Fishermen cast their nets from rocking canoes while their wives paddle against the current. Coal barges, shallow draft cargo ships and tugs crowd the narrow channel. And while farmers from the surrounding countryside cram rusting ferryboats to the gunwales, Russian-built hydrofoils zip past. With their long tail fins and Sputnik-styling, they seem wonderfully kitschy throwbacks. Most of the boats eschew the crowded dock and simply ground themselves on the river's shore.
Porters carry inhuman loads on their shoulders with nothing more than rope and a bamboo stave.
The wiry men swarm new arrivals, and bundles of green veggies on one side are quickly balanced against a television set on the other. Veins bulging, legs trembling and chests heaving, the men negotiate their way through winding streets, down stone stairways and up rocking gangplanks. A porter carries baskets filled with live ducks to market. I wonder how to leave this place and this story behind. For nearly four weeks and 1,500 miles I've lived along this river's shores.