I had mapped out the next stretch of my stretch of my ride and although I knew I'd probably be riding in the rain for most of it, the 188 km to Son La didn't look to bad on the map, especially if I broke it into three legs: Mai-Chou to Moc Chau, Moc Chau to Yen Chou, and finally Yen Chou to Son La. That probably doesn't mean much to you, but to me those towns signified little island sanctuaries in the storm - hopping from one to another until I found a place to sleep for the night. The rain had let up a bit, more of a heavy drizzle as I left Mai-Chau but before long, I had to pull over and put on the heavy duty military poncho I had picked up in Hanoi. As uncomfortable as it was, the upside was that under the poncho and wearing a helmet, I looked like a local - kind of nice not drawing unecessary attention to myself. I could pull right up to the Vietnamese on the road before they noticed something wasn't quite right about me. Upon recognition, the double-takes were priceless - usually confusion, then a smile and wave. At any rate, the air temperature was warm and the roads, even if wet, weren't much of a challenge as I started climning into the mountains at a whopping 40 km per hour. The clouds were low and clinging to the surrounding peaks as I began the 3000 foot ascent to Moc Chau.
Made it to Moc Chau without a problem and pulled into an abandoned cafe. Had to find the owner - she was still in pajamas and curlers - and asked for coffee. She made a small batch of the rocket fuel that I'm slowly getting used to (strong, nasty, bitter, but with enough sugar and sweet milk it becomes palatable). By the time warmed up a bit and pulled out of Moc Chau, the rain was coming down harder.
The road to my next stop paralleled the Nam Som river for most of its length. It was raging from the storm runoff, but having never seen it before I couldn't tell just how much higher than normal it really was. I knew it was going big because rice paddies along the banks were completely submerged, and water was creeping up and piling into the foundations of homes. I also saw more than a few whole banana trees being swept into the current. But my biggest clue that this was not exactly a normal event was that the locals were out on the roadsides and bridges just staring and pointing at the water. Ever the river guide, I found myself stopping every half mile or so to check out the rapids down below - bigger than anything in the Grand Canyon, except maybe Lava or Crystal at thier worst. Finally arrived in Yen Chau, completely soaked from sweat and rain, and found a little road side restaraunt. A wonderful older woman made me a bowl of hot soup and, as I slurped away, she and I just sat under an awning and watched the rain get even worse. I know she thought I was nuts when I went back out into the storm and got on the bike, but what was I supposed to do? Short of begging a local for a place to crash, there wasn't anywhere to spend the night in Yen Chou...and at this point I didn't know what lay down the road. Two legs down, one to go.
Passing through a small town called Hat Lot, I rounded a sweeping bend and ran into what would become a VERY common sight over the next two days: long rows of trucks, cars, motorbikes, and people (a few water buffalo and pigs thrown in for good measure) stopped in thier tracks by thick, muddy-yellow water as it swallowed up the road. I didn't know it at the time, by I was heading into the hardest typhoon-hit province (Son La) in the entire country. From my perspective, I could see that a river had overflowed its banks and was covering a good chunk of downtown Hat Lot. The water was rushing through the lower levels of a few homes on either side of the road, cars and trucks were stuck midway throught he "new" river channel and nobody really knew what to do. As I stood there, watching the water lap at my front tire, a man ordered a group of boys to load my scooter into the back of his 2 1/2 ton military-style truck and waved me into the cab. I wasn't asking any questions and hopped in. Then he was off, directing this and that while I kept his young son company in the truck (who couldn't get enough of pruney white hands - ha ha). I just watched the chaos from a safe and dry six feet up, and eventually the rest of the trucks bed was loaded with four more scooters, a half-dozen people and a big, fat pig. Then we headed out into the deluge. Water up to the axles, but no problem for the big truck. Only when we got to the other side did I realize that we were also pulling a mini-bus behind us with a steel cable. So, 1 hour and 25,000 Dong later, I was past obstacle one. Son La was getting closer, so I thought.
I passed through the rest of Hat Lot and started climbing into the hills, which I assumed was a good thing - water generally runs downhill and pools in the low spots. Not so in Vietnam apparently. After a half hour of rain-in-my-face driving, I turned a corner and ran smack into a literal lake where the road should have been. Four or five feet deep judging by those trying to wade across. A traffic jam had formed and I motored up to the front of the pack and met a group of budding (and highly successful, judging by thier bulging pockets) entrepreneurs. These guys had actually constructed a raft and were floating all those willing to pay across the 150 yard long lake. The "raft" was just a bunch of scrap wood and bamboo lashed to a half dozen inflated inner tubes. They offered to take me across for the equivlent of $8 and I flatly refused. I pictured the scooter -for which I was financially liable - tipping off the raft, or even sinking thier "Titanic," and settling nicely on the bottom of the lake with all of my belongings attached. I waffled, watched as the line behind me grew, and wondered what in the hell I was supposed to do. The weather was getting even worse, I knew I couldn't go back to flooded Hat Lot, and I certainly wasn't spending the night in middle of friggin nowhere Vietnam. Finally I rationalized my decision to float the bike across the lake by recalling that these men were probably the sons of the men and women who won a couple of wars with crazy slapped together technology like this on the Ho Chi Minh trail. Still, I couldn't believe what I was about to do and have never been more relieved when they safely deposited me on the far side. It would have been the most rediculous picture - me, perched on my bike (firmly applying my handbrake, of course), on top of a flimsy bamboo piece of shit, being slowly pushed across a pond by four Vietnamese guys, neck deep in muddy water. And they were laughing all the way to the bank.
Off again, getting late, and Son La seemed so close that I could taste it. Another flooded village, a backcountry short cut that I'm amazed led anywhere, missed turns, more rain, and I finally arrived at my destination...only to find that it was also flooded - and I was on the wrong side of the river again.
Soaked, tired, and becoming less amused by my circumstances every second, I handed another truck owner all the cash I had in my pocket (a bargain at 15,000 Dong - less than a buck) for one last lift across a flooded street. Finally, my 188km adventure had come to an end as I pulled up to the - no kidding - "Sunrise Hotel." Shower (cold), dinner (delicious), and bed (hard as a rock), and I was completely done.
POSTSCRIPT: As rough as my day had been, I later found out that the very same Son La province that I had been traveling through suffered the country's most casualties as a result of this storm. Sixteen people were killed in Son La due to flooding, flashfloods, and landslides. As of today, 41 have been killed across Vietnam and thousands of homes have been destroyed. While I had an adventure, many of the locals had lives and property destroyed and my heart goes out to them.
Made it to Moc Chau without a problem and pulled into an abandoned cafe. Had to find the owner - she was still in pajamas and curlers - and asked for coffee. She made a small batch of the rocket fuel that I'm slowly getting used to (strong, nasty, bitter, but with enough sugar and sweet milk it becomes palatable). By the time warmed up a bit and pulled out of Moc Chau, the rain was coming down harder.
The road to my next stop paralleled the Nam Som river for most of its length. It was raging from the storm runoff, but having never seen it before I couldn't tell just how much higher than normal it really was. I knew it was going big because rice paddies along the banks were completely submerged, and water was creeping up and piling into the foundations of homes. I also saw more than a few whole banana trees being swept into the current. But my biggest clue that this was not exactly a normal event was that the locals were out on the roadsides and bridges just staring and pointing at the water. Ever the river guide, I found myself stopping every half mile or so to check out the rapids down below - bigger than anything in the Grand Canyon, except maybe Lava or Crystal at thier worst. Finally arrived in Yen Chau, completely soaked from sweat and rain, and found a little road side restaraunt. A wonderful older woman made me a bowl of hot soup and, as I slurped away, she and I just sat under an awning and watched the rain get even worse. I know she thought I was nuts when I went back out into the storm and got on the bike, but what was I supposed to do? Short of begging a local for a place to crash, there wasn't anywhere to spend the night in Yen Chou...and at this point I didn't know what lay down the road. Two legs down, one to go.
Passing through a small town called Hat Lot, I rounded a sweeping bend and ran into what would become a VERY common sight over the next two days: long rows of trucks, cars, motorbikes, and people (a few water buffalo and pigs thrown in for good measure) stopped in thier tracks by thick, muddy-yellow water as it swallowed up the road. I didn't know it at the time, by I was heading into the hardest typhoon-hit province (Son La) in the entire country. From my perspective, I could see that a river had overflowed its banks and was covering a good chunk of downtown Hat Lot. The water was rushing through the lower levels of a few homes on either side of the road, cars and trucks were stuck midway throught he "new" river channel and nobody really knew what to do. As I stood there, watching the water lap at my front tire, a man ordered a group of boys to load my scooter into the back of his 2 1/2 ton military-style truck and waved me into the cab. I wasn't asking any questions and hopped in. Then he was off, directing this and that while I kept his young son company in the truck (who couldn't get enough of pruney white hands - ha ha). I just watched the chaos from a safe and dry six feet up, and eventually the rest of the trucks bed was loaded with four more scooters, a half-dozen people and a big, fat pig. Then we headed out into the deluge. Water up to the axles, but no problem for the big truck. Only when we got to the other side did I realize that we were also pulling a mini-bus behind us with a steel cable. So, 1 hour and 25,000 Dong later, I was past obstacle one. Son La was getting closer, so I thought.
I passed through the rest of Hat Lot and started climbing into the hills, which I assumed was a good thing - water generally runs downhill and pools in the low spots. Not so in Vietnam apparently. After a half hour of rain-in-my-face driving, I turned a corner and ran smack into a literal lake where the road should have been. Four or five feet deep judging by those trying to wade across. A traffic jam had formed and I motored up to the front of the pack and met a group of budding (and highly successful, judging by thier bulging pockets) entrepreneurs. These guys had actually constructed a raft and were floating all those willing to pay across the 150 yard long lake. The "raft" was just a bunch of scrap wood and bamboo lashed to a half dozen inflated inner tubes. They offered to take me across for the equivlent of $8 and I flatly refused. I pictured the scooter -for which I was financially liable - tipping off the raft, or even sinking thier "Titanic," and settling nicely on the bottom of the lake with all of my belongings attached. I waffled, watched as the line behind me grew, and wondered what in the hell I was supposed to do. The weather was getting even worse, I knew I couldn't go back to flooded Hat Lot, and I certainly wasn't spending the night in middle of friggin nowhere Vietnam. Finally I rationalized my decision to float the bike across the lake by recalling that these men were probably the sons of the men and women who won a couple of wars with crazy slapped together technology like this on the Ho Chi Minh trail. Still, I couldn't believe what I was about to do and have never been more relieved when they safely deposited me on the far side. It would have been the most rediculous picture - me, perched on my bike (firmly applying my handbrake, of course), on top of a flimsy bamboo piece of shit, being slowly pushed across a pond by four Vietnamese guys, neck deep in muddy water. And they were laughing all the way to the bank.
Off again, getting late, and Son La seemed so close that I could taste it. Another flooded village, a backcountry short cut that I'm amazed led anywhere, missed turns, more rain, and I finally arrived at my destination...only to find that it was also flooded - and I was on the wrong side of the river again.
Soaked, tired, and becoming less amused by my circumstances every second, I handed another truck owner all the cash I had in my pocket (a bargain at 15,000 Dong - less than a buck) for one last lift across a flooded street. Finally, my 188km adventure had come to an end as I pulled up to the - no kidding - "Sunrise Hotel." Shower (cold), dinner (delicious), and bed (hard as a rock), and I was completely done.
POSTSCRIPT: As rough as my day had been, I later found out that the very same Son La province that I had been traveling through suffered the country's most casualties as a result of this storm. Sixteen people were killed in Son La due to flooding, flashfloods, and landslides. As of today, 41 have been killed across Vietnam and thousands of homes have been destroyed. While I had an adventure, many of the locals had lives and property destroyed and my heart goes out to them.
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