Beneath the Limestone – Cat Ba, Ninh Bình & the Caves of Phong Nha

Reese Highbloom
Oct 13
5 min read

“Travel isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you—it should change you.” – Anthony Bourdain

When we left off, the typhoon had finally passed, leaving blue skies and the smell of clean sea air. After a slow breakfast at our Hotel, we boarded a bus and ferry bound for Cát Bà Island, a trip that should have been short but stretched into a full day of transfers. From the deck, I watched cargo ships drift toward the port at Hải Phòng, cranes rising like silhouettes against the water.

We checked into The One Hostel, dropped our laundry, and toasted the calm weather with summer rolls and a cocktail at a quiet café. The island felt peaceful—half-asleep after the storm. That evening, we met up with Lee and Val, friends from earlier in the trip, and spent the night swapping stories with new faces. It felt good to reunite with familiar travelers in a new place.

A Day on the Bay

The next morning dawned clear, the sea glassy and green. After a quick breakfast, we boarded a wooden cruiser for a full-day trip through the karst islands. Our guide, Tuan, handed out towels and smiles as the engines rumbled to life. The deck was wide and sun-bleached, with just enough space for forty people and a handful of stories waiting to unfold.

We drifted past floating fishing villages—tiny wooden homes anchored in the middle of the bay—and dropped anchor near a crescent beach for swimming. From the upper deck, we jumped into the warm water, cheering, laughing, and dodging bits of drifting plastic. Afterward came kayaking through sea caves and lagoons; my partner, Annie, a mechanical engineer from Canada, and I paddled quietly through echoing tunnels where every sound seemed to linger.

Lunch was served family-style below deck: rice, fish, vegetables, and spring rolls, followed by a visit to a floating fish farm where enormous grouper swam in netted enclosures. By late afternoon, the boat idled near Monkey Island. We swam ashore and watched the monkeys pick at bags and bottles—half wild, half curious.

Back on land that night, we traded sea legs for go-karts, racing around the empty streets by the pier with friends, laughing like kids until we were breathless. It was one of those simple, joyful nights that travel gifts you when you least expect it.

Through the Limestone Valleys of Ninh Bình

Thursday morning came early with another bus ride—first the ferry back to the mainland, then hours winding through rice paddies toward Ninh Bình, often called the “Ha Long Bay on land.” We checked into Buffalo Hostel, a spacious spot with a pool and mountain views.

After the long ride, we ate like we hadn’t seen food in days: phở, barbecued pork, spring rolls, and rice. That evening brought free beer hour by the pool and new friends—Mara, Jana, and Medea from Switzerland, and Cecilie from Copenhagen. Later, we found ourselves in a small club dancing until late, the kind of night that starts quietly and ends with shared laughter over street-side eats.

The next day, Chris and I rented a moped and rode through the countryside, stopping at shrines, caves, and buffalo farms. I fed a water buffalo, held a handful of ducklings, and found a temple with an unlikely Budweiser offering at the altar. The air smelled of grass and diesel.

As the afternoon light faded, we rode toward the Múa Cave Lookout, but seeing the crowds, we detoured down a dirt path to a quiet homestay where we hiked between cliffs beside the water. The sun dipped behind the karst towers, painting the fields gold. Back at the hostel, free-beer hour again turned strangers into teammates over games of pool.

Saturday was slower. Rain clouds gathered, and I spent the morning reading by the pool before renting a bike for one last ride. I pedaled toward the mountains and climbed the stone steps of Múa Cave Mountain alone this time, reaching the summit in under eight minutes. The view stretched for miles—rivers winding through the lotus fields, boats drifting below. When rain returned, I took shelter under a wooden hut and talked with Luis, a traveler from China. We compared our worlds and found they weren’t so different. Moments like that remind me how small the world becomes once you start talking to people.

By evening, Chris and I met friends Lee, Zac, and Val and had a bowl of phở before boarding a night bus south.

Into the Earth – Hang Pygmy Expedition

We arrived in Phong Nha around 4 a.m. and caught a few more hours of sleep before what would become one of the most unforgettable experiences of my trip: an overnight expedition into Hang Pygmy, the fourth-largest cave in the world.

After orientation with Jungle Boss Adventures, our group set off—six Israelis, two international teachers, a Kiwi, Chris, and me—accompanied by a team of twelve guides. The trek to the cave was brutal: twelve kilometers of mud, hills, and an army of leeches. Every step squelched; sweat poured down my back. At one point, our guide, Xuan, jumped in terror at a black snake crossing the trail—his first in years, my luck to witness it.

Lunch was rice pancakes with chicken and cucumber, eaten standing up because the ground swarmed with leeches. Hours later we reached Hang Over Cave, its entrance yawning like the mouth of another world. Helmets and headlamps on, we descended into darkness—towering chambers of stone, stalagmites taller than me(and older, about 20,000 years old), and silence so deep it pressed against your chest.

Beyond the first cave lay a collapsed jungle basin called a dolene, a crater of green enclosed by cliffs. From there, we rappelled ten meters into the next cave: Hang Pygmy itself. The space was massive, larger than a stadium, with beams of light cutting through the haze. It was ancient(about 30 million years old), quiet, and humbling.

That night, we camped inside the cave. A makeshift shower ran from the rocks, and dinner by the fire—rice, chicken, tofu, and ginger tea. We talked by the light of our headlamps, swapping stories until fatigue set in.

Morning came early. Coffee, noodle soup, and another long trek—eight kilometers back through mud and steep jungle slopes. We climbed a near-vertical grade that burned every muscle, then descended to the road where cold beer waited. The group cheered as we finished, grinning and filthy.

Back at headquarters, we cleaned off the layers of mud, hung our clothes to dry, and let the reality set in: I had visited a cave that fewer people had explored than the summit of Everest.

Southbound

Now, as I write this from the bus heading toward Huế, the mountains fade behind me. The week stretched from ocean to jungle, island to cave—days that left me sunburned, scratched, and endlessly grateful.

Vietnam keeps revealing itself in layers: laughter over street food, quiet coffee at sunrise, the steady rhythm of rain on limestone. And every time I think I’ve seen its best, another road, another cave, another conversation proves me wrong.