The Old Places

Traversing the last stretch of rutted track, we finally enter Aroh village, home to some of the Co Tu ethnic minority people. The bikes are parked at one end of the village, soon swarmed upon by curious locals.
The journey had started many hours earlier in the beachside town of Hoi An. The General Manager of Victoria Hoi An Beach Resort and Spa, Claude Balland, is a vintage motorcycle enthusiast and the driving force behind the unique tours utilizing the Russian-made 650cc Ural motorcycles. He purchased his first of these bikes off the local police in 1996, and the resort now boasts 10 of the machines.

Victoria offers guests a range of day tours around Hoi An, as well as longer trips into the mountains and further north to Hue. They have even done trips across the border into Laos. Balland tells me the trips can really be tailored to whatever the guest desires, although on longer trips a minimum of two bikes making the journey is required.

With an experienced rider taking the controls, you can sit back in the sidecar and enjoy the spectacular scenery flashing by. Being seated so close to the ground makes for an exhilarating ride, particularly on the twisting mountain roads.

Intermittent showers sweep through the mountains and we are forced to stop and don our rain gear a number of times. However, the sun is shining as we pull off the road in front of a dilapidated, abandoned shack to break for lunch. The Gallic presence in the management is reflected in our meal with quiche, baguettes and what seems like a dozen wheels of cheese produced from the support van along with some cold drinks and even a bottle of wine. All in all a very civilized lunch, giving me time to have a closer look at our transportation.

The Ural story begins shortly before the Second World War when the Russians were looking to upgrade their military hardware. The official version goes that several BMW R71 motorcycles used by the German army were purchased by intermediaries in neutral Sweden and smuggled back to the USSR. There they were completely pulled apart and reverse-engineered with a factory built to produce exact copies. After the outbreak of hostilities, the original factory in Moscow was moved further away from the front lines to a small town in the Ural Mountains, and it is from here that the bikes take their name.

Back at Aroh village, our visit coincides with the annual harvest festival. Celebrations are getting into full swing as the sun dips behind the surrounding peaks. At the center of the village is a large clear area surrounded by the small timber houses of the inhabitants and the large communal longhouse perched on two-meter-tall stilts with a steep thatched roof.

In the clearing the Co Tu men dance in a rhythmic shuffle around a kind of totem pole while banging on drums and gongs. In an outer circle the women, also dressed in traditional robes, perform a dance called the ya ya, their hands held high, turning this way and that as they slowly circumscribe their way around the dusty arena.

The Co Tu are renowned for the intricate weaving and beadwork of their traditional costumes, with each taking up to six months to complete. I am also told by one of my travelling companions that they are somewhat more infamously known as one of the last headhunting tribes in Southeast Asia, with their last ‘blood hunt’ taking place in the early 1950s.

After a dinner served on banana leaves in the longhouse, I settle in at one end of the room on the thin mats covering the floor to share some of the local rice whiskey with the village elders. We toast each other with something like the word ‘Om’, which I take to be Co Tu for ‘cheers’, knocking back endless rounds out of small bamboo cups.

Communication is limited but with goodwill and whiskey I manage to ascertain my drinking companions are in their late 70s and early 80s. A quick, hazy calculation leaves me thinking these smiling, polite gentlemen would have been youths during the tribe’s final headhunting days. I think it’s best to not ask too many questions.

The rain falls softly outside as I settle down on the floor of the longhouse for the night, and the blanket some kind soul throws over me and the mountain liquor keep me warm and help drown out the drumming that continues through the night. I sleep fitfully, aware there will be blood spilled in the morning.

The village comes to life slowly in the pre-dawn light. Yet not long after the sun crests the horizon, the drummers and dancers are back in action, circling around the three-meter central pole to which a large buffalo has been tethered. This is the sacrifice to ensure a good harvest and the village’s future prosperity.

The drums and the dancers quicken tempo until the young men of the tribe enter the arena, a number of them carrying long pikes, several times their height and tipped with beaten metal spear heads. Some final incantations are delivered and the crowd moves back. The rope leading from the pole to a ring in the nose of the animal is let out to several meters in length. The buffalo’s large dark eyes may betray an inkling of what is to come, but more likely reflect my own trepidation.

When it does come, it’s quick and frenzied. Four men stand in the circle, and after the first lunges forward to strike with his spear, the snorting hulk of the buffalo careens around the circle tripping up in the rope. Each time it passes one of the men, another strike. In what is probably less than a minute but seems much longer, the deathblow hits home, bright red blood bubbles from the beast’s lungs and it goes down in the mud. The crowd rushes in.

Soon after, the last rites and rituals are completed, and the buffalo is butchered where it lies for the feast to come. An age-old ritual has been played out before us. It is difficult to know how to feel, only that I am certain it is not for me to pass judgment on.

Now it’s time to depart. Engines roar into life and our gracious and welcoming hosts bid us farewell. Swooping back down the mountains, verdant countryside gives way to the coastal plain. I reflect on what has been an extraordinary couple of days, but am also eager to return to the creature comforts that await us back in Hoi An. Edit