Journey's End

        I drifted down from those mountains with their soggy roads and crisp air into the aimless heat of the coast. Jackets and various layers were stripped off along the way and stuffed under bungee cords already tenuously holding a severely distended backpack and a sad little guitar I picked up in Dalat. Eventually I found myself on a straightaway with a parched landscape on each side, happily sporting a t-shirt and rain-dirt-mud-weathered jeans. Around a bend, Mui Ne's sand dunes rose and that sweet salty smell wafted in.
       This region isn't painfully hot like some locales across SE Asia: call it fluidic, you float and you wade in its hazy indifference; some drown, most figure their afternoons in the shade, cold beer in hand. There's always later, probably an unspoken mantra in Mui Ne, and later is always there.

        I came here partly because of Andrew, a guy I might while we were both cowering from the cold in our terrible hotel's unheated ballroom-turned-restaurant during my stay in Ninh Binh. He cursed himself for getting that far North away from the beaches, the late nights, the DJing frenzy, and the dingy hut that he had been calling home for some time. The place sounded idyllic, we planned to meet up; though most travelers view these sorts of plans as mere platitudes at best, or even downright lies, I was yearning to see a familiar face, speak some English, and get my damn party on.

       I had planned for a few days, then I found a beautiful reason to stay. A week later I would be off to Ho Chi Minh City, trying to sell the bike with hand-scrawled signs posted on street lights in the tourist district. Fumbling around, just trying to leave, the way the end of trips usually go.

       I was tired, beat-up downright from the endless nights of partying with new friends. My memories even exhausted me as I tried to gather them: the dumping rain in the first half of the trip, my naivete and lack of any sort of knowledge regarding what I had planned, the streets of Hanoi that spilled forth history, the damn, unexpected cold and the knockoffs from tiny markets I tried to shelter myself in, the helpful and the would-be crooks, the long stretches of road shrouded in silence, the truck drivers at a lonely cafe feeding me wooden bong tobacco hits, the ones that ran me off the road, the locals laughing at my silly confusion in unknown towns, the wrong turns and bad directions with good intentions, the Montangard villages, the fear of the bike breaking down during so many stretches of empty highway, the eery scars of war and the mute man who showed them to me, the big smiles and bigger laughter,  the love and the joy. Vietnam. Yes, yes.

Pogo's, Andrew and Caleb in full force.

Beachside, buying mangoes and thankful to be out of the bush.

 The beauty of Mui ne's dunes at sunset.

    
       .            

Dalat Musings Days 19 and 20

 The plethora of hills and valleys that separate Lak Lake from Dalat. 

                 Coming from the semi-remote Lak Lake, I've apparently hit the back road into town. Weaving and pothole-ridden, this lurching beast of a highway rises to mountain crowns with golden views of the green furnace below, parched and ripe at the same time. As the elevation rises into Dalat, temperatures cool and the road is lined with pines, their crisp smell helping me along. Not much further to go now, maybe only 300 K or so until Ho Chi Minh City.

                  I spend my days here wandering the city and its outskirts, even finding a lake for some respite from the bustle that even consumes this relatively quiet place. Nothing of any significance happens and I'm happy for that; the bike and its status are a constant worry. It was dirt cheap already and that was 1500 K ago. Been rubbin' her tank for good luck and crossing my fingers ever time I hear an odd sound from this beast that I have no ability to fix.

Dalat's "Crazy House"is the work of architect Dang Viet Nga. It is designed in the likeness of a Banyan tree with staircases and walkways weaving their way along its length. Inside a labyrinth of  stalactite infused hallways whose walls have a peculiar effect on perception, as though melting on themselves, are free to explore. Rooms found along dark corridors and around bends are equally eclectic as the structure itself featuring odd statues with bright red eyes, statues of mythological animals, that stand eerily in corners.

             

          

Vietnam~ Day 18~

          I'm sweating rum bullets now. Down my brow, trickling along the crevices of my face and emptying out the bottom of my stanky, dust-covered helmet. Thoughtlessly propelling myself through some of the most elaborate beauty the world has to offer. Lush rice paddies, verdant valleys, the works... Asia. Beguiling me, reeling me along, and getting me caught up in its own myth, losing me along its grueling highways and indiscernible cities. I need breath and,though my trip has been solitary, I need solace. Luckily, Lak Lake lies ahead, and at a reasonable distance.
      This old country road eventually ( and mesmerizingly) winds down to Jun Village on the southern bank of Lak Lake leading to a settlement of the M'nong people. The capricious nature of my travels have brought me here and I'm thankful for that after fumbling through this town aimlessly looking for a place to stay. I'm here, nice and steady, with nothing but an old lake and few old folks to keep me company.
Though there's more; many a local enjoying themselves, swilling local liquor, near my door late into the evening.
       The wind heaves in this valley, been doin' that all day... and once those boys get to sleep, or pass, it's gonna' sound real nice.

Rice fields on the outskirts of Lak Lake.

The only visitor in this traditional stilt house meant to accommodate twelve.

The sweetness of the M'nong countryside.( Yes, those are elephants in the river)

Vietnam~ Day 17~

      Vietnam's Wild West. Tumbleweeds.
      Lumpy roads and snack stands.
      Ramshackle houses settled in valleys and along hills, the endless hills of burnt golden grasses and all those Fall shades, rolling here, in Spring, off damn far into the distance, giving a person at least the inkling to follow 'em up every lost, sad little offshoot road, hopin' to find treasure or mystery or whatever strange story gleaned my eye each time I gazed into one, at whatever eye-bleating speed I was going.
      This is where Vietnam's fake moon landing should have been filmed. Martian villagers and all, looking sidelong, only half-interested.
      It's been a while now since the last real rest-stop and this dirty, old bike is givin' cause for concern. How long will she last? Will I bury her, roadside, in some solemn ceremony, hitch into the next forgotten hamlet, hit the bottle, then find a bus to the nearest skeezy beach town?
       These thoughts roam through my head as I gun another 6 hours, predictably being run off the road by truckers and  not caring so much anymore. The skies have been dark and foreboding for a while. Keeping my hand on the throttle; I don't need anymore drenched journeys.
 

Into the Motagnard Mist

The rugged terrain only got worse as this road slowly slithered up and over steep hills, through small creeks until, eventually, passing corrugated tin shacks that grew smaller and more feeble, I was forced to turn back. Probably for my own good.

(The Montagnards are an ethnic minority residing deep in the rugged, mountain highlands of Vietnam. The arid land they've been thrust into, far outside of a city that is itself unspectacular, pretty aptly tells the tale of their treatment by the Vietnamese government. Though there is land to be farmed, it's sparse and seems tenuous, as though hanging by a thread, scratching to not be consumed by the dusty roads, unforgiving rocks, and hills scorched dry by the suns' rays. A far cry from the land they were pushed off of to make way for lucrative coffee plantations; a fate befalling them as much for their minority status as for their collusion with the CIA during the Vietnam War.)

         'Hi ho! This be Montagnaaaard land!' my bike called out to me. His thick Southern drawl, origin indiscernible, was only getting worse. I was pretty sure he was butchering the name, but I said nothing.  

         We then crossed a small suspension bridge, bridging us, as it were, from the humdrum reality of Kon Tum's backstreets to these Montagnard hinterlands. They were, in the parlance of our times, decidedly more gangsta. 

          But here we were, in the thick of it.  Cold, even in this heat, and barren but for lonely dust clouds, these roads hinted at the solitude and struggle of this backwater. But, as Kon Tum is considered a backwater-- languid streets and nonsense city squares, dirty markets and nameless, shifty hotels. This place is the backwater's wicked stepchild. 

          The men trudge through the streets, hoes and shovels draped over their shoulders, dirty ( for everything is covered in dust here) wide-brimmed hats barely concealing bristling stares. Though the Vietnamese tend to keep a rougher edge than others, these men's eyes had a more hardened texture altogether. Their stony gaze asked what this fool was doing here. I felt foolish indeed as the unwanted often do. Ostracized to the hills themselves and why should they welcome a rich foreigner into their midst.(I'm surely not rich, but all that is in the eye of the beholder I suppose-- what man other than a rich one is free to aimlessly cavort around the hills shooting photographs in the middle of the day?)   

       I offered a man resting in the shade of a tree a hand-rolled and was promptly ignored with a sideways glance, like a child with a stupid question. 

          The women and children waved and smiled, yelling 'hello' at me. Probably because women will always look fondly on a foolish, lost man and children are too innocent feel ill will towards anyone.

           A trail along a slackened, muddy river twisted its way deeper into the cut. The Blue Beast performed admirably in tight paths up steep hills and over shallow creeks. But at some point we both knew it was time to turn back.

Everyone works in Montagnard-land. If there was a school, I didn't see it and many kids were engaged in some form of physical labor on this particular weekday. These young girls, perhaps 12 years old at the most, were busy collecting wood, roots, and other scraps.

    

A young boy grazing cattle.

The Blue Beast feeling very much at home, caked in dust.  This is the Montagnard's version of an affluent city center: solid structures, and even a traditional Montagnard house used a meeting place.

        

Friendly greetings were limited to women and children who seemed to see this foreigner as a harmless anomaly rather than intruder. At times, I felt like both.

Day 15~ Vietnam:

The very common communist propaganda billboards that dot the countryside and cities of Vietnam.

As with any advertisement, they portray a more idealistic scene than presently exists:  a nepotistic, corrupt government  lurching its way into the 21st century (begrudgingly) and using capitalism to its benefit; headily mixing it with its old authoritarian ways, of course.

                   I awoke with a stretch in my gut. I could barely sleep the night before. I had less money than I thought. Much less. About 100,000 Vietnamese Dong in total.

                  I'd learned to fear and prepare for these situations. I had and I had. But it was over a stale beer and cigarette late the night before that I fumbled for reasons as to why I should be in this goddamn forsaken ( as I was calling it; actually a nice place though..) town with $5 to my name. You do not leave big cities with no money in your pocket. You don't. My crumpled bills added up to exactly the price of the hotel room. My bike was on empty. As usual, I had no idea where I 

was-- 150 kilometers from Kon Tum-- but where the hell was that?

                  That morning the only ATM screen in town was dead black and looked as though it had never vomited up an ounce of cash to anyone. I thought of selling my only book ( The Burning Plain and Other Stories by Juan Rulfo-- a great fucking book by the way) for at least $5 worth of gas to make it into the next town. There were a few foreigners around here; I'd spotted them the day before with their guides. But luck was fading and I was also thinking of darker scenarios: selling the bike for dirt cheap, catching a bus into the next town defeated, journey over, mission not accomplished. 

                  A local told me the power was out.... could be a few days at least. Dejected, I scoured the town hopelessly looking for avid readers, literary enthusiasts, douchebags like me. A man invited me for a cup of coffee and, making sure he was picking up the tab, I accepted. Another 'Easy Rider' motorcycle guide, and he readily offered to lend me money until I made it into the next town. ( Class act. We later met and had beers into the night. This man saved my ass.)

                  I'll never forget the ride to Kon Tum. The journey would not and could not be stopped, I didn't care what kind of clusterfuck I got myself into. You're never free until you feel like you're trapped. I laughed into the rain, re-energized by my good luck in meeting the generous motorcycle guide. Finally, reaching another nameless mountain pas, the sun shone down on me. I basked in its rays and ripped my layers of jackets off, stuffing them under the bungee cord that held my bag; Later, at a roadside shack, I gobbled down Pho soup like I had never eaten before and laughed with all of those that laughed at me, climbing off my bike with bag-wrapped shoes and muddy pants. Goddamn was it good to be there.

                   

                   

                   

                 

                   

                 

 

In the Middle of Somewhere

  

     Wandering deep country off the Ho Chi Minh Highway.  

Location: Somewhere between nameless, misty mountain town and Kon Tum.

        It wasn't on the map and it's just as well. Through sheets of rain I could make out the modest basics of any backwater that had decided to become a town for whatever reason: a post office and other government buildings, chained and locked, on the main road, with smaller roads winding off of that until they hit the edge of small plots of rice giving way to thick forest sinking into something even deeper and darker than that. 

        Already nearing dusk, I knew it was my home for the night. I found a little hotel at the end of one of those little roads and hung my soggy clothes anywhere and everywhere in my tiny room to get them dry as possible; I wouldn't be staying long. That decision was easy. Making it here was not. 

         I and my traveling partners, ' The Ridiculous Map' and 'The Blue Beast', spent a convoluted morning trying to find Highway 14B, aka Ho Chi Minh Highway, following locals' directions through small town after small town. The following were the best I was able to get: 

        
" Follow this road for about 10 or 12 km, you'll see a small dirt trail, turn right on that and you should see highway." -- An 'Easy Rider' guide taking a tourist on the back of his bike to the tune of $70 a day. These guys make a killing in terms of Vietnamese Dong and for good reason; they actually know where they're going and what they're doing. 
       (These directions had me faring far better than what had become a desperately futile routine: stopping whenever I saw what I deemed to be a reasonable-looking character roadside, I would dismount the mud-caked beast, my absurd, bagged shoes slipping on the wet asphalt, holding up a finger for a moment's wait while I rifled through my sack for my soggy map. As he looked over the hapless map, bodies would inevitably muddle out of the woodwork, from shopfronts and various darkened doorways, joining my new friend. Brief arguments would break out with rapid finger-pointing ,usually in completely different directions, killing the little bit of confidence I might have had in my roadside sage. Eventually a scrap of paper and pen would be procured and a new makeshift map produced. New map in hand, and a large portion of the group still arguing amongst themselves and shaking their heads, I would be off again. Completely lost.)


          With that I finally hit the main highway and began my course through the steep and heavily forested mountain passes the VC called home for the majority of the war. I was soaked through in minutes. Bristling with constant rain and murky cloud cover, this terrain seems especially unforgiving during the monsoon season. At a pit-stop in a little restaurant there was an old grainy black and white photo. 
        Shot decades ago, it pictured a European pushing his way up a stream in blinding rain, every other inch of the shot overflowing with tropical vegetation. Trailing behind were a few Vietnamese, certainly guides, hired for the journey. Despite everything, the man's face was the most stark and memorable part of the photograph. In it there was a tinge of fear, the healthy kind, probably what he came for, and a little crazed uncertainty glinting off of his eyes, but some sort of sick resolve accompanied all of that, set deep in the grimace on his face. A face that wasn't looking into the camera at all, but far off into the distance at the expanse that lay behind it. 

The Blue Beast and the faithful plastic bag that kept my camera dry. 

The cold, rain-drenched mountains sit in the background.