Wooden Boats on the Mekong

October-November 2005

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by James Michael Dorsey

A fisherman paddles his boat on the Mekong.

Recently I went to Vietnam to photograph daily life on the Mekong River. As an avid sea kayaker, I had heard about many of Vietnam’s coveted paddle spots such as Halong Bay, and Ba Be Lake, but the Mekong River is not one of these spots. I have twice journeyed from the river’s source at the South China Sea in southern Vietnam as far north as Phnom Penh, Cambodia and have yet to see a kayak on this river.

At its widest points, the Mekong is a raging mass of swirling, colliding currents and eddies that would make paddling a matter of pure survival. Mostly this very polluted river cuts along at five to seven knots creating massive whirlpools that would suck a kayak down like a giant bathtub drain. The larger powerboats have no trouble navigating here but it is far too swift in most places for any serious kayaking.

It was in the smaller tributaries that I found what I was looking for. Out of the eye of the river proper, along its hidden coves and tiny inlets, there is an almost secret way of life that few westerners will ever see.

Wooden boats are the main transport in this jungle haven. Much like the canals of Venice, the countless tiny fingers of the Mekong probe inland like the maze of a spider’s web, creating a teeming waterworld of life. As the first streak of morning light breaks and a paddle is dipped into the water, a ballet begins that will last well into the next night. Here, people and their boats are one and the same. The boat is home, transport, a job and security, all in one. While I did not see a kayak in the traditional sense of the word, I did see countless homemade variations that called out for me to paddle them.

The people on this river are some of the world’s poorest, so necessity and ingenuity are the ingredients of boat construction here. The very poorest carve dugouts from a single log, hardening it by suspension from a tree over an open fire for several days. The boat is tended around the clock and slowly turned while this is happening. Mostly these have a raised stern and bow, tapering in front to a point much like a kayak. The total design depends on the shape of the tree from which it was carved. No two boats are exactly alike. They reminded me of the old Aleut skin boats I had seen in Alaska, made from whatever materials were available—small, light and very stable. The people who paddle them are every bit as skillful.

These dugouts stay in a family and are passed from one generation to the next. You can watch ancient papa sans showing tiny babies how to use a paddle, or mothers teaching their young daughters how to handle a boat pole without becoming exhausted. It is common to see small children paddling alone, for knowing how to do so is a necessary survival skill on this river. Boat handling begins soon after birth. Many of these children will never see a classroom, but are masters on the water. I was told many boats are still in use after a century on the water.

Paddling is a way of life on the river, for men, women and children.

Once a tree is felled, a hatchet or small ax is used to hollow out the center and then knives or adzes finish the job, smoothing and tapering the sides. This work can be a family affair with the smallest toddlers joining in. While I saw some dugouts with seats carved from the original log, most were added later from a separate piece.

The more ambitious will square off the bow and stern of the log, adding a handcarved, sloping bowsprit raised about a foot above the gunwhales as added resistance to the river’s surge. Most of these dugouts are unadorned, but if the owner has any extra money it will go into a paint job. It is a matter of pride to have a colorful boat, and the wealthiest will paint the eyes of Buddha on the front for protection while on the water. Standard equipment is an old plastic jug, cut in half and used for bailing, plus a rope, usually woven from local vines. There is no such thing as a personal flotation device.

Generally, a single paddle carved from a tree branch, with the blade not much wider than the shaft, powers these boats. Often they are simply poled along by a slender branch, especially in the muddy slush that is the floor of much of the Mekong. In appearance they are like the common siton- top kayaks we see in North America.

There are also slightly larger boats constructed from three separate pieces of wood. These are about the size of a small Boston Whaler or Mexican panga and consist of a keel plate with port and starboard sidings. They are called Sewn Plank boats and are home to most of the people on the river.

Because of the intense heat, a rounded canopy is often added and then the boat is called a ‘Sampan’ or ‘Peapod’, for that is what they resemble with people in them. These canopies are usually woven palm fronds that are eaten quickly by the sun and must be constantly replaced. Most of the boats range in length from ten to twenty feet and it is not uncommon for three generations of a family to live on board their entire lives.

While many of these river dwellers do have small, permanent homes on shore, mostly these are mud and cardboard shacks. Those that live entirely on the water wander wherever the day’s catch takes them, tying up when night falls and moving on again the next day.

The one thing I did find in common among all these homemade boats was their stability. I often saw them passing through the wakes of larger boats, bobbing like a cork in a tempest, but pressing ahead. Pigs, chickens and goats are all quite used to riding in dugouts and occasionally there would be a cow or even a water buffalo riding to market. Even though I often saw them severely overloaded, I never saw an overturned boat.

It is common to see small children paddling by themselves.

Most of the dugout people are fishermen and they make their own nets. They stand in the center of the boat and sling the oval net like a cowboy’s lariat. After it sinks, they sit across the top of the dugout, perpendicular to it, with legs dangling in the water to haul the net in. While it looks easy, I am sure this is a balancing act of the highest order. Most of the fish I saw caught were quite small—usually just enough to feed the family for the day—but recently a catfish weighing in at over 600 pounds was caught on the Mekong.

The boats I examined all had flat bottoms, making them stable in the calmer tributaries but totally unsuitable for the main arteries of the river. Some people stand, especially when using the long pole, and some sit, as I would tend to do. But most squat or kneel as they paddle, which would destroy my knees.

Life on the river revolves around the floating markets. These large gatherings of powerboats are where local people come to buy and sell their daily needs. Poles are erected with whatever produce or fish the seller has, tied on the mast as an advertisement. It is to these gatherings that the dugout people journey on a daily basis, to trade their meager catches of fish for whatever they need to get them through the day. It is a subsistence form of living that requires most of one’s time and it is the way Mekong people have lived for centuries, or longer.

These markets are very large, consisting of hundreds of boats. They tend to gather in large open areas of the river and while they move each day, the river people always seem to know exactly where they will be next. The dugout paddlers reach these markets by negotiating the inland waterways, then hugging the shore and finally making a mad dash across the open water of the main river to reach the gathering. Watching these people negotiate the river is like watching a dancer perform. It would be wonderful to see one of them in a modern high tech kayak. But for them, wooden boats are not sport. They are an integral part of daily life.

© James Michael Dorsey is a writer/photographer who has traveled extensively in 29 countries. His work has appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, Conde Nast Traveller UK, WaveLength, California Wild, Sea Kayaker, GoWorldTravel and Outdoor Japan magazines plus both the China and Alaska books of the TravelersTales series. He is a certified marine naturalist and photographer for the American Cetacean Society and volunteer photographer for the National Wildlife Federation.