Route 20 in Laos is a historic part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and when I first visited in the late 1990s, it appeared as though the war had only recently ended. Villages were constructed in part from metal: rusting bomb casings, shiny aluminium flare pods and aircraft parts. Vegetables grew in cluster bomb casings. Foxholes were visible around dwellings. There was even a temporary jungle graveyard for soldiers off the main path. One sign that helped put a sense of time between the war ending in 1975 and the present day is when I saw military lorry ruts that ran into mature trees.
To access this part of Laos, you needed a reliable guide to help with the necessary government paperwork. I travelled with Clive, a photographer who is now my husband, and Mr Vong. Looking back, I realise that Mr Vong played a crucial role in enabling me to pursue my dreams; staying with us even though I kept pushing to go further. During that time, I wondered whether the government paperwork was intended to keep us safe or to conceal what the authorities did not want us to see. I concluded it was likely a combination of both, as Mr Vong would respond to my inquiries about sensitive topics with, ‘I don’t know; it’s my first time too’.
Construction started on Route 20 in 1966 because other roads were too vulnerable to American bombing. This meant that Route 20 was not just one road but several, including bypasses and secret K roads. It became one of the most important crossing points from North Vietnam into Laos and sat between Route 12 to the north and Route 18 to the south.
Nevertheless, upon completion, Route 20 too was bombed day and night and earned the nickname the Desert of Fire. Part of the problem was that it wove through the ATP – A for the A bend in the road (cua chữ A), T for the Ta Le underwater manmade bridge on the Ta Le River (ngầm Ta Lê) and P for the Phu La Nhich Pass. This hotspot for US bombing raids started no sooner had a truck driver crossed the border from Vietnam to Laos and carried on into the Lum Bum area, where the communist headquarters of Army Station 32 was located.
We walked through the ATP because, in the late 1990s, the road was often impassable for even the most basic traffic. During the wet season, trucks could not travel and access to Vietnam remained limited. We met a truck driver who travelled Route 20 year after year; his vehicle was stuck on the same stretch of road because trees had grown and blocked his path. Occasionally, we encountered live ammunition by the side of the road or bombs buried in the ruts he drove over. The yellow ring around the metal body was still visible, and I could not understand how they had never exploded. Nonetheless, I was certain that one day, that truck driver would find out the hard way.
The image that has remained with me is that of a new village, sat within the Desert of Fire. At the point in question, the road was elevated, and this new village formed just a small red dust plot on the vast green plateau floor, all set to the backdrop of limestone karsts which encompassed the Phu La Nhich Pass. The settlement was so new that it did not have a name, and I have a vivid remembrance of it because it typified the struggles of people after the war.
The village chief welcomed us to his home. I could see that the wooden framed houses on stilts took up the only level areas and the rest of the village comprised bomb craters filled with sludge water. Few farm animals foraged between huts. No vegetable patches had been planted to supplement the villagers’ diet. It felt like the village had been delicately placed on the ground so as not to disturb a sleeping beast.
Mr Vong politely sat and ate with the chief, while Clive and I took a walk to excuse ourselves from the sticky rice, chilli and the off-smelling meat. Paths fanned from the village, and we headed for the first one we saw leading towards the distant karsts. Weaving our way through the low brush and bomb craters, the silence suddenly broke, and Mr Vong shouted our names and instructions. Lao seldom shout, so with his urgency, we lost our planned route back and our carefree approach. Looking to the ground to guide my feet, I could see that the craters were so tightly packed that in places, just a narrow width of even ground was left to walk on. Within the craters, hidden in the sludge, were twisted metal and bombs. When the undergrowth was disturbed by my feet, the debris of war revealed itself.
From his long chat with the chief, Mr Vong realised why the village was so sparse. These people hunted and scavenged in the forest; he had told us on our return. What should have been their rice paddies was a minefield scattered with unexploded weaponry. The grazing land for their cattle and the waterholes for them to drink from – poison.
Today Route 20 is very different. The bombs have mostly been cleared and it is open for tourists to travel. It is a little known must see in Laos. Clive and I hope that one day we can travel with our two children along Route 20 and experience its development since those magical days with Mr Vong.
Photos by Clive A. Hills.