Primates and Cetaceans

The island has emptied out over the last week as residents return home to the mainland in preparation for Tet- the highly family-oriented, Vietnamese celebration of the Lunar New Year and the nation’s largest holiday.

It also means fewer companies are running trips this week- We’re the only group in sight in our usual morning kayak spot. The absence of locals allows us to explore a bit more than usual—we paddle north through a tunnel to duck into the national park before swinging back around the island risking the ire of local rangers–– they guard the fjord in front of us from a floating ranger station.

They have good reason to be concerned—Ba Trai Dao, the area in northern Lan Ha Bay where we’re kayaking, is home to around 20 Cat Ba Langurs – a species endemic to Cat Ba, of which only 65 or so individuals remain. More importantly, Ba Trai Dao forms the tip of a highly intricate peninsula extending down from the main island by the tiniest, most delicate spit of land, almost totally isolating these family groups from those on the island proper. Although the park’s goal is to promote population growth to the point were the langurs will begin expanding back onto the main island, their slow birth rate (two babies this year were reason to celebrate) and lack of local understanding prove challenging to that endgame.

 And so we swing back, weaving along the shoreline, low tide prompting me to paddle around a point rather than squeaking though a tiny, oyster-lined passage into a yawning cavern dripping with bulbous, swirling tufas. Instead, we pull kayaks up to a sweeping orange beach. A bright patch of jungle shields a small, blue and orange temple, above which an open cave extends thirty meters up into the rock. A short scramble over scattered blocks and copious orange dust to ledges covered in langur poop provide a view back out into the bay over the karst islands we’ve just kayaked around.  

I decide on a whim to paddle across our small channel and explore the coastline of an island still fairly new to me. Low tide has brought the water’s surface to within a half meter of the coral shelves extending from the island’s beach, and we chase schools of fish over the edge into deeper water. As we move along the rock one of my customers asks about larger fish in the area. “Nope,” I answer, “Not really any big fish left in the bay… oh hey, there’s a huge-ass DEAD fish, though!” I pull a sharp right to where the dark gray lump floats, and catch sight of its oddly-shaped head as I pull closer. “Hey, I didn’t know we had parrot fish in the bay!” Another two strokes and I’ve managed to discern skin and a fluked tail. “…..awwww shit, that is most definitely NOT a fish.”

(This slight episode hereafter will be referred to as “Gavi’s Guiding Brilliance, Exhibition A.”)

We circle our kayaks around a tiny porpoise, less than a meter long and very very dead. Honestly, it resembles one of the embryos you’d see in a bottle of alcohol in a science museum, titled “the progression of a fetal whale.” Smooth skin still carries evenly-spaced vertical indentations, perhaps from its mother’s ribs; blood leaks from a tiny blow hole.

I give it a ride to a nearby beach on the back of my kayak before spending the next hour playing cat and mouse with phone service in the bay, notifying our Western conservationist and our Vietnamese head ranger of its location. Later in the evening, Neahga informs me that the Finless Porpoise, almost certainly stillborn the night before, is the first he's seen in Lan Ha Bay.

The next day, four of us charter a basket boat to head up into Ha Long Bay on our day off. Chu Bien, our primary basket boat driver and the oldest member of our crew, mans the rudder with his ever-present gentle smile. Islands appear shrouded in morning mist ahead of us as we move forward over the bay’s perfectly glassy surface, sun beginning to glint through the clouds as we near a smaller channel dividing the cluster of landforms.

Our destination, The Face, soars proudly from the channel’s center. Massive blocks spill haphazardly into the water, heaped at the base of its diamond wall. The cliff itself is the most beautiful piece of rock I’ve ever seen, curving gradually into a gentle overhang forty meters in the sky. Minerals coating the wall have left an impression of deep yellows, oranges and black caught mid-flow, strewn with delicate pockets, tufas, flowing rods and the occasional mineral crystal.

We’re completely isolated from traffic, surrounded by islands in our little channel as Chu Bien anchors and curls up to nap while he waits for us. We spend the day on the most technically challenging and inspiring sport route I’ve ever been climbed, testing delicate holds on rarely-climbed rock and ducking loose chunks (this is why we wear helmets, kids!) as occasional pieces break and tumble into the sea below. In the evening, we curl up to sleep on the boards hiding the basket boat’s engine as chase the sun home to Cat Ba over a windless sea.