Vietnam

Mexican Siesta in Ca Na
Story & Photos by: Wink Dulles.

The last place I expect to find in Vietnam is Mexico.

On the road to Ca Na

Vietnam is aruguably one of the most beautiful countries in Asia, if not the world. And one expects vistas of verdant, banana and coconut tree-dotted hillsides; cascading jungle waterfalls; electric-green rice fields where diminutive peasants are permanently stooped beneath conical hats sewing the chocolate brown soil; monkeys squawking in the hardwood trees, and vine shrouded, ribbon-thin arroyos that seep in and out with the tides of the Bassac River in the lush Mekong Delta.

But suddenly I find myself in a picture-perfect postcard of Mexico's Baja peninsula. Cacti and tumbleweed poke and spill from the rugged boulders precariously perched on the steep cliffs flanking Highway 1. It is a moonscape. I could be in Loreto or San Felipe, Cabo or La Paz.

But I'm not. I'm in Ca Na. In Vietnam. Even the name Ca Na suggests a place where cattle rustlers with smuggled repeating rifles scout the trails for pursuing posses, dug in deep high atop fortified mesas. A place where tracks in the dirt and sand could have been left by stagecoaches rather than the heavy artillery pieces used in the area during the Vietnam War. A place where gold prospectors traverse the craggy hillsides with pack mules in search of a fortune. A place where Bogart goes berserk over a motherlode. A place where beans and maze are washed down with tequila, rather than squid and spring rolls with 333 beer. A place where I expect a horse-mounted army of Apache warriors to appear in silhouette along a nearby ridgeline.

Conical hats, rather than sombreros, are the only hint I am some place west of Guam. And a very long distance from the arid Mexican peninsula. But if Walter Hill ever does another shoot-'em-up and can't get a filming permit from the authorities of Baja Sur, he might want to appeal to the Peoples' Committee of Ninh Thuan Province. Imagine a sequel to "The Wild Bunch" being shot in Vietnam. In Ca Na, however, this is not difficult to envision at all.

I start the journey in Saigon, sharing an old Nissan with a flame-haired French woman named Rebecca and her grumpy mother for a journey up the coast to Hue. We're barely to Phan Thiet before the women begin bickering. The mother is complaining about the Cham towers needing a better dry wall contractor - at least that's how it's translated to me tongue-in-cheek by my bemused driver. After being told the towers are 700-year-old ruins, the woman pointedly uses the fact as an argument in her favor. "Somebody should really call maintenance," she complains. Her protests are even sterner as the highway becomes more pitted and rutted. "By the way," she adds. "What are Chams? They sound like they should be exported as maids."

"But not as brick-layers, I presume," I add. Our driver, Thuy, laughs hysterically.

"Birds and wasps would do a better job," she sneers, drawing guffaws from all of us.

We come across a small roadside Cham village near Tuy Phong, an excellent photo op. I tell Thuy to stop so I can snap off a few frames while Mom adds another layer of makeup to her sagging jowls in the back seat of the sedan. The villagers are shy and it takes a fair amount of coaxing to get them smiling for my Nikon. The village clergyman makes an appearance, bedecked in a white frock and turban. He poses unabashedly for my lens. The children take this as license to display their open bewilderment at the daughter's hair, a fiery orange industrial floor mop that drops nearly to her waist. She's relishing the attention.

"So these are the Chams!" she exclaims, as the kids tug and twirl her locks. "They don't seem much like Muslims. The women don't hide their faces."

"The Chams practice a sort of hybrid form of Islam," I explain. "They don't bend over toward Mecca five times a day and the men have a fancy for grog. Each village has a copy of the Koran, but much of it they can't read nor understand. Obviously, they missed the parts about chadors, praying five times a day, George Bush, jihads and drinking booze. The Koran for these folks is a little like a rocket science manual written by Jim Carrey."

Mom is ready for an appearance, her chin appearing slightly less a part of her bosom. "So this is one of their breeding farms," she announces, tugging herself out of the back seat.

"What, Mom?" Rebecca says.

"I was right!" Mom says. "Our bell boy..." "His name's Thuy, Mom, and he's our guide."

"Whatever," Mom says. "Tweetie just told me this is where the Jams..."

"Chams, Mom. Chams," Rebecca breaks in.

"...where the Jams are raised to become maids and servants in the homes of wealthy Russians. Little wonder; the Russians are filthy. And there are no wealthy Russians. It now makes perfect sense!"

Quietly, I walk over to where Thuy is leaning against the Nissan, smoking, with a devious smirk on his face.

"Thuy, what are you telling this woman?" I ask quietly.

"Just having a little fun," he answers conspiratorially. "These are the first customers I've had in four years who didn't bring along a Lonely Planet book. By the time we reach Hue, I'll have her believing Ho Chi Minh was once a janitor in New York, and that the French conceded Dien Bien Phu in exchange for the Viet Minh enacting right-on-red traffic laws, Louis IV's remains and a trawler-load of snails."

"Ho Chi Minh was a janitor in New York." I note.

"I know," Thuy grins. "I read Lonely Planet, too. Have to keep some of it straight."

Fishermen at Ca Na

So with Mom gabbing about her new history lesson of the "Jams," we roll into Vietnam's seaside desert, Ca Na. I have yet to see such unexpected beauty along Vietnam's coast. The flaccid, emerald-green bay is close to transparent, the deserted beaches wide swaths of virgin white sand. The region is spectacularly desert-like, the mountains ringing the bay seemingly pushed across the Pacific Ocean from Ensenada. Nary a palm tree in sight. Swaying casuarina trees comprise the only vegetation. Gun turrets, sculpted in the manner of the surrounding boulders, lie close to the water's edge. They were used by the U.S. military during the war, but presumably as wake-up calls for GIs sunning on the beaches rather than to repel invading Viet Cong forces. I see no military purpose for the region, but a helluva lot of reasons for a 5-star resort.

Ca Na is little more than a lunch stop for Vietnamese truckers on Highway 1 and largely bypassed by the speeding tour buses racing for Phan Rang and Nha Trang. There are couple small, quaint (if a bit untidy) and breezy hotels along the beach and only a couple of restaurants (where the seafood can be compared to the best in Vietnam). Mom pops out of the car and announces angrily: "This is Mexico! I've already been to Mexico!" She turns to Thuy.

"Tweetie, is this what the rest of Vietnam is like?" she says. "I didn't pay three-thousand dollars to see Mazatlan. Especially a Mazatlan without a proper powder room!"

"Maam," Thuy responds in French. "It gets worse. Farther north are more 'Jam' hatcheries. And snakes."

"Snakes!! Goodness!! And more of those dreadful Jams!"

"And VC," Thuy adds.

Mom looks stunned. "VC? Rebecca, dear, were we vaccinated against VC?"

A villa near Ca Na

Lunch is a spectacular seafood stew of crab, eel, sea urchins, squid and fish. We dine on a patio by the shoreline. Mom is somewhat pacified by the savory broth - which is running the makeup off her chin - though annoyed by the absence of a pinot noir to wash it down with. A couple of locals are slamming down shots of rice whisky and staring at Rebecca's hair, which makes Medusa look like Sinead O'Connor. I'm staring out at the deserted powdery sands and gin-clear bay cursing myself for not bringing along snorkeling equipment, a kayak - something, even a North Korean sub to get away from Mom. I notice a couple of hippies appear from behind a small promontory, holding hands in the surf.

One of the locals at the next table offers Mom a shot of rice whisky. "I will not drink gasoline!" she snorts. Unfazed, the vinegar-eyed Vietnamese passes the shot glass to me, which I down in a single swallow to applause from all, save for Mom, who remands one of the Vietnamese for smoking so close to the bottle of high-octane booze. Thuy rolls his eyes.

Drunk, the Vietnamese head for the hills with their makeshift slingshot rifles to hunt for snakes. Rebecca and Mom decide for a stroll on the beach ("Let's wait for those dirty hippies to pass by first," Mom implores). Thuy's tipped the peak of his Reebok cap over his eyes and begins snoozing.

I cross Highway 1 and head south along the railroad tracks to a steep set of stairs leading up a mountainside to a small Chinese pagoda, where I make a small offering to an old woman perched outside the entrance. It's a hike, but the vistas of this Baja in Vietnam are breathtaking. The bay takes on the hues of a rainbow. Below, the Reunification Express train lumbers northward toward Hanoi; dozens of Westerners are pointing their camcorders out the windows. After a few frames, Can Na is history.

I'm not so sure I want Ca Na to pass by so quickly. I descend the hillside and walk into the breezy lobby of the Ca Na Hotel. In fact, I check in.

Thuy taps my shoulder. "What are you doing?" he says. "We're spending the night in Phan Rang."

"I'll catch up to you tomorrow morning in Phan Rang," I say. "I like this place and Mom's getting on my nerves."

"Mom should holiday somewhere else," Thuy agrees.

Just then, Mom and Rebecca enter the hotel lobby. "This beach is so beautiful..." Mom begins, (Thuy and I exchange very concerned glances) "...that I want to spend the night here tonight. No more Jams for me today."

Doing It:

Ca Na is a little under 300 km from Ho Chi Minh City. The best way to reach this tiny seaside village is by hired car. The Reunification Express train, which runs up and down Vietnam's coastline, does not make any scheduled stops in Ca Na, though you can hop off any bus headed for Phan Rang or Nha Trang. Ca Na's two hotels (The Ca Na Hotel and the Hai Son Hotel) are simple but comfortable and both are directly on the beach. Both run in the US$15 a night price range (though you can bargain down based on occupancy, and a Vietnamese guide will get a better price - Mom not included). Excellent seafood is served both at the Ca Na Quan Restaurant and the Hai Son Restaurant (Nha Hang Hai Son). Both the hotels and restaurants are within easy walking distance of each other.

About the Author

Wink Dulles is the author or co-author of eight guidebooks for Fielding Worldwide, including Fielding's Vietnam (Including Laos & Cambodia), Southern Vietnam on 2 Wheels, and the best-seller The World's Most Dangerous Places. His exploits have been featured in Outside Magazine and TIME Magazine, and he has appeared numerous times on CNN news and feature broadcasts as an analyst on Southeast Asian affairs. His own 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 currently pens a regular column for the Toronto Sun, Action Asia and Trips Magazine. Dulles personally arranged the extraction of ABC Nightline anchor Ted Koppel from war-torn Cambodia in 1997 and guided the first American motorcycle tour of Vietnam in 1996. He is also a co-host of the upcoming Discovery Channel series, "The World's Most Dangerous Places," based on the book Robert Young Pelton and Dulles co-wrote. Dulles lives on his northeastern Thailand ranch.

This article is posted from Vietnam Adventures.