The Trial Of the Real Trail, Not On The Bus Route

Setting out with confidence of a dry day but ominously no mobile phone signal, I turned the laden Minsk on to the road to Along. I recalled it being on the other side of the river but assured it was the way to go. The track suddenly stopped high above the Nong river. A short clamber down the bank showed a timber and bamboo temporary dry season bridge which would be swept away come the monsoons. An extortionate toll on the Along village bank was finally paid after some discussion and the appearance of a machete. Better than turning back for the long way round. Finally, I was on the real remote part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Little did I know what was coming.

Initially it was fairly easy going. the undulating plateau track being rough but manageable. Three hours of this down to Taoy then right to Saravane on the laterite road which would be a whizz, right?

Huh! Out of the plateau and the surrounding hills proved to be quite rigorous, not only washed out over seasons of tropical rains but the deeply rutted river gulleys with no bridges had to be crossed. My first one, I stopped took off my backpack, left my camera, phone and wallet to be retrieved once safely across. This was such a painfully slow technique, I gradually recovered my skills, little used for 20 years, of dirt road riding.

Then there were the steep sided upslopes on the otherside and the Minsk's clumbsy gear system which if you missed the moment to first gear you were all but lost. No way could the momentum be regained. Off the bike with 120 kgs of me and backpack, kickstart and drive the bike on the clutch, steering from the side. This was strenuous work. As these situations increased the dread of the next one was forboding. What was I doing this for, one day before my 59th anniversaire, in the bloody jungle panting for breath, heaving on the handle bars, only a smattering of the dialect, phone signal-less and clouds gathering? would this damned Minsk hold out, were the recent fixes good enough to get me through these jungle roads, the original Ho Chi Minh Trail?

My respect grew for those who built this multiple system of trails. On occassions, the original hand laid cobbles would appear once more but most had been washed out long ago.

This torturous grind continued as I went deeper into the jungle further from emergency assitance. I had one number in Nong village, if the signal returned.

Occassionally, a guy on a Chinese step-through bike would appear, light weight and zipping through the rutted trail looking quite relaxed, well they know the road don't they, once in a while with a greeting but always a surprised look at this 'farang', foreigner, riding through the jungle on a strange bike.

Some of the down hill sections were a real shake up where the cobbles still were in place, not your manacured ye olde down town cobbles in central European cities. This rattled the whole bike, my orgins and my skeleton like I was on some overly designed keep fit machine or more likely a test to failure program for the Minsk. Still it was only about three hours of this to Taoy then the big laterite road.

Big laterite road indeed. It was. Must have been great when they built it so many years ago but now was in much the same condition as the last 50 kilometers. Only difference the some of the topographical undulations had been removed and and sweeping corners must have been grand when new. The deep gulleys to the streams and rivers remained the same stressful events. Finally a new laterite section and I thought I was 'out of the woods'. But of course not , just another false hope, merely an improvement for can you guess? yes, the logging road. Slowly, getting out the main mountain range, the road returns to a more level playing field, relatively speaking, and I reach the village of Han. Not sure if I have sufficient fuel due to a carburetor leak, I top up with expensive bottles of petrol. Yes, they have f-u-e-l even here, wicked, do you know what I mean? They are still celebrating the Lao New Year, music, water throwing, powder on your face, and of course beer. So thirsty, I down the two glasses quickly but steady my self for the remainder of this unrelenting trip.

Winding along the wide laterite road with deep potholes, ney excavations, still full of water from the previous days' rain, I lose concentration for a moment in what appears to be an easier environment and slide down the side of one into a pool of diluted buffalo poo. Saved from submergence by the saddlebags and support frame. My only error of the day. Apart from doing the ride.

Finally the big new road to Saravane appears, still under construction but allowing much faster progress. Many hazards remained having to get through the detours through the rivers where the culverts were still being installed. Then there came the 'completed' blacktop. Yes, I should make town before nightfall. But just when you think all is rosey again, having dried out the boots and the breeks in the warm late afternoon sun, the incomplete bridges have to be detoured so it's into the water again up to your knees in water but somehow the Minsk forges through, sometimes reluctantly, but eventually makes it.

Ah, Saravane, was I happy to see it? A room, a shower, and a cool one. Only the anticipated relaxation didn't come easily as everyone seemed to be overcharging for about everything. New money prosperity with the major road improvements.

Nine hours of continual grueling riding, the most arduous I have ever experienced, but I had made it, the Minsk too had done its job without so much as a whimper.

I was exhausted, I was amazed, I had pulled it off. Looking back I could not believe the route, the obstacles, the physical exertion, the concentration required, the reputation of the Minsk was intact. I sent a text message to Mick of PCL, Phoenix Clearance Limited, a UXO company, who had advised me of the route more than a month earlier on my way up to Luang Prabang, that I had made it.

That evening on a sports channel were highlights from the Romaniacs, one week cross country event. Must say it looked pretty easy compared to what I had just done fully laden.

I had seen one other 'farang' in a Huckleberry Finn hat out there in the lower reaches. Had a photographer actually dedicated to Project Pineapple, not transfixed with 'buses' but aware of the English language and travel sufficiently to know what 'transport' means then some amazing pictures could have been posted of this section.

Next day it rained. Had I waited one day more as requested in Nong, I would never have made it. The red clay would have turned to grease, the steep sided gullies impossible hurdles and no doubt a jungle camping event to contribute to the hardship.

I recalled the classic book of the late 60's or 70's 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance'.

I also contemplated the hardship the Vietnamese must have endured during the American War and their determination to succeed constructing this, one of the many trails, under continual bombardment. I also contemplated the resilience of the contemporary Laoations who continue to live in the shadow of the 76 million unexploded Cluster Bombs.