Route 20 in Laos is a historic part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. When I first visited in the late 1990s, it seemed as though the war had only recently ended. Villages displayed various abnormalities, such as cluster bomb casings being repurposed as vegetable plots, bomb craters turned into fishponds and houses constructed partially from steel fuel drums and shiny aluminium aircraft parts. There was even a temporary jungle graveyard for soldiers off the main path, surrounded by foxholes. One sign that indicated the passage of time between the end of the war in 1975 and the present day was the sight of military lorry ruts that had run straight into a mature tree, representing about thirty years of growth.
To access this region of Laos, you needed a reliable guide to navigate the necessary government paperwork. I travelled with Clive, a photographer who is now my husband, and Mr Vong, who was both loyal and skilled at obtaining the relevant documents. During that time, I often wondered whether the government paperwork aimed 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, and Mr Vong frequently responded on why the officials were reluctant to allow us to explore further, ‘I don’t know; it’s my first time too’.
Construction on Route 20 began in 1966 because other roads were too vulnerable to American bombing. As a result, Route 20 was not just one track but several including bypasses and secret K roads. It became one of the most important crossing points from North Vietnam into Laos, positioned between Route 12 to the north and Route 18 to the south.
Nonetheless, Route 20 was bombed day and night, earning the nickname ‘Desert of Fire’. A major part of the issue was that some of the road wound through a strategic area known as 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 U.S. bombing raids began as soon as a truck driver crossed the border from Vietnam into Laos and continued 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. We did meet a truck driver who travelled Route 20. For months on end, his vehicle was stuck on the same stretch of road as trees and the undergrowth had grown and blocked him in. He told us that at the end of each season, he cut his way back to Vietnam. Occasionally, we came across live ammunition by the side of the road or bombs buried in the ruts he drove over; the yellow ring around the metal bodies was still visible. I could not understand how they had never exploded, but I was certain that, sadly, one day, the truck driver would probably discover their danger the hard way.
The image that has stayed with me is that of a new village within the Desert of Fire. At this particular point, the road was elevated, and the new village formed a small red dust plot on the vast green plateau floor, set against the backdrop of limestone karsts encompassing the Phu La Nhich Pass. The settlement was so new that it did not have a name, and I vividly remember it because it typified the people’s struggles after the war.
The village chief welcomed us into his home. I could see that the wooden-framed houses, built on stilts, occupied the only level areas, while the rest of the village consisted of bomb craters filled with dirty sludge water. Few farm animals roamed between the huts, and no vegetable patches had been planted to supplement the villagers’ diet. It felt as if 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 off-smelling meat. Paths fanned out from the village and we followed the first one we saw, which led toward the distant karsts. As we wove our way through the low brush and bomb craters, the silence was suddenly interrupted when Mr Vong shouted our names, followed by instructions. The Lao seldom shouted, and his urgency made us lose our planned route and carefree approach. Looking down to guide my feet, I saw that the craters were so tightly packed that there was only a narrow width of stable ground left to walk on. Inside the craters, hidden in the sludge, were twisted metal pieces and bombs.
From his long conversation with the chief, Mr Vong discovered why the village was so sparse. The residents hunted and scavenged in the forest. What should have been their rice paddies was now minefields scattered with unexploded ordnance. The grazing land for their cattle and the waterholes they relied on had been poisoned.
Today, Route 20 is very different. Most of the bombs have been cleared, and the road is open for tourists. It is a little-known must-see destination in Laos. Clive and I hope that one day we can travel along Route 20 with our two children and experience its development since those memorable days with Mr Vong.
My book, A History of the Ho Chi Minh Trail: The Road to Freedom, provides more information.
Photos by Clive A. Hills.