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One last breakfast at the Saigon Morin Hotel. Seriously, how do I move in here? I’ve enjoyed pretending to be lady of leisure… in my dirty shorts and old bikini. Farewell old girl, I’ll be back someday.
We’re making tracks for Hoi An via the infamous Hai Van Pass. Yes, that Hai Van Pass. Made famous by ‘that’ Top Gear episode. Load up, check out. Meet our intensely enthusiastic and chatty guide for the day – who’s name escapes me immediately. I am a little sad to be leaving this funny, funky old town of Hue. The old citadel looming across the Perfume River, the higgledy piggledy shophouses, the food and the bar scene. The green parks on the riverbanks and lazy boats putting up and down the river. Buses trying to squeeze down too-skinny streets, while racing to deposit their passengers before the nightly 6pm curfew which closed the streets. A little bit wild. I add it to the list of places to go back to – I’m not quite done with Hue. We push through the traffic and for the last time, Hue gives way to the green jungle.
We stop briefly at Chan May Bay, south of Hue. A magnificent stretch of white silica sand stretches left to right as far as we can see. To the south, a headland looms out of the blue of the sky. The weather today is hot and sunny, blending the sea with the sky at the horizon. Resorts have popped up on Chan May Bay, staking out small pieces of sand on the beach for their guests. White chairs and tables, colourful lanterns, bright umbrellas. It looks idyllic. They just get it so right, don’t they? A group of locals are playing football on the sand, shouting and gesturing wildly at each other. The world game. “The water is safe to swim in,” our guide tells us. We assure him that if we had brought beach towels, we’d have already thrown ourselves in. We tear ourselves away from the spectacular beach, and make another stop at Lap An, a lagoon at Lang Co beach. The lagoon is smooth as glass, reflecting the mountains in the background like a mirror. There isn’t a single ripple. We share a finger of gravelly sand reaching into the water with a few other tourists, including locals. A lady offers to float us out on a wooden raft for a photo opportunity – for a fee. We decline, but there is no shortage of people taking her up on the offer. Do it for the ‘Gram.
From Lap An, we head toward the mountain the pass runs over. There’s two way past the mountain; the winding road of spectacular views and switchback turns, or a straight shot single lane tunnel through the mountain’s heart. You’d think the quickest way would be the tunnel right? According to our guide, not so much anymore. The tunnel is so popular, the queues of traffic can be long. Especially if you get stuck behind a slow moving truck. I notice there’s less motorbikes and scooters here. Instead, there’s flatbed trucks with motorbikes strapped to them. Lots of them. Motorbikes and pedestrians are not allowed in the tunnel, so enterprising locals have set up shuttle run services. Load your bike on the truck and catch a bus through to the other side. Talk about making bank. “The pass is much better,” our guide assures us.
We start snaking our way up the mountain, turning and twisting with the tarmac as it climbs. With each corner comes a glimpse of the blended blues of the sky and South China Sea – I find myself craning my neck to watch it slip by. We stop on a corner, to get out and inspect the view. The corner is steep and sharp, and we have to cross the highway to get to the viewing area. This involves listening for the grunt of a truck struggling around the corner, or the whine of a motorbike peeling up the pass, and running across the road when you think there’s enough gap. There’s a bit of guesswork as you can’t see around either of the corners. I manage it without causing a major traffic incident. The view down the mountain and out to see is spectacular. Behind us, the mountain continues to rise. The highway is only visible by the scar it leaves through the jungle, writhing its way toward the top. At the peak of the Hai Van Pass, I can see an electricity line tower and the shadows of two brick watchtowers. That’s where we’re headed.
The top of the mountain, at the full height of the pass, it’s complete pandemonium. Buses are pulled half off the road and are disgorging their passengers onto the shoulders. Cars are squeezed between them. People are crossing without looking, instead looking up or out to the other side of the range in awe. Traffic is still trying to make its way through this bottleneck, and its slow going unless you’re astride a motorbike; they’re zipping and weaving through the mess, probably saying a small prayer to whatever deity they pray to that a pedestrian doesn’t step straight into their path. Of course we promptly add to this chaos and pull over in a gap. There’s a dirt walking track and a few rocks to scramble over. The view to the north seems to go on forever. Varying shades of green blending into blue and a faint smoke haze. The mountain is topped by a dark brick watchtower. Tall and imposing, it stands guard looking over the land around it. We walk beneath its archway and I crane my neck to look upwards, inspecting the brickwork on its underbelly. It’s smaller brother is made of concrete and appears to be a highly sought after wedding photo shoot location. A bride and her groom, with the help of a photographer’s entourage are perched atop the lookout turret. The photos will no doubt be spectacular – the bridal gown’s train and veil billow dramatically in the wind.
By far the most amazing view from the pass comes as we stop at a small roadside stall. It’s bamboo and concrete, counter levered off the edge of the highway. To the south, through a haze of smoke and heat, I can just make out the skyline of Da Nang. But it’s what is in front of us – facing east – that is the most impressive. Fringing the never ending cobalt blue expanse is a thin line of yellow-white sand, at risk of being overrun by the vibrant green that tumbles down the hillside. Not a single resort in sight. The only way down to the beach is by motorbike on a precarious dirt track. The train scythes through the emerald jungle, tracing the edge of the coast. Incredible. A stunning vista, befitting any postcard.
Continue south, ducking down behind Da Nang. We’re headed for Mỹ Sơn, the ruins of Hindu temples originally commission by the ancient Champa kings in this region. Built between the 4th and 14th century, according to our guide. Unsurprisingly, they suffered heavy damage during the war. He says the US bombed them, relentlessly, and destroyed almost all of them in one week. Ancient history almost completely wiped off the map through the brutality of war. There is hope though, says our guide. They’ve been recognised as a world heritage site by UNESCO and extensive restoration works are underway. More and more ruins are uncovered in the jungle, and are slowly being put back together. Much the same as the Angkor Archaeological Park.
Cars and buses deposit visitors at the main gate. Its quiet, as we’re there in the middle of the day and our driver says most people visit in the morning to avoid the heat. Smart. We catch a lift on one of the small buggies to the start of the short trail. Once again, the heat of Vietnam is sucking the life out of everything and everyone. Walking along the path in the sun, we’re desperate for the newly planted trees beside the track to grow quicker. Eventually, the track winds further into the scrubby jungle and we’re treated to shade. The devastation caused by the US bombing campaign becomes clear almost immediately. There are plenty of ruins, but barely any of the temples are in one piece anymore. There are extension reconstruction works underway, funded by various countries’ donation through the UNESCO program. Some temples are in a better state than others.
Up here, away from the road, you can hear little more than the birds and the thin breeze in the trees. We trickle along the cobbled pathway, looking at the blackened stone brick ruins around us. I get sense of the grandeur of the place, had it withstood the years of conflict. One temple, denuded of a roof, resides higher than its mates around it. Terraced levels constructed of brick, with the grand hall sitting atop – a good seven feet or so above the ground. Worshippers would have climbed a steep set of stairs to reach their holy hall. If the temple had a roof, it would be held up by columns moulded into the walls. Between each column, a headless figure carved from stone standing silently, watching over time itself as it slipped by. A decapitated stone carving sits in front. I wonder if the head was stolen, or blown apart by an artillery shell.
Eventually, the path runs out. It comes to a sudden halt at the edge of the scrub, and the tell tale signs of bomb craters can be spotted beyond. Our guide stressed the importance of sticking to the paths, saying that it was not uncommon for unexploded ordinance to be found lurking beneath the surface. This is partly what makes the restoration and reconstruction work so difficult. Not only are the pieces of these three dimensional puzzles scattered throughout the jungle, partially buried and in bits, there’s also the added risk of losing a limb (or your life) when excavating. Having thoroughly inspected the ruins and baked ourselves in the blistering sun, we head back to the trailhead to catch the buggy back to the main gate. A cold drink wouldn’t go astray either.
The sun is beginning to sink from the sky as we get back in the car and continue on. Destination: Hoi An. Out of the hills and down into the marshlands and delta of the Thu Bon River. Low-lying lush green plains tilled for rice plantations are plentiful. Our guide explains as we fang along back roads toward the town that we’re taking a scenic route to avoid getting caught in a major traffic jam caused by tour buses returning from their day trips. I like the man’s way of thinking. But this also entails zipping through the rice fields on thin laneways raised just above the paddies, acting as levies. Which is fine enough until there’s a bike, scooter or car trying to share the same thin piece of bitumen. This causes a delicate dance and sometimes some reversing to a wider section. We twist and turn, seemingly doubling back on ourselves multiple times. I watch, pressing my face against the window as I tend to do when we roll into any new location, as we turn down laneways and streets. Suddenly we’ve arrived. True to his word, our driver has avoided any major traffic jams and we’re here in time for a swim and sundowners.
Tips:
- We took a guided tour of the Hai Van Pass, but you can drive it yourself. It’s pretty hairy so keep your wits about you.
- There’s plenty of places to stop along the Hai Van Pass, each with a different view. The downhill run on the Da Nang side of the pass is super impressive.
- My Son Sanctuary is savagely hot in the middle of the day. Wear a hat, put sunscreen on and take water. I’d even recommend taking an umbrella for shade!
Enjoying my Vietnam diaries? You can read the others here, or catch up on my Cambodian adventures!
