Vietnam~ Day 10-Back to Civilization. Hue.

Outside an old temple on a rainy day in Hue.

Jetting into Hue on an expansive boulevard running parallel to the ramparts enclosing the old Citadel, I become lost, my bustling entryway wilting down to barren road, market lined side street and, eventually, residential alley. Turning around, and cursing the amateurish guidebook map for the hundredth time, a large, bearded, shirtless expat waves me down. 
Chris kindly shows me around, giving me treatment only a local can, showing me to the cheapest digs in town and then away from the clamor of the tourist district into a little locals-only hideaway with goat spring rolls, 6 a plate, for fifty cents. He eats six plates.  

Bao Quoc Pagoda, built in 1670.

  

He's been here for over 15 years, long enough to remember maps of the country being illegal, outlawed by the harder-lined Vietnam government of the past. Chris used to ride Minsk motorcycles in his youth and ran outside when he heard the distinct growl of my engine. 

Out on the town later and I don't mind being on the tourist strip or the 'hey you!' treatment. It's good just be around other travelers after that last lonely, though idyllic, expanse of countryside. Spend the night drinking with some Aussies. Perfect remedy.

Vietnam~ Day 9- Going Underground in Vinh Moc

This man was born here. Click at the jump to read more about him.

       Awake to the whirring peal of scooters and to find the hotel bill already paid by some new Thai friends, met in a chance encounter at the harbor in this nowhere town. We all drowned ourselves in whiskey and conversation. Much needed conversation, even in my broken Thai, after about four days of living inside my own head. Never-ending glasses and pure hospitality.

And so today I wade into the DMZ, feeling as though I'm in search of Kurtz. My partner, the Minsk, and I are relieved to finally escape the feverish distended clutch of a desolate North Central region that could only possibly be renowned for maniacal truck drivers and fields upon fields of blinding green rice crops. 

Between the makeshift guide book maps and my wholly inaccurate, made purely for reference purposes, clearly not a real road map map, I'm aimless and fighting headwinds, trying to find relics and monuments of our now 40- year- old quagmire. Finally stopping at a town that is actually on the map, I realize I'm about 20 K off course. An old man in a tattered U.S. army jacket gives me directions over cigarettes at the the foot of his small house that rests a stone's throw from the highway. 

I'm looking for the Vinh Moc tunnels. A complex underground network of man-made caverns that go as deep as 25 meters, where an entire village of people lay in hiding off and on for over 6 years to escape the bombing by the American warships lingering offshore. The tunnels also served as a Viet Cong base of operations.

The bamboo-laden path to the tunnels.

Unexploded U.S. ordinance.

Desperately lost after receiving my good-natured but incredibly vague directions (" over a bridge about 10 K from here and then turn right"), I luckily stumble upon some tourists and their guide who happen to making their way to the same tunnel complex. Following them down an unmarked road off the highway, weaving through bends and intersections on shrinking country paths, I realize it would have been impossible to locate these tunnels on my own.

"Most locals don't even know how to reach them," the guide tells me.

Wandering alone through the tiny dilapidated museum, a small man suddenly enters. He limps but moves quickly and with purpose, pointed bamboo shoot in hand, repeatedly pointing to a picture, its placard, and then back to himself. The placard tells the story of the infant pictured, held by its mother, in a dark crawl space. The man, who is unable to speak for reasons unknown to me, is the museum caretaker and is the infant pictured. His life in the tunnels unfolds across the museum walls: his birth and his education with others of varying ages under the pithy light of lanterns with whatever materials could be procured.

Goods were delivered to the tunnels residents by the Viet Cong via a system of wells like this one.

He ushers me along to a tunnel entrance for a tour.

Together, armed with flashlights, we navigate the dark maze of tunnels. Up makeshift stairwells, through narrow crevice-like halls, past bathrooms, birthing chambers, study halls and then larger chambers reserved for meetings of the V.C. brass. The walls are moist and the light I carry seems to disappear into a vacuum, illuminating nothing. I stumble often. One can only imagine spending days, weeks, years in this dark and dank hideaway.

 We emerge on one end of the labyrinth into cool ocean breezes, fisherman now standing sentry in place of warships, distant chatter replacing bellowing blasts. The caretaker smiles and gestures for me to take pictures of the now serene beach.

Out of the tunnels and into the light.

We venture deeper before finally exiting. I'm glad to leave.

The weather has warmed and I give the guide a spare sweater I'll no longer need, as a tip. He tries it on, a perfect fit, and shakes my hand heartily in thanks. The gift seems unexpected to him, probably like much of his life, and he likewise takes it in stride and with a smile.

This man has seen things you don't want to see.

Vietnam~ Day 8- 200K All Day

Young locals in a Vietnamese fishing town along the way

       The allure of the North Central region of Vietnam is maybe that it's so far off the beaten track of other travelers that you there's the distinct possibility of never meeting anyone on the travel trail at all; locals and no buzzy signs, no hostels, no 'great deal' tours. No nothin'.There's good reason for this: the beautiful bays and looming karst cliffs out of the catalogues don't exist here, nor do pristine beaches, and the towns, small and anonymous, have little to offer. People living simple, honest lives.
Stopping frequently for coffee, gas, and beer, I'm usually met with quizzical smiles, broken English inquiries and genuine friendliness.  Where I'm from and why I'm here sipping thick-as-oil coffee deep in this backwater town that sees no visitors, this is what everyone wants to know. America for the first and a thumbs up for the latter has to suffice. Any deeper responses bite at the laconic nature of these exchanges and can muddle them, rendering everyone involved even more confused than they should be.
Eight long hours of riding finally has me in Dong Hoi, the last no-name in this region on my way to the more tourist-worn spot in the DMZ or Demilitarized Zone. A moniker leftover from the Vietnam war ( more aptly called ' the American War' by the Vietnamese) which is steeped in sad irony as this was the most militarized  and dangerous place in the entire country at that time. It was so heavily mined during the war that going off of well-trod paths will, to this day, put you in danger of losing a limb. Many Vietnamese suffer this tragedy every year.
Those with a little extra cash to throw around can donate to NGO's such as  Clear Path International and Mines Advisory Group, both of whom do a good job in assisting in the de-mining of this area and others around Vietnam.

 A roadside Pho chef

 Roi

Vietnam~ Day 7- Getting Warmer.. Cua Lo Beach Finally

Sandwich vendor at a religious festival

On the road for hours, blazing past farms and no name towns, until traffic stops and a gaggle of people are wandering through what I thought was a highway.
Thankful for respite from an unending, never changing horizon, I stop at what turns out to be a Buddhist festival full of welcoming locals from the small towns that dot each side of the road every few miles or so.

Another spectacular temple amongst towns that aren't on any maps

Arrived in Cua Lo in time to set my clothes out to dry and motor around town. The guide book has it pegged as a popular honeymoon destination... that also has a robust prostitution trade. Classy. Had a grilled fish on an empty stretch of beach and then some of the cheap rice liquor to knock me out before the 200 K trip tomorrow.

Rice fields on the outskirts of Cua Lo with a cemetery in the background

Vietnam~ Day 6- Soggy Road in the Middle of Somewhere

Who knew sunny skies were ahead?

They told me to stay. Annoyed I wasn't heeding their advice, the old ladies in the dreary lobby of the hotel slapped my hands away as I tried to tie the plastic bags they had given me around my own double-socked feet along with another set around my icy, soaked shoes. They would do it themselves; my sendoff would at least be on their terms.


Powdered, latex, food handling gloves covered my cheap wool ones, a rain coat wrenched on over every dry shirt I had, the ubiquitous Viet flannel face mask, and some decent rain pants to finish.

 The process now complete, my body transformed into an amorphous mass of fabric and plastic, my Vietnamese mothers stood back, hands on hips, to admire their work. Shaking their heads, they bid me farewell.

The ride was tough, the road again clogged with shipping trucks, but the weather relented and had some warm spots. The old, dirty towns with their neon signs eventually gave way to verdant countryside. Rows of crops with backdrops of mountains for miles.

Hunkering down in a spartan roadside hotel at twilight, I dined and smoked tobacco out of bamboo bongs with the same truckers who had no doubt spent the better part of their day running me off the road.