Off the Beaten Path

Having spent a good deal of time on my little 110 cc motorbikes since leaving the security of the CCS house, I felt completely comfortable riding from Hanoi to Mai Chau, but I was a little concerned about riding the bikes out of Hanoi because Kevin had never ridden one before and learning to ride a motorbike in Hanoi is something akin to learning to surf in a hurricane. Kevin assured me that he was up for it and after just a few minutes on the bike, he hadn't fallen off or crashed into anything (or anyone) so I was able to relax and concentrate on my own driving. We followed a man from the rental agency out to a petrol station, bade him farewell (in English, not Vietnamese, our Vietnamese being limited to "hello," "thank you" and "bathroom"), and headed out on our own.

Once out of downtown, the streets widened and although the traffic was heavy, we were able to stay to the right and keep up a pretty steady pace, relatively unmolested by other vehicles. The sky had been threatening all morning and had let loose a few light showers, but it wasn't until we were out on the open road that the torrents came. At first, I felt free; liberated. Finally, I was on my own, able to go where I wanted to go, wherever I wanted to go, by my own power, not constrained by tours or bus schedules or insistent moto drivers. Riding a motorbike in the rain, soaked to the skin, how much more free can you get? But like the clear skies, my jubilation soon gave way to a more resigned complacency as we pushed on hour after hour in the cold driving rain.

Seventy-four kilometers from Hanoi, we reached the town of Hoa Binh, where we stopped for hot coffee and tea and a lunch of bread and cheese, packed for a roadside picnic, the opportunity for which never presented itself in the constant rain. At 4:30 we were off again, with a little more haste, knowing that we needed to reach Mai Chau by dusk in order to obtain a room (being that it was a small village and likely to be devoid of electricity or public guest houses).

The first leg of our journey consisted mostly of flat landscape of rice fields stretching to the horizon interrupted every so often by a small town, but after Hoa Binh, these scenes gave way to a landscape of lush green farmlands with huge individual limestone cliffs dwarfing the farm houses below. They were beautiful sights, but we hesitated to stop to take pictures in the rain, knowing that we'd be back through the following afternoon which we hoped would be more amenable to picture taking.

Flat roads soon rose to meet the mountains and we found ourselves riding on a road carved out of the side of the mountains far above the valleys. The mountainsides were heavy with deep red soil and rocks of every shape and size, which let loose from their places on the rock, spread themselves across the road in areas, making the roads hazardous to speeding vehicles. Since we were on bikes and were keeping ourselves at a safe speed, we were able to make our way through, around, and over these mini-landslides whenever we encountered them, but I couldn't help wondering if I'd be taken out by the next wall of rocks to come crashing down the mountainside.

As we climbed even higher into the mountains, the temperature dropped noticeably and my already chattering teeth began a rapid staccato. Our visibility dropped to about 10 feet and soon became apparent that we were riding in a cloud. I had been riding behind Kevin since we began our way into the mountains and it was comforting to have him leading the way. Luckily, the road dipped down again and we rode back out into the dwindling sun light. As the sun started to set, we found ourselves getting a little anxious about finding Mai Chau in the day light. We had passed a few little towns, but we figured it had to be substantial enough to warrant a spot on the map and we knew that there were 'guest houses' in family homes in Mai Chau, but had no idea where we'd stay if we didn't reach it. Finally we spotted a pretty good sized down in the valley to our left and picked up our speed.

As we turned into the road leading into town, we were flagged down by a young Vietnamese man, who asked where we were going and if we needed a guest house for the night. Forgetting that I'd been grumbling about guest house touts for the past three weeks, I gratefully accepted his offer and we followed him through Mai Chau to a neighboring village where his family ran a cozy little guest house out of their home. The Cau Loc "Guesthouse #1" was a wooden house on stilts, with the main living and dining quarters for the family below and a large two-room loft above for guests. Kevin and I put our things next to our bed in the corner of one of the large rooms and made our way down stairs in dry clothes for a delicious home-cooked meal.

The next morning we rose early to take advantage of the morning hours for some trekking around the neighboring villages. The rain had moved on during the night, but returned in the morning and greeted us just as we finished our breakfast and made our way out the door. Not relishing the thought of slogging around in the rain for hours, but knowing that we only had precious few hours, we donned our rain gear and set off passed a duck farm, through the rice fields and onto a path of red soil, quickly becoming mud under our feet. We walked for an hour or so, walking through farmland, between walls of weeds (or other unidentifiable plant) reaching five feet in the air. The path was about four feet across, the center of which bore the mark of those who had traveled that way before in the form of countless footprints captured in the thick mud. As I walked, the mud oozed though my toes, a sensation that, Kevin, in his sneakers, was spared the sensation, as the bottoms of his shoes become caked with red mud.

We had walked through open fields circled by low mountains and past a few solitary farm houses, when we were confronted with the choice of continuing on our present path or turning left to follow a trail of rocks and boulders leading up the moutain side. We decided to go up.

The rocky path zig-zagged up the mountain, alternating between muddy incline and clusters of boulders. Even in the rain, the going was easy enough, but I did pause for a moment to think about our inevitable return descent and just how much harder that promised to be. Almost nearing the top of the peak, we found the our path barred by a makeshift gate of logs and twine, obviously put there to prevent further ascent. A bit disappointed, we decided to make our way back down to see if there was an alternative path. Halfway back down, we found a flat rock and decided to take a break for some water and snacks. As we sat on the rock, I looked down and notice two hollow bamboo rods peaking out of the bushes near our feet. I reached for one, and as I pulled it out of the bush, I noticed that it was a water pipe of some sort, crudely fashioned out of a hallowed out bamboo. After admiring the local handiwork, I place the pipe back on the ground and didn't think of it again, until its owner came to put it to use.

With little warning, a dark, wiry man in worn clothes, walked into our clearing from the path above and came straight for the pipes. He nodded his acknowledgement of us and immediately sat down and pulled out a machete from a hand carved wooden sheath hanging from his belt and began to carve the side of the pipe, before filling it with something and lighting it up. A few minutes after he appeared, he was joined by another man who helped himself to the second pipe. Kevin and I decided that we should probably leave the in peace and quietly packed our bags, offered them the rest of our fruit in a gesture of friendship and headed back down the path.

We made it back to the guest house after another detour through a small village of wooden homes on stilts housing cows, pigs and chickens in the space below. We said goodbye to our hosts and began the five hour drive back to Hanoi in the pouring rain.