Ben and Faye's Eurasian Adventure: Heat- Ninh Binh, Vietnam: June 5-7, 2007

Haiphong and Ninh Binh

Ninh Binh closeup- note the tower karst to the west of town.

We decided to leave Cat Ba just in time. Not only were we both too bruised and battered to go on, the weather also was changing for the worse. On most of our evenings on the island we were treated to quite a nocturnal light show. Towering thunderstorms would further darken the already black night, with incredible displays of lightning providing intermittent bursts of brightness. We usually watched these from our hotel balcony or a similar perch at a nearby café, enjoying the show and also the fact that the rain was concentrated well offshore. On the morning we left Cat Ba Town for the distant dock where we would begin our cruise back to the mainland, this wasn’t the case. We ascended the same seaside pass where we had driven our motorscooter two days prior- on a day when the sunlight glinting off the water nearly rendered us permanently blind- and watched the rain squall approach, its line of advance marked by tiny splashes in the gently rolling ocean. By the time we rolled up to the dock, the rain was coming down in force. Rumblings of thunder punctuated the multilingual conversations taking place in the van amongst its American, Vietnamese, Korean, and Swiss occupants. Luckily, the rain let up when the ferry to the mainland finally pulled in, and we all raced to get aboard before the next deluge hit. Half an hour later, we pulled up to the dock on the opposite bank, boarded another bus bound for Haiphong, and headed south.

Haiphong as it appeared when we arrived. The storm that we had watched the night before must have scored a direct hit on this economically important port city.

Arriving in the economically important port city, we got a first hand look at the aftermath of one of these storms. Apparently, they had taken a direct hit the night before. Water at least six inches deep flowed through the streets- it looked as if we were in Venice, not Vietnam. The city residents, apparently used to such events, went about their business unfazed. Barefoot and pant legs rolled up, they hopped on their motorbikes and plunged into the waters as if they were on jetskis, and shops opened for business as usual despite the mini tidal waves that flowed in and out of the establishments with each passing vehicle. Switching to a local bus, where the driver immediately dropped a woman’s luggage onto Ben’s injured toe, we continued to Ninh Binh.

Business as usual in Haiphong- the streets seemed only marginally less crowded in the aftermath of the storm.

Ninh Binh is not known for any sights of its own, but rather the parks and landscapes nearby. It is touted as the ideal base for exploring Cuc Phuong National Park and Tam Coc- the “Halong Bay of the Rice Paddies.” It is also one of the stops on the jump-on, jump-off open bus ticket between Hanoi and Saigon, easily accessible to casual tourists looking to break up their trip down the coast. In recent years, the city has developed a reputation for hospitality services above and beyond the norm.

Ninh Binh, a town not known for much other than its hospitality and a few surrounding sites. It's clearly not immune from the rain.

We chose to spend our time in the area heading out to Tam Coc and the National Park, although the later plan was scrapped for reasons we’ll get to later. As its nickname implies, Tam Coc is a shocking burst of tropical karst jabbing out of the serenely flat rice fields. Our second day in town, we clambered on the backs of motorscooters- piloted by pros this time- and headed out to see the spectacle for ourselves. The day began winding through the backstreets of Ninh Binh, which became remarkably rural within mere blocks. Soon, we were driving over piles of hay spread across the pavement to dry, dodging chickens and being caught in water-buffalo traffic jams.

A herd of water buffalo crosses our path just outside of town in Ninh Binh. A common sight, our drivers avoided them with ease.

Making a right turn off the narrow blacktop, our guides pointed to a set of stone stairs leading uphill to a set of pagodas and asked if we wanted to walk up. Riding on the back of the motorbikes, enjoying the breeze that naturally accompanies such a pursuit, one can easily forget about the stifling heat. That’s exactly what we did. About thirty seconds after we agreed to make the climb, we remembered. By the time we reached the first overlook, we looked as if we’d gone swimming. By the time we reached the second, we felt like we were melting. At some point, like true geography nerds, we thanked the heavens for the environmental lapse rate. The environmental lapse rate (ELR) is, more or less, just a pretentious way of saying that temperatures generally get cooler (by about -6.5 degrees per kilometer of elevation gain) as you go up. Our thought at the time was “good lord, am I ever glad this isn’t Tibet- could you imagine trying to climb in this heat at that elevation?” This got us to the ELR, which will obviously keep things at Tibet’s lofty elevation much cooler than down here near sea level. In the end, it really didn’t do us much good to give thanks to the ELR- it wasn’t helping us at all down here, and we were still frying like bacon on a skillet. It made us remember the chilly (but thin) air of Tibet more fondly though.

100 degrees? 80% Humidity? Midday sun? Sure, we'll climb that!

The view from the first landing. It's beautiful, but we're already melting at this point.

From the top of the climb, we shared a panoramic view with a shrine to the Goddess of Mercy and the winding spine of a dragon. Hundreds of feet below, a muddy river wound through rice paddies and the karst towers, carrying tiny boats along in its barely tangible current. Soon enough, we’d be seated in one of these tub-sized vessels, being rowed along by Mrs. Ninh and her silent assistant. Hot as it was, many of the other tourists carried brightly colored umbrellas along on their boat rides, trying to bring a bit of shade with them. Our guides produced a pair for us, but they seemed to just trap hot air even closer to our dripping bodies while getting in the way of photos. We quickly abandoned them. Heading out into the river, we passed more of the same small dinghies- most carrying other tourists, but some ferrying families and cargo from the small huts along the bank to the little settlement where we’d embarked.

View from the top of our hike.

The canoe caravan at Tam Coc.

Tam Coc’s star attractions are the many fine examples of tower karst scattered along the banks of the meandering river. Tower karst is unique to tropical and subtropical regions- it is far different than the type of karst landforms you’ll find in more temperate and less wet regions such as the Balkans or parts of the United States. Tower karst forms exclusively in regions that receive well over 40 inches of rain annually and that have annual average temperatures above 65 degrees F. Remember that karst is formed due to the weathering of limestone by the weak carbonic acid solution found in ground and rain water- therefore the amount of precipitation is important to the development of certain types of karst landforms. Temperature is also important, as different temperatures of water contain different levels of carbonic acid solution (cold water holds more than hot). Also affecting the development of these landforms is the amount and type of vegetation available (vegetation acts as an anti-erosion agent, and its decomposition adds more carbon to ground water solutions), and the thickness and permeability of the rock. A full, detailed account of how and why tower karst forms would take us two more pages- so we’ll spare you from that. But we encourage you all to check it out on your own- it's pretty fascinating stuff.

Tropical karst from the river. These specific landforms are unique to the tropics for a variety of reasons relating to temperature and precipitation.

As we mentioned in the last post, another type of karst landform is caves. The people who live in Tam Coc take full advantage of the caves through which the river meanders. Three times, Mrs. Ninh steered our little dinghy into the calm, cool shadows, where numerous boats were tied to the stalactites. Their owners slept, feet dangling off the side of the boat, protected from the intensity of the noonday sun and rocked gently by the small movements of the river. We paused in the semi-darkness while she sipped a Coke and chatted with one of the fruit vendors in a neighboring dinghy.

Another common karst landform in the tropics, caves along the river offer much needed shade.

A local takes advantage of the cave's shadows for a noontime nap.

On the return to the dock, Mrs. Ninh became more talkative, selling us bits of embroidery and wishing us three children. She had three of her own, and was convinced that it was the perfect number for any family. We laughed and demurred, but she persevered, even whipping out a dilapidated phrase book to threaten poor Ben with. “I wish you much happiness,” she pointed out, “With three babies!” Even in the non-agricultural areas of Vietnam, family size remains important. The deep cultural belief in ancestor worship fuels a demand for children, to look after aging parents and ensure their comfort in the afterlife. It is an extremely powerful concept, spawning a litany of superstitions related to fertility. Mrs. Ninh made sure to point out the “Madame” and “Monsieur” rocks rising from the riverside- their symbolic shapes left no doubt to the blessings they’re thought to endow. Of course, superstitions aren’t just related to fertility here. Astronomers are consulted to learn the most auspicious day to buy a new motorscooter, open a shop, or get married. It’s all rather charming, but we wish they’d stop concerning themselves with our non-existent children. How’re we going to travel if we have three bloody kids?!

A riverside tomb. It will be well looked after by devoted relatives.

After lunch at a nearby hotel, it was back on to the motorbike and off to a dizzying tour of Ninh Binh’s other nearby sites. Coming back through another smattering of rural villages, we dodged dogs, water buffalo, and piles of burning hay. When rice is harvested here, most of the plant is spread to dry, producing hay to feed the buffalo. The extra hay is piled by the paddies and burnt, sending tendrils of smoke lazily skyward for hours. While this disposes of the unwanted surplus, it also releases carbon into the atmosphere, instead of returning it to the soil where it can be used by new crops. It doesn’t make for a pleasant breathing experience when passing through the clouds of acrid smoke at 35 miles per hour either.

Thankfully, most of the hay we encountered had not yet ignited, instead only posing minor obstacles to our more than adept drivers. For the rest of the afternoon, we sweated it out at a handful of quaint but non-descript pagodas and temples. At each stop, opportunistic vendors would rush out to greet us, hoping to sell us a warm bottle of water or a soda. We usually acquiesced, knowing that we were losing large quantities of fluid through our restless sweat glands. No matter how much we drank, we couldn’t cool off or quench our thirst. The innards of the pagodas offered no solace, as they too were like Buddha adorned brick-fired ovens. The heat was really starting to take its toll on us, and despite the overwhelming abundance of things to see, we really just wanted to get back to the air conditioned sanctuary of our room and prepare for the next day’s journey to the Cuc Phuong National Park. As the sun began its hasty retreat, we finally turned back towards downtown Ninh Binh and our hotel.

A few scenes from the pagodas.

Eating dinner, we discussed our plans for the next day. Cuc Phuong’s main attraction, in our eyes, was the Endangered Primate Rescue Center it houses. Vietnam has about 20 species of primates living in the wild today, most threatened by habitat destruction, poaching, and a demand for exotic pets and bizarre medicinal remedies. The center in Cuc Phuong has responded by rescuing threatened animals from capture or illegal traders, breeding, and preparing their residents for rehabilitation. The park itself attempts to protect its native species, including hundreds of avians, mammals, and reptiles, and thousands of plants. Unfortunately, conflict with locals over resource use has led to a decline in some of these species. Hopefully, the park will be able to bridge this gap in goals by providing employment and education for the people who otherwise depend on hunting and logging in the area.

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to go see all of this firsthand as originally planned. When we woke the next morning, our bodies told us in no uncertain terms, “NO!- We’re not going back out in that again!” It’s hard not to listen to your body, no matter how unreasonable it’s being. The day before had taken it all out of us. The unfortunate thing about climates like these is, the body simply has no way of cooling itself off. Hot air accommodates more water vapor than cold air. When hot air nears its saturation point, it is holding a lot of water in vapor form. It makes walking feel like taking a stroll through an atmospheric bathtub. When the air nears its dew point (the point where it can no longer hold any more water in vapor form), sweat no longer evaporates from the body. Sweating, as most of you know, is the body’s way of cooling off. Evaporation is a cooling process, taking heat from the skin surface to occur. The body knows this, and sweats in anticipation of the beads of water evaporating into the surrounding air. If the surrounding air is already at or near saturation, it can’t accommodate anymore water vapor. Thus the rivulets of sweat crawling down your forehead and arms don’t evaporate as normal- they just stay there, get in your eyes, and make your hands all slick and nasty. Sweating then becomes nothing more than an efficient water-loss mechanism, exacerbating the speed at which you dehydrate. That’s what happened to us, and our bodies punished us for it. When we awoke on the day of the planned Cuc Phuong adventure, we did so with fevers, headaches, bodyaches, and dehydration (the morning visit to the toilet made this readily apparent). Already afflicted with a never-ending stomach ailment and a series of recently won injuries, we decided to take a day of rest instead of visiting the monkeys.

An anvilhead forms at the top of a cumuloform cloud. Soon, it would turn into another of the awesome thunderstorms we've grown accustomed to watching at night.

Even though we still hadn’t recovered from our journey into the inferno, we knew we needed to get moving towards Hue, Vietnam’s ancient capital and the site of one of the most notorious battles of the Vietnam War. We spent the day in bed, wondering if perhaps we hadn’t caught malaria too (don’t think so now, but it felt like it at the time), and then prepared for our 9:30 pm bus south. It would end up being one of the longest nights of our lives. After 11 hours sitting upright with cramps, fever, muscle soreness, and insomnia on an overbooked bus with no apparent shocks, we cruised through one of the most spectacular sunrises (good for the heart, not good for the headache) we’d ever seen and on into Hue.