near the shore, where a sandbar, like an oasis, divided the Lam River into two branches before they merged again. “This sandbar is called Giăng sandbar, belonging to Hoa village, Phong Thịnh commune,” Tú explained before I could ask. Looking at the boat moored at the water’s edge, I saw no one. The wood-burning stove with its three-legged stand in the middle of the boat still emitted a thin wisp of smoke. Surely the owner hadn’t gone far yet.

Tú said, "That's Mr. and Mrs. Quý's boat, they must have just gone fishing." In an instant, we saw the silhouette of a small boat hurrying towards us from afar. On the small boat, a woman sat at the bow, while her husband paddled behind her. While still some distance away, Tú called out, "Did you catch much this morning, sir?" The old man on the other side covered his forehead with his dry hand, squinting as he replied, "Not much. They just finished fishing; maybe they'll catch a few scad this afternoon."

Then we all started chatting. The old man, whose age was hard to guess, seemed to be at least over 60. His name was Tran Van Quy, from Thanh Ha commune, and he and his wife had come to this river junction to make a living. "We have a house, but no land, we've been fishing for a long time," Mr. Quy said in a slightly distorted voice, his mouth missing several front teeth.

He pulled up about a dozen barramundi and about 500 grams of shrimp from the side of the boat for me to see: "The water is rough, so we can't catch much fish. It's getting harder and harder." The thin old man with the dark, shiny skin also said that the reason he and his wife still cling to this profession is to provide for their daughter who is studying at university in Hanoi. "We have two daughters. The eldest is married and settled down, and the younger one is studying at Hanoi University of Agriculture," he said, his eyes shining with pride when he mentioned his daughter who is a student.

The Giang River section flowing through Phong Thinh commune (Thanh Chuong district). Photo: Van Nhi

After saying goodbye to the friendly fishermen, I returned to shore. Waiting for me on the high mound overlooking the river junction was Mr. Nguyen Hoang Tien, a cultural officer from Phong Thinh commune. We had arranged to meet beforehand. Tien asked me, "Surely you know the song 'Song of the Homeland River'?" Then he said, "The poet Le Huy Mau – a son of this land – drew inspiration from the merging of the Giang and Lam rivers to write that poem, which was later set to music." Then, Tien mused, "I also turn my face towards my homeland." He then told me that he was a former soldier, a former armored trooper, and with his knowledge of history, his unit had given him the opportunity to apply to Hanoi University of Education 1, Museum Studies Department.

After graduating from university, Tien returned to work in the army, in charge of the museum. But as he said, because he didn't like the quiet and boring life, he requested to be discharged and return to his hometown. Back home, he became a teacher at Thanh Duc Secondary School, but after two years, he left teaching to go to Phong Thinh and apply for a position as a cultural officer in the commune. I joked, "Maybe you want to become an official?" Tien laughed, "Even if I wanted to be a leader in my commune, I'd already passed the age limit for promotion. I don't understand why I just want to stay in this poor place." That's exactly how he "hid his face" and returned to his hometown, as the cultural officer explained.

Grilled Giang River fish for sale at Chua Market. Photo: Sach Nguyen.

After riding on a motorbike driven by Mr. Tien, we stopped on the suspension bridge over the river. Right at the foot of the bridge is Chua Market – a famous name in Thanh Chuong associated with the ancient Chung Linh Pagoda. Perhaps at Chua Market, grilled river fish are the most commonly sold. Fish such as catfish, carp, and other species caught from both the Lam and Giang rivers are all sold there. On market days, thousands of people flock to Chua Market to buy, sell, and browse.

Sometimes, people simply want to see the fish with their noses stuck in the water, or watch the woman selling rice paper with rosy cheeks, steaming fragrant rice paper sheets that fill a corner of the countryside with aroma. Everyone is busy buying and selling; who cares that the clear blue water behind them holds legends steeped in countless rains and sunshine? Perhaps they don't even know that this area was formerly called Hoa Quan, La Mac… and since 2014 has been planned to become Chua Town.

The Phong Thinh area, with nearly 7,000 inhabitants, relies on two rice crops per year, intercropped with corn, yielding a decent 6.5-6.7 tons per hectare. When they have a catch of fish or potatoes, they take them to Chua Market for a change of pace. The women of this rural village sell their produce in the mountainous region – which they know best – knowing that beyond lies the land of Thanh Lien, Thanh Tien, Thanh Hoa, or Thanh My communes. And Phong Thinh is the final point of the Giang River before it flows into the main river. That's all, yet everyone longs to return...

Notes:Van Nhi