How I Almost Died Twice in One Day in Vietnam
How a press trip to the mountains near the Chinese border almost ended in tragedy
Saturday, July 22, 2017, will henceforth be known as the day I could have died, but didn’t.
I could have died from exhaustion and exposure and dehydration on a trek through dense jungle, but I didn’t.
I could have died from a head injury when I was thrown from my motorcycle on a treacherous mountain road, but I didn’t.
I was lucky, that’s for sure.
I had been asked if I wanted to do a trip to Cao Bang, for a magazine I wrote freelance for. Cao Bang — a mountainous area the north-east of Vietnam, near the Chinese border — is just starting to open up to tourism, and there are a number of NGOs working in the area, supporting local people with community development initiatives, including converting houses into homestays and tourism training. An NGO had approached the magazine wanting media coverage. The magazine had previously sent a writer to Ha Giang with the same NGO with no problems, so they had no hesitation sending another writer and they put the call out.
Of course, I jumped at the chance because a) I went to Mu Cang Chai the previous weekend and it was a fabulous trip; b) it seemed like an awesome thing to do to see more of northern Vietnam; and c) it was free.
Cao Bang is a winding seven or eight-hour journey north from Hanoi, give or take unplanned toilet stops and meal breaks. It’s close to the Chinese border, only a few kilometres away. I was traveling with the project’s leaders, 15 experienced tour guides and trekkers, and a lovely young lady from the media — all Vietnamese. I was the only foreigner, but language wasn’t an issue, because the English-speaking ability ranged from excellent to okay. And I knew I’d get ample opportunities to practice my Vietnamese, which I’d been learning for a year, as well as challenge my communication skills.
The trip brief indicated that there would be lots of trekking across the three days, and I was fine with that. Guests will hike through idyllic mountains, view breath-taking scenery, breathe in the fresh air, it read. I was a hardcore(ish) trail runner from Australia — how hard could this trek be? I’d asked for information about what to wear and was told, nothing special. Just bring yourself, they’d said. It’ll be fun, they said.
We arrived in Cao Bang, had a quick stop for lunch and drove to the start of the trek. The hike was scheduled first on the itinerary, before we were to check into our homestay in a nearby(ish) village. Kind of like a leisurely after-lunch stroll.
Except it wasn’t.
Remember I had asked, how hard could it be? Well, think Kokoda Track, and you’d be somewhere in the ballpark. The terrain was extremely steep and rocky, and the ground alternated between ankle-deep mud covering slippery surfaces and potholes, and dense jungle that had to be cut through with a machete. It was a difficult slog, and that’s with a positive spin.
I kept muttering under my breath to no one in particular: No wonder the Americans and Australians lost the war.
It was clear early on that the “media girls” (as we were called) were struggling. We were inappropriately dressed for the terrain (I was in jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers), and totally unprepared. We had hardly any water, nothing to restore sugar and salt reserves (it was hot and humid), no hat, no sunscreen, no insect repellent, and no walking sticks.
No wonder the Americans and Australians lost the war.
We media girls were last and were left behind with a couple of other local trekkers/guides. It was clear early on that there was no exit strategy. None. No one knew what to do with the media girls who were clearly neither built nor prepared, for trekking in Vietnam’s jungle conditions.
After a few phone frantic calls between the trekkers/guides and the main party, it was decided that the exit strategy was to keep moving — with the plan being to get us to the main road and then call for a “xe om” (motorcycle taxi) to transport us to the homestay.
We walked four steep, slippery, dangerous kilometres of pure hell. I couldn’t catch my breath even though I have never been asthmatic, and we were exhausted. We even had to backtrack a couple of times because the trekker/guides who were with us weren’t sure where the main road was, despite making more phone calls. I found out later, much to my horror, that this was the first time this trek had been done.
At one point I wanted to give up and die on that mountain, and I sat down and refused to move, weeping hysterically but silently from exhaustion. In the end, though, I dug deep and pushed through the pain and fear to the main road because I had no choice — my survival instincts had kicked in.
No wonder the Americans and Australians lost the war.
When the xe om arrived, I was horrified to discover there were no helmets. I never get on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet, but in this case, I had to — it was the only way back to the homestay. It was impossible to walk the last few kilometres because I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I had to take the motorcycle, even though it was dangerous.
I had no choice.
No wonder the Americans and Australians lost the war.
My driver lost control of his bike about one kilometre into the journey. The road was steep, uneven and extremely rocky. The motorcycle flipped sideways, and I was thrown backward from the bike and hit my head on the road, missing a large jutting rock by mere inches.
I crawled to the side of the road, dazed and confused, wondering what I had done to deserve this.
And I also thanked God I was still alive.
I refused to get back on that bike with that driver. But I had to get on another motorcycle without a helmet to get back to the homestay. No choice. It was either that or walk another kilometre and I physically couldn’t.
Back at the homestay, there was no first aid kit. No ice for my throbbing head. Nothing. Just rice wine shots. And platitudes. I just wanted to go home, but I had to stay another night because I couldn’t easily get transport out of Cao Bang and back to Hanoi. That whole time, I worried about whether I had a hematoma but there was no medical clinic within range, so I couldn’t get x-rayed. I had to wait it out, hoping and praying that I didn’t have a serious head injury. And that I wasn’t going to die.
At the insistence of friends back in Australia (one who said a colleague of hers had died days later after a similar accident, and who can forget Natasha Richardson’s death?) I had a CT scan when I returned to Hanoi. I was lucky. I ended up with a huge lump and a very sore head (and it was still sore some two weeks later), but no concussion or bleeding into my brain.
The doctor did mention an old head injury that showed up on the X-ray. Probably sustained in childhood…
I’ve always believed that you have a finite number of days on this earth. Limited time. Some of us don’t make it out of the womb, some of us only last days, sometimes only a couple of weeks or just a few years after we are born. Some of us live long, happy lives. Some of us live long, miserable lives. Some of us are dogged with ill-health and misfortune and addiction and godawfulness. Some of us live large and loud, others small and quiet and little. Some of us get to the end and are full of regrets, deeply saddened by what could or should have been, but never was. Some of us die happy, proud of what we’ve achieved over our lifetime.
You can be as mad as a mad dog at the way things went. You could swear, curse the fates, but when it comes to the end, you have to let go.
~ Captain Mike, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
For some unknown reason, a reason that I am not privy to and don’t understand, it was not my fate to die of a head injury or exhaustion on a mountain in Cao Bang, Vietnam on Saturday, 22 July 2017.
It makes me wonder why not?
What does the universe have planned for me?
What is it that I am yet to do that hasn’t been done?
Time will tell, as it always does.