Day four – 20 Oct 2015
After the excitement of day three and consequent late arrival at the hotel, this morning we are presented the choice of a boat trip to Phong Na cave, or a steep 330 step climb to Tien Son cave, that we would have done yesterday if we’d arrived early enough. There is little surprise when we unanimously vote for the option that involves sitting down, rather than climbing stairs in 30°C heat, and head for the nearby tourist boats.
The boat ride is a relaxing half hour or so to Phong Na cave. It’s some welcome downtime after the drama of yesterday, with only a few other boats going to and from it. We pass through a valley of 400 million year old geology. Steep limestone karsts pierce upwards, only the very sheerest of rock faces showing through the abundant greenery. We chug past quite a lot of new building along the banks near the town, a few small fishing boats working the river, and cows grazing the riverbanks. It’s a typically Vietnamese scene, even down to the pristine, pastel yellow church, three times taller than anything else, left behind by the French, apparently in the middle of nowhere.
The cave itself is incredible. The river Son runs through it for miles before emerging here. It used to be the largest cave in the world before they found another even larger one not far away in 2009 (yes, yes, I know). Like everything else here, this cave has its war story. A natural armoured warehouse, it was used to store not only, er, stores, but a floating bridge that could be dragged out at night to allow passage for men and materiel. Like 633 squadron and Luke Skywalker, the Americans flew down the steep sided valley to hit a small target with things that go bang. But the cave entrance, while bigger than a womp rat, is a tiny target for the unguided missiles of the day, and the rock above it shrugged off the rockets.
We float in through the exhaust port – sorry, river exit (The Force Awakens is out next month and I’m a bit obsessed. Come back non Star Wars fans, I’ll stop now) – the chugging engine is cut as we enter and is replaced by gently rhythmic splashing from the paddles fore and aft. It’s lovely and cool inside and the first time I haven’t been sweating for fun in a week.
Only the first mile of the cave is open to tourists. Inside is tranquil as we quietly gawp at the water sculpted wonder of the interior, complete with roosting bat colony squeaking quietly in the distant roof of one of the early caverns. The walls are stylishly lit but it’s still very dark and challenging for photography, especially from a moving boat. Nonetheless, I’m going to let some pictures do the talking instead of rambling on about glittering ripples of limestone blah blah.
We turn around and head back, the last few hundred yards on foot through yet more stunning grottoes and passages.
We emerge, blinking back into the sunlight, past a small temple and run the gauntlet of dozens of people, all pleading for our help. In this case, help is defined as buying something from them. We manage to resist the lure of carved Buddhas and lenticular pictures of Ho Chi Minh, but dad and I come away with a few postcards and some home made peanut brittle. Much to Roy’s delight, there is a woman with a freezer full of cornetto ice creams (or the Vietnamese interpretation thereof). We all queue up to help her before getting back on the boat and chugging back to the hotel.
Back on the bikes we ride a loop through the stunning national park. Nick, unable to ride and stuck in the van is understandably pissed off, but gracious enough to not be all Eeyore about it and puts a mostly brave face on. We visit a place called Eight Lady Cave. This area was an important supply route during the war and as such, received a lot of attention from B-52 bombers. The eight ladies in question were young female volunteers in the war effort, who were buried alive in 1972 when bombing caused a huge rock to block the cave in which they were sheltering. Despite considerable effort, it proved impossible to rescue them before they died of thirst 8 days later. Their bodies were finally recovered for official burial in 1996.
We head back south on the Ho Chi Minh highway, on a section that we didn’t ride yesterday. It’s more of the same fabulous fun and jungle as far as we can see. Mid afternoon, Lee turns up his pace a little for those who want to keep up. Boyd, Jake, myself and Haydn are running in that order when the gauntlet is thrown and we take up the challenge. There were probably a couple of the Japanese bikes in front of us, but I can’t remember. We don’t care about the modern bikes. We were riding for a King of the Minsks title, diving round bends at speeds maybe only 10% faster than before but for about 300% more thrill power, as the downhill ribbon of concrete spools out ahead of us one bend at a time.
We definitely weren’t racing because I had a vague recollection of that being not allowed. What we were doing, was riding as fast as we damn well could without falling off, and trying really hard to get past the guys in front of us. But not racing. Let me tell you, there’s a reason Moto3 GP races are so close all the time. It’s bloody difficult to get much over on the other blokes when the bikes are such a limiting factor. Mid pack, I’m working hard to not just get past Boyd and Jake (which I can’t), but also to keep Haydn behind me, because I know that one missed gear change or wrong line and he’ll be past like a rat up a drainpipe.
For minute after minute we ride like this, totally focussed, pushing and being pushed by each other, with nothing giving way. Then a sweeping left hander has Boyd with a foot down and skittering off the fastest line, scrubbing speed to avoid a meeting with the armco (he claims later that the front wheel hit a rock and spoiled his line – naturally we pooh-pooh this idea with no evidence whatsoever). Jake is right behind him and has to slow down too. Haydn and I pounce and dive through without a backward glance between us. I’m winning! I’m King of the Minsks! I just have to keep him behind me, and he’s no mug.
I just about hold him off downhill, but he gets me on a bend, as we transition from downhill to uphill. He has something of a weight advantage over me (shut up you bastards) and pulling up a hill from a slow corner is a killer for me. I make a mental note that the finish line was clearly just before the bend. Ahem. Lee pulls over at a picturesque spot and we all jabber and josh and grin while we wait for the sensible ones to catch up.
Fun had and the day wearing on, we leave the HCM highway for the last time and turn for the coast at Dong Hoi, where we get the alternate thrill of riding in bonkers Vietnamese traffic again. The hotel room is fantastic, with a huge picture window overlooking the beach. In a curious architectural choice, it also has a huge picture window (with optional blind) into the bathroom. Nick makes the most of this, by locking himself in, putting the blind up and taking a dump while waving merrily to John, who he’s sharing a room with. John, naturally, immortalises the moment with a photo.
Dinner is a curious affair consisting of assorted items served one after the other. It’s as if they are trying to do a western style meal but haven’t quite got there. We finish the chicken and are served potatoes. When those are done, we get veggies. Then garlic bread, and so on. After dinner we head out of our posh hotel to sit in the tiny plastic seats and drink beer with the locals by the beach, where Miss Phe teaches us how to open beer cans with a chopstick.
We have had a full strength team all day today. Both guides and both mechanics. Unlike yesterday where everything broke down twice and we only had one mechanic, none of the bikes missed a beat today.
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