Before the flood

In 2010 the town of Muong Lay town will be at the bottom of a lake. Duc Hanh soaks up the valley’s extraordinary beauty while she can.

“That road has been ruined by floods and landslides. You can’t get to Muong Lay that way. You should take the train to Lao Cai,” advises Nghia, an artist who has 20 years of travelling experience in the north of Vietnam. But here I am ignoring Nghia’s suggestion, fastening my bags to the back of the motorbike and leaving Sapa in search of this “impossible road”.

To add a bit of spice to proceedings it is raining. The road will only get worse I fear. Still, I am determined to overcome any obstacle and find the town of Lai Chau town, now called Muong Lay, before it sits on the bottom of the reservoir that will supply water to Son La Hydroelectric plant (be completed by 2010). The road to Heaven’s Gate outside Sapa is under construction so it’s very muddy and rough.

The rain gets heavier. A thick fog emerges. I wind down 30km of Hoang Lien Son Pass, careful not to go too fast or to break too suddenly. I wear glasses, which have become a hindrance. Of course being short-sighted and not wearing glasses is also a hindrance. Just when I think I have made a mistake I emerge on the west side of Hoang Lien Son mountain range where I am dazzled with sunshine.

Thick forest cover and outrageous peaks make for stunning views. Down below I see people work in the terraced fields. On the road only the odd Thai or Mong woman passes by. After an eight hour drive, I arrive at Hang Tom bridge, once the largest chain-bridge in the land and the formal entrance to the old capital of Lai Chau province, Muong Lay town. When the provincial lines of Lai Chau were redrawn with Dien Bien province, the old Lai Chau town was sitting in Dien Bien province, so it had to be renamed.

To add confusion there already was a town called Muong Lay town, which is now called Muong Nhe. All very confusing. Resting on the bridge, I remember coming here 15 years ago, when the small mountainous town, then called Lai Chau, on the banks of Nam Na River was as crowded and charming as a city.

The town had such smooth, straight streets in a chessboard pattern. Wooden houses were tidily built. Large and striking propaganda signs hung everywhere. Along the Nam Na River, there were snug hamlets comprising black-stone-roofed stilt-houses of Thai people. In front of the town’s offices, men sat on their motorbikes waiting for their girlfriends to finish work.

At night people went down to the riverside to eat dinner, drink in cafés, or watch a film or musical performances at the Provincial Cultural House, which had been built in the shape of Thai traditional stilt-house. But when I drive into the town its immediately clear things have changed. I see the Culture House, once a brightly-lit social centre, now falling to ruin, covered in moss, wild grass and creepers. It could be the remnant of a house destroyed by a bomb. “After we had large floods several years ago the building collapsed.

A lot of houses and chain-bridges around here were also destroyed,” says Chien, a local mechanic. The streets are rough and rather gloomy. All is quiet in the market where just a few trucks and vans sit idly. I can still spot the signs of shops and stores I visited 15 years ago. But the atmosphere is gloomy to say the least. Further up the hill, the town’s offices are completely deserted.

In anticpation of the reservoir, most of them would have been transferred to the new Lai Chau town or Dien Bien Phu. The town stadium is now a barren piece of land where buffalos graze. The most beautiful and vivid building that remains is the Lan Anh hotel (See Check In on page 20), a sanctuary of stilt houses in a garden of wild orchids, but the owner there will soon move to the top of the valley.

Many residents have been resettled to areas such as Chan Nua town (30km away) or Pa Tan (50km away) or wherever they have relatives. But a large number of locals remain either because they are waiting for compensation or they are unsure of where they are going For Vietnamese people who were born here and worship the land where their ancestors are buried this is quite a traumatic upheavel.

One local, called An, says she has moved her family tomb to the new Lai Chau town where her first-born son lives with his family. “I’m staying till I get my compensation but I also want to stay in the town where I was born for as long as I can,” she says. “I’m heart-broken about having to leave this house and this town.” Another lcoal, Luan, a 54-year old rice trader, is unsure what the future has in store for him: “I had to borrow money to buy a piece of land in Phong Tho town and to build a small house there.

But I don’t know exactly what I will do there to make a living.” Chien, a 34-year old mechanic is happy enough with his new arrangements, "Luckily, I got a piece of land up the hill nearby, so I will not have to move far.” Walking around the town, I meet a few foreign tourists, most of whom are French. This is where French Garrison No4 was built during France’s colonial occupation of Vietnam.

“I wanted to visit the town where my father was stationed and also wounded during the 1950s before it is flooded with the water,” says Jean. As I prepare to leave the town I’m filled with sadness, it seems incredible to think that one day we won’t walk these streets. But my memories of this town will never fade. One day I will drive here and sit on the edge of the valley and look down into the reservoir and paint the picture of
yesteryear:

Charming chain-bridges, black-stone roofed stilt-houses, wild orchids and warm hearted people. And I will smile.