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Happy Fourth of July!
Since Friday, I have been temporarily separated from Carly and Erin because I wanted to make sure I could get to Hanoi in time to start work today. Carly and Erin stayed in Luang Prabang to sightsee and to wait for Erin’s Vietnam visa process, and they are following behind me by two or three days.
My journey from Laos to Hanoi over the past three days has been both wonderful and full of danger.
Luang Prabang to Phonosavan – Friday, July 1st
This trip began with an eleven-hour bus ride accompanied by 37 Laotians and 9 foreign tourists via large rickety old bus (circa 1955 AD). We spent the journey sitting on the bent springs of taped up, crumbling bus seats, and we had to open our umbrellas inside the bus when the rain began leaking heavily through its rusty ceiling. Luckily all my clothes were inside of Ziplock bags in my backpack because all of the cargo subsequently became soaked. The view out the back window included the muddy feet and flip-flops of the people who were riding on the roof, and ropes that secured baskets of little brown piglets.
Laos’ rural areas are mainly populated by the country’s poor ethnic minorities who fish and grow rice, corn, and cassava, among other things. The scenery on this trip was very green and dramatic. The single-lane road wound through towering jungle-covered mountains. From our vantage point on the road, we could look across to other distant mountainsides to see limestone cliffs and tiny ethnic Laotian farmers in cone-style hats planting crops on near-vertical plantations. The little farming villages we passed were my favorite sight. The houses were made of wood and woven plant fibers, elevated between 1-5 feet above the ground on wooden stilts, with thatched grass roofs. Children would come out to wave and stare at us as we passed. Roughly-hewn long tail boats were tied to the banks of the rivers. The air was very cool and smelled like forest and wood smoke.
The road was narrow and had no shoulder to protect vehicles from a vertical drop-off down the mountain. It was also full of hairpin turns, so the bus driver had to honk every five minutes to warn approaching vehicles to stay out of the way. The bus horn had a sound and volume similar to that of an air horn, so it would constantly jolt me out of my troubled and painful slumber. The saddest and most disturbing part of the bus ride was our involvement in a fatal accident in which a cargo truck tried to pass us from behind while another tried to pass us from the front. Neither saw each other. The truck behind us stayed on the road while the other braked, hit a bump or something and promptly sailed — end over end — off the cliff. I watched it turn gently in the air as it flew and was surprised at how silently the whole scene had transpired. We nine foreigners looked at each other open-mouthed, but our bus driver gave us a matter-of-fact signal to mean that there was nothing he could do about it. We did not even slow down.
Later, our bus came upon yet another fatal accident (we were not involved in this one, however), in which a minivan had smacked into the side of a cargo truck. The minivan was completely crushed, and although the passengers were gone, we could assume what happened to them by the amount of blood inside the vehicle. A group of ten or so military police in green uniforms were photographing the scene and lifting the minivan out of the road. In trying to bypass this accident, our bus became deeply stuck in the mud and the driver made us get out and push despite the rain that was coming down outside. The bus engine protested and the back wheels spun and threw mud all over us. It took about 30 minutes, but we finally succeeded. All of the passengers spent the rest of the trip wet and extremely dirty.
Phonosavan is a town in central Laos, basically non-descript except for the fact that it’s a jumping off point to visit the enigmatic Plain of Jars. We arrived at sunset at the “˜bus station’ and were immediately accosted by a swarm of people loudly touting the virtues of various Phonosavan guest houses. Meanwhile, we stood around blinking our eyes and just trying to get our bearings. I was whisked away to a guest house (still not sure what its name was) along with two young British girls named Sam and Alex. The guest house accommodations were very poor (I had a dirt-floored shower shared by the family next door), but I would have slept well had it not been for the female cat who was in heat and perched in the rafters of my room to wail all night. The guest house “˜lobby’ boasted a vast collection of bullets, hand grenades and huge dented missile shells left over from past U.S. bombing raids. It was eerie to see the innovative ways in which the people of Phonosavan used old bomb shells – we saw everything from wash tubs and auto parts to household decorations.
The Plain of Jars – Saturday, July 2nd
By coincidence, it turned out that Sam and Alex (the British girls staying at the same guest house) also needed to get to Hanoi by Sunday night, so we decided to travel together on a crazy two–day race for Hanoi. The problem was that we also wanted to visit the Plain of Jars, so we worked out a shady deal with the guest house manager (also a self-proclaimed “˜travel agent and tour guide’) to take us to the Plain of Jars at 6:00 AM on Saturday morning so we could board the bus for Nong Haet at 8:00 AM. (Waking up at 5:30 AM was no problem for me, after having spent the night with the insane, shrieking cat.)
The Plain of Jars was so much eerier than I had expected. The fact that we went at 6:00 AM didn’t help because no one was around but us. If you don’t know the story, the jars are an international archeological mystery, similar to the monoliths on Easter Island. They are possibly two thousand years old and no one knows how they were made or how they could have possibly arrived in their current location. The jars are huge and obviously very old. Some of them have lids while others do not. The jars are grouped on several fields around to the southwest of Phonosavan. Almost everyone who has ever seen or studied them has a theory about them. Sam (the more practical of the two British girls) surmised that the jars had been used as funeral urns, while Alex (the spacey one) said she thought that the jars had been made in an overambitious flowerpot project by ancient peoples. I still think they are the shells of alien cocoons.
UNESCO has posted large signboards near the entrance to the main site to explain its efforts to clean up the UXO (Unexploded Ordnance, AKA bombs) around the jar areas. So while you explore the jar sites, you also have to watch for white and red cement markers in the ground that let you know which areas are safe to walk on and in which areas you might get your leg blown off by a mine. I found it more than slightly odd and suspicious that so many UXO were found in the same area as these baffling jars. It sounds to me like the perfect premise for a horror film: a group of archaeologists go to Laos to study the mysterious jars, when all of a sudden they come to life and start sucking people up into them. The researchers try to run for their lives, only to have their appendages blown to pieces by bombs that have waited silently in the ground for thirty years to finally do the damage and cause the terror for which they were originally intended. Moooohooooohahahaha!
Nearby, we also got to walk into the huge damp cave where it was thought that the jars were made (supposedly the cave was like a kiln). It was lit from the sky above by a dripping 5-foot hole at the top of its cathedral-tall ceiling.
Laos/Vietnam border – (still) Saturday, July 2nd
After our strange early morning visit to the Plain of Jars, we three girls hopped on another extremely worn
out bus to Nong Haet, the closest village to the border of Laos and Vietnam. This was another four hour journey spent gripping the seats in fear for our lives. The roads seemed to get worse as we got further and further out into the bush, and we had heard that ethnic guerrilla fighters would ambush trucks that passed on this particular road.
When we arrived in Nong Haet, we heard people in the market saying “Border” and “Vietnam”, so we followed one of them to a small truck with a metal cage over it that was headed for the border. The truck quickly became filled with about 35 people (its maximum load was about 12) and we each had two or three Laotian children on our laps. We quickly befriended the two Vietnamese men who were also headed into Vietnam, especially because one of them (middle-aged guy who worked for the Ministry of Forestry and the Environment) actually spoke fluent English. The other one, a tall old man who, with his gold-glinting smile, looked like a Vietnamese version of a jolly sea pirate. He bought us all some weird sour fruit from the market.
The voyage to the border was slow and crowded. I thought for sure I’d pass out from lack of air. We arrived at the Laos exit station about 45 minutes later. I was a little nervous but we all decided to stay polite and very cheerful toward the officials, and at least we were not alone. Exiting Laos was relatively painless, but the Vietnam entrance station (about 200 meter walk down the road) was another story. Those guys take their jobs WAY too seriously. I wrote my Vietnamese middle name extra large on the entrance forms, and that may have very well been what saved us. I made a special effort to count the stars on everyone’s shoulder plackets, so I could identify the highest-ranking official by their uniforms. Then, I singled him out and smiled at him a whole lot. (Yes yes, call me what you will”¦) Once he warmed up a little, he wanted to practice his English with me and talk about why I had a Vietnamese middle name. During the bag search, all of the officials remained extremely gruff, even mean, except for him. But we kept goofy smiles on our faces and played dumb. There was quite a scary misunderstanding about one of the British girl’s perfumes – she had bought a well-known brand called Enzo something or other, which just so happens to have a picture of a poppy on the box. After that incident, though, the officials seemed more relaxed. They proceeded to read a little from each of our books, smell and sample all the toiletries, and listen to “Michael Jackson Number One” on the British girls’ walkmans. It was a relief to get out of that place.
Unfortunately, outside of the Vietnam entrance station, there was nothing but mountains and trees all around us. The nearest town, Muay X’en (or something like that) was 25 km straight down a winding mountain road. The English-speaking Vietnamese guy had found a cargo truck to ride in, but told us sadly that this area was run by an ethnic Vietnamese mafia that was ‘untouchable,’ and if anything were to happen to us, he could not protect us. Yikes. A group of young motorcyclists said they could take us down the mountain for $5 U.S., and they would not budge in their price. It turned into quite an argument, and they were winning it. I think they knew that we had very little choice. The most I wanted to pay was $3, and actually, those were the only small bills that I was carrying with me.
What happened next was either a result of my traveler’s exhaustion and lack of patience, or perhaps my fiery Vietnamese blood, that told me to just start walking. I tied my cardigan around my waist, hoisted up my heavy pack, and told them all goodbye. I had until 7 PM, after all, to get to that town before the bus left to Vinh. The British girls certainly thought I was crazy when I started walking down the road. Sam asked whether I was bluffing or not. I told her I just wanted to see what would happen. Well, this caused quite a commotion. I don’t think the Vietnamese guys had ever seen anything quite like it. I got about 200 meters and several motorbike guys were trying to counteroffer $4, but I smiled and said no thank you, without even stopping. Finally, I think they were so worried about me that they gave in to $3.
The ride by motorbike down the mountain had the most spectacular scenery I have ever known, putting even my paragliding experience in the Alps to shame. Only the mountain-dwelling ethnic Vietnamese with their wide, sun-toughened faces and woolen clothing live in this wild frontier region. Once again, the shoulder-less road threatened to throw us off the vertical mountainside at every turn. I held onto that motorcycle for dear life, but I also felt exhilarated by the wind and the amazing views. When the driver turned off the motor so we could coast down the mountain, it felt like we were flying.
The “Loony Bus” to Vinh
At the bottom of the mountain in Muay X’en we finally got some food to eat, even though it was the tasteless and extremely overpriced plain noodles in hot water that is served to foreigners. (This town only takes dong and dollars, and unfortunately we were only carrying the latter.) We had to wait in this very unfriendly town for three hours before the (only) bus out of town left at 7:00 PM. We were then horribly overcharged for the bus ride to Vinh, paying over 5 times more than the drunken rowdy Vietnamese construction workers who were our traveling companions.
The “loony bus”, as I call it, did not arrive in Vinh until almost 3:00 AM, long after the gates of the bus station had closed. Maneuvering around mentally ill street bums and motorcycle taxi drivers who were grabbing at our bags, we and our English-speaking Vietnamese friend found a very reasonable nearby hotel where we woke up the managers, checked in, and crashed for the night. Vinh is a really ugly and depressing city, not good for much except for a stop off to sleep and make an ATM stop for Vietnamese dong.
Hanoi!! — Sunday, July 3
The British girls and I all slept in on Sunday before we bought bus tickets to Hanoi. It was another long ride (6.5 hours with NO food or bathroom stops this time!) but it was a relief to have made it to Hanoi in time for work on Monday! Again there was motorcycle madness at the bus station, but we finally took motorcycles to the Old Quarter where we checked in to a horrible dingy and damp guest house called the Prince Café. Haha. I spent a fortune calling Clinton on the Internet phone because I had to tell someone about the trip I’d just had. It was great to hear a familiar and friendly voice! I finally got a decent hot meal (garlic vegetables and rice with a Diet Coke!) and spent a hot sticky night in my windowless room in the attic of this leaking guest house. At 7 AM this morning, I promptly moved to the more expensive hotel down the street so I could have a proper shower and breakfast.
What I’ve seen of Hanoi so far is very crowded and dirty, but then again I’ve been here less than 24 hours. I’ll have to buy a face mask to wear outside like everyone else does because the air is so polluted that we cough and sneeze all day long. As soon as I have a free evening, I’ll take a walk around Hoan Kiem Lake, the center of Hanoi’s sprawl, for some quiet(er) meditation. Carly and Erin should arrive any day now.
Today was my first day at work! Everyone here is really nice. The staff of S-CODE are only five in number, and there is another intern like me named Pip, an Australian gal about my age. We all went out to lunch from 11 – 1 and ate a really delicious soup for about 40 cents. The receptionist, Hanh, is extremely kind and helpful to me, and she has located a good hotel close to work for me to stay while I investigate housing options. I’ll move in there tomorrow.
Right now, the sun is setting in Hanoi and it’s about time for me to leave work. I’ve received all of my “˜assignments’ today and will begin working with a nice lady named Hung tomorrow on a community development project proposal which is due
in August.
Stay tuned for more adventures to come”¦
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