Last Catch of the Season
In September 2023, I visited Duy Hai Fish Market outside of Hoi An with Etienne Bossot, a French photographer living in Vietnam. Away from the tourists from the famous Old Town or the spinning basket boat, this fishing village has been (relatively) untouched by tourism, with fishing still the primary form of livelihood . Through this photo essay, I aim to provide an unfiltered look into daily life of the people in the area, documenting one of the final mornings before the start of the rainy season.
“Out of anywhere in Asia, Vietnam has the earliest start times.” - Etienne
We arrived in Duy Hai before first light, with the first fishing boats just starting to return back to shore. As each boat pulled up to wooden pier, they were swarmed by people on bikes and with carts, all trying to sort, collect and trade their freshly caught goods. Along the dock, small huddles formed as a whole array of vegetables and seafood were up on display, with people squatting around, haggling over prices. While initially overwhelming and seemingly chaotic, one quickly notices that there is an underlying rhythm, and that a certain order exists within the hustle and bustle of the morning.
As we gulped down a quick (and much needed) coffee, the first glimpses of the sun appeared. The clouds were unlike anything I had ever seen before, as if someone had cut the sky into two. On one side, the tropical sky was nature’s attempt at Impressionism, dabbed with hues of pink and yellow and purple and red. On the other, ominous storm clouds loomed in the distance. It apparently had been pouring for the last few days - a teaser for what was to come. Fortunately, there were just enough gaps in the low hanging clouds for the light to punch through, bathing the port in golden light.
As the sun continued to rise, it looked as if most of the boats had arrived back onto shore, with the last few slowly streaming in. The initial chaos had morphed into a steady flow, with the fishermen trying to clean up their nets, removing any stray debris or small fish caught in the weaves. I couldn’t explain it at the time, but there seemed to be a certain finality to their actions - why spend so much time cleaning if you’re going out again tomorrow? It was only later that I found out from Etienne that this was one of the last few days of fishing - if I had come even a week later, the port would have been virtually empty.
Off to the side there were a couple of tin sheds with people drinking beer and playing cards. Quite impressive considering it wasn’t even 7am yet. I learnt from Etienne that it was there was a mix of businessmen and fishermen, and that they were playing a local card game - I couldn’t quite understand the rules, but it was as if whoever slammed their cards onto the table the hardest would win. On rainy days, I was told that the sheds would be like a packet of sardines, with fishermen eagerly waiting out the morning rain.
A quick banh mi (and another coffee), by which point the port had nearly completely emptied out. Most of the day’s haul was well on its way to Hoi An, where it would find itself in the markets or on the plates of any one of the numerous restaurants in the city. There were still a couple of fishermen sorting out the nets, but the vibrancy of less than an hour ago was long gone. In the adjacent shipyard, there were dozens of boats of varying sizes. While some were being maintained and patched up, the majority of them were lying around, potentially untouched for the next few months.
By the time the average tourist wakes up, all the activity at the docks of Duy Hai would be long gone, with only scraps of fish and bits of broken net providing any sign of life. A hidden world right in front of our eyes - blink and you could miss it. If one were to walk through the area at midday, I’d wager that it would appear like an unremarkable working suburb outside Hoi An; and with the rainy season incoming, it’ll likely stay that way for a little while. Perhaps this day wasn’t the final, but we’re approaching the last catch of the season.
