The Soul of the Rice Fields

Northern Vietnam's Peculiar Water Puppet Theatre



A distinct, traditional art form found nowhere else in the world, Vietnam's Water Puppet Theater was born in the fertile Red River delta during the tenth century. Farmers, inspired by harvested, water-filled rice paddies began to stage impromptu puppetry shows on the water's surface as villagers gathered around the edge of the pond to watch. Often thought of as the "Soul of the Rice Fields" the world's first glimpse of Northern Vietnam's splashy, smoke-and-fire-filled acrobatic puppet extravaganza came only after the normalization of relations with the west.

The show, made up of a number of skits, shows the life of everyday peasants, drawing on a wealth of folklore with a good dose of humor as farmers and forefounders establish and defend the country against forces of man and nature. Performed entirely in Vietnamese with no foreign translations or explanations, the meaning of most of these tales may be lost on most tourists, but its still a highly entertaining glimpse into the traditional folk culture of the northern Vietnamese.

Modern water puppetry is performed in a pool, the water surface being the stage. Puppeteers stand, waist deep in water, behind a screen, controling puppets using long bamboo rods and string mechanisms hidden beneath the water's surface. Carved out of wood, these puppet often weigh up to 15 kg.

Puppeteers taking a bow.

A traditional Vietnamese orchestra provides a vibrant vietnamese musical accompaniment as Cheo singers sing traditional northern Vietnamese songs, telling the story being splashed out by the puppets.

Getting Friendly with the Locals at Hoan Kiem Lake

The Capitol's curious citizens still gather around the famous Hoan Kiem lake, the heart of Hanoi, sitting on its banks and benches socializing and watching the city come to life. While there are no puppets splashing about in the lake's ever-green waters, the friendly, funny and outgoing people of Hanoi find other ways to amuse themselves.

As we wandered around the lake, waiting for the water puppet show to begin in a nearby theatre, a kind couple gestured for us to join them on a small bench, before commencing to converse with us in perfect Vietnamese. Of course we had no idea what they were saying, but thanks to a handy phrasebook we unburied from the bottom of a bookbag, we were able exchange greetings, ages and nationalities.

The man became very excited when I told him I was from America (My in Vietnamese, pronounced Mi). He pointed to himself before launching one arm up over his head, gliding it above him. Judging from the sound effects that accompanied it, I took this to be an airplane. Then, he pretended to hold a gun, aimed it up at where his hand had been flying, and began to pull the trigger as he followed it across the sky. He looked at me and smiled, pointing to himself, shooting at the plane and saying "My! My! (America)". Despite this somewhat unpleasant connection, he was very excited to shake my hand and smiled constantly as he tried to communicate with us (tried being the key word).

Never underestimate the power of gestures!

The Spirit of Hanoi

Whether it is blossom time or not
Jasmine is always jasmine
Elegant or not
One is nevertheless a citizen of the capital

Nguyen Cong Tru (1778-1858)

The French could not subjugate the Vietnamese spirit of independence, but their influence is visible in the fading colonial facades of the once brightly colored buildings, weathered by war and old age, looking all the lovlier for the wear. The smell of freshly baked baguettes drifts in the bustling streets as the sun begins to stir the citizens of the capitol. Old friends meet at the Hoan Kiem Lake, the heart of the city, to talk and reminisce about times gone by, as the silohuette of their berets show against the sunlit surface the lake's perennially green waters. Badminton nets spring up on every empty corner, and around the lake gangs of Hanoi's old generation gracefully practice their Tai Chi, their arms slowly rising and falling, as if floating on water, or caught in a dream.

Scarlet banners hung across the streets shout "Long live the Communist Party of Vietnam!"

Its been a week since i returned from Vietnam, but the smell of pho and baguettes still lingers in my nose. I remember staggering down the sidewalks of the Old Quarter, crowded with tiny pho 'shops', low tables covered with fresh vegetables, clams, and meat surrounding a steaming pot of broth and rice noodles. Foot stool chairs strewn across the cement footpath were buried beneath traditional straw hats, baseball caps, and hungry citizens enjoying their morning meals. Women selling the famous french baguettes stopped me every couple steps, .15 cents a roll.


Men and women sipped Vietnamese tea, while others waited for their dripping coffee to slowly fill their thirsty cups. I weaved my way through them all, past curious children squatting on door steps, smiling and sometimes saying hello. I tip-toed around women filling the baskets that would later hang from the shoulder-slung bamboo sticks as they wandered the streets selling all kinds of edible deliciousness.



Its been a week since my ears rang with the sound of motorbikes beeping their horns incessently, seemingly in beats of threes, as their engines gently hummed along with the city's song. At every corner the men of this mad orchestra leaned against their heavy metal instuments, arms folded calmly, waiting for a chance conductor to bid them play. "Madame, motorbike? Cyclo?" Motos flowed thru the streets, and sometimes up, over the sidewalks, the blood of the city fighting to flow through its conjested veins.

My very first cyclo ride back in Chau Doc, at the end of my Cambodia trip. Cyclos hold a special place in my heart, not only because of the amazing experience of driving though the streets of the tiny, rarely visited town, but also because my cyclo 'driver' was the first Vietnamese man to propose to me :)

Its been a week since I risked my life to cross those narrow streets that seemed to grow as wide as the Red River as I slowly stepped across, bikes flowing around me like a stream wrapping itself around an island.

Its been a week, but the song of that sleepless city still sounds in my ears, as fresh as the morning baguettes and as sweet as the freshly sqeezed fruit juice sold on every old quarter corner. Its been a week, but I can still feel the embrace of Hanoi in all my senses, even in my dreams.

Vietnam On My Mind

Somehow I've managed to make it back from Vietnam, although now that I have I'm kind of wishing I hadn't! Getting back to Japan was no easy task, and although I seem to have made it, one of my bags has not. Of course the only thing of importance in it was the large collection of photo CDs full of the pictures I took while I was there. Until it finds it's way back to me, here's one of the last images on my camera.

Meet my adopted daughter, Ba, a 5 year old Black H'moung girl living in Lao Chai village, near Sapa, northern Vietnam. Actually, I think she adopted me. Both her parents are addicted to opium, and most of the time she wanders the tourist-flooded streets of Sapa with her baby brother strapped to her back trying to sell whatever she can. Whenever she spotted me in town she would abandon the tourists she was charming at the time, run to me, hug my legs and take my hand, happily following me wherever I went until her mother came to take her away. Then her eyes would fill with tears. The night I left Sapa, she stood outside the van crying uncontrollably, screaming "Goodbye! I love you!"

Maybe she's forgotten me by now, but I'll never forget her.