The Road to Long Cheng
Inside the CIA's Secret City

Article by: Andrew Burke, April 2007

Trouble was, no-one could actually confirm that Long Cheng was open to visitors. And despite reports that the Saisombun Special Zone had been disbanded, and that falang (foreigners) could actually go into this former Hmong stronghold for the first time in decades, friends in Vientiane kept saying 'no way'.

Not long after we turned off the sealed road and onto the red dirt, heading east, we came across our first obstacle. The young soldier at the entrance to the supposedly disbanded special zone raced out and, having stopped us with frantically waving arms, promptly ordered us back to Vientiane. Turned out he was just trying to make some money. The zone was indeed open, but it took five minutes of stern headshaking and us reaching into our pockets before he waved us through - a broad smile on his face and 40,000 kip (US$4, or several days' wages) in his hand.

So why were we schlepping along terrible roads to a place where we probably wouldn't be welcome? Because of the area's incredible history.

By 1966 Long Cheng was one of the largest US installations on foreign soil, and by 1969 it was one of the busiest airports on earth.

From the early 1960s until May 1975, Long Cheng was at the heart of the American war against Communism in Laos, known as the 'Secret War' because neither the Americans nor the North Vietnamese admitted it was happening.

Long Cheng means 'clear valley' and it was the relatively open space - big enough for a runway - and its natural defences that appealed to the CIA. There was also a ready supply of ethnic Hmong, who were opposed to the Pathet Lao-North Vietnamese forces. What began as a sleepy village became a base for training Hmong guerrillas It grew fast.

By 1964 a 1260m-long runway had been built and sealed. By 1966 Long Cheng was one of the largest US installations on foreign soil, and by 1969 it was one of the busiest airports on earth.

Among those flying out of Long Cheng were American Forward Air Controllers (FACs), known as Ravens. These guys lived an almost comic-book existence: plucked out of the regular military in Vietnam and signed up to the 'Steve Canyon Program', they disappeared into a world so secret they couldn't tell anyone they were in Laos and flew in civilian clothes to disguise their identities.

By the time of the CIA's chaotic evacuation in May 1975, almost 50,000 Hmong fighters and refugees were living in the valley, making it the second-biggest city in Laos. Thousands were airlifted out but many more were left behind. Some of these chose to continue fighting. Even today one of the longest-running insurgencies on earth has a few diehard adherents who are still pursued by the Lao military. It's little wonder that Long Cheng has been off-limits for decades.

Back to our ride. The road leading up to Huay Kham, where the Australian-run Phu Bia copper mine cuts a colossal red scar across the earth, wasn't too bad. But from then on it dwindled to what a sign called - somewhat ominously - the 'Long Cheng track'.

Fortunately the track, with its washouts and precipitous drops, was at least as spectacular as it was dangerous. It was like riding through a traditional Chinese painting: jagged limestone peaks and steep-sided valleys. But in this painting most of the villages were military garrisons.

Dinner was a mix of rice and pot noodles prepared over a fire burning in an old cluster-bomb casing.

The riding was fantastic, but as the sun dropped behind the hills and mist washed into the valleys, we realised we weren't going to make it to Long Cheng and still have time to get back to the guesthouse in Huay Kham. Instead we stopped in a Hmong village, where the headman reluctantly agreed to put us up. In Laos, and particularly among the usually hospitable Hmong, this reluctance seemed unusual. It was only later we learned that these Hmong villages are not allowed to host Westerners without permission.

Once the headman had made his mind up, however, the hospitality was as generous as they could offer. We were put up in the best house in the village, complete with Hmong karaoke shipped in from America and turned up to 11 on the TV. Karaoke aside, things were pretty basic. We washed with a scoop from a 44-gallon drum out in the yard, and dinner was a mix of rice and pot noodles prepared over a fire burning in an old cluster-bomb casing.

Despite our limited Lao, it was clear that the Hmong in this village were not great fans of the government, which kept them under constant surveillance. When we asked about the lights on the hill across the valley the answer was simple: 'Soldiers'. They had us wheel the bikes inside our room, though we weren't sure whether they were worried about them being seen by the military or stolen.

The village woke about 5am and before long we were off through the cold morning mists. After another hour of long, steep climbs and descents we rounded a bend to see a boomgate, manned by several surprised Lao soldiers. Above them we could see the fabled runway stretching off towards some menacing-looking peaks. This was Long Cheng - we'd made it!

Unfortunately, our stay was brief. A Lao army colonel soon appeared and his reception wasn't exactly warm. No, we couldn't come in for a look around; this was still a military base. We tried several different angles but each was promptly rejected. Finally, the colonel laughed, turned on his heel and said: 'Come back in five years,' as he strode off.

It was a long way back to Vientiane, but no matter. Long Cheng had been the destination, but the real buzz was what happened on the way.