Dog theft, tortured for better taste and vigilante justice
N 22°23'57.9'' E 103°27'30.4''
Date:
15.07.2016
Day: 385
Country:
Vietnam
Location:
Lai Chau
Latitude N:
22°23’57.9”
Longitude E:
103°27’30.4”
Daily kilometers:
85 km
Total kilometers:
17,517 km
As the crow flies:
42 km
Average speed:
17.7 km/h
Maximum speed:
48.8 km/h
Travel time:
04:50 hrs.
Soil condition:
Asphalt
Maximum height:
2.000 m
Total altitude meters:
46.206 m
Altitude meters for the day:
1.368 m
Sunrise:
05:30 a.m.
Sunset:
6:53 pm
Temperature day max:
29°C
Temperature day min:
19°C
Departure:
08:30 a.m.
Arrival time:
5:00 pm
Total plate tires:
12
Plate front tire:
3
Flat rear tire:
8
Plate trailer tire:
1
(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).
I turn around and wave goodbye to the hotel staff, some guests and a group of women from the mountains. “Have a good trip. Take care!” they shout. Then I start pedaling. After more than six weeks in Sa Pa, it’s unusual for us to be back on our heavily laden bikes. I only make a few meters progress when I almost stumble and almost make an unintentional dismount in front of the joyfully waving group. At the last second, I yank the cumbersome handlebars around and get my Roadtrain under control. “It feels like the front tire is flat!” exclaims Tanja. After a few hundred meters, we have got used to the handling of a heavily laden long-distance bike again. In the light rain, the route immediately climbs steeply over muddy roads. Suddenly Tanja stops abruptly. What’s going on?” I ask, shocked that I have caused a rear-end collision by braking hard. “My front tire is flat!” “Oh no,” I reply, remembering the series of punctures we suffered at the start of this stage due to a wrong tire choice. Only by replacing all the coats with a different type of tire have we not had a puncture for a good eight months. A great record and yet I don’t have the slightest desire to have to stop for repairs in this weather. We unload Tanja’s bike, then I remove the tire and check the casing for foreign objects. “Nothing to feel,” I say and put in a new inner tube. In case something sharp does get stuck in the casing and punctures the tube after a few meters, I fill it with puncture protection fluid. I think that should be enough,” I say, inflating the tire again. While fitting the tire, I lose a fuel washer that sits on the thru axle. “Damn,” I curse and look for the tiny thing. We make a strange sight for the passing moped riders as we crawl around on all fours on the asphalt. One of the moped riders stops and also helps us to find the tiny thing. “I’ve got it!” I shout happily. “Do we have any of these petrol discs as spare parts?” Tanja wants to know. “Our spare parts store is well stocked, but we don’t have anything like that,” I reply, pushing the washer back onto the thru axle. “Oh no, now the little bugger has fallen off again!” I shout desperately. Despite a long search, we are unsuccessful this time. “What if we reinstall the thru axle without the fuel washer? Can it then come loose while driving and the wheel jump out?” asks Tanja. “To be honest, I don’t know. They were certainly installed for a reason, but I could imagine that the wheel will still hold. However, I’d rather we put in a new thru axle. I think I have one with me,” I reply. I immediately rush to the trailer to rummage through the spare parts bags. “Here it is,” I say happily. We quickly insert the repaired tire and lock it in place with the new thru axle. The friendly moped driver helps me inflate the rest of the tire.
An hour later, we continue our journey through and over the rain-soaked roads. After the long break, we pant like walruses as the pass road winds its way over 2,000 meters in altitude. Numerous farmers’ wives from the mountains sit on the side of the road and praise their meagre harvest to passers-by. We stop and as soon as they spot Ajaci, they cheer. Children rush over and surround our bikes. The women, sitting behind their roots, cucumbers, pears and apples, present us with open laughter. Just a few hundred meters higher up, thick fog hides the uniquely beautiful mountain landscape behind a grey-white, wet wall. Due to the poor visibility, this is not the first time on this tour that we have been forced to switch on the lights in broad daylight.
“Did you see how the moped driver took a run-over dog with him?” asks Tanja during a stop in a mountain village. “What, you took a dog with you?” I ask, obviously oblivious to the scene. “I think the dog was recently run over. It was definitely bleeding badly. The man braked in front of me, grabbed the dog by its legs and took it away.” “Do you think the man stole the animal?” “I’m quite sure he did.” “He’s going to take it home and eat it.” “That’s what it looked like.” “Well, the dog owners will miss their four-legged friend by tonight at the latest.” “Yes,” Tanja replies sadly. Just five kilometers further on, I stop to check the direction on the GPS. As luck would have it, the dog thief is standing next to me. We are horrified to see that the dog is not dead. He is lying on the floor, panting loudly and bleeding from the mouth. I stare transfixed at the tortured animal and can’t believe what is happening before my eyes. The man turns the dog’s front legs onto its back, grabs them with his left hand, swings himself onto the saddle of his moped and drives off. As the dog barks coughing in its grotesque posture, blood bubbles out of its mouth onto the road, leaving a red streak. His body hangs down, twitching, held in place by the iron fist of his tormentor. Only now do I wake up from my stupor and want to ride after the monster and knock him off his moped. But I am aware that I have no right to interfere in the culture of the country in such a way, or even to become a criminal, in order to prolong or save the life of a seriously injured dog. As in many Asian countries, dog meat is still part of the diet for over 50% of the population in Vietnam. It is even considered a delicacy, although more and more Vietnamese are keeping dogs as pets. In Hanoi and other large cities, dogs are a status symbol. You can show off your beloved four-legged friends to your neighbors in western style. Nevertheless, it is estimated that five million animals are slaughtered for consumption in Asia every year. The worst thing is that the dogs are often brutally beaten to death. It is not uncommon for them to be put in a sack, maltreated with electric shocks or stabbed with a knife to bleed them to death. The reason for this brutal method of killing lies in the human taste, because this torture causes the creature to release adrenaline, which supposedly makes its meat taste better. Due to the growing number of dog lovers, it is becoming increasingly difficult for restaurants to meet the demand of their guests. This is one reason why dog theft from villages is on the increase. In the past, more and more villagers have therefore resorted to vigilante justice. At least that’s what the media report, according to which more than 20 dog thieves have been beaten to death by the villagers in some years.
We are still standing there frozen, unable to believe what we have just seen. ‘I feel sick,’ I say. “It pulled me out of my dream world and into the reality of the street,” Tanja replies. “We mustn’t take this too much to heart.” “But that’s difficult.” “Different countries have different customs. That’s a fact. We eat pigs, cattle, all kinds of poultry, lobsters cooked alive and so on. We shouldn’t judge the Vietnamese,” I point out. “No, we’re not allowed to do that, but moments like this always show me why I became a vegetarian. Besides, it’s a crime in itself to torture our animal partners before they die.” “I still think that in the future, people will no longer eat their companions and will look back on this century in amazement at what they were capable of.” “Yes, I hope you’re right,” says Tanja, whereupon we drive on in silence… As we continue our journey, we keep seeing moped riders carrying dogs, pigs, goats and chickens in crudely woven wire cages on their panniers. For many of the animals, it is the last ride of their lives…
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