Vietnam

Sat amongst a sea of the most brilliant red, the lady cuts a solitary figure. I watch as she works. Methodically, rhythmically, purposefully. A continuous repetition of four tasks: gather, bundle, stack, move. Beneath the large bamboo hat (or nón lá) sweat gathers on her forehead, she pauses to brush it away with a handkerchief, before continuing her task. Her hands are dusted in brilliant pink, a testament to her efforts of the day. Around her others join and go, their tasks a further piece of this production jigsaw.

Beauty is everywhere in Vietnam, however to discover the real diamonds, you need to venture just a little bit further off the beaten track. On the outskirts of Hanoi I had read of this special place. A village where colour of unimaginable vibrancy is created, processed and sold.

And so it proved.

The mid-day sun beats down, creating waves of shimmering refractions that dance upwards from the concrete courtyard. A babies cry echoes along an adjoining alleyway. School children jostle and laugh, careering carefree on squaky bicycles down the dirt streets. “hello, what is your name?” they cry with embarrassed laughter. A rusty cat sits nearby, docile in the heat of the day, content with his piece. The sounds of human industry and production reverberate quietly in every direction.

This is Vietnam. So pure.

The streets are ramshackle in appearance. Timber frames that defy any logic of design and structure, stand angular and proud, casting their stories as shadows on the dirt streets. The tin roofs bake in the heat, cladded sides are caked white with mud - remnants of the monsoon season that has been and will be again. Gloomy interiors silhouette life, machinery, and industry. The smells of time are carried with the dust that follows every movement. Some eyes stare, others carry on. Smiles hang from faces young and old, embracing you with warmth and laughter. You feel at home, alive within the industry of this special place.

Your eyes are drawn to the colours: small fields of brilliant red, orange, and pink. They spread into the courtyards, along the streets, the river, anywhere where there is exposed space to the sun’s burdening glare. They look like small trees, laid out perfectly in rows. Yet they are not. They are bundles of incense, perfect little bundles of human effort. A small piece of Vietnam for the world.

Yet behind these scenes, is a story of artisanship that begs to be told.

Incense production is a hugely skilled process that is largely done by hand. It can take several days to complete a single stick. Bamboos are harvested, cut and then recut several times to size. Families hold their recipes, guarded secrets of time, and mix these pastes to suit the tastes of the world: jasmine, cinnamon and spices in bright oranges, reds and the most radiant pigments you can imagine.

I walked the streets of the village for several hours, watching this incredible production unfold in front of my eyes. People where everywhere, on the streets, inside workshops, pushing trolleys, driving tractors, everywhere you looked was a task in the process being attended to.

And as the lady loads up the last of the incense bundles into the waiting trolley, I cannot help but feel humbled by the sense of workmanship and dedication that is given to each and every little stick that makes it to the shipment line. Quietly she collects her stool, nods at me with a little chuckle and then moves onto the next collection of red. Her task continues, as it does for us all.

So next time you burn one of these sticks in your life, I encourage you to pause and admire the time and workmanship that has gone into its very creation. The skilled hands of the earth that worked, selected, and shaped it into something of beauty. A small part of me is loathed to even burn them now I know what has gone into their conception. They are in the very purest senses of the word, a work of art.

It makes their burning smell even more beautiful.