“A ferryman’s tale,” I mused, “right here at Ngũ Hành Miếu.” Ngũ Hành Miếu, also known as Cảnh Động Hoang Temple, sits quietly by the Bà Tà Canal. It has stood for over a century, a silent observer of the changing tides. Our story begins with Mr. Sau Huc, a ferryman who has navigated these waters for 40 years. He recalls a time before motorboats, when he’d row tirelessly, following the lead boat’s rhythm. The canal was deeper then, unaffected by the rising and falling tides. The far side of the Bà Tà Canal was a vast expanse of waterlogged land, dotted with water hyacinths and a few resilient trees. Desolate, yet somehow, six small temples sprung up along the canal bank, drawing crowds seeking fortune. Ngũ Hành Miếu, one of these six, became a popular destination.
Mr. Sau Huc ferried people to these temples. Years ago, the visitors were mostly those paying respects. But the need for lottery numbers grew, and so did his workload. He inherited this life from his father. He remembers his father took care of the ferry for 10 years. After his passing, he took over the family business, carrying the torch forward. He recalled the people coming to the temples in search of lucky numbers. They would eagerly ask him about their chances, their faces etched with hope or despair. He’d shake his head, disapproving of their blind faith in chance. He believed hard-earned money, brought about by one’s own efforts, was more reliable than any lottery win.
The original temples were simple structures, built with wood. Over time they were rebuilt with brick, offering some level of permanence. Now only Ngũ Hành Miếu continues this trade. People still come, seeking solace or a stroke of luck. The atmosphere is hushed. Incense fills the air, and the murmur of prayers mixes with the quiet rustle of offerings. The temple is steeped in stories. They say it holds the remains of over 30 unidentified people, mostly victims of the river. Their families brought their remains here, seeking a final resting place. Mr. Sau Huc’s voice grows somber as he tells these stories. He’s seen firsthand the heartbreak and despair of those left behind.
He sees himself as the last ferryman on the Bà Tà Canal. His profession is dwindling. Some colleagues left due to health issues, others were swallowed by the very desperation they ferried across the water. He’s resisted that pull, holding on to his own simple life. As our ferry pulls away from Ngũ Hành Miếu, the engine’s hum fades into the quiet of the canal. The river flows on, a constant amidst the ever-changing currents of life and fate. Ngũ Hành Miếu remains a constant too. It stands as a testament to faith, hope, and the enduring human need for connection with something beyond the everyday.