A Sunrise Bike Ride through Hoi An's Rice Fields

And an open air market of my dreams

Biking riding through the rice fields of Hoi An is best done at dawn before the heat of the day takes its grip. Small, winding dirt roads weave through lush green paddies, occasionally met by a woman or pair of women practicing their daily tai chi. They sway with the rhythm of the wind, mirroring the blades of long grass that dance in the breeze. In a country filled with noisy revs of motorbikes, this precious space is utterly silent, a protected land where the only wheels permitted are those that can be powered by your own two legs. Calmness fills the quiet space in these early morning hours as the sun pulls the shadows upwards, and farmers bend low in their fields, harvesting, tending, and sewing the land they’ve grown old with. 

As we make our way back towards the town, we stop at the morning market. I enter the open-air market filled with rows and rows of freshly butchered livestock being dismembered and displayed in real-time, and seafood so fresh that some of it still squirms. I wander in wonder as my eyes take in unknown fruits and vegetables, and I soak in the smiles shared by neighboring vendors as they swap stories, laughter, and food. 

After browsing each row of the market, it’s time for breakfast. On the far side of the market is where the food vendors are. I make two laps, carefully assessing what each vendor is making, which looks most appetizing, and who is busiest before I finally make my decision. Rather than base my choice solely on which stall is most popular, I use another sense that cannot be ignored, my sense of smell. Upon first entering what we’ll call the food court area, I was immediately drawn in by the sweet and smokey smell of barbecuing pork, one of my personal favorite types of aroma therapies. A middle-aged man stands over a small charcoal grill with a cigarette in his left hand, while his right-hand flips and rotates the marinated pork between two blackened racks. The marinade of the pork smells undeniable, oozing with soy, garlic, chili, sugar, and I’m sure flavored by the occasional cigarette ashes. While he grills, his wife prepares the dish, Bún Chả. A medley of rice noodles, a thin sauce, herbs, leafy greens, and mildly warm broth is added to a bowl. Then with scissors, she cuts pieces of the grilled meat into the dish and passes it to me. Although her stand wasn’t the busiest, with just myself and two small children sharing a meal before school, the smell of the meat was truly irresistible that once I got a whiff, nothing would be able to satiate my hunger than that.

Although it differs slightly from how it’s prepared in Hanoi where the dish was first created, it was love at first bite for me. The broth was mildly warm and barely sweet, and just enough to gently dress each bite. Crisp fresh herbs and lettuce brought the same sweet earthy taste and bitter crunch that echoed the green vibrant smells and textures from my morning bike ride. And the meat, the hook that reeled me in, was perfect. Beyond anything that my nose could have prepared me for. Aside from the tried and true marinade, I think it was the charcoaled and crisped textures of being cooked on the blackened racks balancing the sweetness of the meat. It was a relaxed masterpiece of flavor and experience. It was one of those meals where upon eating it, I realized I had been craving it for perhaps years, maybe my whole life, and will likely always be craving. This family's bún chả was emotionally medicinal, a cure for restlessness as I never wanted to leave that table – soulfully grounding. Whatever it was, this bún chả will live in my mind forever, a treasured memory of a meal after a dreamlike morning through the rice fields of Hoi An. 

I’ll leave you with this final thought…always follow the mopeds of garlic, and you won’t be disappointed.