Phong Nha — The Dragon Reveals Its Body

We arrived in Phong Nha on a night bus after about nine hours, reaching the town

late, in the dark, with no sense of the landscape that we had arrived in. We simply

found our room and rested, unaware of what was waiting for us in the morning.

When we opened the shutters, we were met with a landscape that took our breath

away. In front of us, rising out of the earth, was the body of the dragon, physically

undeniable. Great shafts of rock pushed sharply into the sky like the armoured plates

along the back of a vast being. Between them flowed a green river, fresh and alive,

winding through the valleys. It felt as though the dragon was not hidden beneath the

land, but flying up through it, with only the upper part of its body visible, the rest still

vast and unseen below.

That first day was simply about arriving.

We took bicycles from our homestay and wandered slowly through the town and

surrounding countryside, letting the landscape settle into us. Again and again, we

found ourselves stopping, not to do anything, but simply to look, to breathe, and to

take in the quiet astonishment of where we had arrived. There was a deep sense of

gratitude, as though we had been brought to a place that revealed itself so fully and

immediately.

As we began to settle, another moment arose that, at the time, felt like a small detail,

but later revealed itself as part of a much larger pattern. While biking through the

village, we passed a small church tucked between houses. Something drew me

toward it. At the top stood a statue of Saint Peter, holding the keys. The keys to the

kingdom.

Immediately, something stirred. Years ago, I had created a body of work called The

Keys to the Kingdom — a series of codes that had come through me, not fully

understood at the time, but carrying a strong energetic presence. There were

eighteen of them, each holding a frequency within it. And here, at the threshold of

entering the body of the dragon, stood the image of Saint Peter holding those keys. It

became clear in that moment that the keys were never external, never something to

be given. They were something that opened from within. They were the keys of the

heart, and what we were about to enter was not simply a cave system, but a

pathway through a doorway — for which the keys were already present within us.

The following day, we entered the jungle, known as the Botanical Gardens, though it

is just the forest in its full expression. We walked toward a waterfall, surrounded by

the rising body of the dragon. It felt as though we were walking across its back, as

though rain had fallen across its skin and was now running down in rivulets between

the great armoured plates of stone.

Everything felt alive. Not separate forms, but one vast presence expressed through

the land itself. Later that day, we climbed toward Paradise Cave with our guide, Long

— whose name, fittingly, means “dragon.” One of those moments where the journey

reflects itself so clearly that there is nothing to do but smile.

Long had returned to his hometown to guide people through the landscape he loved,

while also caring for his elderly parents. As we walked, he shared not only the

geological story of the caves, but the lived history of Vietnam — the suffering, the

resilience, and the quiet determination of a people who have endured immense

hardship and yet continue to move forward with openness and warmth.

We carried all of this with us as we entered the cave, and as we entered through the

small hole in the rock face, almost immediately, something shifted. The air cooled,

the light softened, and the outside world fell away. As we descended, the cave

opened into vast chambers, one leading into the next, extending deep into the body

of the earth.

It felt like walking through a living cathedral. Towering formations rose like organ

pipes, as though the entire interior had been shaped as an instrument of sound and

resonance. And yet at the same time, everything was fluid, formed by water over

millions of years, shaped drop by drop. Many of the forms resembled great jellyfish-

like beings, suspended in space, soft and curved, almost translucent where the light

touched them.

It felt as though we were no longer walking through stone, but through water — an

ancient ocean held within the earth. In that moment, I understood that we were

inside the body of the dragon.

Everything that had come before aligned. The earlier encounters — the dragon egg,

The unfolding of the dragon’s presence across the journey — all converged here.

This was not symbolic; it was embodied. The dragon lines of the Earth revealed

themselves not as abstract pathways, but as living currents of sound and frequency

moving through a vast, ancient structure.

We walked slowly through the illuminated pathways, held in deep silence. The

Reverence was natural as there was nothing to say, only the knowing that we were

inside something immeasurably old, a being that has existed for hundreds of millions

of years.

At the far end of the walkway, Anna and I found ourselves alone. It felt like a gift. We

spoke a quiet prayer to the dragon, to Mother Earth, to Shakti, and offered a small

token into the darkness beyond — a piece of sacred geometry, linking this place to

others along the journey, sending a resonance through the body of the dragon.

As we walked back out, something within me had shifted. Not dramatically, but

permanently.

Later that afternoon, we entered the second cave — Phong Nha Cave — a water

cave, entirely different in nature. We travelled by boat along the river, guided by two

local women. As we approached the cave, the engine was cut off, and from that

moment on, we were carried only by their paddles as a deep silence descended.

The light dimmed, reflections softened, and the movement became slow and

rhythmic, almost like breathing. It felt as though we were moving through the veins of

the dragon, carried deeper into its living current. The cave here was fluid, alive in a

different way. The formations curved and folded like liquid, still in the process of

becoming. It felt less like a structure and more like a living system, shaped

continuously by the presence of water.

No one spoke as the silence held us, with only the sound of the women paddling

with quiet strength, and there was something profoundly ancient in that rhythm —

human movement in harmony with the cave itself. If Paradise Cave was the bones

and heart of the dragon, this was its blood.

As we left Phong Nha, the transition was immediate. We boarded a daytime “night

bus,” lying down as the landscape moved past us. The ride was loud, uneven, and

far from peaceful — the driver leaning heavily on the horn, the road rough beneath

us - and yet, something within remained still.

The experience of Phong Nha did not leave the body; it stayed with us, as though we

were still moving within it, and perhaps we were, because as the landscape shifted

beyond the windows, there was a quiet knowing that we were not leaving the dragon

behind. It was accompanying us; awake and vibrating through us, the landscape,

The people and the ancient story that it carried forward.