If only a purple blazer could market itself as well as 15 cent beer.
By day four in Hoi An even shopaholic Liz was slowing down some, and the majority of our purchases were in the final phases of alteration. This meant that our wadded-up tourist dollars could finally be plied against something other than a textile sweatshop. Unfortunately, by this point the weather had taken a turn and was fairly wet. My health had also taken a turn with the development of a nasty chest cold and two crushed fingers which got tangled up in a folding chair that broke and collapsed under me in a tailor shop (Viet-sized I am certainly not). It was time to test the wet weather traction of our flip flops and see the My Son ruins.
My Son is a ruin of the Cham People which was constructed (mainly) between 800-1200 AD. It is a Hindu holy site composed of several mortar-less brick structures, the construction of which has not, to this day, been successfully duplicated. This baffling combination of vegetation resistance and aesthetic flexibility (the bricks were laid, carved then fired in situ) has made modern repairs look pathetic in comparison, although hopes are high for the latest re-repairs using superglue. And repairs they have needed! The French decapitated the majority of the Shiva and Ganesh statues and looted the artifacts, then the Americans bombed the site while it was being used as a VC base during the war. Fortunately, there were a few Linga left erect for our (excellent) guide to explain in his strangely metered English. The day finished with a boat trip back to the mandatory wood carving gift shop and the Hoi An rat/food market.
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| He was very excited to talk about the Linga. You should have heard him talk about cock-fighting. |
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| The heads ended up in Paris. |
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| Renovations |
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