Ancient mythology tells us that the people of Vietnam are descendants of the Dragon Lord Lạc Long Quân and the Immortal Fairy Âu Cơ. They produced 100 children, 50 of whom lived with their mother in the mountains and the other 50, with their father in the sea. So steeped in mythology is the land of Vietnam that each area is shrouded in some story of mythological formation.

Landing in Hanoi, capital of Vietnam and home to about 3.7 million people and 1.2 million motor bikes, is like landing in the heart of a giant mosquito that never sleeps. Endless streams of bikes pass you by each day, with many families of 4 heading off on their daily chores. Farmers from surrounding areas meet at the “morning market at 03h00 and by 07h00 have cleared up and gone. At night, entire streets are transformed into night markets which trade until late in the evening. Unlike its sister city, Saigon, Hanoi has narrow streets and still retains some of its old city charm. The old quarter, often known as the “36 streets,” dates back over 2000 years. The area was once home to numerous craft guilds which created work areas. When the streets were eventually named, each street was named after the craft sold along that street and so today, if you need shoes, you head for Hang Guay, and for jewellery, Hang Bac.

Leaving the bustle of the city behind and traveling northwards towards the sea, highway 5 takes you to a world Heritage site, and the tail of the “descending dragon.”  Halong Bay is an endless canvas of 1969 limestone islands, 989 of which have been named.  Many of these islands are home to numerous caves, some of which can be visited on foot and others in the pleasant tranquility of a kayak. 

According to local legend, Halong Bay was created by a family of dragons, sent by the gods to help protect the Vietnamese from Chinese invaders. The dragons spat out pears and jade stones which soon turned to a myriad of islands protecting the people from the invaders. Today, these very same islands provide a safe home to many small floating villages, the inhabitants of whom survive off the 200 species of fish and 450 different species of mollusks that the waters provide.

Far south of Halong Bay is the picturesque small historical town of Hoi An, where the “The Quiet American,” was partially filmed. Between the 15th to 19th centuries the town served as one of South-East Asia's most important trading ports for spices and silk and today is still a traders paradise. Cars are banned and the narrow cobbled streets are lined with old buildings, temples, pagoda's and endless shops selling hand made trousers for $8, evening dresses for $20 and three-piece suits for $25. In the heart of the town is the Ving Hung Hotel, which served as the dressing room for Michael Caine during filming. Today, tourists jostle to book into the same room which overlooks the narrow bustling lantern lit streets below, which come alive during the festival of the full moon.

From the quiet tranquility of Hoi An, a short flight takes you in the belly of the dragon, Saigon or the modern day, Hồ Chí Minh City. Inhabited by 8 million people and 4 million motor bikes it pulsates 24 hours a day. Travelling through the vast tarred streets with towering modern hotels and malls, it is hard to believe that the city started out as a small fishing village in an area that was originally swampland, but when heading out into the neighbouring areas the tranquility of forgotten days soon prevails. Endless rice paddies line the myriad of roads that spread out from the city. Framers work the land, harvesting rice in the blazing heat. Old carts are pulled by weary horses. Gum trees are methodically planted in rows, their sticky sap slowly seeping into wooden bowls for collection.

Driving back in time, one arrives at the area of Cu Chi, whose 121km hand-dug underground tunnels became famous as a battleground of the Vietnam War. The forested area is littered with B52 bomb craters and the endless spattering of gun fire can be heard from the firing range. Some of the tunnels are open to tourists to experience for a brief period, what life in the tunnels must have been like. In the blistering heat of the day, 7 of us descended into the dark abyss below us. The tunnels are narrow, dark, airless and in places slope down and narrow so one has to belly crawl. 40m was all it took for me to realize that as a non-sufferer of claustrophobia, another 20m would surely have converted me. Lack of air. Stifling heat. For the Viet Cong, life in the tunnels was difficult. Sometimes, during periods of heavy bombing from American troops, the Viet Cong would be forced to remain underground for many days at a time. Malaria and sickness were rampant and accounted for the second largest cause of death after battle wounds.

As horrific as life in the tunnels must have been, it is the images of the war weapons and traps set by the Viet Cong for the Americans that will remain in my memory for a life time, but as one local guide said, when your way of life is under attack, you will do all in your power to protect it.

South of Saigon lies the feet and arms of the dragon, whose claws spread out to form the massive expanse of the Mekong Delta. The area, also known as Nine River Dragon Delta, drains an area of over 790 000 km². The Mekong is the 12th-longest river in the world, and runs all the way from the Tibetan Plateau through China, Burma, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, into Vietnam and finally into the south china sea.

With such an expanse of water it is not surprising to find that the residents of the Mekong area are river people. Where Hanoi’s streets come alive with early morning markets, the tributaries of the Mekong erupt into a chattering wash tub as hundreds of boats navigate the narrow channels laden with hands of bananas, grapefruit, jackfruit, spinach, fish and every kind of vegetable imaginable. Trade takes place under the shade of Vietnamese hats while hotel and restaurant owners on the shore line yell instructions across the water of their daily needs. About 20 minutes up the Mekong we headed along a narrow tributary to encounter life up river. Locals wade about in the waters catching fish. Children cycle and play along narrow sidewalks dodging chickens and dogs. Mothers sit at the waters edge washing clothes while the men potter about fixing their boats.  Farmers live on combination fish and rice farms, generating an average of $35 a month, while small family businesses survive making rice cakes, rice paper and potent rice wine. 

Leaving the peace and tranquility of the Mekong, our next stop was neighbouring Cambodia, lying at the back of the dragon. Like Vietnam, the history of Cambodia is marred with foreign invasions, international political intervention and internal conflicts.

The pinnacle of Cambodia’s history arose during the rulership of the Khymer Kings between about 800 – 1400AD. It was during this period that Khmer kings built the most extensive concentration of religious temples in the world - the Angkor temple complex - and hundreds of surrounding temples.

Then in 1431 the Thais plundered the area and the complex of Angkor was abandoned. For almost 200 years the forces of nature invaded the temples. Fig trees took up residence on temple walls and slowly engulfed the buildings. Moss adorned the intricate carvings and aerial roots flowed to the floor.

Today, the complex of temples is a World Heritage site. Many of the Hindu statues have been removed and replaced with sculptures of Buddha and numerous renovations are underway. Time seems to have stood leaving an imprint of mystique. I lost my heart to the temples of Cambodia and one day, will have to return.

I cannot say what made me fall in love with Vietnam and Cambodia. Perhaps it was the ever smiling faces of the people, the sheer simplicity of life or the vast green rice fields; the smell of the rain or the sounds of children splashing about kicking a home crafted soccer ball.  Perhaps it was the excitement with which vendors haggle over prices or the intense respect shown by children to their elders.  Whatever the reason, they left an indelible imprint on my heart and a yearning to return, in my soul.

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Nestled high in the Andes at an altitude of 2350m, and overshadowed by a 300m peak, lies an Old Mountain. For years, the morning mists settled on this ancient site keeping the complex beneath shrouded in mystery. Covered in forested area and overgrown with dense vegetation, it remained hidden from the outside world until 1911, when archaeologists named Hiram Bingham, ‘officially’ discovered the site. “Old Mountain” was home to the ancient Inca Fortress better known today as Machu Picchu.

Thought to have been built by the Incan ruler, Pachacuti Inca Yapancui, the sanctuary of Machu Picchu overlooks the deep canyon of the Urubamba River, and covers an area of 5 square km’s. It is part of the larger Machu Picchu Heritage site, spanning an area of 32,600 hectares and is home to numerous archaeological wonders and a myriad of magnificent flora and fauna.

While the ruins of Machu Picchu can be accessed by train and a quick bus trip, the best way to arrive to the ruins is along the famed, Inca trail.

Built by the Inca’s in about 500AD, the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu covers only a small section of the ancient road system, which once spanned 23000km’s and connected over three million km² of territory. The trail was built block by block along the spine of the Andes, linking southern Ecuador to central Chile.

Among the lists of world famous treks, the Inca Trail is undoubtedly one of the top ranking, so popular in fact that one needs to reserve a spot on the trail at least three months in advance. Up until 2005, the number of trekkers on the route escalated out of control with the result that the paths were overcrowded and strewn with litter and garbage. It got so bad that the government finally stepped in and imposed a restriction of 500 trekkers per day, to include guides and porters. The result is that the route can now be trekked without the overwelming sense of having stepped into Picaddily Square on a Saturday morning.

At a spot called Km82 on the Urubamba Rriver, about 170 tourists gather each day, to walk the 53km famed Andea trail, to the ruins of Machu Picchu. For many, the path gives modern man a chance to walk in the footsteps of a lost civilisation, but what many people don’t realise, is that the route opens a window to exquisite plant life, a myriad of old Incan Ruins and an insight into some of the old traditions of the people.

Walking along well worn paths, the trail heads through small little villages where residents grow corn to make their “Chicha,” or Corn Beer. Here, weary porters carrying heavy loads, stop to purchase a mug of the pinkish brew to quench their thirst. But first, they pour a little on the earth as a dedication to the earth goddess, Pacha Mama.

Such is the ancient tradition of dedicated worship of the Quechuan people of this region, carrying forward a tradition that was entrenched in the life of the Inca Civilisation that ocupied this region.

Winding alongside the Urubamba river, through deep valleys and up high passes, the trail heads through some of the most picturesque scenery; hillsides covered in red splashes of bromeliads, trees covered in bright purple fushias, endless expanses of Puna Grassland and a myriad of hummingirds darting about drawing off the sweet nectar of the bright orange flowers that adorn the shrubs along the paths.

Shortly after heading up the first of several passes one looks down onto the ruins of Llactapata, or the Town on the Hillside. Rumour has it that the walls of these ruins contain the secret to the whereabouts of a stash of buried gold. Perhaps it is the way the sunlight plays with the golden grasslands as it shines through the clouds, or simply the lure of the mystery, but many a trekker stands mesmerised as they peer down upon this ancient fortress.

And so the trail continues as it heads towards the most challenging part of the trail – “Dead Woman’s Pass” so named because from the top, the mountain appears as a woman lying on her side. Breathing in the thin air as one puffs to the top of the pass, once cannot help but marvel at the tremendous effort put into building this road network by the Inca civilisation.

As the trail rises up passes, falls into the valleys below and heads through tunnels carved out of the solid rock, one soon finds oneself entering the cloud forest. Here, among the ruins of Sayakmarka and Conchamarka, lichens and air plants hang on trees and rocks sigh beneath the weight of mosses growing up to one metre deep. And within the mists that rolls through these valleys, the Inca Trail protects one of the most incredible sights; over 250 species of orchids adorn these paths, the smallest being the Pleurothalis, its’ flower measuring only 2mm in length. Dragon orchids, Bats Face orchid, Epidendrum and Maxilaria to name, but a few. Begonia grow abundantly, creating a kaleidoscope of colour as one approaches the ruins of Phuyupatamarka, aptly meaning, “Town above the clouds.”

Leaving these ruins behind, the trail heads down an endless combination of stone steps and paths along a section only recently discovered and opened up to the public in 1985. That this trail had remained so well hidden for nearly 600 years makes one wonder what other mysteries lie hidden beneath the dense bush. But perhaps it was hiding a sacred ruin, considered by some to be more beautiful than the sanctuary of Machu Picchu; the ruins of Wiñay Wayna. Meaning ‘forever young,’ these ruins consist of an upper ceremonial and lower living area, connected by a long flight of steps. Adjacent to these and falling in front of a magnificent back drop of crashing waterfall and forested area, is an enormous sweeping amphitheatre of agricultural terraces, now home to resident Alpaca grazing in the morning light.

But the taste of tradition and history obtained over these three days on the trail are insignificnat, compared to the marvel that awaits the excited trekkers on the final day of the trail.

Amidst the excitement of early morning chatter, people queue at the entry gate of the trail at 05h00, waiting in anticiaption for the gate to open. The final 40 minute trek to the gate of Inti Punku lies ahead and accompnaied by the calls of birds waking to their day, one arrives at the sanctuary of Machu Picchu.

Shrowded by a blanket of morning mist, one looks down at this ,magnificent complex and watches as the rising sun gently touches the terraces throwing them into morning light, opening the ruins to the eyes of modern man. Deep in the valley below, lies the Urubamba river, pounding through the valley like the beating heart of the mother goddess. And behind the ruins of this “Old Mountain”, Huayna Picchu rises sharply like the nose of Pachamama as she gazes at the sky.

Some say that the city was built for nobility, while others say it was a centre for astronomical observations. Built on a pyramidal mound in the centre of the complex, is the incredible Intihuatana, meaning “ hitching post to the sun”, a block so carefully designed that at midday on March 21st and September 21st, the sun shines directly above the pillar, casting no shadow at all. The complex is home to a myriad of stone walls, rooms and ceremonial areas, acricultural terraces and dwelling areas. So intricately built are many of the structures, that no mortar was used to hold the massive blocks together, some weighing as much as 50 tons.

From a city of 1200 people, about 300 000 tourists embark on an annual pilgrimage to the ruins, of which about 12 000 arrive by way of the old inca trails. But just as the glaciers of Kilimanjaro are withering away through global warming, so increased levels of rain are threatening to destroy the very foundations of the ruins of Machu Picchu.

Once protected by Pachamama and then mysteriously abandoned and handed over to her forests below, its future now lies in the hands of man. Declared a World Heritage Site in 1983, the sanctuary of Machu Picchu is now a protected area and Unesco is determined to ensure that this ancient sanctuary remains intact and safe from ruin and destruction.

Chilean Poet, Pueblo Neruda once wrote, “Machu Picchu is a trip to the serenity of the soul, to the eternal fusion with the cosmos…a resting place of butterflies at the epicentre of the great circle of life. One more miracle,” a miracle we trust will survive into the history of mankind.

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