Journey into a Unknown Culture

Hoi An market is alive; a roof of sun-bleached canvas scraps flutters above like fish gills gasping in the muggy air. Each laboured breath spits out an intoxicating perfume; raw meat, fragrant herbs and smoky incense. Scooters and pedal-bikes flow through its clogged capillaries in a stilted stream, causing miniature clots as their riders stop to pluck fresh vegetables from hubcap-sized metal bowls. The chatter of daily commerce is swallowed up by the market's own voice, the endless babble of honking horns and sputtering engines.

As I reach for my camera, a petite woman appears beside me. Her dark eyes intensified under the shade of a conical hat tied at the chin with frayed pink ribbon. She smiles; a crooked-toothed grin that spreads deep wrinkles across her suntanned face. On one shoulder she balances a pair of giant scales; each pendulum dangles precariously from crimped lengths of twisted wire and is bowed under the weight of smooth green-husked coconuts. Swiftly, she transfers the load to me, curling her bony arm around my waist and resting a gentle hand on the curve of my hip. The market thrums around us. She extends a gnarled and empty hand. 'Photo, Madam?'

She is not here to sell me fruit. For the first time, I look beyond the market's fringes and into its belly, where battered tables are laden with black lacquered chopstick boxes and china tea sets with bamboo trays. An elderly vendor in a faded Manchester United shirt flaps a lace tablecloth with obvious pride, haggling with a couple determined to shave a few pennies from the price. This isn't a photo opportunity – it's life. I gesture towards the coconuts. 'How much?'. She deftly scalps one with a grubby knife and thrusts it towards me. Cool, clear milk sloshes on to my hand, countering the market's sticky breath on the back of my neck. And for a precious, fleeting moment, I almost belong here.