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.

Vietnam~ Days 13-14~Hoa's Place and Marble Mountain

A Hindu shrine at the Marble Mountain

         After 6 hours on The Blue Beast (yeah, it's earned a name) I wearily pull into Hoa's. My bag isn't unstrapped from the bike, nor the thick layer of dust and grime scrubbed from my face, before Hoa himself has got me by one hand and is shoving a beer into the other as he leads me back to a table of travelers eagerly awaiting the end to one of his renowned story-telling sessions.
        The man's sanguine personality looms much larger than his operation: a restaurant-bar  hemmed in by a small dirt road leading to an empty beach and a row of of bland, block buildings that are checkered with both Hoa's rooms and local residences.  The rooms are as bleak and sad as they come, windowless and lit by florescent light, with each night's sleep preceded by a 'mosquito offensive', the ephemeral effects of which are always seen the next morning. Thus, the bar is full at all times, with everyone staying away from their rooms as long as possible.
  

he following day was spent exploring marble mountain and its rich array of both Hindu and Buddhist sanctuaries from the past. In the afternoon I sat having beer with some local fisherman, watching an Englishman attempt a surf session in rolling storm surf. They hooted and hollered, flashing grins of incredulity with every wave. It was a rare sight for everyone involved.
 

During the war the Vietcong used Marble mountain as a VC hospital. A ballsy move considering there were troves of American soldiers stationed in and around the area at the time.

Distances:
630 KM Down
About  another 1400 to go

Vietnam~ Day 12- Wanderlusting on a Forgotten Coast

        Skys of pearl and cobalt are sagging above, brimming with rain, as I slip out of Hue on a small coastal road. Ennui and wanderlust had been brewing in the pit of my stomach since yesterday and this dirty, wet road can be the only remedy. If I stayed the rain wouldn't have stopped anyway. Clouds stretched endless on the horizon. No matter; I'm used to it by now and I swear I feel it getting warmer.
The road, morphing from the size of a back-alley to sometimes much less, cuts through small towns with large graveyards on one side and a dark, brooding bay one the other with a few fisherman still trying their luck. This gave way to more peculiar villages, nestled in the hooks and digs of of the coast, where I too became more peculiar.

The road eventually winds down into the coast, running parallel. I stop on a desolate, windblown beach and look out on the murky, barreling waves. Further up I can see the road run over a large bridge and then ascend to cling the coastal mountains choked with fog( pic above--looking back on that beach on my way up the mountain).

On the other side, past an old American bunker, everything is lit up with sunshine, sublime empty coast, villages and all. I forget about my camera and cruise to the beach.

Vietnam~ Day 11- Rain, Rain, Go Away

The Citadel walls. The emperor abdicated to Ho Chi Minh's Revolutionary Government here in 1945. Prior to that only emperors and their concubines were allowed inside 'the Forbidden City'.  The penalty for tresspassing was death--- nowadays about three bucks will get you in.

My schedule today is coffee, coffee, tea, beer. Rain, rain, rain, too. The bleary-eyed Frenchman, another ersatz resident of the drafty front room that stares out into a now near lifeless alley, joins my regimen with the resigned air of plans abandoned. There's no leaving today, the city's soaked through and the rain keeps coming like crashing waves. First frothing with drizzle, then rising, and finally peaking at a showering crescendo as each rolls through.
 So we sit, talk shop,and mock one another along with the English expat. Li, the bubbling proprietress, sits slowly rocking to Vietnamese music crackling from a weathered black box. Her body ensconced in jacket, scarf, and a plethora of indistinguishable layers and fabrics, she's rolling a growing hill of cigarettes.
They're mine. Back-country papers I bought in the middle of somewhere that I was rolling just fine on my own until she shook her head and forcibly took them from me. Vietnamese hospitality: caring with an edge. These will likely last me at least a week.

Li and the Frenchman. Waiting out the rain.

Hue on a milder day.

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.