y mistake was relying on
a Saigon tour operator for accurate travel information. I could have gone down
to a popular bia hoi (fresh beer) stall on Hai Ba Trung Street and gotten better intelligence
on Highway 27 between Dalat and Buon Ma Thuot. And I would have had a better
time.
"It's been entirely paved," said one self-assured tour operator. "It's now
like one of your interstate highways in the States."
Prophetic really. It would turn out to be just like a Los Angeles interstate,
after say an earthquake measuring 8.2 on the Richter scale.
I'd
been down those 200 klicks between Buon Ma Thuot and Dalat once before, back
in '96, when I was guiding the first American motorcycle tour of Vietnam. Back
then, it wasn't a road - more like a squall trapped in time. Part of the old
Ho Chi Minh Trail during the war, it's easy to figure out why it was so tough
for the Americans to spot the trail. Tucked high and deep in the Central Highlands'
rugged and breathtaking Truong Son Mountains, the road meanders with seemingly
impassable switchbacks. It taxes the imagination to see how the Viet Cong were
able to get anything down it, much less themselves. But then Highway 27 is brought
to you by the same folks who dug the Cu Chi Tunnels - by hand. I suppose anyone
who can go without standing upright for a couple of months at a time can also
haul heavy artillery pieces down an artery where NASA wouldn't risk the Mars
Sojourner.
My first hint of what awaits in Ho's Hell comes to me while enjoying a leisurely
lunch overlooking serene Xuan Huong Lake in Dalat. My plan is to head to Buon
Ma Thuot astride my Honda NV400 in the afternoon, covering the 200 or so kilometers
(124 miles) by dinner. Perhaps I appear too leisurely, as my waitress gives
me a quizzical look and looks at her watch.
"You said you were going to Buon Ma Thuot today, Mr. Wink?" she says.
"That's right."
"Well, it's nearly one o'clock," she says."I would leave right now. "
"It's only two hundred kilometers," I protest. "Three hours, tops."
"Have you ever been on Highway 27?" she asks.
"Yeah, it was awful, but I'm told it's paved now."
"It is, sir...about eleven kilometers of it."
The cigar drops out of my mouth as the feet of my chair hit the ground.
"You'll remember the other one-hundred-and-eighty-nine," she adds. "At least
in the daylight."
I recall the Saigon travel agent's assertions: "just like one of your
interstate highways in the States - smooth as glass."
"He must have meant smooth as a macaque's ass," I mutter.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
I leave a good tip.
I
cut back down Prenn Pass, like an 18-wheeler that's lost its brakes, and backtrack
28 klicks to the junction of Highway 27. The sign reads: "Dak Lak 180 km." The
road appears in good shape. No sooner do I breathe a sigh of relief when deja vu taps my shoulder like a back hoe on a tight deadline. The pavement goes through a metamorphosis into granite chunks after only a few klicks. Apparently the
last road engineer to see Highway 27 was Uncle Ho himself. I remember my last
crossing over this jagged mountain range in 1996. It took eight hours. It was
hell on earth, as Ho would have wanted!
I begin my torturous ascent - like climbing Everest on a snowmobile - teased
by a backdrop of spectacularly beautiful and lush coffee, banana and tea plantations.
Rocks and dirt are spitting out from my rear tire like a landslide. After an
hour, I've seen only one other vehicle, an ancient, jacked-up Renault bus making
the Pleiku-Dalat "commute." God, I can't think of any reason why anyone would
want to go from Pleiku to Dalat on that bus - maybe to play golf?
After 45 daredevil kilometers, I come across my first sign of life, a small
hootch on the left side of the road set up as makeshift cafe. I can't think
of any reason why anyone would want to set up a cafe in this godforsaken spot,
except to sell soft drinks to guys going from Pleiku to Dalat to play golf,
which is probably one foursome per year max.
Astonishingly, the proprietors, Khan and Mai, speak perfect English - as if
they were Berkeley grads who had the misfortune of getting pushed off a passing
airliner. Hell, they even have a dog with hair on it, even a damn collar around
its neck!
"I can't remember seeing a Westerner here before," Khan says cheerily, popping
the cap on a Fanta.
"I can't remember seeing anybody, period," I reply.
"You won't make Buon Ma Thuot before nightfall," Mai says, equally as bubbly,
like a Texas judge in a good mood after sentencing a convicted serial killer.
"Maybe if he hauls ass," Khan says as if pondering a wager on a long shot,
"and it doesn't rain."
I take the cue and split. You can't "haul ass" on Highway 27, a winding, congealing
mish-mash of stones, dirt, mud and granite chunks the size of basketballs. The
road simply overwhelms you. It consumes you. You become part of it, as it has
become you. It's like surfing. You can dance on a wave like an Olympic gymnast,
but, ultimately, you end up where the wave dumps you.
I scarcely notice the primitive ethnic Mnong and other Montagnard hootches
that flank the roadside every 15 or 20 kilometers. The rare times I do notice
a hill tribesman, his jaw is dropped. In some sections of 27, I come across
piles of granite dumped in the middle of the road, waiting for a future generation
to rake them flat and get up the down payment to wet-lease a bulldozer from
South Korea - and then get it air-lifted.
About
half way - it's now 4:30 - I come across an even more astonishing sight than
Khan's and Mai's lean-to roadhouse: a group of perhaps 10 smartly-attired teenage
Saigon tourists - guys and gals - on small mopeds stopped alongside the road
photographing one another against the spectacular mountain vistas. They wave
me down, also astonished at the sight of me. They instantly surround my bike
to have their photos taken with "Indiana Jones," as one of the kids calls me.
The scene is bizarre. I shake my head and light a cigarette.
"Where are you guys headed?" I ask.
"Dalat!" they answer in unison.
"Did anyone tell you about this road before?" I say. "You don't have a snowball's
chance in hell of making Dalat by sunset. Where the hell do you think you're
going to sleep tonight?"
The kids just rub their chins and laugh, "we'll be okay!"
Maybe they didn't understand the snow anology. Innocence is the seed of discovery
- and misadventure.
A couple hours later I roll into the elephant training town of Lak well after
dark, ensconced in layers of dirt and grease. I still have another 48 km to
Buon Ma Thuot and Lak doesn't have a hotel, so I gas up in the small town, which
attracts its entire population. Reluctantly, I break my first rule about riding
in rural Vietnam: never ride at night. The last hour of the ride is a moonless
suicide run. But at least the road is paved.
It's about 9 p.m. when I check into my Buon Ma Thuot hotel. I had planned
to continue northward the next day, ultimately reaching the towns of Pleiku
and Kontum, but Ho's Hell has taken its toll on my wheels. My plans are hampered
by a faulty ignition system, leaking oil, a bent swing-arm and a tight itinerary.
I should have hired a car. At least then I could fly back to Saigon, waiving
goodbye to my driver and his sorry excuse of a ruined vehicle. As it is, I will
have to ride my sorry excuse of a ruined vehicle back to Saigon and experience
Ho's Hell one more time.
Indeed, Buon Ma Thuot - some 460 km from Saigon - can be reached by hired
car or motorbike in about seven hours from Saigon. However, that route bypasses
Dalat far to the west. As Dalat is a must-see in the Central Highlands, any
overland Central Highlands journey which includes stops in Dalat, Buon Ma Thuot
and Pleiku will invariably lead to the infamous but spectacularly beautiful
Highway 27 (a.k.a. Ho's Hell).
It's rough going and best done by hired 4-wheel-drive vehicle. Expect the
200-km journey between Dalat and Buon Ma Thuot to take about 6-7 hours. Leaving
early in the morning will afford the opportunity of breaking up the trip with
stops at hilltribe villages and an elephant ride at scenic Lak Lake.
For vehicle rentals with driver, in Saigon, contact Vyta Tour (52 Hai Ba Trung
Street, Dist. 1; tel: 84-8-822-1423, fax: 84-8-824-3524; e-mail: vytatour@hcm.vnn.vn).
In Buon Ma Thuot, contact Daklak Tourist (3 Phan Chu Trinh Street; tel: 84-50-852108;
fax: 84-50-852865).
About the Author
The late Wink Dulles was the author or co-author of eight guidebooks for Fielding Worldwide, including:
Southern Vietnam on 2 Wheels
The World's Most Dangerous Places
Wink's articles have appeared in National Geographic Traveler, Escape, Business Traveller, The Chicago Tribune, New York Newsday, the Detroit Free Press, Adventure Journal and numerous other major dailies and magazines. He guided the first American motorcycle tour of Vietnam in 1996 and personally arranged the extraction of ABC Nightline anchor Ted Koppel from war-torn Cambodia in 1997.
He was writing a new book when he was killed driving his motorcycle in northeastern Thailand. He will be missed.
