In The Hall of the Mountain King

I hate caves.

I hate everything about caves. They're dark, damp and dirty. They smell funny, swarm with evil creatures and I'm always positive they're going to collapse the minute after I enter them.

And that's why I laid out some serious money and set aside two precious days to go caving. I'm not even going to bother to try to explain it, except to say that the caves were part of the same group as Son Doong, the world's largest cave (which, unfortunately I would not be seeing since the price of admission is 7 days and $3000 US). I would be doing the poor man's expedition: 2 caves, 2 days, still plenty of potential for disaster.

On the appointed morning, I ate The Last Breakfast and was whisked to Oxalis HQ, where I met my fellow idiots (3 couples from respectively California, Paris and Berlin). I listened (partially) to the standard bullshit briefing and got kitted out with gumboots, dry bags, etc. Then it was into the van for the drive to the hiking-in spot.

Preparations for the suicide mission are carefully made.

And off we went to the first cave.

The intrepid cavers, the National Park ranger (who, like most government employees, ended up doing fuck all) and one of the guide assistants, who literally carried a bag equivalent to his body weight.

Time to enter Hang Nuoc Nut. Of course you can't see my testicles shrivelling, but, believe me, they most certainly were.

What could be more conducive to an enjoyable lunch than the possibility of imminent death? Mmmmm.

As we descended and the roof of the cave closed over us, I felt remarkably calm, probably because I was concentrating so hard on not slipping and falling to my death that I had no time to be claustrophobic. Not to mention the fact that within the first half hour, we were wading through chilly, chest- high water and completely soaked, a state I was to remain in for 2 full days. And, in case you're wondering: yes, it's both extremely uncomfortable and relentlessly unpleasant.

But even that couldn't dampen my enthusiasm and wonder. I don't really know how to describe the feeling of being there without resorting to hackneyed, overused superlatives. Look for yourself.

See what I mean? How can you possibly describe those scenes in words? And who's that fearless fool standing beside the giant stalagmite?

Anyhow, the trek just kept going from one awe-inspiring venue to the next. You know how in certain situations (eating, music & travelling are the first three that come to my mind, but I'm sure you've got your own) you just keep repeating, "That's my favorite.............! No, THAT'S my favorite!" ad nauseum? It's exactly like that.

I mean, c'mon, give me a break.

All too soon, it was time to leave and head for camp - on just about the toughest climb and descent I've ever done. Steep, slippery and done after 4 hours of scrambling around in boots that seemed to have soles made of bear grease. Jesus on a stick!

The descent and the reward, including a d'Eça/Ducharme toilet. Home sweet home.

Next morning, after a yummy western breakfast - French toast AND pancakes - we climbed back into our soaking wet clothes, a feeling even more uncomfortable than it sounds, if that's possible.

Brief non sequitur: I was again reminded of my chats with Charles concerning exactly these things - extreme terrain and constantly wet clothing. I did it for 2 days and it made me suicidal. Imagine weeks on end. The mind boggles.

Another descent - this time wearing climbing harnesses and having to clip onto a line - unh-huh, THAT steep and precarious and done 4 fucking times - into Hang Va. I'll shut up & let the photos do the talking for me.

The last 2 are of "tower cones" which take an excruciatingly long walk to get to and reminded me of an underground Pamukkale.

Honestly, there were so many other spots that, believe it or not, were even more breathtaking, but because we had to wade through waist-high water to access them, I couldn't use my camera.

And that's that. Another excruciating climb out of the cave, up & down the mountain and done like dinner.

So the obvious question is: Was it worth it? And the oh-so-obvious answer is: Oh yeah! Not that I'm ever going to do it, but Vuong, our guide, was telling me that our caves are " like little babies" compared to Son Doong, where, for example, the ceiling can be 180 metres high and the rooms can be 200 metres wide.

So, while my opinion of caves in general hasn't changed, I find I'm willing to make an exception or two now, particularly if I can visit them.

Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, this will be the last episode of my riveting saga, at least for this trip. This mornjng on the way to Mai Chau, my moto and I had a brief disagreement on whether we should remain vertical or try out horizontal and I lost. It really was one of those,"How could I be so fucking stupid?" moments. It was drizzling and the road was in that greasy state that I really should have been aware of. I saw a sign for gas and (I swear to God) just touched the brake. But I must have turned the wheel just a tad. There was that brief moment, "Ah shit, no!" and then it was over. No big deal, except that I landed on my left shoulder and head. The good news was the entire village came out to help. Two ladies took me into their house, since I was a bit wobbly, and fed and cleaned me up. Some guy pushed my bike up the hill to the mechanic and his buddy escorted me to the doctor, who patched up my obvious cuts and scrapes and shrugged about the rest. Soon thereafter I was back on my way.
The bad news is that while I can drive, it hurts like hell and trying to carry my knapsack is even worse, so that pretty much rules out any further travel, unless I can somehow scare up a masseuse/porter/driver tomorrow morning in Hanoi.

So come Sunday evening, after what I'm presuming will be the ultimate flights from hell, I'll be nestled in the bosom of my family - a silver lining if there ever was one.
It's super warm there now, right?

Hello My Baby, Hello My Honey, Hello My Ho Chi Minh

So obviously I survived my "Trial By Cave" (just barely), and I can't wait to tell you all about its stupendousness, but first, shall we "head out on the highway"?

It had finally arrived - my first official day on the Ho Chi Minh Highway - and I was pretty darn excited. I'll cut to the chase, and tell you right now it was all I expected and more, which turned out to be both a good and a bad thing, as you shall soon see.

The first thing that happened was I came across a cyclist who I recalled glimpsing at the Khe Sanh Memorial. This time I stopped and it turns out Viet the Vietnamese (I know - you couldn't make this shit up) is biking from Saigon to Sapa, which has to be easily over 3000 km. We had a lovely chat, exchanged phone numbers and I promised to let him know the hotel situation in Phong Na. I felt kind of guilty and envious at the same time.

In case you were worried, he messaged me and everything worked out fine for him - due in no small part to my reconnoitering and reporting.

Back to the ride. The most accurate description I can give you of the road is that on my Google Maps screen it looks like a blown-up picture of the world's longest zipper. Oh, and the scenery is spectacular.

Not much point in saying anything else is there?

Another huge bonus, theoretically at least, is that there was no traffic whatsoever - and I mean NONE. Of course this immediately conjures up the two equal, but diametrically opposed thoughts in my feverish brain:
"Holy shit! I have this whole road to myself! This is fucking fantastic!"
Holy shit! There's no-one else on this road at all! If something happens, I'm so screwed!"
C'est la vie.

Another interesting result of this isolation is that, for the first time, there wasn't a gas station every 100 metres. In fact, I couldn't find one at all. Eventually, with visions of strandedness dancing through my head, I pulled over at a house and tried to indicate that I needed gas by moving my hand up & down, thumb extended, over the tank. Initial reactions were not exactly what I'd hoped for ("Kill him now. He's obviously deranged."), but finally someone caught on and immediately everyone seemed to be pointing and gesturing at the neighbour's house back down the road. Now who was confused?
"What the hell?" I thought, and pulled into the neighbour's yard, making my "gas" sign again to the wizened old lady sitting on the porch. No confusion here. Granny went inside and emerged a minute later, wearing the regulation Viet face mask, and carrying a giant gas can. Out came a funnel and a litre plastic container, and before you know it I was topped up and on my way. I'd heard about these family fill-up stations, necessary since scooters have a tiny 2 litre tank, but to see one in action was a whole different thing.

                 Granny gases me up.

Towards the end of the day, I did get caught up in some fog and a bit of rain, but honestly, by that point I was so tired I hardly even noticed. This is the "too much of a good thing" syndrome I alluded to earlier. The whole scenario reminded me of two incidents that occured when Sarah & I did our Mexico trip. The first was when we were leaving Las Posas, and the owner's husband told us we "must" take the mountain route to Mexico City. The first hour was breathtaking and glorious, the next 5 were a physical and mental nightmare, as we wound around and around without seeming to go anywhere. "Weren't we already here?" Sarah kept saying. The exact same thing happened on the Pacific Coast Highway north of San Francisco - one fucking corkscrew after another -  until it became a choice between a van full of vomit or the interstate. Adios, PCH.

Same scenario here, except no alternative. By the time I got to the Farmstay, I could barely move my arms and literally dragged myself into my room.

Gratuitous Farmstay photos that have nowhere else to go.

So, was it amazing? It certainly was.
Would I do it again? I don't think I could.
As the old saying goes," Be careful what you wish for...". With the obvious exceptions of turkey and chocolate.

Next episode: "Let's go caving now, everybody's learning how..."

Ah Yes! I Remember It Well : Khe Sanh

I wasn't even planning on staying in Khe Sanh.

But when I shared my brilliant plan to ride from Hue to Phong Nha in one day with some fellow motorcyclists who'd come from the north, I immediately got The Look from all of them.
"Zat iz crazy!" Gunther blurted out.
"Ja,"agreed his wife. "Stupid."

And so much for that. So a 2 day ride it was, with an overnight stop in Khe Sanh. Luckily, as it turns out. Damn those Germans!

The ride turned out to be quite pleasant, albeit longer than I thought (no big surprise there) and I didn't arrive until after noon.

Just as well, since Khe Sanh itself turned out to be a one street, shit-kicking town like so many others. Again, no big surprise.

But it would do for my purposes. I found myself a Dee-luxe hotel and prepared to set out for the next leg of my pseudo-nostalgic Vietnam War quest.

Hey - air con, wifi & a private bathroom - all for $15. Of course, neither the hot water nor most of the lights worked but beggars can't be choosers.

For a while, the combat base at Khe Sanh was the biggest story of the war. The 75 day siege made the cover of LIFE magazine and became the focal point of the American war effort. The Americans dropped over 100 000 tonnes of explosives in the area. The fact that it was basically a diversion by the Viet Cong hasn't affected its reputation at all.

As with all the other war-related sites I've been to, there are always 2 thoughts running through my head:
1. I would NOT ever want to be here or try to accomplish anything under wartime conditions. Until you actually see it, you cannot grasp the sheer impossibility of the terrain. It's mountainous or completely overgrown or both. Just sitting around would be an effort, but moving anywhere, especially laden with gear, would be a nightmare, and you could easily walk within an arms-length of someone and never know it.
2. All these places are so quiet and peaceful - eerily so - that it's very difficult to conjure up the fighting, even when the evidence is right in front of you. It's fucking spooky.

I'm not sure if the creepiness gets through in a photo, but believe me it's there, made worse in my case by the fact that I was the only visitor. I felt like a voyeuristic grave robber.

So, aside from my final days in Hanoi, this marked the end of my erstwhile pilgrimage. And just as well. Today as I was riding I realized I was categorizing virtually every mountain and valley in terms of its strategic value and potential mobility challenges. Time for some R&R soldier.

Next episode: Hello My Baby, Hello My Honey, Hello My Ho Chi Minh

FYI: I'll be "away" the next few days on a caving expedition, which necessitated filling out a waiver form and supposedly involves wading through chest high, frigid water, jungle trekking and rappeling.
What is the matter with me?

Get Out of My Hue! (or Cry Me A River)

I feel sorry for Hue.

One day, you're the Imperial City, home to the emperor. Next thing you know, he's been exiled by the French. Fine, we still have the buildings. Nuh-uh, time for the final indignity. Within a month in 1968, you're overrun by the North and 2500 citizens are shot, clubbed to death or buried alive. Not done yet. In what strikes me as a fit of pre-pubescent rage, the Americans level entire neighborhoods and napalm the palace. Hard to bounce back from that.

And, to be honest, they haven't. Is "The New Hue" charming or picturesque? Not even in the ballpark. She's that widowed dowager aunt  that you have to invite over every Christmas, who's always sucking on peppermints and has a strange, musty odour about her. Although, for the analogy to truly fit, she'd have to follow you around the house constantly, droning on and on, "Hello, sir. Somesing foh you? Cyclo? Massage? Lady?" Hardly seems likely.

Call me a romantic fool (as I'm sure many of you have already done), but again, the old lady still has certain charms - kind of like the $20 she always sticks in your birthday card.

The Citadel, for example. As with so many of these ruined tributes to absolute wealth and power, you can't help but be stunned by what they must have looked like in their heyday. Even now, with so much of it destroyed, it's awe-inspiring, if for no other reason than the sheer size.

I could literally show you hundreds more buildings, but I'm sure you get the idea. These emperors - whatever it takes, call me when it's done.

Speaking of which, there are also plenty of pagodas and tombs around Hue, most of which you can get to via quaint countryside bike rides - if you can reach the city outskirts alive.
The tombs follow the same general principle - money and/or workers are no object.

This is Ming Mang's "tomb". The actual tomb is under the hillside in the background and consists of an underground palace with a secret entrance, also underground. Modest.


The Thein Mu Pagoda is built on a hillside overlooking the river. It's actually more well-known for being the starting point for the Buddist monk who immolated himself in Saigon to protest the government's policies. That little blue car is the one he drove in. Now that's involvement.

So Hue, just like Auntie Griselda, has her good side. But I think the real reason for my fondness are two residents I met here by chance.
And isn't that always the way?

I went to Lac Thien because I'd read that their banh khoai (Vietnamese pancakes, stuffed with stuff and folded in half) were quite tasty. As I'm munching on mine, this old guy approaches my table and begins gesticulating wildly.
"Oh-oh," I thought. "Crazy guy. Hope he doesn't go for my pancake cause then I'll have to kill him."

Turns out he's Mr. Lac, the owner. Ask me how long it took to find that out. So he sits down and we have a "chat." Remember how Zorro (well, technically Don Diego) had that servant Bernardo, who was deaf & mute (like Mr. Lac, as it turns out), and they could somehow understand each other perfectly? It was just like that, except for the understanding part. So what? It was still fun.

Then on my last day, as I was wandering down an alley in search of yet another pagoda, I passed a tiny elderly lady sitting outside in front of her house.
"Pardon me," she said in perfect English,"are you looking for something?"
"What the......?" I thought. "I'm so tired I'm hallucinating."

No, I was not. This is Missy Nyet, who worked as a librarian for the Americans in 1968, when all the shit went down. Eureka! I had hit the motherlode. I don't have the time or the energy (and believe me, neither do you) to share even a fragment of her story - brother imprisoned, not speaking English for 20 years, yaddha, yaddha - but I can tell you that the next hour seemed to fly by. It sounds silly, but we were like 2 kids who'd been apart for the summer on the first day back at school. She's one of those people you meet once or twice in a lifetime and I was heartbroken to finally say goodbye.

So maybe my analogy isn't really an analogy. Maybe it's the people who have lived and are living in a place that make it memorable.
Or maybe I'm just old and full of shit.

Next episode: Khe Sanh: Ah Yes, I Remember It Well