Hell Is a Muddy Mountain Road

It was 7:00 AM and I was waiting on the bus to Dien Bien Phu. I expected to end up on a beat-up, state-run clunker, where I’d be wedged onto a hard bench seat between crates of produce and live chickens. Instead, a sharp new minibus pulled up, barely half full.

I was pointed to the back row to join two other Westerners: Christina, from New York and a chatty, young Polish man, Michael. The driver’s assistant tutted over my main pack, annoyed that it was too large for my lap. The other Vietnamese passengers had luggage just as large: sacks of rice and large boxes, but apparently, that wasn’t a problem.

The three of us made our introductions and chatted as the bus wound it’s way out of Sapa, climbing slowly up the steep mountain road. I commented to Christina that I couldn’t believe our luck — we had soft, deeply-cushioned seats and plenty leg room. And, best of all: no chickens. She laughed and agreed that it was a pretty cush ride.

We compared notes on the predicted arrival time: Christina had been told 4:00, Michael 6:00, and I had been told 5:00, more or less. My friend Dave had ridden this route just a month before and warned me that it was rough and slow, “if it’s open at all”. Thanks for the positive thoughts, Dave.

The road out of Sapa was lovely, with great views of valleys a thousand feet below and waterfalls pouring from the mountainsides. We soon crossed Tram Ton Pass, Vietnam’s highest mountain pass at 5,700 feet, and the views were even more spectacular.

As we headed downhill, I began to notice a lot of construction, with heavy machinery digging into the hillsides and the road becoming increasingly pot-holed and rough. I didn’t know it at the time, but we had eight hours of this ahead of us.

We soon came to a roadblock — a large piece of bamboo stretched across the road. Ahead, a Caterpillar was blocking the road, and cars were backed up. After a ten-mute wait, we were allowed to pass, rocking slowly over the battered road. From here on, we found less and less asphalt and more muddy potholes and roadblocks. The three of us in the back bounced higher and higher with every bump. It was funny, for awhile.

When the driver hit a large hole and we were all launched into the air, I heard a loud squawk! from beneath my seat. “There’s a chicken under my seat, isn’t there?” I asked. Christina laughed and replied, “I wondered when you’d notice.”

We stopped to pick up another passenger, a middle-aged woman who sat in the seat in front of me. She turned to glare at me and put her hand over her nose. Hey, I showered today! I was even wearing clean clothes for a change, though I admit that my sandals could kill a man at twenty feet.

After a few more stops, the bus was full and I had a large bag of vegetables crammed up against my knees. The assistant kept shoving it back further, so that he could use it as a pillow while he slept. After a couple of hours, we stopped to eat and I was soon surrounded by locals who stared and smiled good-naturedly. I danced a little jig for them and got a smattering of applause.

The road was now nothing but mud and deep ruts and we plowed forward at slow speed. I felt like I was stuck in an industrial washing machine — no “gentle cycle” here. When we’d hit a big bump, we’d all go flying again and the chicken would squawk in protest. This continued for several hours and we settled into a steady –if uneasy– rhythm. Bounce, bounce, squawk!

Stopped at another roadblock, the bus quickly filled with a foul odor and the woman in front of me turned to glare again. I waved my hands at her. “It wasn’t me!” I protested. A young, sharply-dressed couple exited with an unhappy-looking baby, removing his pants and cleaning him up with bottled water and tissues. Thankfully, they left the pants by the side of the road.

My neighbor turned to me again and I gave her a wink. She scowled and looked away.

Just when I thought the road couldn’t get any worse, it did. It narrowed even further and we entered Mud Town, a thin collection of huts and shacks wedged between the road and the steep drop to the river below. Everything was covered in muck and gray dust. Trucks were backed up, awaiting their run at a long, deep mud hole.

Two bridges were under construction nearby and Mud Town was crawling with heavy trucks and workers scurrying about. Piles of bricks lined the road every fifty feet or so, and ramshackle buildings stood side-by-side, mostly unfinished. The driver forged on through some of the roughest, ugliest terrain I’d ever seen and we all rattled around like dice in a cup. On a good bump, I would catch a foot of air. The chicken was now sobbing quietly.

We crawled on like this for an hour, moving so slowly that our forward progress was in danger of being canceled out by continental drift. The road didn’t improve. Another half hour passed and I thought my head was going to be ripped from my neck. Everything was a blur and it took all my effort to avoid braining myself on the bus window.

Then, I glanced ahead and saw pavement. Could it be? I thought I might be hallucinating from my brain sloshing around in my skull, but we quickly pulled onto glorious, unbroken tarmac and picked up speed. A ragged sigh of relief went through the bus.

We could now enjoy the scenery and it was magnificent. The road climbed again, giving us grand views of tree-clad mountains and the thick, coffee-tinted river below. Tidy H’mong tribal villages sat atop small hills, bustling with activity. Women in long shirts and patterned skirts walked by the road, gathering firewood or carrying woven baskets full of brightly-colored dried corn, while babies tottered about, wearing filthy sweaters and no pants. The older kids herded water buffalo up and down the road, gleefully swatting them with switches to urge them on.

We stopped at at small town and the young couple got off, taking their baby and the chicken with them. It’d been five hours since we’d had a break and Christina’s bladder was about to burst. The surly assistant said “no break!” when she asked, but I appealed to the driver and he granted us a five minute stop. While she ran to find a toilet, I stretched my legs and had a smoke.

The young couple had gathered their luggage and as I watched, the woman threw a shawl over her sparkly t-shirt and bundled her baby to her back with a red blanket. The transformation was astounding: from Hanoi Chic to Hill Tribe Classic in less than a minute.

From here it was an easy two-hour ride to Diem Bien Phu and the landscape was stunning. None of us could really enjoy it, however — all three of us were tired and battered. We finally pulled into the station at 6:00, after ten hours on the bus. Gathering our packs, we staggered off in search of a hotel. And a chiropractor.

Tagged as: bus, dienbien phu, humor, mud, sapa, Vietnam