Ha Long Bay adventures; or how to board three boats and end up biking to one
21 October
The moral of this story is: don’t fall in love with someone whose fishing boat doesn’t have GPS, or: find the island early and take your lover there with you.
The following morning we awoke, as the generator shut off the electricity, which in turn flipped off our comforting air conditioner.
Seven a.m. breakfast consisted of an egg (fried hard), a sausage patty, four slices of bread, and two tiny cups of coffee, that we had to fight over (again, silently), as there was only one small pot for 12 people. I didn’t expect much in the way of coffee, however. To hear that Vietnam is a chief exporter of coffee and witness what’s offered, I’ve been under-whelmed if only in terms of quantity. The egg tasted good on the bread as I peered around to see most people, all from different places, eating their breakfasts in different ways. Yet, another simple beauty of traveling with people from other countries.
Not long after, we climbed back into kayaks, like professionals at this point, and soon landed – after a sweaty and quick – paddle across the enclosed mini-bay, to Chiang Du, or ‘Girl cave’, as we were told. Our guide tells us a sad story of tragedy, of a young couple who were madly in love, but ripped apart and forbidden to marry, due to the young girl’s family wishing for her, instead, to marry the rich suitor. Because she refused adamantly, she was (supposedly) cast onto this island to live/die alone in the cave we were soon to walk though, very gingerly. Her lover searched far and wide, in the bay desperately, in his fishing boat but died in a storm along the way, while she also died on the island, we were now going to hike upon. Again…gingerly.
Apparently there is another island and cave named for him, much closer to where he died.
We walked through the cave which had one main large chamber that smelled of soured water and bat droppings. Probably soured, too. The bats periodically made appearances, swooping above us, calling out in their high pitched calls to us below, or to the bouffant hair styles none of us wore, or could fathom in this swamp-like heat. It was sticky as we climbed in our sandals (me in my trusty crocs) up boulders that were marred by decades of this same trekking and abuse. Chiseled, and written on many of the stones were notes left by “explorers” stating their presence in the cave.
Rowing back, we took in the the green colored water, the formations standing silently around us, and a boat motor being the only sensation breaking the quiet solitude of our own little spot in this majestic bay.
22 October: 3:11 p.m.
When the motor of our transport boat started chugging strangely, one crew member (dressed chic-ly in an Ethnic Travel dress shirt) yelled frantically, and loudly at the others while our guide distracted himself on his phone. It sounded as though it was fixed a few minutes later, but I knew it was too good to be true as we pulled back to the fishing port of Cua Lo, while fisherman around us weighed the day’s catch. Asking if we could enjoy a beer as we waiting, I realized how much the guided nature of a tour began to feel like a school field trip. We were "allowed" beers, and we said cheers with the two Belgians who had been with us for the first day of the Ha Long Bay cruise, along with four new ones, and four women from France.
When the "repair" man arrived hurriedly, fairly well-dressed, flipping off his sandals as he entered the boat, it was up and running again just as quickly as he was jumping back off our boat, andonto his motorbike. Smiling at us as he zoomed away. Pushing away, again, from the harbor, we hit a beautiful wind from the East, but just as soon as we began to enjoy the views of the nearly tourist-boat free waters, there was yelling again, and then a thud that I supposed only – as everyone else did too – that we’d be floating and bobbing for a while. But not worries, there was more Bia Ha Noi!
Back to the dock, we meet one of the most loquacious people of the trip yet. Chris, a Belgian, who works in finance and has taken job stints in London, Singapore, Seoul, Philadelphia, and most recently back in Brussels, is one of the more friendly people we’ve met on this trip. As we pass the karsts, now that our boat is back up and running, he leans in to the two of us and asks:
“Can I give you a gift?”
I think it strange that it’s gift-giving time, being that we just met three hours prior, and we really just started talking about an hour ago. What Chris means, and what he is offering is the opportunity to smoke a Cuban cigar that is the last in a box that he brought back to Belgian with him, following a holiday trip from earlier in the year.
“It would be an honor, and it would be special to smoke this with you – as Americans I know you can’t get them.”
Truly an honor, indeed. As the sun sets, we enjoy the cigar and the heavy air that sits on our shoulders like a blanket. His friend, Fabrice, soon is giving us the entire history of Belgium, which leads to a two-hour long discussion involving Belgian socialism, Cuban relations (and cigars), American healthcare issues, and the strange fascination of Americans for their football teams and how watching those games always trumps the Olympics, when they both fall on a Sunday.
Finally, as we approached in the dark murky water mild panic sets in, as the the only guide from hitting unlit boats and limestone mini-islands is the flashlight-yielding crew members, scanning the horizon, reminiscent of the fated crew on the Titanic. With the boat tugging but moving no where, our guide speaks to the crew from the end of the boat, and then speaks in his passive-Australian accented-English voice: “…scuse me…need to all stand on the end of the boat, please.” Simply put, there was too much weight on the front of the boat leaving the motor paddling mud, rather than water, due to the tide being low . In order to move forward we needed to pile shoulder-to-shoulder from the ‘beer-gone-an-hour-ago-party’ on the top deck, to the front deck. Chugging and chugging, we finally made it close enough for everyone to erupt in applause, the Tuk-Tuk driver, anxiously awaiting our arrival, included.
Filing down a thin ramp that extended from the boat, we are all continuing to chuckle. And chuckle some more, we do, when the Tuk-Tuk driver taps each of the tops of our heads as we avoid hitting them on the low overhang of the dock. We load in; bags, people and I figure, judging by the thickness of the air, mosquitoes too. As he fires up the motor, we speed into what feels like a race to who knows where. The French and I lock eyes in wonderment, fear, and gazed amusement. I simply look at Rebecca and laugh. Speeding down that rocky road, past vegetable fields, and rice patches, we weave down what to me is an alleyway – fit for bicycles, and walkers. Landing, we file out.
Rebecca and I get a second-floor double-room. Dinner of morning glory, clams, rice and hand-rolled spring rolls, we retire early getting the a/c on while the rest of our group head into the small village for “fresh beer” to act as recompense for lost time on the island.
The next morning we enjoy crepes as the sun brings with it thick humidity and heat that seems a little premature for such a long day. Fitting to the scheduled tour, we jump on rusty mountain bikes. Though, I’m not initially pleased, I quickly begin to enjoy myself as we begin peddling into the country-side bi-secting rice fields, and water buffaloes who look on as we pass. Sweaty, we pull off to enjoy some beach time for 30 minutes, then back to the bikes for another 20 minutes, which takes us to a boat that we all jump aboard, to take us to kayaking. As I write it down in my journal, initially, I feel a little as though we’re competing in some type of (fill in the black)–athalon race.
Soon, we’re zooming through the beautiful bay, past the picturesque karsts, and floating villages. Stopping momentarily to pick up grocery items for our lunch: first from a guy on another boat, and then at a pier where one of our crew leaps off and returns with what looks like more morning glory greens.
Leaping off the boat into the jade-colored sea, in sight of a surrounding patchwork of the limestone behemoths, and a floating house we anchor to, we finally enjoy a relaxing bit of paradise that Ha Long Bay invites in the pictures. Paddling around, dipping into the cool – perfect temperature – water, I begin to reflect on the beauty of this place, but more so on the people I’m with, now that we’ve only another couple hours together.
I can begin to witness the beauty of all these people, now back on the boat and watching them paddle about in the sea. Leaning out a port window; on this boat tied to a floating home, I note the perfection of the breeze. The smell of the fishing man’s home is unpleasant in waves, but I begin to realize that the smell could at once become comforting, almost ideal; like paradise. Never forget this smell, this view, this place, I tell myself (and pen in my journal).
I will surely forget all these faces, mostly ordinary, with lives in front of them that no one can predict. The French who giggle amongst themselves, the Belgians – well-educated, young and ambitious. Our guide, whose dreams will surely create a better life for himself, and his children. I ask myself: Where will we fall upon their memories? At what stage will we fall into their best-of-time stories?
Where will they, for us?
