At the heart of Hanoi, one may find Hoàn Kiếm, a body of water that reflects a critical time in Vietnam’s history. And the lore that shrouds this lake is no less compelling, encompassing, as it does, conflict, rebellion and the schemes of water-borne creatures.
Hoàn Kiếm Lake is a natural freshwater lake close to Hanoi’s Old Quarter neighbourhood. Here, the visitor may soak up the city’s past. Pagodas and rail tracks and museums and colonial buildings unite to chart some of the many stages of Vietnam’s evolution. And most grand amongst these sites is Hoàn Kiếm Lake, which dominates the landscape and imbues this hectic city with much poise and calm.
The lake is one of many in Hanoi. These lakes formed after the Red River, whim to the shifts of currents, moved on from land that would become the city. The shifts left in their wake swamps and ponds and other watery sites. And as the city developed and grew, its areas of water followed suit, becoming places like West Lake, Trúc Bạch and Bay Mau. Hoàn Kiếm plotted a similar course. It was once known as Luc Thay, or Emerald Lake, on account of the water’s bright green sheen. So, too, did the people call this body of water Thuy Quan, Naval Lake, because the navy employed it in drills.
In 1884, the French conquered Vietnam. And in their bid to assert their dominance, they made wholesale changes to Hanoi. The area around Hoàn Kiếm, including the Old Quarter, changed dramatically. Much French architecture punctuates the city.
But the visitor will see that time, and the imps that control such things with their systems of levers and pulleys, decreed that this was not the end of Hanoi. Instead, the colonialists introduced their own touches to the rhythm of city life. Such changes buttressed Hanoi’s character and added new depths to it. They even inflamed the Vietnamese desire to wrest back control of their land.
Seeds of Pride
It is back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries that one must go to see the seeds of this civic pride start to bear fruit. This was the time of the rebel leader Lê Lợi (1385 – 1433), a native of Lam Som in Thanh Hoa province. The Chinese Ming Dynasty had occupied Vietnam, renaming it Jiaozhi. The outsiders committed many atrocious acts against the Vietnamese people.
In 1407, one such deed, the destruction of a village, drove Lê Lợi to vow that he would free his people from the yoke of Chinese oppression.
Tales tell that Lê Lợi’s resolve came, in part, from a mystical sword. One day, he was fishing in Luc Thay when, of a sudden, the net fell victim to a curious and powerful weight. Upon raising the net, the source of this dramatic load became clear. Nestling amongst the fish was the magnificent blade of a sword that could only belong to the Dragon King, Long Vương, who lived beneath the surface.
The underwater monarch had bestowed a gift upon Lê Lợi. He found the hilt of the sword in a banyan tree. And upon this blade was inscribed “Thuan Thien”, or “the will of Heaven”. A greater power had something in mind for Vietnam.
Fight the Power
Thus emboldened, Lê Lợi rallied his troops and contributed greatly to the efforts to remove the invading scourge. By way of much fighting, sieging and beheading, the Ming Dynasty felt their grasp on Vietnam weaken. They suffered defeat after defeat. Finally, they withdrew from Northern Vietnam in 1427. The outsiders left the country alone for nearly 400 years.
This time, the golden turtle god Kim Quy met the rebel leader. The god rose out of the water and asked for the return of the Dragon King’s sword. This Lê Lợi gladly did. The blade had served him, and Vietnam, above and beyond the call of duty.
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The whims and whys of gods exceed human comprehension, so Kim Quy’s response remains elusive. But, satisfied with proceedings, he dived back below the water. There he restored the sword to its rightful master.
In honour of this event and the divine aid in freeing Vietnam from its invaders, Lê Lợi renamed the lake Hoàn Kiếm, or the lake of the Returned Sword. And thus has it stayed ever since. The lake changes its colour in reflection of the sky overhead. The water bestows a pocket of calm in the midst of frenetic Hanoi, where it symbolises Vietnamese strength and will.
But the link between Hoàn Kiếm and turtles does not end there. If the visitor should look towards the centre of the lake, they will see a small island, inaccessible by bridges and devoid of boats, upon which rests an isolated stone pagoda. This is the Turtle Tower, or Tháp Rùa. It commands the attention of all who see it.
Tháp Rùa has stood in place for centuries, and its tale is one of intrigue. In the fifteenth century, the first iteration of this edifice appeared: a resting place for Emperor Lê Thánh Tông as he fished on the lake. A few centuries later, the building took its next form, this time in the shape of Tả Vọng Temple. It was built by the noble Trinh clan under the Revival Lê dynasty. But by the eighteenth century, this temple had also vanished.
Tower Secret
By 1886, the French had occupied Vietnam. And in Hanoi, the tower prepared to take its next form. Nguyen Ngoc Kim, an intermediary between the Vietnamese and French authorities, received permission to build on Hoàn Kiếm. He planned to put up a tower. Ostensibly, he sought to honour the efforts of Lê Lợi in freeing Vietnam from the Chinese. But Kim, a musician, had an ulterior motive. He also planned to inter, in secret, his father’s remains within the tower.
This plan came to naught. His scheme was rumbled, and his father’s body removed from the site. Not that this interlude harmed the tower’s construction. Building continued apace and became a three-storey building known as Bá Hộ Kim. But it also had another name: Tháp Rùa, or Turtle Tower.
In 1890, the French, evidently with tastes veering towards the demonstrative and the theatrical, decided that they would add a little something to the site. Thus, no doubt from a position of great modesty, the colonial powers put a miniature Statue of Liberty on top of the tower. There it stayed for more than 50 years, until the overthrow of French control. Only then, in 1945, did the Vietnamese remove the bulky addition.
But before then, Tháp Rùa was a place of defiance. The Vietnamese would hang the country’s revolutionary flag from atop Turtle Tower to defy the colonialists and to further charge the site with patriotic fervour in the face of an invasive force. From one century to the next, from the time of Lê Lợi, the tower embodied resistance to outside rule.
But a sign of health is openness to new ideas. Thus, while Tháp Rùa may have carried an air of dissent, its design blended Western and Asian styles. The three-tiered structure becomes thinner with each rising level, culminating in a curved roof with the distinct mottled tiles, writhing dragons and shrine so common in Vietnam’s spiritual sites.
The outline is that of a pagoda-style structure, that many visitors to this region will know and recognise. Arched doorways, that mimic Gothic traditions, allow entry into the tower and imbue it with an open, welcoming air, as if to say there is nothing to hide or fool the observer. Once inside, if the visitor reaches the third storey, they may find the engraving “Quy Son Thap”, or “Tower of the Turtle Mountain”.
Strong Base
Tháp Rùa’s strength lies in its stockiness. A hurricane would struggle to knock this tower from its bearings, as would a typhoon, tornado, derecho or cyclone. The thick bottom denotes elemental might, as though syphoning power from the earth itself. And this reflects the toughness of the Vietnamese and their efforts to stave off the encroaching reach of colonial power, and that tenacity has taken root and passed down through the ages. Hanoi is a place of tradition and history, and Tháp Rùa emanates such grace from base to tip.
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This oneness extends to the tower’s brickwork, rendered aged and moss-covered by many years’ exposure to the elements. So weathered, Tháp Rùa blends in with its surroundings and has become as much a part of the landscape as Hoàn Kiếm itself.
And the tower’s namesake creatures still make their presence known. Reports over the years have abounded of giant softshell turtles, or those of the species Rafteus leloii, named after the rebel leader, in the lake. But more recent sightings have featured only a single turtle, by all accounts very old; some say its age may be measured in centuries.
Thus does the question arise: is this the same beast that furnished Lê Lợi with his blade all that time ago, and, ever-protective, still patrols the waters? The answer remains an enigma. But it should never get in the way of the tantalising prospect of mythology being made flesh, and especially when this myth charged the lifeblood of Hanoi, the city that surrounds it.
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