This is my friend Tris.
We are embarking on a mission - fly to Saigon, acquire a motorbike, drive north, and arrive in Hanoi in time to catch a return flight home.
Oh, and Hanoi is approximately 2,000 km away.
By bike.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
This is me, Bob.
This is my friend Tris.
We are embarking on a mission - fly to Saigon, acquire a motorbike, drive north, and arrive in Hanoi in time to catch a return flight home.
Oh, and Hanoi is approximately 2,000 km away.
By bike.
This is my friend Tris.
We are embarking on a mission - fly to Saigon, acquire a motorbike, drive north, and arrive in Hanoi in time to catch a return flight home.
Oh, and Hanoi is approximately 2,000 km away.
By bike.
I'm currently waiting at Bankok International for my connecting flight to Saigon. Here's what's happened so far.....
22nd August. Arrived at Heathrow, terminal 3, with two things to do. 1. Find Tris. 2. Get some dollars.
1. Easy. I found Tris in the internet cafe (of course). He has shaved. This is unusual.
2. Hard. I tried to pay for my money with my (Lloyds TSB) debit card, but it was declined. Twice. Frustrated, I tried their helpful 74-option automated phone helpline, only to be cut-off while queued waiting for an operator. Twice. Now a bit panicked, starting to sweat under my (empty) money belt, I realised I was screwed. Step in my non-bearded friend (who happily banks with HSBC), who reluctantly but dutifully coughed up my share...
I hate Lloyds TSB.
I'm then whisked off back to the internet cafe to reimburse him via my online account (which works!).
Tip number 1. Get your money before you travel....
The flight to Bankok was entertaining. For at least eight of the ten and a half hours of night flight a delightful child was wooing us with his own personal rendition of "How to cry at 110 decibels every three minutes so as to wake everybody up", which is one of my personal favourites. A sleepy but inspired moment several hours in had me calling for the stewardess to ask for a set of earplugs, and she dutifully delivered me several new sets of headphones. A sleepy, awkward, and somewhat loud conversation / gesture later, I had what I wanted. However, 110 decibels is remarkably loud, and Thai Air earplugs are just not that highly rated.
I managed a few hours sleep spread over one and a half seats and a dozen neck-cricking positions, most of which carried a severe risk of DVT, and arrived moderately composed.
Oh, and tip number 2. Don't (Tris) leave the UK without spare passport photos. He spent an amusing few minutes arguing with a grotesque Thai woman about some fairly unfavourable exchange rates, but in the end the man needed Bhat.
Finally, Bankok International is very western. The first thing I see when landing and pulling into Gate E2? An advert for HSBC. In english. "The world's local bank".
I think I'm going to switch accounts when I get back....
22nd August. Arrived at Heathrow, terminal 3, with two things to do. 1. Find Tris. 2. Get some dollars.
1. Easy. I found Tris in the internet cafe (of course). He has shaved. This is unusual.
2. Hard. I tried to pay for my money with my (Lloyds TSB) debit card, but it was declined. Twice. Frustrated, I tried their helpful 74-option automated phone helpline, only to be cut-off while queued waiting for an operator. Twice. Now a bit panicked, starting to sweat under my (empty) money belt, I realised I was screwed. Step in my non-bearded friend (who happily banks with HSBC), who reluctantly but dutifully coughed up my share...
I hate Lloyds TSB.
I'm then whisked off back to the internet cafe to reimburse him via my online account (which works!).
Tip number 1. Get your money before you travel....
The flight to Bankok was entertaining. For at least eight of the ten and a half hours of night flight a delightful child was wooing us with his own personal rendition of "How to cry at 110 decibels every three minutes so as to wake everybody up", which is one of my personal favourites. A sleepy but inspired moment several hours in had me calling for the stewardess to ask for a set of earplugs, and she dutifully delivered me several new sets of headphones. A sleepy, awkward, and somewhat loud conversation / gesture later, I had what I wanted. However, 110 decibels is remarkably loud, and Thai Air earplugs are just not that highly rated.
I managed a few hours sleep spread over one and a half seats and a dozen neck-cricking positions, most of which carried a severe risk of DVT, and arrived moderately composed.
Oh, and tip number 2. Don't (Tris) leave the UK without spare passport photos. He spent an amusing few minutes arguing with a grotesque Thai woman about some fairly unfavourable exchange rates, but in the end the man needed Bhat.
Finally, Bankok International is very western. The first thing I see when landing and pulling into Gate E2? An advert for HSBC. In english. "The world's local bank".
I think I'm going to switch accounts when I get back....
23rd August
So... We arrived in Vietnam! Tired and jetlagged, we wander through immigration, only to... Not wander through immigration. A few minutes at the visa clinic sorted everything though, helped with 2 beaming smiles and 25 pristine US dollars. Each. First thing's first - where to stay?
Tip number 3. Book a room for your first night in Vietnam before leaving the UK.
However, a quick flick through Lonely Planet's helpful recommendations gave us a name and an address, and we pointed and spoke slowly at a nice lady who booked us a taxi to take us straight there. The fare came to 140,000d (Dong), though with the exchange rate being 18,000 to 1, this was acceptably within limits... The ride was amazing. The driver spoke in broken English and managed to convey that we had arrived on a National Holiday, which basically meant that all 10 million inhabitants of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) were celebrating by riding every motorbike and scooter ever created in the world's biggest (but flowing) traffic jam.
We got to the (air conditioned) room and immediately felt refreshed and, in true jet lag style, not tired at all. So we went to reception and asked for directions to the nearest bar. My first impression of Vietnam: walking along the dark streets, my senses heightened by the humid air and the heat and the smells of exhaust and spices, bright neon lights everywhere and thousands upon thousands of motorbikes lining the streets. And being propositioned by incredibly attractive girls and their pimps (again, riding on bikes). After declining for the dozenth time, I saw a middle aged westerner deep in negotiations with one who had tried her luck with me. It was sickening.
We approached the recommended bar, but found it populated with westerners and Bryan Adams, so continued on to the next available 'local'. Here I sampled a dragonfruit shake to rehydrate myself (delicious), but we decided to venture off to find a proper bar before sampling the beer. We found one and spent a lot more time gesticulating and speaking loudly to Vin, the exuberant and hands-on barmaid, who was very interested in hearing of our holiday plans. When we finally managed to get across our intentions of riding bikes to Hanoi we were greeted with some exceptionally genuine laughter. This was not a good sign...
Admitting to ourselves that the Top Gear episode in Vietnam was our primary source of inspiration for this trip, we realised that the Top Gear crew had glossed over some fairly important details in how they actually acquired their respective modes of transportation.
Tip number 4. Make sure it's actually possible to ride a bike across Vietnam before spending an enormous amount of money and leaving the UK to try...
Vin proceeded to charge us 30,000d for the beer ($1.65? outrageous), so we made our incomprehensible excuses and headed back to the hotel... Which was locked. An anxious knock, a few more anxious minutes of waiting, laughing and shrugging, and finally a light came on.
"You welcome back any time" came the beaming smile of my live-in host. I've never been so grateful!
Oh, and there is another purpose to the trip - grow a beard.
It now itches.
Tip number 3. Book a room for your first night in Vietnam before leaving the UK.
However, a quick flick through Lonely Planet's helpful recommendations gave us a name and an address, and we pointed and spoke slowly at a nice lady who booked us a taxi to take us straight there. The fare came to 140,000d (Dong), though with the exchange rate being 18,000 to 1, this was acceptably within limits... The ride was amazing. The driver spoke in broken English and managed to convey that we had arrived on a National Holiday, which basically meant that all 10 million inhabitants of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) were celebrating by riding every motorbike and scooter ever created in the world's biggest (but flowing) traffic jam.
We got to the (air conditioned) room and immediately felt refreshed and, in true jet lag style, not tired at all. So we went to reception and asked for directions to the nearest bar. My first impression of Vietnam: walking along the dark streets, my senses heightened by the humid air and the heat and the smells of exhaust and spices, bright neon lights everywhere and thousands upon thousands of motorbikes lining the streets. And being propositioned by incredibly attractive girls and their pimps (again, riding on bikes). After declining for the dozenth time, I saw a middle aged westerner deep in negotiations with one who had tried her luck with me. It was sickening.
We approached the recommended bar, but found it populated with westerners and Bryan Adams, so continued on to the next available 'local'. Here I sampled a dragonfruit shake to rehydrate myself (delicious), but we decided to venture off to find a proper bar before sampling the beer. We found one and spent a lot more time gesticulating and speaking loudly to Vin, the exuberant and hands-on barmaid, who was very interested in hearing of our holiday plans. When we finally managed to get across our intentions of riding bikes to Hanoi we were greeted with some exceptionally genuine laughter. This was not a good sign...
Admitting to ourselves that the Top Gear episode in Vietnam was our primary source of inspiration for this trip, we realised that the Top Gear crew had glossed over some fairly important details in how they actually acquired their respective modes of transportation.
Tip number 4. Make sure it's actually possible to ride a bike across Vietnam before spending an enormous amount of money and leaving the UK to try...
Vin proceeded to charge us 30,000d for the beer ($1.65? outrageous), so we made our incomprehensible excuses and headed back to the hotel... Which was locked. An anxious knock, a few more anxious minutes of waiting, laughing and shrugging, and finally a light came on.
"You welcome back any time" came the beaming smile of my live-in host. I've never been so grateful!
Oh, and there is another purpose to the trip - grow a beard.
It now itches.
24th August
Breakfast time!
The nice ladies at reception brought us a massive loaf of bread and some sticky jam (each!), which was just as well as I was starving. Unfortunately, the bread rolls had been baked hollow, and were remarkably unfilling. The coffee was exceptionally good and though there didn't seem to be any milk on offer, a tin of condensed gloopy creamy stuff seemed to be the way forward. It had the combined effect of making my coffee look white, and taste fantastic.
The task for the day was to acquire a bike. Or, more precisely, two bikes. Off we set on our merry way down the back streets of District 1, aiming to get to Binh Tay market in District 5 for a bit of light hearted bartering and some good humoured patting on the back at having got ourselves such a good deal.
The walk there was enlightening. My first experience of crossing a busy high street in daylight was also almost my last. It's true what they say... The only rule that seems to apply on the roads here is that people will stop for traffic lights. Sometimes. There are lanes, or sides, of the road, which generally seem to contain traffic flowing in one particular direction, but again this doesn't seem to be a hard and fast rule. Crossing a road safely involves growing an extra set of eyes, looking around a lot, both ways, twice, and then again, stepping out gingerly into the street, walking slowly through (yes, through) the traffic, and trying not to get hit. Unsurprisingly, your natural instinct is to run, but once you learn not to it's actually (moderately) safe. Still, I have yet to see a traffic jam!
The sound of the city is very much one of engines in various stages of throttle. Big, growling noises come from the odd bus, a few baritone rumbles from the odd delivery truck and more sullen notes from the taxis, but by far the majority of irritated blasts are from the thousands upon thousands of bikes. The backdrop of Saigon is punctuated by these honks and sirens of all notes and intensities. If you were to cross the road blindfolded (possibly not as ridiculous as it sounds), you could be sure to judge the length and severity of your hospital stay by the number and pitch of honks aimed in your direction...
It turned out we had an oddly-scaled map. Binh Tay market was approximately 6 miles away, on one of the hottest days ever. We had walked, sweated, tanned, and blistered our way to the market, only to be greeted with incomprehensible stares, blank faces, and a lot of fist waving in the air (we later understood this to mean, simply, "no") when we pointed at a picture of a motorbike to various vendors and locals. Frustrated, thirsty, and in an increasingly bad mood, we decided to branch out and head into the shops selling brand new vehicles for some information.
We were greeted (if that's the right phrase) with even more apathy than before. The way shop assistants seem to deal with a situation they don't like or understand is to simply ignore it. Which is both maddeningly and precisely what they did. Getting more and more frustrated and fed up, we started thinking of other options. A train to Da Lat? A bus ride to the Meekong Delta? What about all our luggage? Thoroughly exhausted, and in desperate need of some shelter, we hailed a taxi (air conditioned) and took another $7 hit (ouch) for a ride back to the hotel.
After the day's events my expectations of what we would be riding north had been successively demoted from a Harley, to an off-roader, to a dirt bike, to a scooter, to a wheel, to a hedgehog, to a spoon. However, a quick discussion later we decided that bikes were definitely the way forward, and the purposeful re-affirmation of our holiday's main priority was enough to push us through. We got them later that day! One 110cc Honda each, though the models, and more importantly the colours, are different.
Exhausted, ecstatic, and extremely proud, we tested them for the first time.
Well, Tris did.
"Can you actually ride a bike? asked a local Vietnamese girl who spoke a smattering of English. "Er... Well, not a manual one, no." came my sheepish, but cleverly worded, response. That seemed to be enough for the girl, who quickly phoned The Uncle. He arrived shortly afterwards, and proceeded to pick up my bike and drive round the city with me hanging off the back seat. He took us on a tour, through back streets and across the Saigon River, down streets lined with neon signs and cheap smells, across highways of traffic, swerving through a multitude of bikes and in front of, around, and behind buses of all shapes and sizes. It was exhaustingly incredible. This is the way Saigon is supposed to be seen.
We sailed past a shop selling shoes, the flashing sign outside proudly displaying the fact that there were red shoes on offer. Strange how the word Red appeared for a lot longer than the word Shoes. A pair of bikes appeared menacingly on either side of me in a classic pincer movement, but avoided crashing by speeding away at the last moment. I saw the two girls on the back of the bikes laughing flirtatiously with the boys in front, and noticed that these sort of night time rides constitute dating. It must be popular...
In fact, probably the closest I can come to describing the feeling of being driven around Saigon on the back of a bike is to compare it to one of the motorbike missions on Grand Theft Auto! I felt like I had to get somewhere before the timer ran out, to meet with my new 'contact', or to blow something up. This last point seemed a bit far fetched until we passed ammunition shops on the way, and they weren't even down the back alleys... For a relatively small bike there is a tremendous amount of acceleration, even with two people on board. Honda provided some handy railings around the back seat to deal with the problem of "man overboard" situations, which I took full advantage of. They were quite sweaty by the time my ride was over.
After our tour, the uncle decided to test my driving skills. The test site chosen was, quite handily, the main road. Just outside the hotel. I say main. More like the Champs Elysee was closed and they diverted all traffic from both directions down my test site / main road aproximately two bus widths wide. Just trying to cross it is panic-inducing enough. I thought I'd try my luck on the pavement first, and tentatively eased the throttle forwards. Success! Riding a bike is easy (at 2 km/h). I got at least 3 or 4 meters down the pavement, narrowly avoiding an old woman pushing a cart and a bunch of school children, and looked up to find a smartly dressed policeman staring at me. Awkwardly. Disconcertingly, he wasn't sweating.
I turned around in a beautifully executed 11-point turn, sweating profusely (how does he not sweat in this heat?) and headed back towards the hotel to worried and amused looks in equal proportions. "You need some practice" was the general opinion. I agreed.
We waited for a lull in the traffic, which surprisingly didn't take too long, and, with my heart in my mouth, my hands slick with sweat and my head full of instructions it was trying to send to various limbs, I did it. Look left, right, left, right, left again, and right one more time for good measure, then throttle... on! Way, way too much. I heard screams, I panicked and tried to brake, but succeeded only in throttling some more - straight towards a parked taxi. More screaming, a loud "Bob!" from somewhere behind me, and with the first of the oncoming cavalcade of bikes in my sights, I had nothing for it but to continue. A swift swerve to the right, a gear change (nice...) and some handlebar stabilisation later, I found myself pointed in the right direction on the right side of the road, and absolutely alive.
I got to the end of the road and stopped for the traffic light, which helpfully counted down from 26 so you can decide (at 4) when to start revving your engine. When it hit 4 and people around me started to rev, I snapped back into action, heard loud, hot noises all around me, and realised I wasn't breathing. A few seconds later I was back in the throng, in control, breathing once again, and beaming ear to ear. This is the way to see Saigon.
Half an hour or so later I felt relatively comfortable on the bike, and managed a couple of runs around the local park. All was going well until... I stalled, in possibly the worst place it's possible to stall. An intersection, 3 lanes wide, with north, south, east and west exits, and I was in the middle. Completely in the middle. I tried the starter motor, but that failed. I panicked again. I tried the kick starter, but only succeeded in burning my leg against the exhaust (design flaw, anyone?), and then the traffic started flowing across me. That's right, across me. I think I closed my eyes, all I remember is a lot of shouting, some wry giggles from girls on the back of bikes, and one remarkably astute comment from an oncoming citizen as he wailed "Oh shiiiiiiit..." that dopplered to something more recognisably western as he passed within inches of my foot.
I eventually got it started again and rode back to base. Despite the upset, it was, quite simply, incredibly good fun. Riding down busy, crowded streets as people chatter over you, joining in their conversations as they hail "hello" when they scoot past, experiencing the thrill of the wind on your face as you (you!) are in control, weaving in and out of the traffic, avoiding stereotypically Vietnamese women in their stereotypical straw hats as they draw their stereotypical carts blindly across lanes of traffic, and stopping, occasionally, for the odd pedestrian.
Riding a bike. Is amazing.
The nice ladies at reception brought us a massive loaf of bread and some sticky jam (each!), which was just as well as I was starving. Unfortunately, the bread rolls had been baked hollow, and were remarkably unfilling. The coffee was exceptionally good and though there didn't seem to be any milk on offer, a tin of condensed gloopy creamy stuff seemed to be the way forward. It had the combined effect of making my coffee look white, and taste fantastic.
The task for the day was to acquire a bike. Or, more precisely, two bikes. Off we set on our merry way down the back streets of District 1, aiming to get to Binh Tay market in District 5 for a bit of light hearted bartering and some good humoured patting on the back at having got ourselves such a good deal.
The walk there was enlightening. My first experience of crossing a busy high street in daylight was also almost my last. It's true what they say... The only rule that seems to apply on the roads here is that people will stop for traffic lights. Sometimes. There are lanes, or sides, of the road, which generally seem to contain traffic flowing in one particular direction, but again this doesn't seem to be a hard and fast rule. Crossing a road safely involves growing an extra set of eyes, looking around a lot, both ways, twice, and then again, stepping out gingerly into the street, walking slowly through (yes, through) the traffic, and trying not to get hit. Unsurprisingly, your natural instinct is to run, but once you learn not to it's actually (moderately) safe. Still, I have yet to see a traffic jam!
The sound of the city is very much one of engines in various stages of throttle. Big, growling noises come from the odd bus, a few baritone rumbles from the odd delivery truck and more sullen notes from the taxis, but by far the majority of irritated blasts are from the thousands upon thousands of bikes. The backdrop of Saigon is punctuated by these honks and sirens of all notes and intensities. If you were to cross the road blindfolded (possibly not as ridiculous as it sounds), you could be sure to judge the length and severity of your hospital stay by the number and pitch of honks aimed in your direction...
It turned out we had an oddly-scaled map. Binh Tay market was approximately 6 miles away, on one of the hottest days ever. We had walked, sweated, tanned, and blistered our way to the market, only to be greeted with incomprehensible stares, blank faces, and a lot of fist waving in the air (we later understood this to mean, simply, "no") when we pointed at a picture of a motorbike to various vendors and locals. Frustrated, thirsty, and in an increasingly bad mood, we decided to branch out and head into the shops selling brand new vehicles for some information.
We were greeted (if that's the right phrase) with even more apathy than before. The way shop assistants seem to deal with a situation they don't like or understand is to simply ignore it. Which is both maddeningly and precisely what they did. Getting more and more frustrated and fed up, we started thinking of other options. A train to Da Lat? A bus ride to the Meekong Delta? What about all our luggage? Thoroughly exhausted, and in desperate need of some shelter, we hailed a taxi (air conditioned) and took another $7 hit (ouch) for a ride back to the hotel.
After the day's events my expectations of what we would be riding north had been successively demoted from a Harley, to an off-roader, to a dirt bike, to a scooter, to a wheel, to a hedgehog, to a spoon. However, a quick discussion later we decided that bikes were definitely the way forward, and the purposeful re-affirmation of our holiday's main priority was enough to push us through. We got them later that day! One 110cc Honda each, though the models, and more importantly the colours, are different.
Exhausted, ecstatic, and extremely proud, we tested them for the first time.
Well, Tris did.
"Can you actually ride a bike? asked a local Vietnamese girl who spoke a smattering of English. "Er... Well, not a manual one, no." came my sheepish, but cleverly worded, response. That seemed to be enough for the girl, who quickly phoned The Uncle. He arrived shortly afterwards, and proceeded to pick up my bike and drive round the city with me hanging off the back seat. He took us on a tour, through back streets and across the Saigon River, down streets lined with neon signs and cheap smells, across highways of traffic, swerving through a multitude of bikes and in front of, around, and behind buses of all shapes and sizes. It was exhaustingly incredible. This is the way Saigon is supposed to be seen.
We sailed past a shop selling shoes, the flashing sign outside proudly displaying the fact that there were red shoes on offer. Strange how the word Red appeared for a lot longer than the word Shoes. A pair of bikes appeared menacingly on either side of me in a classic pincer movement, but avoided crashing by speeding away at the last moment. I saw the two girls on the back of the bikes laughing flirtatiously with the boys in front, and noticed that these sort of night time rides constitute dating. It must be popular...
In fact, probably the closest I can come to describing the feeling of being driven around Saigon on the back of a bike is to compare it to one of the motorbike missions on Grand Theft Auto! I felt like I had to get somewhere before the timer ran out, to meet with my new 'contact', or to blow something up. This last point seemed a bit far fetched until we passed ammunition shops on the way, and they weren't even down the back alleys... For a relatively small bike there is a tremendous amount of acceleration, even with two people on board. Honda provided some handy railings around the back seat to deal with the problem of "man overboard" situations, which I took full advantage of. They were quite sweaty by the time my ride was over.
After our tour, the uncle decided to test my driving skills. The test site chosen was, quite handily, the main road. Just outside the hotel. I say main. More like the Champs Elysee was closed and they diverted all traffic from both directions down my test site / main road aproximately two bus widths wide. Just trying to cross it is panic-inducing enough. I thought I'd try my luck on the pavement first, and tentatively eased the throttle forwards. Success! Riding a bike is easy (at 2 km/h). I got at least 3 or 4 meters down the pavement, narrowly avoiding an old woman pushing a cart and a bunch of school children, and looked up to find a smartly dressed policeman staring at me. Awkwardly. Disconcertingly, he wasn't sweating.
I turned around in a beautifully executed 11-point turn, sweating profusely (how does he not sweat in this heat?) and headed back towards the hotel to worried and amused looks in equal proportions. "You need some practice" was the general opinion. I agreed.
We waited for a lull in the traffic, which surprisingly didn't take too long, and, with my heart in my mouth, my hands slick with sweat and my head full of instructions it was trying to send to various limbs, I did it. Look left, right, left, right, left again, and right one more time for good measure, then throttle... on! Way, way too much. I heard screams, I panicked and tried to brake, but succeeded only in throttling some more - straight towards a parked taxi. More screaming, a loud "Bob!" from somewhere behind me, and with the first of the oncoming cavalcade of bikes in my sights, I had nothing for it but to continue. A swift swerve to the right, a gear change (nice...) and some handlebar stabilisation later, I found myself pointed in the right direction on the right side of the road, and absolutely alive.
I got to the end of the road and stopped for the traffic light, which helpfully counted down from 26 so you can decide (at 4) when to start revving your engine. When it hit 4 and people around me started to rev, I snapped back into action, heard loud, hot noises all around me, and realised I wasn't breathing. A few seconds later I was back in the throng, in control, breathing once again, and beaming ear to ear. This is the way to see Saigon.
Half an hour or so later I felt relatively comfortable on the bike, and managed a couple of runs around the local park. All was going well until... I stalled, in possibly the worst place it's possible to stall. An intersection, 3 lanes wide, with north, south, east and west exits, and I was in the middle. Completely in the middle. I tried the starter motor, but that failed. I panicked again. I tried the kick starter, but only succeeded in burning my leg against the exhaust (design flaw, anyone?), and then the traffic started flowing across me. That's right, across me. I think I closed my eyes, all I remember is a lot of shouting, some wry giggles from girls on the back of bikes, and one remarkably astute comment from an oncoming citizen as he wailed "Oh shiiiiiiit..." that dopplered to something more recognisably western as he passed within inches of my foot.
I eventually got it started again and rode back to base. Despite the upset, it was, quite simply, incredibly good fun. Riding down busy, crowded streets as people chatter over you, joining in their conversations as they hail "hello" when they scoot past, experiencing the thrill of the wind on your face as you (you!) are in control, weaving in and out of the traffic, avoiding stereotypically Vietnamese women in their stereotypical straw hats as they draw their stereotypical carts blindly across lanes of traffic, and stopping, occasionally, for the odd pedestrian.
Riding a bike. Is amazing.
25th August
After the deliriousness of the previous day I decided that more practice on the bike wouldn't go amiss. This turned out to be a fantastic idea. We needed a few provisions for our big ride north, and compiled a list - tools, spare parts, and most importantly some maps.
We headed off down the always busy streets in search of some local markets that would sell us the tools we needed, just so happened to leave right in the middle of morning rush hour. You can tell not by the amount of traffic, but by what the various drivers are wearing. I saw a few suits, a few ladies in smart skirts (they ride sidesaddle!), but mostly just short sleeved blue cotton shirts, or some brownish-green military looking uniform. I felt rather conspicuous and slowed down for these...
We must have ridden across almost the entire city looking for parts, and by lunchtime our list was still mostly unchecked. We bought bike-locks (try explaining that without a picture), but due to some fairly insurmountable language issues, that was about it. Hungry, and now with a mode of transportation, we decided to head for the legendary "Pho 2000" cafe. We consulted a guide book, pointed ourselves down the correct labyrinth of side streets, and hummed forward. A left, right, left, U-turn (one way systems, who knew...), left and left again and we opened out from the thin, leafy, enclosed streets into a vast tarmacked platform of typically un-Vietnamese proportions. This is where all the traffic in the city must originate from. It was as if every vehicle in the universe was trying to jam itself around the biggest roundabout system I've ever seen, the only semblance of order being that everyone was obeying the clockwise rule. The method of choice for navigating your way around seems to be to bunny hop forwards, honk constantly, and swivel the handlebars excessively to keep yourself from falling over. I don't think my eyes have even been so permanently open in a state of "must-not-blink-or-I'll-crash" fear.
But it works! I didn't crash, or fall over, or even have to burn my leg on the exhaust pipe the entire trip around the roundabout. And the reward for surviving was a meal. We stopped at the nearest bike-park, where (we hoped) a wizened old man with a fistful of dong offered to watch our bikes for the low low price of 4,000d. With no real options, we accepted, and after some quizzical looks and a shrug or two, handed over the keys as well.
All thoughts that I might never see the bike again were quashed instantly when we swung through the doors of Pho 2000. Pictures of Bill Clinton posing with staff (some of whom were still there) on every wall provided some odd comfort, and a diet coke to wash down the slivers of beef with absolutely hit the spot.
We had no problems reclaiming the bikes, but as soon as we got back on the road... it started to rain.
Oh crap.
This is not ordinary rain. It's monsoon rain. I knew there would be monsoons before I set off (obviously.... er?), but it still comes as, well, a shock. Just beforehand, the air temperature drops rapidly, which feels like a wonderful relief from the incessant heat until you realise what's happening. Then the first drops start to fall. Smatterings at first, but no lulls anywhere, and the water is quite fine, like a mist. Then the drops start to fall, heavily, and within a few minutes it is as if someone is consistently pouring a bucket of water over your head, although in compensation it is at least tepidly lukewarm. With our t-shirts and shorts soaked through we had to stop riding, and parked on a side street while we waited for the rain to pass. How long would that take? Another quick conversation later and we discovered that seasonal tropical monsoon rain duration and consistency was a topic that neither of us was too well versed on, so armed with nothing more than a soggy money belt, we sloshed off in search of a bike-poncho that every single Vietnamese rider had somehow acquired, unzipped and was wearing with grim determination as they went about their daily routine.
We parted with 100,000d (each! captive market...) for the luxury of our new ponchos - blue... and lighter blue! - but by this stage it was fairly pointless wearing them as I physically could not possibly be any wetter. After about half an hour, the worst of the rain subsided and we thought it best to head back to the hotel. The route we had planned back to the hotel was etched into a piece of paper in Tris' pocket. Or, at least, used to be. It was now a piece of uniformly coloured mulch, ink running down the folds and rendering it completely useless. So, we decided to guess instead.
What a great plan... The worst of the rain had not subsided. We were humming down one of the main streets in about 3 inches of water, which splashed and sloshed everywhere as various modes of transportation forced their way through it. At least when a car screamed past you you were splashed with warm water though! The streets were crowded - it seems a little rain is not enough to deter the hardy citizens from their appointed tasks - and the traffic was as busy as ever. The rain still kept falling, and by now I was getting a little worried. The hotel was miles (sorry, kilometres) away, and the roads were now, officially, flooded. But still it rained. The water got 6 inches deep, 9 inches, a foot deep and my feet on the pedals began to trail in the water. It kept raining and the water kept rising, and as I passed various poncho'd bike riders by the side of the road, the water level rose above my exhaust pipe and I realised I had no idea where the air intake was? Was I going to flood the engine? What does that actually mean? How the hell do you fix that?
The water rose to about a foot and a half deep, but instead of giving up and coughing itself to death my plucky little machine screamed on. A woman on a bike loaded up with bags upon bags of goods started wobbling, stalled, and then crashed, and all her possessions started floating away carried by the torrent of flowing water and churning wheels. Second gear, full revs, a willful determination and approximately 20 minutes later and we must have climbed a hill, the water level subsided and I started to relax.
This is the way to see Saigon!
Later, we took a detour round the back streets behind the back streets of District 1 and found the most poverty stricken chop-shop imaginable. A team of malnourished, but brilliant, mechanics spent a good few hours scouring the bikes, looking over them and replacing parts, including a new wheel for Tris' bike, though we only asked for spares (no point trying to argue, as he'd already removed the back wheel, brake mechanism, and chain shaft!). An oil change, quick check, and new wing mirrors (important!) later, we headed home, ready for anything.
A quick trip to the (recommended) map shop was, however, rather disappointing. Ordinance Survey have some work to do over here... However, a hardback atlas must be good enough for the Vietnamese, so it's good enough for us.
We are now ready for the ride north.
Almost...
We headed off down the always busy streets in search of some local markets that would sell us the tools we needed, just so happened to leave right in the middle of morning rush hour. You can tell not by the amount of traffic, but by what the various drivers are wearing. I saw a few suits, a few ladies in smart skirts (they ride sidesaddle!), but mostly just short sleeved blue cotton shirts, or some brownish-green military looking uniform. I felt rather conspicuous and slowed down for these...
We must have ridden across almost the entire city looking for parts, and by lunchtime our list was still mostly unchecked. We bought bike-locks (try explaining that without a picture), but due to some fairly insurmountable language issues, that was about it. Hungry, and now with a mode of transportation, we decided to head for the legendary "Pho 2000" cafe. We consulted a guide book, pointed ourselves down the correct labyrinth of side streets, and hummed forward. A left, right, left, U-turn (one way systems, who knew...), left and left again and we opened out from the thin, leafy, enclosed streets into a vast tarmacked platform of typically un-Vietnamese proportions. This is where all the traffic in the city must originate from. It was as if every vehicle in the universe was trying to jam itself around the biggest roundabout system I've ever seen, the only semblance of order being that everyone was obeying the clockwise rule. The method of choice for navigating your way around seems to be to bunny hop forwards, honk constantly, and swivel the handlebars excessively to keep yourself from falling over. I don't think my eyes have even been so permanently open in a state of "must-not-blink-or-I'll-crash" fear.
But it works! I didn't crash, or fall over, or even have to burn my leg on the exhaust pipe the entire trip around the roundabout. And the reward for surviving was a meal. We stopped at the nearest bike-park, where (we hoped) a wizened old man with a fistful of dong offered to watch our bikes for the low low price of 4,000d. With no real options, we accepted, and after some quizzical looks and a shrug or two, handed over the keys as well.
All thoughts that I might never see the bike again were quashed instantly when we swung through the doors of Pho 2000. Pictures of Bill Clinton posing with staff (some of whom were still there) on every wall provided some odd comfort, and a diet coke to wash down the slivers of beef with absolutely hit the spot.
We had no problems reclaiming the bikes, but as soon as we got back on the road... it started to rain.
Oh crap.
This is not ordinary rain. It's monsoon rain. I knew there would be monsoons before I set off (obviously.... er?), but it still comes as, well, a shock. Just beforehand, the air temperature drops rapidly, which feels like a wonderful relief from the incessant heat until you realise what's happening. Then the first drops start to fall. Smatterings at first, but no lulls anywhere, and the water is quite fine, like a mist. Then the drops start to fall, heavily, and within a few minutes it is as if someone is consistently pouring a bucket of water over your head, although in compensation it is at least tepidly lukewarm. With our t-shirts and shorts soaked through we had to stop riding, and parked on a side street while we waited for the rain to pass. How long would that take? Another quick conversation later and we discovered that seasonal tropical monsoon rain duration and consistency was a topic that neither of us was too well versed on, so armed with nothing more than a soggy money belt, we sloshed off in search of a bike-poncho that every single Vietnamese rider had somehow acquired, unzipped and was wearing with grim determination as they went about their daily routine.
We parted with 100,000d (each! captive market...) for the luxury of our new ponchos - blue... and lighter blue! - but by this stage it was fairly pointless wearing them as I physically could not possibly be any wetter. After about half an hour, the worst of the rain subsided and we thought it best to head back to the hotel. The route we had planned back to the hotel was etched into a piece of paper in Tris' pocket. Or, at least, used to be. It was now a piece of uniformly coloured mulch, ink running down the folds and rendering it completely useless. So, we decided to guess instead.
What a great plan... The worst of the rain had not subsided. We were humming down one of the main streets in about 3 inches of water, which splashed and sloshed everywhere as various modes of transportation forced their way through it. At least when a car screamed past you you were splashed with warm water though! The streets were crowded - it seems a little rain is not enough to deter the hardy citizens from their appointed tasks - and the traffic was as busy as ever. The rain still kept falling, and by now I was getting a little worried. The hotel was miles (sorry, kilometres) away, and the roads were now, officially, flooded. But still it rained. The water got 6 inches deep, 9 inches, a foot deep and my feet on the pedals began to trail in the water. It kept raining and the water kept rising, and as I passed various poncho'd bike riders by the side of the road, the water level rose above my exhaust pipe and I realised I had no idea where the air intake was? Was I going to flood the engine? What does that actually mean? How the hell do you fix that?
The water rose to about a foot and a half deep, but instead of giving up and coughing itself to death my plucky little machine screamed on. A woman on a bike loaded up with bags upon bags of goods started wobbling, stalled, and then crashed, and all her possessions started floating away carried by the torrent of flowing water and churning wheels. Second gear, full revs, a willful determination and approximately 20 minutes later and we must have climbed a hill, the water level subsided and I started to relax.
This is the way to see Saigon!
Later, we took a detour round the back streets behind the back streets of District 1 and found the most poverty stricken chop-shop imaginable. A team of malnourished, but brilliant, mechanics spent a good few hours scouring the bikes, looking over them and replacing parts, including a new wheel for Tris' bike, though we only asked for spares (no point trying to argue, as he'd already removed the back wheel, brake mechanism, and chain shaft!). An oil change, quick check, and new wing mirrors (important!) later, we headed home, ready for anything.
A quick trip to the (recommended) map shop was, however, rather disappointing. Ordinance Survey have some work to do over here... However, a hardback atlas must be good enough for the Vietnamese, so it's good enough for us.
We are now ready for the ride north.
Almost...
26th August
We were almost ready to leave... With a bit of a shock we realised that we had done no actual sightseeing in Saigon, apart from the general riding around and glancing at things (when not fully occupied in the task of driving, Mum). So, we consulted the (by now fairly wet) guidebook, and decided to head for the War Remnants Museum. We had come up with a fairly good routine for navigating. Find the destination on the map. See what the road is called. Try and pronounce it. Fail dismally. Say it phonetically, and translate that into something that sounds a bit English! Never fails... So, the Nguyen Thi Minh Khai became the "Tea? Mint Chai"
Well, it worked for us... The museum itself was horrific, though it doesn't look so from the outside. It is surrounded by a ramshackle series of walls and rubble, which sort of add to the whole effect. There are US military vehicles on display outside, including an unexploded bomb which "decimates everything within a 100m radius and severely destroys everything in a 1.6km radius" just sitting in the extremely hot sun. I'm sure they've taken precautions and disarmed it... Venturing inside is like twisting your perception 90 degrees to read about the atrocities America inflicted on the Vietnamese during the war. Propaganda feels like the wrong word to describe it, but it is definitely skewed heavily toward the anti-American. Tale after tale after anecdote after description of massacres and beheadings and mass-graves, and still-shocking black and white photos of troops and their murdered trophies are on display around the walls. You enter with a feeling of intrigue and the further you go round and the more you see the more depressed and sickened you feel. The later exhibits show victims, some second and third generation, of the agent orange / dioxin poisoning. These defy description, and the shrine-like way they are displayed is an uneasy combination of part-homage, part-circus-show is the real legacy of the war.
It wasn't easy to stay, and after viewing the shrine-room we both decided to leave. It was a depressing reminder of recent history that quite literally left a bad taste in my mouth. Affecting.
Back in the sweltering heat, we decided to visit the Reunification Palace to cheer ourselves up (though in Saigon most of the 'sights' are quite heavily swayed in favour of showing the Americans as evil, and therefore likely to be depressing), but were told in broken English that it didn't open until later.
Further depressed, hot and thirsty we honed in on the odd sight of Americana a stone's throw from the museum - we headed to Gloria Jean's cafe, a Starbucks-of-the-East as it were. It was air conditioned, and the 85,000d mango smoothie I wolfed down did wonders for my mood. An excellent rendition of "Livin on a Prayer" gently played in the background and 15 minutes later it was as if the atrocities of war had never happened. Perhaps it was because of the generous smiles of the waitresses, or the giggling (and most probably very rich) schoolgirls, but it is just hard to feel like a war happened here just down the road when you're sitting in a coffee shop.
We took in the Botanic Gardens, which I assumed would be beautifully manicured examples of eastern foliage and fauna, but in actuality was mostly grassed over with extremely wide-leafed grass. There was a reptile house with a bunch of iguanas, turtles and tortoises, and a snake pit with three fully grown boas in it and an extraordinarily anxious rabbit. You could still make out the lumps in all three snakes from their last meal, I'm not sure how long the rabbit had left. We also saw elephants and something that looked like an antelope, but on the whole the atmosphere of the park was not tremendously uplifting.
We had arranged to meet The Uncle at 3pm, so decided to head back down the Tea Mint Chai to get back to the hotel. He took us to get the last of our provisions (why didn't we just do this first, rather than find out the hard way that our gesticulations and broken English agreements are just too incomprehensible?), and we got spanners, screwdrivers, spare spark plugs, a spark plug remover, pliers, a pump, and some spare bulbs for the headlights.
With all the items on our list procured there was nothing left but to head over to the highest point in Saigon - the Sheraton Hotel. We arrived looking fairly smart - on our bikes - and asked the bellboys where we could park. First left, apparently. First left turned out to be a ramp up to a multi-storey car park, and climbing up the steep tunnel created an exhaust-amplifying roar that made me smile from ear to ear. Something about riding a bike inside a building, even to a bike-park, is absolutely thrilling!
We went to the roof terrace bar and saw the sun set across the city. The view was sadly occluded with a gentle fog, but there was such a good impression of the city from the altitude and we saw where we'd been and where we had to go. It was hot, slightly windy, and dizzying when I looked out over the unenclosed veranda. Being all tooled up for the journey north and being able to see where we were going, now we were ready. Ready for the ride north...
Well, it worked for us... The museum itself was horrific, though it doesn't look so from the outside. It is surrounded by a ramshackle series of walls and rubble, which sort of add to the whole effect. There are US military vehicles on display outside, including an unexploded bomb which "decimates everything within a 100m radius and severely destroys everything in a 1.6km radius" just sitting in the extremely hot sun. I'm sure they've taken precautions and disarmed it... Venturing inside is like twisting your perception 90 degrees to read about the atrocities America inflicted on the Vietnamese during the war. Propaganda feels like the wrong word to describe it, but it is definitely skewed heavily toward the anti-American. Tale after tale after anecdote after description of massacres and beheadings and mass-graves, and still-shocking black and white photos of troops and their murdered trophies are on display around the walls. You enter with a feeling of intrigue and the further you go round and the more you see the more depressed and sickened you feel. The later exhibits show victims, some second and third generation, of the agent orange / dioxin poisoning. These defy description, and the shrine-like way they are displayed is an uneasy combination of part-homage, part-circus-show is the real legacy of the war.
It wasn't easy to stay, and after viewing the shrine-room we both decided to leave. It was a depressing reminder of recent history that quite literally left a bad taste in my mouth. Affecting.
Back in the sweltering heat, we decided to visit the Reunification Palace to cheer ourselves up (though in Saigon most of the 'sights' are quite heavily swayed in favour of showing the Americans as evil, and therefore likely to be depressing), but were told in broken English that it didn't open until later.
Further depressed, hot and thirsty we honed in on the odd sight of Americana a stone's throw from the museum - we headed to Gloria Jean's cafe, a Starbucks-of-the-East as it were. It was air conditioned, and the 85,000d mango smoothie I wolfed down did wonders for my mood. An excellent rendition of "Livin on a Prayer" gently played in the background and 15 minutes later it was as if the atrocities of war had never happened. Perhaps it was because of the generous smiles of the waitresses, or the giggling (and most probably very rich) schoolgirls, but it is just hard to feel like a war happened here just down the road when you're sitting in a coffee shop.
We took in the Botanic Gardens, which I assumed would be beautifully manicured examples of eastern foliage and fauna, but in actuality was mostly grassed over with extremely wide-leafed grass. There was a reptile house with a bunch of iguanas, turtles and tortoises, and a snake pit with three fully grown boas in it and an extraordinarily anxious rabbit. You could still make out the lumps in all three snakes from their last meal, I'm not sure how long the rabbit had left. We also saw elephants and something that looked like an antelope, but on the whole the atmosphere of the park was not tremendously uplifting.
We had arranged to meet The Uncle at 3pm, so decided to head back down the Tea Mint Chai to get back to the hotel. He took us to get the last of our provisions (why didn't we just do this first, rather than find out the hard way that our gesticulations and broken English agreements are just too incomprehensible?), and we got spanners, screwdrivers, spare spark plugs, a spark plug remover, pliers, a pump, and some spare bulbs for the headlights.
With all the items on our list procured there was nothing left but to head over to the highest point in Saigon - the Sheraton Hotel. We arrived looking fairly smart - on our bikes - and asked the bellboys where we could park. First left, apparently. First left turned out to be a ramp up to a multi-storey car park, and climbing up the steep tunnel created an exhaust-amplifying roar that made me smile from ear to ear. Something about riding a bike inside a building, even to a bike-park, is absolutely thrilling!
We went to the roof terrace bar and saw the sun set across the city. The view was sadly occluded with a gentle fog, but there was such a good impression of the city from the altitude and we saw where we'd been and where we had to go. It was hot, slightly windy, and dizzying when I looked out over the unenclosed veranda. Being all tooled up for the journey north and being able to see where we were going, now we were ready. Ready for the ride north...
27th August
Ready to go! Approximate distance to Hanoi - 1800km, or 6 and a half thumbs on the map. Approximate distance to Da Lat, our destination - 200km, or a whole thumb. We had breakfast (another hollow roll - how do they do it?), and we started packing the bikes. In front of a lot of people (local and not). "Do you ride in England a lot" came a strangely phrased question from a remarkably interested German tourist. "No" was my determined and slightly nervous reply, which seemed to do little to deter him. He watched as we packed the bikes, helped enormously by The Uncle (I'm going to miss him) and the stares of the locals. A lot of chatter was going on around me, all in Vietnamese, and I'm sure most of it was detrimental, or possibly prayer for our safe trip. Thanks. After some deliberation as to whether to head left or right, we chose correctly, and honked and throttled our way through the streets laden down with well-strapped luggage.
It was hot. Extremely hot. I remembered reading that on long drives you should really wear long sleeves and trousers, but with the wind rushing over you as you accelerate northwards you don't really think about this for too long. This is a mistake. However, it is a mistake it takes quite a long time to realise - as we found out. We were stuck in slow moving traffic in the middle of the city for half an hour, taking ages to get out of the city centre. It was disparaging to say the least. With the sun beating down on my exposed limbs, I started to worry that at this rate Da Lat would be unattainable in a day, and the magnificent parting words from our hosts at the hotel indicated strongly that if we were not in Da Lat by nightfall we would be murdered for our bikes. I kid you not.
Murdered.
With this in mind, and with our disconcertingly pathetic pace across the country, it was with some relief that we hit the outskirts of the city. In fact, we were so far outside the main city that we no longer had a good scaled map. The houses and shops slowly turned into vegetation and shacks, and before long we faced our first proper junction. Left, or right? We chose wrong, of course, and in the preceding few minutes, Tris managed to not only drop the map, but drive convincingly over it just to make sure. I waited at the next stop and we had a bit of a falling out over what had just occurred, but took comfort in our previous decision to "double-up" on maps, so simply got the other one out. We made sure we wouldn't drop this one...
Vietnam, on a map, is a country of vast empty spaces joined by veins of roads and nodes of towns and cities. In reality, we rode past mostly inhabited areas on our march northwards, and there seemed to be villages or towns (and petrol stations!) every few kilometers, which is very different to the impression you get from the map. Eventually, we got to the main highway, the "1". However, we first had to figure out how to join it. There was a complicated, spaghetti-junction type road system on the outskirts of town, and we successfully managed to go down the only exit from the mess that ended in a road that wasn't yet built. Some swearing and re-tracing later, we managed to get on the right road - along with a lot of massive trucks.
By this stage I could feel the tops of my thighs burning away nicely in the intense heat, not helped at all by the fact that I was driving side-by-side with huge vehicles that belched out hot smoke and dusty particles right into my face and exposed skin. The amount of fumes and hot gases I breathed in must have exceeded my health and safety allowance for the year by a good few hundred percent. I shared the road with these honking, dangerous vehicles for kilometers upon kilometers, until suddenly the road became a dirt track, with alternating bits of gravel and bits of slippery mud.
Wow. I have to say, when the going gets tough, the tough... get sunburned. Moving over gravel and dirt is an odd sensation. The back wheel tends to slip from under you from time to time, as if a rhinocerous has charged full-pelt sidways into your back wheel, and the only thing you can do to keep you from falling over (laden down with lots of extra weight, all over the back wheel), is to move faster... which is impossible when you're stuck moving at the same speed as the thousands of bikes and trucks all around you. It required immense, draining, concentration, and by the time the road had 'appeared' again I was exhausted, hot, and extremely sunburned.
The road was long and hot and hot and long. We eventually arrived at the intersection to highway "20", and took an opportunity to rest. One bottle of Lipton Iced Tea and a packet of Boiled Lobster flavour crisps later (and then, "Same, Same", the same again), we felt ready to head east to Da Lat. With a small shudder (difficult in the heat), I realised I had forgot to put suncream on in the excitement of leaving, so chose this opportunity to apply. It hurt. A lot. I felt the muscles in my thighs tense, incredibly painfully, so I unpacked until I found the 'legs' to my shorts and zipped them on. It hurt more. Still, we had over 200km to go before we hit Da Lat, and time was running out. It had taken a painful 4 hours to get out of Ho Chi Minh City, and we had done barely 60km, although we kept telling ourselves this was the hardest part of the journey. It wouldn't be the last time we said this...
Highway 20 was different. Much more rural and green, the rich, red soil had been dug up and exposed in places and gave a real feel of vibrancy to the landscape. The colours were vivid. This was the first time I felt like I was in proper Vietnam, not just in the bustle, tourism, and mock-westernism of the big city. The journey down the highway was a chance to see how my bike performed, so I gave it some throttle. In fourth gear. I got to a stretch of straight road, one that I was fairly sure was devoid of some of the larger potholes, and, as they say, let it rip. I sailed past 60km/h, the needle on my speedometer looking fairly happy and static, so I decided to venture further. The road was still flat, there was no oncoming traffic, and all it needed was one more twist of my right hand... so I tried it.
72. 72km/h. Feels incredibly quick, I can tell you. I was doing some quick ETA calculations in my head as I registered this when I noticed that I was smiling rather broadly, and the calculated thought crossed my mind that we would be there by 4pm. Delightful! Of course, that was at an average speed of 70, which would mean maintaining this level of glee for the next 3 hours. Almost as soon as I thought this, I saw some potholes ahead and had to slow right down. And so it became a sort of theme. Big buses and trucks honked their way past, potholes loomed out of the distance, and the road sometimes just.... stopped being tarmacked. It was glorious though. The freedom of riding, being in control, at speed, of your journey, and looking out around you at the simply beautiful countryside was breathtaking. A choking, fume-inhaling sort of breathtaking, sure, but absolutely incredible. You really don't get these sorts of views in England...
The road took us higher and higher in altitude as we headed towards the mountains of Da Lat. Soon I saw various locals stop by the side of the road to don their bike-ponchos so I did the same. We climbed higher and higher, more slowly and more slowly, and eventually hit the mountain roads... which is where the average speed really dropped. We also hit the cloud layer, and as we descended higher and higher, the rain became more and more intense and the road became more and more potholed. The massive construction work being done to the roads seemed to be at a standstill, and the lorries that carried the all important equipment skywards seemed barely capable of climbing the steep roads, moving forwards at a pace not registrable on a speedometer. Of course, bikes and trucks were coming in the opposite direction as well, much more quickly, and it was exceptionally demanding to keep upright in the lashing rain, avoid the potholes, and keep enough revs on in gear so as not to stall the bike. The wonderfully rich red colour of the soil washed away from the mountainside and across the roads, which had the double effect of hiding the potholes from view (exasperatingly dangerous), and making it look like the roads were bleeding (an apt analogy for how I was feeling at the time)!
I was blinking so rapidly to try and keep the water out of my eyes, having long since discarded my steamed up and useless sunglasses, noting with facetious amusement at the lack of crash barriers on the sheer-drop side of the road. This was not fun. This was dangerous. The rain up in the mountains was cold, and my waterproofing was completely useless. My boots were filled with water and every drop of rain that splattered onto my sunburned thighs stung like having a thick needle piercing the skin. I was shivering, I couldn't see, the fact that the roads were barely 2 bus-widths wide didn't seem to deter the downhill buses from overtaking each other - insanity - and I had unsuccessfully managed to avoid three major potholes. I was terrified that I was going to get a puncture, and I have no idea how hard it would have been to fix in that environment. Thankfully, I didn't.
However, I dull-ly pressed on, and eventually came out of the mountainous roads back onto a highway. In short time we passed through a small town and I noticed with amazement that on one side of an intersection the roads were slick with rain water, and the other was completely dry. Driving through into the dry was bliss, but we both took a few minutes to calm down before driving on. The worst part of the mountainous episode was that our average speed was right down, and we had no chance of making it to Da Lat before nightfall...
It was hot. Extremely hot. I remembered reading that on long drives you should really wear long sleeves and trousers, but with the wind rushing over you as you accelerate northwards you don't really think about this for too long. This is a mistake. However, it is a mistake it takes quite a long time to realise - as we found out. We were stuck in slow moving traffic in the middle of the city for half an hour, taking ages to get out of the city centre. It was disparaging to say the least. With the sun beating down on my exposed limbs, I started to worry that at this rate Da Lat would be unattainable in a day, and the magnificent parting words from our hosts at the hotel indicated strongly that if we were not in Da Lat by nightfall we would be murdered for our bikes. I kid you not.
Murdered.
With this in mind, and with our disconcertingly pathetic pace across the country, it was with some relief that we hit the outskirts of the city. In fact, we were so far outside the main city that we no longer had a good scaled map. The houses and shops slowly turned into vegetation and shacks, and before long we faced our first proper junction. Left, or right? We chose wrong, of course, and in the preceding few minutes, Tris managed to not only drop the map, but drive convincingly over it just to make sure. I waited at the next stop and we had a bit of a falling out over what had just occurred, but took comfort in our previous decision to "double-up" on maps, so simply got the other one out. We made sure we wouldn't drop this one...
Vietnam, on a map, is a country of vast empty spaces joined by veins of roads and nodes of towns and cities. In reality, we rode past mostly inhabited areas on our march northwards, and there seemed to be villages or towns (and petrol stations!) every few kilometers, which is very different to the impression you get from the map. Eventually, we got to the main highway, the "1". However, we first had to figure out how to join it. There was a complicated, spaghetti-junction type road system on the outskirts of town, and we successfully managed to go down the only exit from the mess that ended in a road that wasn't yet built. Some swearing and re-tracing later, we managed to get on the right road - along with a lot of massive trucks.
By this stage I could feel the tops of my thighs burning away nicely in the intense heat, not helped at all by the fact that I was driving side-by-side with huge vehicles that belched out hot smoke and dusty particles right into my face and exposed skin. The amount of fumes and hot gases I breathed in must have exceeded my health and safety allowance for the year by a good few hundred percent. I shared the road with these honking, dangerous vehicles for kilometers upon kilometers, until suddenly the road became a dirt track, with alternating bits of gravel and bits of slippery mud.
Wow. I have to say, when the going gets tough, the tough... get sunburned. Moving over gravel and dirt is an odd sensation. The back wheel tends to slip from under you from time to time, as if a rhinocerous has charged full-pelt sidways into your back wheel, and the only thing you can do to keep you from falling over (laden down with lots of extra weight, all over the back wheel), is to move faster... which is impossible when you're stuck moving at the same speed as the thousands of bikes and trucks all around you. It required immense, draining, concentration, and by the time the road had 'appeared' again I was exhausted, hot, and extremely sunburned.
The road was long and hot and hot and long. We eventually arrived at the intersection to highway "20", and took an opportunity to rest. One bottle of Lipton Iced Tea and a packet of Boiled Lobster flavour crisps later (and then, "Same, Same", the same again), we felt ready to head east to Da Lat. With a small shudder (difficult in the heat), I realised I had forgot to put suncream on in the excitement of leaving, so chose this opportunity to apply. It hurt. A lot. I felt the muscles in my thighs tense, incredibly painfully, so I unpacked until I found the 'legs' to my shorts and zipped them on. It hurt more. Still, we had over 200km to go before we hit Da Lat, and time was running out. It had taken a painful 4 hours to get out of Ho Chi Minh City, and we had done barely 60km, although we kept telling ourselves this was the hardest part of the journey. It wouldn't be the last time we said this...
Highway 20 was different. Much more rural and green, the rich, red soil had been dug up and exposed in places and gave a real feel of vibrancy to the landscape. The colours were vivid. This was the first time I felt like I was in proper Vietnam, not just in the bustle, tourism, and mock-westernism of the big city. The journey down the highway was a chance to see how my bike performed, so I gave it some throttle. In fourth gear. I got to a stretch of straight road, one that I was fairly sure was devoid of some of the larger potholes, and, as they say, let it rip. I sailed past 60km/h, the needle on my speedometer looking fairly happy and static, so I decided to venture further. The road was still flat, there was no oncoming traffic, and all it needed was one more twist of my right hand... so I tried it.
72. 72km/h. Feels incredibly quick, I can tell you. I was doing some quick ETA calculations in my head as I registered this when I noticed that I was smiling rather broadly, and the calculated thought crossed my mind that we would be there by 4pm. Delightful! Of course, that was at an average speed of 70, which would mean maintaining this level of glee for the next 3 hours. Almost as soon as I thought this, I saw some potholes ahead and had to slow right down. And so it became a sort of theme. Big buses and trucks honked their way past, potholes loomed out of the distance, and the road sometimes just.... stopped being tarmacked. It was glorious though. The freedom of riding, being in control, at speed, of your journey, and looking out around you at the simply beautiful countryside was breathtaking. A choking, fume-inhaling sort of breathtaking, sure, but absolutely incredible. You really don't get these sorts of views in England...
The road took us higher and higher in altitude as we headed towards the mountains of Da Lat. Soon I saw various locals stop by the side of the road to don their bike-ponchos so I did the same. We climbed higher and higher, more slowly and more slowly, and eventually hit the mountain roads... which is where the average speed really dropped. We also hit the cloud layer, and as we descended higher and higher, the rain became more and more intense and the road became more and more potholed. The massive construction work being done to the roads seemed to be at a standstill, and the lorries that carried the all important equipment skywards seemed barely capable of climbing the steep roads, moving forwards at a pace not registrable on a speedometer. Of course, bikes and trucks were coming in the opposite direction as well, much more quickly, and it was exceptionally demanding to keep upright in the lashing rain, avoid the potholes, and keep enough revs on in gear so as not to stall the bike. The wonderfully rich red colour of the soil washed away from the mountainside and across the roads, which had the double effect of hiding the potholes from view (exasperatingly dangerous), and making it look like the roads were bleeding (an apt analogy for how I was feeling at the time)!
I was blinking so rapidly to try and keep the water out of my eyes, having long since discarded my steamed up and useless sunglasses, noting with facetious amusement at the lack of crash barriers on the sheer-drop side of the road. This was not fun. This was dangerous. The rain up in the mountains was cold, and my waterproofing was completely useless. My boots were filled with water and every drop of rain that splattered onto my sunburned thighs stung like having a thick needle piercing the skin. I was shivering, I couldn't see, the fact that the roads were barely 2 bus-widths wide didn't seem to deter the downhill buses from overtaking each other - insanity - and I had unsuccessfully managed to avoid three major potholes. I was terrified that I was going to get a puncture, and I have no idea how hard it would have been to fix in that environment. Thankfully, I didn't.
However, I dull-ly pressed on, and eventually came out of the mountainous roads back onto a highway. In short time we passed through a small town and I noticed with amazement that on one side of an intersection the roads were slick with rain water, and the other was completely dry. Driving through into the dry was bliss, but we both took a few minutes to calm down before driving on. The worst part of the mountainous episode was that our average speed was right down, and we had no chance of making it to Da Lat before nightfall...
28th August
... we had no chance of making it to Da Lat before nightfall.
So, we didn't.
Wet through and utterly tired, cold, hungry, thirsty, sunburned and sore all over, I prised myself off my seat with a squelching suck and wandered around bow-legged and sideways on the pavement for a while. With the light fading and really not wanting to risk being murdered for my bike (would anyone really do that?), we agreed to head for the nearest acceptable hotel and wait out the night.
But where were we, and were there any recommended hotels in the area? Some more pointing and gesturing of the map in the vague direction of some locals suggested we were in Bao Loc, and all the guide said about Bao Loc was that it was a place for 'Easy Riders', whatever that meant. So, with no hotels recommended, we headed for the nearest one, which was handily positioned 20 ft away, and checked ourselves in. The receptionist spoke some English (it is now being taught in schools apparently, so if in doubt speak to a younger person...) and after a shower and a change into some non-drenched clothes we headed off to a real Vietnamese restaurant (sort of). Some sort of chicken dish (the complete opposite of boneless) with a healthy portion of rice and a few Saigon Exports later I couldn't keep my eyes open, and headed back to the hotel. Not before being chased around the restaurant (well... shack) by some wild cats and wondering if I was going to add a rabid bite mark to the long list of blisters, mosquito bites and scratches that had been accumulating around my ankles.
I escaped unscathed (externally anyway), but spent a very unrested night fretfully trying to roll into a position that wouldn't put pressure on any extremities that were excruciatingly painful with the worst sunburn I've ever had. Oh, and there was no air conditioning! But then, what do you expect for a $5 hotel room?
Morning arrived at approximately 5am, the sound of the never ceasing trucks, lorries and buses emphasising their presence with a chorus of "my horn's louder than your horn" in all kinds of tones. We headed to breakfast at the recommendation of the receptionist (so, not much hope there then) and found the place on the side street where a huge tin bowl of gruel (yes, gruel) was festering away.
"2 please!", came Tris' enthusiastic morning-person-ness. "Er..." came mine. It turns out, however, that gruel is rather tasty. Or, at least, the broth, greenery, noodles, and what looked like tiny (rat?) sweetmeats were. There was also an enormously suspicious looking floating chunk of liver. Or congealed blood. Or paint. I strategically declined to sample it, based on the incontrovertible fact that my chopstick skills simply weren't up to the challenge. Tris, on the other hand, thought he'd man up and try some.
Bad idea. Several minutes later we were back in the hotel room and Tris was dry retching. Fabulous!
A while later, we packed up and headed off towards Da Lat, a very doable distance of 120km, after yesterday's rush hour and lack-of-roads epic of 175km. We bought face masks (pink - thanks Tris) and headed off. The roads were good, but long, and in places absent (but, you will be pleased to know, busily being built). The weather stayed pleasant, but hot, all the way there, though as we climbed and climbed the winding mountain passes the air cooled considerably to something approaching normal.
Da Lat itself is very French in origin and influence. It is host to an enchanting festival, is cool enough to grow fruit and vegetables you can't get anywhere else in Vietnam, and is also home to the Crazy House, an architect's dream. Apparently.
Unfortunately, we arrived off-season. Which meant that the festival wasn't going on and there was nowhere selling snakeblood vodka (not snakebites, as I kept saying automatically). I did have the most delicious Vietnamese-style sweet and sour pork though, which almost made up for it. I am coming to appreciate the simplicity of boiled rice. Healthy, hearty. Delicious.
I felt I needed some driving gloves to keep the heat off the back of my hands for future drives north, so bought some for the outrageous price of $1.50 in the market. Then we headed for the Crazy House, which was... crazy! Odd rooms you could apparently rent for the night with a massive eagle-egg for a fireplace and an eagle carved out of the (plastic) rock above it, walkways seemingly to nowhere and structural foundations and supports painted and moulded to look like animals - a favourite being the giraffe, completely anatomically detailed. In every way.
A few drinks and a couple of games of pool (Bob 2 - Tris 0) ended the day victoriously.
Tomorrow - Nha Trang!
So, we didn't.
Wet through and utterly tired, cold, hungry, thirsty, sunburned and sore all over, I prised myself off my seat with a squelching suck and wandered around bow-legged and sideways on the pavement for a while. With the light fading and really not wanting to risk being murdered for my bike (would anyone really do that?), we agreed to head for the nearest acceptable hotel and wait out the night.
But where were we, and were there any recommended hotels in the area? Some more pointing and gesturing of the map in the vague direction of some locals suggested we were in Bao Loc, and all the guide said about Bao Loc was that it was a place for 'Easy Riders', whatever that meant. So, with no hotels recommended, we headed for the nearest one, which was handily positioned 20 ft away, and checked ourselves in. The receptionist spoke some English (it is now being taught in schools apparently, so if in doubt speak to a younger person...) and after a shower and a change into some non-drenched clothes we headed off to a real Vietnamese restaurant (sort of). Some sort of chicken dish (the complete opposite of boneless) with a healthy portion of rice and a few Saigon Exports later I couldn't keep my eyes open, and headed back to the hotel. Not before being chased around the restaurant (well... shack) by some wild cats and wondering if I was going to add a rabid bite mark to the long list of blisters, mosquito bites and scratches that had been accumulating around my ankles.
I escaped unscathed (externally anyway), but spent a very unrested night fretfully trying to roll into a position that wouldn't put pressure on any extremities that were excruciatingly painful with the worst sunburn I've ever had. Oh, and there was no air conditioning! But then, what do you expect for a $5 hotel room?
Morning arrived at approximately 5am, the sound of the never ceasing trucks, lorries and buses emphasising their presence with a chorus of "my horn's louder than your horn" in all kinds of tones. We headed to breakfast at the recommendation of the receptionist (so, not much hope there then) and found the place on the side street where a huge tin bowl of gruel (yes, gruel) was festering away.
"2 please!", came Tris' enthusiastic morning-person-ness. "Er..." came mine. It turns out, however, that gruel is rather tasty. Or, at least, the broth, greenery, noodles, and what looked like tiny (rat?) sweetmeats were. There was also an enormously suspicious looking floating chunk of liver. Or congealed blood. Or paint. I strategically declined to sample it, based on the incontrovertible fact that my chopstick skills simply weren't up to the challenge. Tris, on the other hand, thought he'd man up and try some.
Bad idea. Several minutes later we were back in the hotel room and Tris was dry retching. Fabulous!
A while later, we packed up and headed off towards Da Lat, a very doable distance of 120km, after yesterday's rush hour and lack-of-roads epic of 175km. We bought face masks (pink - thanks Tris) and headed off. The roads were good, but long, and in places absent (but, you will be pleased to know, busily being built). The weather stayed pleasant, but hot, all the way there, though as we climbed and climbed the winding mountain passes the air cooled considerably to something approaching normal.
Da Lat itself is very French in origin and influence. It is host to an enchanting festival, is cool enough to grow fruit and vegetables you can't get anywhere else in Vietnam, and is also home to the Crazy House, an architect's dream. Apparently.
Unfortunately, we arrived off-season. Which meant that the festival wasn't going on and there was nowhere selling snakeblood vodka (not snakebites, as I kept saying automatically). I did have the most delicious Vietnamese-style sweet and sour pork though, which almost made up for it. I am coming to appreciate the simplicity of boiled rice. Healthy, hearty. Delicious.
I felt I needed some driving gloves to keep the heat off the back of my hands for future drives north, so bought some for the outrageous price of $1.50 in the market. Then we headed for the Crazy House, which was... crazy! Odd rooms you could apparently rent for the night with a massive eagle-egg for a fireplace and an eagle carved out of the (plastic) rock above it, walkways seemingly to nowhere and structural foundations and supports painted and moulded to look like animals - a favourite being the giraffe, completely anatomically detailed. In every way.
A few drinks and a couple of games of pool (Bob 2 - Tris 0) ended the day victoriously.
Tomorrow - Nha Trang!
29th August
Breakfast was held in the back room of the Dreams Hotel, which turned out to be a fully functioning kitchen. I was served eggs and bacon. In a roll. With ketchup. Delicious, and set me up nicely for the day.
I started to strap my luggage to the back of the bike (no easy or quick feat), when one of the locals from Easy Riders (aha! A motorbike touring company) ran towards me rather alarmingly and started pointing to a patch of pavement directly below my bike. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. It seems my bike had wet itself. Perhaps it was scared as to what was to come, who knows? Anyway, a few minutes of local chattering later by several guys who crowded around the bike diagnosing the problem eventually said "carburettor, petrol, electrics".
Wow. I wonder if the word for carburettor is the same in all languages?
Handily, the receptionist knew a local mechanic, so I trundled the bike after him down the street with a well aimed shout backwards to Tris to "watch my stuff", and I was taken down a back alley. To the mechanic's house. I waited outside for 10 minutes or so, making smalltalk with the receptionist. Topics included the weather (hot), England (not), and the remarkable fact that it is not uncommon for Vietnamese families to eat their pet dogs. In fact, if you know where to go you can get 1kg of dog meat for less than $3.
Wow.
It became apparent that the mechanic was more interested in having his breakfast than helping a tourist (smart man), so I was moved on to a 'proper' workshop just off the main street. Here a squatting man spent about an hour or so tinkering (that is absolutely the right word) with my engine, having first removed all the plastic cladding from the front. He somehow eventually found that the problem was with the fuel injection system, and gave me the faulty piece to inspect. It was absolutely tiny and absolutely replacable, which was nice. Cost me $3.50 for an hour's labour plus parts. Incredible.
Back to the hotel to load up my now fully functioning bike, I was greeted with smiles from a clearly amused bunch of Easy Riders. Upon closer inspection of my Honda bike, two things were pointed out to me. Firstly, all the badges that proudly displayed the word "Honda" were stickers. Secondly, the outer casing of the engine less proudly displayed something unpronouncable in Chinese. This all added up to the small fact that my Honda was more of a Nonda, a chinese knock-off quite reliably inferior in every way.
Damn.
So, we left Da Lat in it's relative cool climate and headed for the coast. Next stop, Nha Trang! We were in luck though, a new road had been made (well, it was almost finished) that acted as a 60km shortcut to our destination. Slightly late setting off, we headed out for the new road. 10 minutes later we were back in town.
Our map (if you could call it that), was quite clearly useless, so we asked and pointed and were gestured in the right direction by some friendly locals. On the right road, the mountains loomed up before us and the driving was amazing. Smooth roads, mountains in the middle distance and vast plains beyond that, the views were incredible. The land seemed alive with exotically green forests, sighing out mists that meandered down the slopes into the valleys below, building a white carpet for the sides of the hills to poke out from. I must have been passing through a field of tea leaves, or something similar, as the warm smell of breakfast wafted into my nose and made me think of home. The rock was newly blasted, the crash barriers were intact, and we were the only ones on the road.
We kept climbing and sinking, climbing and sinking, all the time moving nearer and nearer to a ludicrously enormous thundercloud. Then we moved into it, and got drenched. This was worse rain than in Ho Chi Minh City, this was driving through a thunderstorm. The lightning flashed, though not too often, and I instinctively started counting mississippis, 20 of them, before hearing the first thunder. Ok, I'm still a good 20km from the heart of the storm then, good. The next, a few minutes later, was only 11 mississippis away, and not long after that I had just internally mouthed the first mi... when the loudest most almighty implosion happened all around me. If I hadn't already been completely soaked I would have wet myself. Thunder is different in Vietnam.
The raindrops were huge, driving into them at speed was the equivalent of shooting little pellets of water at your fact at 60km/h. They stung, badly. The roads were mostly entirely devoid of traffic though, the gloriously meandering pathways up and down the mountain almost devoid of human contact. Being wet through is miserable, but there's a time when you can't get any wetter, and by that stage you stop being annoyed and just enjoy the ride. There was water everywhere, the brakes constantly on during the downhill sections, and the throttle fully twisted on the uphill ones. I had a wet, bearded, grinning smile on my face as I came over the top of another crest and looked out to the snakelike trail I had to follow below. One turn, two turns, three turns later and I had slowed right down for the next 180 degree left hand turn and...
Disaster.
I can't really remember what happened, other than the road swept down to the left, I had made a wide, slow turn and then felt my front wheel slip out from under me. I skidded across the wet road, fell onto my left hand side, and the bike stopped in the drainage ditch on the side of the road. I remember standing up, doing a quick full body check, and being entirely pumped with adrenaline and endorphins and god knows what else. Nothing broken. Check. Does anything hurt. No. Helmet. Intact. Bike. A bit damaged. No smell of petrol. Does it start. Yes. Phew. Where's Tris...
A few minutes later Tris swept (slowly) down the same stretch of road and helped me get the bike out of the ditch. By this point the effect of most of the more hardcore hormones in my system had worn off and I could think properly. My jacket (new). Torn. Dammit, that was waterproof. Well, not really. Waterproof trousers. Torn as well. Double dammit, they were my only waterproof pair. Undertrousers. Intact, good. Undershirt sleeve. Torn.
Uh oh.
I took my jacket off and had a look at my left elbow. There was no bleeding, but I had grazed a bit of skin and there were small bits of my jacket in the wound. Tris manned up and got the emergency medikit out, antisepticked the crap out of it, and bandaged me up. I felt really queasy for a minute or two, then stood up. Remarkably, I felt ok. "I think a doctor should look at that". "No argument there".
Handily, I had fallen only 20ft or so from a signpost that read "Nha Trang 56km". So - 56km to go then... I took note of where the odometer would have to be when we got there.
The left hand front panel of the bike came off, so I abandoned it by the side of the road. The electrics and lights all worked, the gears still changed up and down and most importantly, the brakes were still fine.
The rest of the journey to Nha Trang was awful. Not because I was worried about my arm (which I was - the humidity has a nasty way of infecting wounds quickly out here apparently), but more the fact that this new road through the mountains had been carved through some pretty poverty-strucken places. We passed shanty towns of corrugated iron huts and children playing with mud. Quite a few rusting motorbikes, hardly any buses, and lots of cow-driven wooden carts. Stereotypical conical hats everywhere. And lots of staring.
Most of the rest of the journey was spent in silence, and before long we arrived on the outskirts of the town. Hmm, can't be there yet we've still got... (quick mental calculation) 56km to go.
Oh. My odometer's broken too then...
Nha Trang loomed ahead, as we crossed roundabouts the streets got wider and wider and we started asking people for directions to the Golden Hotel. Without realising it, we turned down a street and saw the South China Sea! My spirits were lifted, we turned down the coastal road, and saw a breathtakingly beautiful view of the shore, it's accompanying islands, and swarms of blue junk boats skimming the surface. But they would have to wait. We found the hotel, I showered quickly, and then presented my wound to reception.
That seemed to do the trick. I was quickly given a map to the local clinic, and was seen to immediately. A nurse in an adorable pink outfit and a facemask to match sat me down on an operating table and proceeded to pour antiseptic onto the graze. I got my first real look at it. It was wide rather than deep, and infection had already started near the top.
Great.
She iodined it to within an inch of my life - tip number 5, iodine stings like a bitch - and dressed it sort of nicely. The nurse said to see the doctor in the morning as no-one was around then, and immediately made me felt better. It wasn't serious, it could wait.
Now armed (pun intended) with the knowledge that my injury was minor, I realised I was starving hungry, so we headed for a quite exotically delicious indian meal, complete with the biggest naan bread selection I've ever seen. I chose the nutty, fruity one, which arrived, quite literally, on a silver platter - the naan supporting the weight of hundreds of pieces of diced fruit and liberal smatterings of nuts. Delicious! Sated, but sore from riding, we wondered if it would be possible to get a massage. Realising that there are massages, and then there are massages, I wanted to be absolutely sure we got the former.
We asked the receptionist at the hotel to book something tasteful. $8 for a full body massage (er, hang on, full body?) was apparently what we were afer. A bit apprehensive, we found the place (not seedy, phew), attached to a hotel. There were steam rooms and saunas and hot and cold pools, and lots of people everywhere, which looked legitimate, and then a rather sinister looking row of rooms off to the right. We were awarded one room each, took one shrug at each other, and entered.
Well, it certainly was relaxing. I think there must be a rule as to how much a masseur is allowed to weigh, because she spent a good 5 minutes walking strategically on my back as I felt bones crack and, after the initial shock, a wonderful lack of tension. It all seemed, well... professional. I got hot rocks placed at whatever chakra points on my back were necessary, and a head massage, at which point I was so relaxed I almost dozed off...
Only to be awoken to a strange 4-syllable utterance from the masseur. I had no idea what that meant. She smiled awkwardly and tried again. No, nothing. Again, and I still couldn't understand. There was an odd pause. I didn't like the sound of this... Exasperated, she slapped me on my, ahem, manly bits, and the full force of the shock forced my mind into enigma-style decode mode.
I got it. "Pee pee massage?"
Oh no. Oh crap. No, non, niet, nien, no, no I said looking alarmed. No, I said as politely as possible, the second biggest dose of adrenaline coursing through me that day.
She smiled, laughed a little, and that, apparently was that. I would highly recommend the first 55 minutes to anyone, it was wonderful. The last five, however, are enough to shock you back from relaxed to tense in about the time it takes to slap someone's.....
I started to strap my luggage to the back of the bike (no easy or quick feat), when one of the locals from Easy Riders (aha! A motorbike touring company) ran towards me rather alarmingly and started pointing to a patch of pavement directly below my bike. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. It seems my bike had wet itself. Perhaps it was scared as to what was to come, who knows? Anyway, a few minutes of local chattering later by several guys who crowded around the bike diagnosing the problem eventually said "carburettor, petrol, electrics".
Wow. I wonder if the word for carburettor is the same in all languages?
Handily, the receptionist knew a local mechanic, so I trundled the bike after him down the street with a well aimed shout backwards to Tris to "watch my stuff", and I was taken down a back alley. To the mechanic's house. I waited outside for 10 minutes or so, making smalltalk with the receptionist. Topics included the weather (hot), England (not), and the remarkable fact that it is not uncommon for Vietnamese families to eat their pet dogs. In fact, if you know where to go you can get 1kg of dog meat for less than $3.
Wow.
It became apparent that the mechanic was more interested in having his breakfast than helping a tourist (smart man), so I was moved on to a 'proper' workshop just off the main street. Here a squatting man spent about an hour or so tinkering (that is absolutely the right word) with my engine, having first removed all the plastic cladding from the front. He somehow eventually found that the problem was with the fuel injection system, and gave me the faulty piece to inspect. It was absolutely tiny and absolutely replacable, which was nice. Cost me $3.50 for an hour's labour plus parts. Incredible.
Back to the hotel to load up my now fully functioning bike, I was greeted with smiles from a clearly amused bunch of Easy Riders. Upon closer inspection of my Honda bike, two things were pointed out to me. Firstly, all the badges that proudly displayed the word "Honda" were stickers. Secondly, the outer casing of the engine less proudly displayed something unpronouncable in Chinese. This all added up to the small fact that my Honda was more of a Nonda, a chinese knock-off quite reliably inferior in every way.
Damn.
So, we left Da Lat in it's relative cool climate and headed for the coast. Next stop, Nha Trang! We were in luck though, a new road had been made (well, it was almost finished) that acted as a 60km shortcut to our destination. Slightly late setting off, we headed out for the new road. 10 minutes later we were back in town.
Our map (if you could call it that), was quite clearly useless, so we asked and pointed and were gestured in the right direction by some friendly locals. On the right road, the mountains loomed up before us and the driving was amazing. Smooth roads, mountains in the middle distance and vast plains beyond that, the views were incredible. The land seemed alive with exotically green forests, sighing out mists that meandered down the slopes into the valleys below, building a white carpet for the sides of the hills to poke out from. I must have been passing through a field of tea leaves, or something similar, as the warm smell of breakfast wafted into my nose and made me think of home. The rock was newly blasted, the crash barriers were intact, and we were the only ones on the road.
We kept climbing and sinking, climbing and sinking, all the time moving nearer and nearer to a ludicrously enormous thundercloud. Then we moved into it, and got drenched. This was worse rain than in Ho Chi Minh City, this was driving through a thunderstorm. The lightning flashed, though not too often, and I instinctively started counting mississippis, 20 of them, before hearing the first thunder. Ok, I'm still a good 20km from the heart of the storm then, good. The next, a few minutes later, was only 11 mississippis away, and not long after that I had just internally mouthed the first mi... when the loudest most almighty implosion happened all around me. If I hadn't already been completely soaked I would have wet myself. Thunder is different in Vietnam.
The raindrops were huge, driving into them at speed was the equivalent of shooting little pellets of water at your fact at 60km/h. They stung, badly. The roads were mostly entirely devoid of traffic though, the gloriously meandering pathways up and down the mountain almost devoid of human contact. Being wet through is miserable, but there's a time when you can't get any wetter, and by that stage you stop being annoyed and just enjoy the ride. There was water everywhere, the brakes constantly on during the downhill sections, and the throttle fully twisted on the uphill ones. I had a wet, bearded, grinning smile on my face as I came over the top of another crest and looked out to the snakelike trail I had to follow below. One turn, two turns, three turns later and I had slowed right down for the next 180 degree left hand turn and...
Disaster.
I can't really remember what happened, other than the road swept down to the left, I had made a wide, slow turn and then felt my front wheel slip out from under me. I skidded across the wet road, fell onto my left hand side, and the bike stopped in the drainage ditch on the side of the road. I remember standing up, doing a quick full body check, and being entirely pumped with adrenaline and endorphins and god knows what else. Nothing broken. Check. Does anything hurt. No. Helmet. Intact. Bike. A bit damaged. No smell of petrol. Does it start. Yes. Phew. Where's Tris...
A few minutes later Tris swept (slowly) down the same stretch of road and helped me get the bike out of the ditch. By this point the effect of most of the more hardcore hormones in my system had worn off and I could think properly. My jacket (new). Torn. Dammit, that was waterproof. Well, not really. Waterproof trousers. Torn as well. Double dammit, they were my only waterproof pair. Undertrousers. Intact, good. Undershirt sleeve. Torn.
Uh oh.
I took my jacket off and had a look at my left elbow. There was no bleeding, but I had grazed a bit of skin and there were small bits of my jacket in the wound. Tris manned up and got the emergency medikit out, antisepticked the crap out of it, and bandaged me up. I felt really queasy for a minute or two, then stood up. Remarkably, I felt ok. "I think a doctor should look at that". "No argument there".
Handily, I had fallen only 20ft or so from a signpost that read "Nha Trang 56km". So - 56km to go then... I took note of where the odometer would have to be when we got there.
The left hand front panel of the bike came off, so I abandoned it by the side of the road. The electrics and lights all worked, the gears still changed up and down and most importantly, the brakes were still fine.
The rest of the journey to Nha Trang was awful. Not because I was worried about my arm (which I was - the humidity has a nasty way of infecting wounds quickly out here apparently), but more the fact that this new road through the mountains had been carved through some pretty poverty-strucken places. We passed shanty towns of corrugated iron huts and children playing with mud. Quite a few rusting motorbikes, hardly any buses, and lots of cow-driven wooden carts. Stereotypical conical hats everywhere. And lots of staring.
Most of the rest of the journey was spent in silence, and before long we arrived on the outskirts of the town. Hmm, can't be there yet we've still got... (quick mental calculation) 56km to go.
Oh. My odometer's broken too then...
Nha Trang loomed ahead, as we crossed roundabouts the streets got wider and wider and we started asking people for directions to the Golden Hotel. Without realising it, we turned down a street and saw the South China Sea! My spirits were lifted, we turned down the coastal road, and saw a breathtakingly beautiful view of the shore, it's accompanying islands, and swarms of blue junk boats skimming the surface. But they would have to wait. We found the hotel, I showered quickly, and then presented my wound to reception.
That seemed to do the trick. I was quickly given a map to the local clinic, and was seen to immediately. A nurse in an adorable pink outfit and a facemask to match sat me down on an operating table and proceeded to pour antiseptic onto the graze. I got my first real look at it. It was wide rather than deep, and infection had already started near the top.
Great.
She iodined it to within an inch of my life - tip number 5, iodine stings like a bitch - and dressed it sort of nicely. The nurse said to see the doctor in the morning as no-one was around then, and immediately made me felt better. It wasn't serious, it could wait.
Now armed (pun intended) with the knowledge that my injury was minor, I realised I was starving hungry, so we headed for a quite exotically delicious indian meal, complete with the biggest naan bread selection I've ever seen. I chose the nutty, fruity one, which arrived, quite literally, on a silver platter - the naan supporting the weight of hundreds of pieces of diced fruit and liberal smatterings of nuts. Delicious! Sated, but sore from riding, we wondered if it would be possible to get a massage. Realising that there are massages, and then there are massages, I wanted to be absolutely sure we got the former.
We asked the receptionist at the hotel to book something tasteful. $8 for a full body massage (er, hang on, full body?) was apparently what we were afer. A bit apprehensive, we found the place (not seedy, phew), attached to a hotel. There were steam rooms and saunas and hot and cold pools, and lots of people everywhere, which looked legitimate, and then a rather sinister looking row of rooms off to the right. We were awarded one room each, took one shrug at each other, and entered.
Well, it certainly was relaxing. I think there must be a rule as to how much a masseur is allowed to weigh, because she spent a good 5 minutes walking strategically on my back as I felt bones crack and, after the initial shock, a wonderful lack of tension. It all seemed, well... professional. I got hot rocks placed at whatever chakra points on my back were necessary, and a head massage, at which point I was so relaxed I almost dozed off...
Only to be awoken to a strange 4-syllable utterance from the masseur. I had no idea what that meant. She smiled awkwardly and tried again. No, nothing. Again, and I still couldn't understand. There was an odd pause. I didn't like the sound of this... Exasperated, she slapped me on my, ahem, manly bits, and the full force of the shock forced my mind into enigma-style decode mode.
I got it. "Pee pee massage?"
Oh no. Oh crap. No, non, niet, nien, no, no I said looking alarmed. No, I said as politely as possible, the second biggest dose of adrenaline coursing through me that day.
She smiled, laughed a little, and that, apparently was that. I would highly recommend the first 55 minutes to anyone, it was wonderful. The last five, however, are enough to shock you back from relaxed to tense in about the time it takes to slap someone's.....
30th August
I kept my promise and ventured off to the clinic the following morning. It was busy. Most Vietnamese see the doctor in the morning, apparently, and there was a queue. A long queue. As I passed through the corridor, a small child threw up and there were a couple of excessively malnourished people pushed through on gurneys. I joined at the end of the line. It was hot, there were ants crawling across the floor, and I spent the best part of an hour sitting on a child-sized plastic chair trying to guess at what all the warning signs and notices on the walls meant. I still have no idea.
"The doctor will see you now" someone said in my direction. Or, that was what probably happened. I'm not sure, as it was said in Vietnamese. When no-one else around me jumped into action it dawned on me that I might not be waiting here forever and that the comment might have been aimed at me! I did the internationally recognised symbol for smug surprise and delight by pointing at my chest, mouthing 'me' slowly and smiling widely.
When this was reciprocated with a nod and a smile (hard to tell under the facemask, but there was definitely a smile there somewhere...) I was ushered into the doctor's room. He greeted me in perfect French, which threw me completely, and we entered into a discussion about what exactly had happened to my arm. Or perhaps 'discussion' might be a bit strong, it implies reciprocation from at least two parties... Unfortunately I was now fully in foreign-communication mode, which meant that as I was speaking I mimed all the actions to compliment my words (most, if not all of which I didn't know the French for: Wound? Stitch? Iodine? Chicane?) and ended up reenacting far too much about the incident instead of focusing on my arm. After a while I had a bright idea.
"Parlez-vous anglais?"... "English, why of course!" came the reply. I take it English is the international language of medicine... He was much more receptive to my English description of what happened, looked very interested, did a bit of chin stroking, took a deep breath, and then announced two terrifying words.
"X ray"
Err... That didn't sound good. He explained (extremely well) that he needed to make sure there were no fractures, breaks, tears, or foreign particles in the wound. And, my skeptical hat on, make his quota for the month (do they even have quotas in Vietnam?) Skeptical hats aside, I rather agreed, and optimistically volunteered to wait in another queue for a good twenty minutes while various people in odd states of disrepair were first exposed to and then released from the X ray room.
Digital X rays! I've not had an X ray in a while (ever?) and am certainly not up to date on current bone-imaging technology, but it did seem rather at odds with the general state of repair of the building (being hidden on the back street off an unfinished road and all), and I was intrigued. I watched as the A3 sized "digital capture plate" was placed under my arm, my arm placed under the ray gun (which resembled a robotic arm), the room vacated, and a very unterrifying click sound (is that all?) went on and off. Then the technician returned, took the capture plate to a PC and injected it into a plastic slot on the side of the computer in the examiner's room. I was then treated to a photoshop-like demonstration of the inside of my arm while the examiner roated, de-blurred, sharpened and adjusted the contrast of the image. Fantastic! He zoomed in and we checked with much (itchy) beard and chin scratching together for fractures and foreign material. I've seen enough episodes of House by now to know a sub-olecranial hematoma when I see one, and I nodded my head wisely as he expertly manipulated the image and pointed at lots of white blobs. I agreed with his extremely enthusiastic diagnosis. No breaks, tears, fractures or foreign material. Phew!
He printed me out a souvenir, and I took a copy back to the doctor, whose right hand seemed to have grown very fond of his chin by now and was almost permanently attached, who agreed with both of our diagnoses. He gave me some antibiotics, some anti-inflamatories, and pointed me in the direction of the pharmacist. "Oh, and no getting it wet" was his parting comment.
At this point it might be worth pointing out that Nha Trang is perhaps considered to be the watersports capital of the south. Which was why Tris was currently languishing somewhere on or under a diving boat, and I wasn't.
Dammit.
I cruised around town for a while, enjoying the freedom of having my own set of wheels, arguing with a local street seller over the price of some aviators for a good ten minutes, which was fun, and eventually parting with $3 for a shockingly bad fake pair of raybans. I decided to wear them proudly on the rest of my drive, but looking through them for more than a few minutes made my eyes hurt. Brilliant buy. As the day wore on it got more and more oppressively hot, my clothes were continually drenched with sweat and it became extremely exhausting just walking around. I headed back to the hotel and met up with Tris - we decided to take in some local culture and headed for the nearest pagoda.
Which wasn't very near. But it was rather impressive. I felt in good spirits after my doctor's visit, and thought it could do no harm to pay homage to whatever gods were in charge over here, so paid my donation in front of the shrine and bowed. Safe passage to Hanoi guaranteed...
The pagoda / temple seemed to be a fully functioning one, and as I looked round there was a glorious chanting sound of children singing. It looked like a school kids' outing, and it was sing-song time. With nothing more than a rhythmic clap and some stern glaring from the teacher, most of the children sang in unison in a wonderfully innocent, though not particularly in-tune song. What it was about I couldn't tell you, but it sounded uplifting! Later, I saw the same children play ring-o-ring-o-roses, or whatever happens to be the Vietnamese equivalent, and it was wonderful to see people in the innocence of youth laughing and joking (and speaking on mobile phones) in the courtyard of a centuries-old shrine to times gone by.
As if the day wasn't godly enough, our dinnertime recommendation was a place called 'Mecca'. Near the hotel, near the shore, it started to rain, and it felt, well, normal. I had the seafood platter (small), and was terribly disappointed to be presented with a few oysters, two muscles and three scallops, and two shrimp(s?). Thinking that small in Mecca meant really small we ordered more, to the quizzical looks of the waitresses (we always end up with more than one waitress, simply because no one person can understand our order...). We needn't have bothered. The small seafood platter was large, but cooked in chunks (literally) that arrived when they were done. The food kept on coming and I had masses of squid, octopus and fish (complete with beady eyes), and the obligatory rice. I was full, it was delicious, and it was just what I needed to prepare myself for the big ride north the following morning.
Alarm set for 5.45am. Big day...
"The doctor will see you now" someone said in my direction. Or, that was what probably happened. I'm not sure, as it was said in Vietnamese. When no-one else around me jumped into action it dawned on me that I might not be waiting here forever and that the comment might have been aimed at me! I did the internationally recognised symbol for smug surprise and delight by pointing at my chest, mouthing 'me' slowly and smiling widely.
When this was reciprocated with a nod and a smile (hard to tell under the facemask, but there was definitely a smile there somewhere...) I was ushered into the doctor's room. He greeted me in perfect French, which threw me completely, and we entered into a discussion about what exactly had happened to my arm. Or perhaps 'discussion' might be a bit strong, it implies reciprocation from at least two parties... Unfortunately I was now fully in foreign-communication mode, which meant that as I was speaking I mimed all the actions to compliment my words (most, if not all of which I didn't know the French for: Wound? Stitch? Iodine? Chicane?) and ended up reenacting far too much about the incident instead of focusing on my arm. After a while I had a bright idea.
"Parlez-vous anglais?"... "English, why of course!" came the reply. I take it English is the international language of medicine... He was much more receptive to my English description of what happened, looked very interested, did a bit of chin stroking, took a deep breath, and then announced two terrifying words.
"X ray"
Err... That didn't sound good. He explained (extremely well) that he needed to make sure there were no fractures, breaks, tears, or foreign particles in the wound. And, my skeptical hat on, make his quota for the month (do they even have quotas in Vietnam?) Skeptical hats aside, I rather agreed, and optimistically volunteered to wait in another queue for a good twenty minutes while various people in odd states of disrepair were first exposed to and then released from the X ray room.
Digital X rays! I've not had an X ray in a while (ever?) and am certainly not up to date on current bone-imaging technology, but it did seem rather at odds with the general state of repair of the building (being hidden on the back street off an unfinished road and all), and I was intrigued. I watched as the A3 sized "digital capture plate" was placed under my arm, my arm placed under the ray gun (which resembled a robotic arm), the room vacated, and a very unterrifying click sound (is that all?) went on and off. Then the technician returned, took the capture plate to a PC and injected it into a plastic slot on the side of the computer in the examiner's room. I was then treated to a photoshop-like demonstration of the inside of my arm while the examiner roated, de-blurred, sharpened and adjusted the contrast of the image. Fantastic! He zoomed in and we checked with much (itchy) beard and chin scratching together for fractures and foreign material. I've seen enough episodes of House by now to know a sub-olecranial hematoma when I see one, and I nodded my head wisely as he expertly manipulated the image and pointed at lots of white blobs. I agreed with his extremely enthusiastic diagnosis. No breaks, tears, fractures or foreign material. Phew!
He printed me out a souvenir, and I took a copy back to the doctor, whose right hand seemed to have grown very fond of his chin by now and was almost permanently attached, who agreed with both of our diagnoses. He gave me some antibiotics, some anti-inflamatories, and pointed me in the direction of the pharmacist. "Oh, and no getting it wet" was his parting comment.
At this point it might be worth pointing out that Nha Trang is perhaps considered to be the watersports capital of the south. Which was why Tris was currently languishing somewhere on or under a diving boat, and I wasn't.
Dammit.
I cruised around town for a while, enjoying the freedom of having my own set of wheels, arguing with a local street seller over the price of some aviators for a good ten minutes, which was fun, and eventually parting with $3 for a shockingly bad fake pair of raybans. I decided to wear them proudly on the rest of my drive, but looking through them for more than a few minutes made my eyes hurt. Brilliant buy. As the day wore on it got more and more oppressively hot, my clothes were continually drenched with sweat and it became extremely exhausting just walking around. I headed back to the hotel and met up with Tris - we decided to take in some local culture and headed for the nearest pagoda.
Which wasn't very near. But it was rather impressive. I felt in good spirits after my doctor's visit, and thought it could do no harm to pay homage to whatever gods were in charge over here, so paid my donation in front of the shrine and bowed. Safe passage to Hanoi guaranteed...
The pagoda / temple seemed to be a fully functioning one, and as I looked round there was a glorious chanting sound of children singing. It looked like a school kids' outing, and it was sing-song time. With nothing more than a rhythmic clap and some stern glaring from the teacher, most of the children sang in unison in a wonderfully innocent, though not particularly in-tune song. What it was about I couldn't tell you, but it sounded uplifting! Later, I saw the same children play ring-o-ring-o-roses, or whatever happens to be the Vietnamese equivalent, and it was wonderful to see people in the innocence of youth laughing and joking (and speaking on mobile phones) in the courtyard of a centuries-old shrine to times gone by.
As if the day wasn't godly enough, our dinnertime recommendation was a place called 'Mecca'. Near the hotel, near the shore, it started to rain, and it felt, well, normal. I had the seafood platter (small), and was terribly disappointed to be presented with a few oysters, two muscles and three scallops, and two shrimp(s?). Thinking that small in Mecca meant really small we ordered more, to the quizzical looks of the waitresses (we always end up with more than one waitress, simply because no one person can understand our order...). We needn't have bothered. The small seafood platter was large, but cooked in chunks (literally) that arrived when they were done. The food kept on coming and I had masses of squid, octopus and fish (complete with beady eyes), and the obligatory rice. I was full, it was delicious, and it was just what I needed to prepare myself for the big ride north the following morning.
Alarm set for 5.45am. Big day...
31st August
I went to see the doctor at 6.30am before setting off on the big drive northwards, and it was just as well that I did. He gave me some super extra-strength antibiotics and some delightfully luminous wound cleaning fluid (also antibiotic) for my troubles. And some cash. With those in hand, and the sun beginning to heat up the surroundings already, I headed for the rendez-vous with Tris at the incomprehensible tower/office-building/lighthouse landmark to the west of town, and we hummed out northwards along the coastal road at just after 7am.
Despite the early hour it was excessively hot, and I was wearing too many clothes. Necessary layers, given my previous experience, but it felt extremely uneasy being in direct, scorching sunlight and wearing boots, undertrousers, overtrousers, a shirt and an overjacket, my hood up and a helmet clasping the whole kit together. When the wind swept across my face and through the various vents in my inefficient layering system as I drove forwards the temperature felt bearable, but stopping for even a few seconds automatically started my futile 'self-endrenchment' regime, a patriotic effort on the part of most of my glands to envelop me in sweat in the vague hope that, as happens in the UK, it should evaporate and cool me down.
In 100% humidity.
It didn't.
So I tried to keep moving. The coastal road north out of Nha Trang (pronounced 'near cheng' apparently) was incredible. The roads were new, perfectly pothole free, and a delight to drive on. The road snaked around the coast to my right, skirting around the bottom of the foothills that make up the central part of the country to my left. The water was bright blue, glistening and twinkling in the heat, and despite the high temperatures the vegetation was lush and green.
Our aim for the day was to get to Hoi An, a fairly touristy small town some 500km directly north of Nha Trang. 500 was a fairly optimistic number of kilometers to attempt to cover in a day, but there were scatterings of towns on the way and we knew we wouldn't be stranded if we didn't make it in time. If we were at Quy Nhon by 12:15, we could push on through to Hoi An in (very hot) daylight.
For the first time on the entire journey we crossed behind the mountains and into some vast plains - the flatlands. This was different. They must have been extremely fertile, as there was the exotic green, wet expanse for as far as the eye could see in all directions. The horizon to my left was framed by mountains shaded in a blue haze of distance, to my right was an endless flat whispering of crops and grasses. The road, mostly long and straight, was the dividing line between the two hemispheres of vision that took me ever northwards.
It was hot. Very hot. I had had to dispose of my gloves following the earlier accident, and didn't have a spare pair. I kept liberally applying suncream on the only exposed bit of skin on the back of my hands, and felt the rush of air over them as I motored ever onwards, keeping them cool. Sort of.
The previous experience of driving over mountain passes, through cities, and along winding roads doesn't prepare you for the effects of wind. With such a large and flat expanse of land all around you the wind has time to build up, formulate a plan, join forces, sneak up, and hit your bike on one side or the other rather chaotically at any moment. It's not very powerful, more like something that has to be continually compensated for, and involves much more of the use of your arms to help control where your body weight is centered. However, the long straight roads give ample opportunity for the huge buses and trucks and lorries to build up a fair amount of momentum, and when they scream past you at god knows what speed, the trailing vortex that they leave behind them is much more of a destabilising force that hits you not-quite-head-on and requires some hefty compensation. And usually a grimace.
Being on a bike for so long and having to concentrate extremely hard on the task of staying upright is not relaxing. However, it's not stressful (most of the time). You are by yourself, gazing out over some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, the rush of wind past your ears a constant de-tune-out'er of most distractions, and you have a lot of time to think. It is wonderfully therapeutic, if a little toasty.
We made it to Quy Nhon at approximately 12:07, right on schedule. Some nifty map reading and traffic negotiating later we were back on the road north, buoyed by the thought that 500km in a day might actually be doable.
It wasn't.
By the time we had been riding for over 350km, we were getting tired, the sun was slowly sinking in the sky, but still gallingly unrelenting, my bum was complaining a lot, taking on the exact inverse impression of the seat, and I noticed small blisters forming on the back of my hand where the suncream blatantly wasn't working. I got slightly concerned. We stopped for petrol and assessed the situation. We should head for Quang Ngai instead, it wasn't far, and would leave us with a small drive on the next day to get to Hoi An. A wise decision...
Quang Ngai is approximately 380km from Nha Trang, and not in the least bit similar. It is a local town, off the main tourist trail, but desperately wanting to become part of it. We stopped outside the nearest hotel we could find (helpfully called the Central Hotel, approximately 30ft away), but were a bit dismayed to find it still being built. I checked at reception, just in case, and was awarded a cheap room for my efforts. It was after 4pm, we had been on the road for over 9 hours. I was exhausted, blistered, my face covered in sweat, exhaust fumes, mud and grit, and I needed a shower. But a careful one, so as not to get my wound wet.
I pointed at my blistered hands to reception, who pointed me in the direction of the nearest pharmacist - handily located approximately 30ft away! I pointed at my hands in the pharmacist, and they pointed at various pills and creams by way of response. We did some more pointing and made an attempt at communication, but in the end I read the instructions (in English, thank god) for a marvelous little cream manufactured by Daewoo (a car firm? didn't they go bust?), and applied liberally.
After half a loaf of brioche and a hollow roll as food all day, I was passionately hungry. We were recommended a restaurant at the edge of town and headed for it, even though it meant subjecting my bum to another five minutes on the bike, which it did not like at all. We seemed to be segregated into a westerner-only section which was a bit odd, as was the warm beer they served. I was presented with a menu, and spent a minute or two perusing the vast choice on offer. Shark? Wow, I've never had shark. No shark. Hmmm. Crocodile? No crocodile. Tortoise? Ah, yes there is tortoise. You must buy 1kg of tortoise. In hindsight I probably should have chanced it, but at that point I was incredibly tired and all I wanted was something I knew I liked so I ordered... ostrich. Deliciously undercooked and mildly infused with chillis, it was divine.
I parked the bike in the secure hotel car park, gave it one last look of contempt, and passed out not-too-painfully in modest comfort on the 5th floor. I hoped we would not have to attempt another 380km day...
Despite the early hour it was excessively hot, and I was wearing too many clothes. Necessary layers, given my previous experience, but it felt extremely uneasy being in direct, scorching sunlight and wearing boots, undertrousers, overtrousers, a shirt and an overjacket, my hood up and a helmet clasping the whole kit together. When the wind swept across my face and through the various vents in my inefficient layering system as I drove forwards the temperature felt bearable, but stopping for even a few seconds automatically started my futile 'self-endrenchment' regime, a patriotic effort on the part of most of my glands to envelop me in sweat in the vague hope that, as happens in the UK, it should evaporate and cool me down.
In 100% humidity.
It didn't.
So I tried to keep moving. The coastal road north out of Nha Trang (pronounced 'near cheng' apparently) was incredible. The roads were new, perfectly pothole free, and a delight to drive on. The road snaked around the coast to my right, skirting around the bottom of the foothills that make up the central part of the country to my left. The water was bright blue, glistening and twinkling in the heat, and despite the high temperatures the vegetation was lush and green.
Our aim for the day was to get to Hoi An, a fairly touristy small town some 500km directly north of Nha Trang. 500 was a fairly optimistic number of kilometers to attempt to cover in a day, but there were scatterings of towns on the way and we knew we wouldn't be stranded if we didn't make it in time. If we were at Quy Nhon by 12:15, we could push on through to Hoi An in (very hot) daylight.
For the first time on the entire journey we crossed behind the mountains and into some vast plains - the flatlands. This was different. They must have been extremely fertile, as there was the exotic green, wet expanse for as far as the eye could see in all directions. The horizon to my left was framed by mountains shaded in a blue haze of distance, to my right was an endless flat whispering of crops and grasses. The road, mostly long and straight, was the dividing line between the two hemispheres of vision that took me ever northwards.
It was hot. Very hot. I had had to dispose of my gloves following the earlier accident, and didn't have a spare pair. I kept liberally applying suncream on the only exposed bit of skin on the back of my hands, and felt the rush of air over them as I motored ever onwards, keeping them cool. Sort of.
The previous experience of driving over mountain passes, through cities, and along winding roads doesn't prepare you for the effects of wind. With such a large and flat expanse of land all around you the wind has time to build up, formulate a plan, join forces, sneak up, and hit your bike on one side or the other rather chaotically at any moment. It's not very powerful, more like something that has to be continually compensated for, and involves much more of the use of your arms to help control where your body weight is centered. However, the long straight roads give ample opportunity for the huge buses and trucks and lorries to build up a fair amount of momentum, and when they scream past you at god knows what speed, the trailing vortex that they leave behind them is much more of a destabilising force that hits you not-quite-head-on and requires some hefty compensation. And usually a grimace.
Being on a bike for so long and having to concentrate extremely hard on the task of staying upright is not relaxing. However, it's not stressful (most of the time). You are by yourself, gazing out over some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, the rush of wind past your ears a constant de-tune-out'er of most distractions, and you have a lot of time to think. It is wonderfully therapeutic, if a little toasty.
We made it to Quy Nhon at approximately 12:07, right on schedule. Some nifty map reading and traffic negotiating later we were back on the road north, buoyed by the thought that 500km in a day might actually be doable.
It wasn't.
By the time we had been riding for over 350km, we were getting tired, the sun was slowly sinking in the sky, but still gallingly unrelenting, my bum was complaining a lot, taking on the exact inverse impression of the seat, and I noticed small blisters forming on the back of my hand where the suncream blatantly wasn't working. I got slightly concerned. We stopped for petrol and assessed the situation. We should head for Quang Ngai instead, it wasn't far, and would leave us with a small drive on the next day to get to Hoi An. A wise decision...
Quang Ngai is approximately 380km from Nha Trang, and not in the least bit similar. It is a local town, off the main tourist trail, but desperately wanting to become part of it. We stopped outside the nearest hotel we could find (helpfully called the Central Hotel, approximately 30ft away), but were a bit dismayed to find it still being built. I checked at reception, just in case, and was awarded a cheap room for my efforts. It was after 4pm, we had been on the road for over 9 hours. I was exhausted, blistered, my face covered in sweat, exhaust fumes, mud and grit, and I needed a shower. But a careful one, so as not to get my wound wet.
I pointed at my blistered hands to reception, who pointed me in the direction of the nearest pharmacist - handily located approximately 30ft away! I pointed at my hands in the pharmacist, and they pointed at various pills and creams by way of response. We did some more pointing and made an attempt at communication, but in the end I read the instructions (in English, thank god) for a marvelous little cream manufactured by Daewoo (a car firm? didn't they go bust?), and applied liberally.
After half a loaf of brioche and a hollow roll as food all day, I was passionately hungry. We were recommended a restaurant at the edge of town and headed for it, even though it meant subjecting my bum to another five minutes on the bike, which it did not like at all. We seemed to be segregated into a westerner-only section which was a bit odd, as was the warm beer they served. I was presented with a menu, and spent a minute or two perusing the vast choice on offer. Shark? Wow, I've never had shark. No shark. Hmmm. Crocodile? No crocodile. Tortoise? Ah, yes there is tortoise. You must buy 1kg of tortoise. In hindsight I probably should have chanced it, but at that point I was incredibly tired and all I wanted was something I knew I liked so I ordered... ostrich. Deliciously undercooked and mildly infused with chillis, it was divine.
I parked the bike in the secure hotel car park, gave it one last look of contempt, and passed out not-too-painfully in modest comfort on the 5th floor. I hoped we would not have to attempt another 380km day...
1st September
Following the previous day's antics I felt deserving of a lie-in, and awoke slowly, painfully and reluctantly quite late on in the morning. A simple breakfast of toast, jam, and some fluid that claimed to be papaya juice but could quite possibly have been sewer water was apparently all we were going to get, which just left the tasks of packing the bags, placing them down on the bikes, and securing them tightly to do before setting off.
Or, at least, that was the plan. I got to my bike, saw that it was a bit lacking in enthusiasm after it's epic journey the day before, expressed most significantly by an absence of air in the rear wheel, and sighed quite loudly. My foot brake pedal was also in need of bashing back into shape after a small argument with a stationary vehicle the day before, so we decided to get a mechanic to fix everything. Some more conversations with the reception staff and we were taken to a very jovial mechanic not far from the hotel. He looked at my bike with glee. Tris' bike looked fine but wouldn't start, so between us we waited for an hour and a half while the wide-mouthed, grinning mechanic set about his morning's work.
By way of a greeting, the mechanic volunteered in broken English "You handsome man" aimed in Tris' general direction. When a man with some blackened teeth (and those lucky enough not to be blackened giving off a remarkably dull nicotine / exhaust fume coated yellow) calls you handsome I'm not sure it can be taken as that much of a compliment. The state of teeth in this country is generally awful. Some of the younger generation, the girls especially, have taken it upon themselves to keep a full set, but by far the majority of Vietnamese have some missing, and those that are still there are hard to look at without wincing. As there are quite obviously no dentists (at least no good ones) available to the majority of Vietnamese, I guess the primary method for identifying a victim in a "homicide" wouldn't be by matching dental records, but rather by holding up a dulux paint chart and matching the colour of the teeth off on the primrose through eggshell shades. The further up the chart they go, the younger they must be...
The wait did have it's plus side. I was able to find a shop that sold me a pair of fingerless gloves for the cheap cheap price of 70,000d, and spent quite some time fitting my fingers through the various holes, attempting not to burst any of the blisters which still occupied most of the space on the back of my hands. After confirming that they would be splendidly useful for the job in hand (as it were), I then reversed the delicate operation and set about re-applying the Daewoo wondercream with (careful) vigour, taking my various medications and staying in the shade.
The receptionist was a big help, he translated (slowly but unsurely) the various mumblings and outbursts of laughter of the mechanic into something approaching English for us, and seemed genuinely pleased to be able to practice a foreign language. He was especially interested in keeping the conversation going, and at one point asked how old I was and whether at my age I should have a wife, as he seemed rather nervous to be approaching 26 himself and still be unmarried. Perhaps it had something to do with his teeth...
An exasperating 480,000d later we were ready to go. With my bags firmly strapped to the back of my bike, the wheels inflated, engine started, oil changed, sunglasses perched, hood up, helmet on and gloves nice and sweaty already, we set off ever upwards to where we were aiming to have been the night before - Hoi An. The roads were not as good, the going was slower, but we made it to the town in just less than 3 exhausting hours of concentration, direct sunlight, a distinct lack of signposts, pulsing wind and a several lungfuls of hot exhaust fumes. But the scenery was beautiful. We crossed over many bridges which gave magnificent views of the rivers below, of fisherman reeling in their nets by hand as they squatted impossibly on the tip of the bow of their thin boats, of blue-painted junks moored by the hundred in sleepy bays, of the rich red waters of one river colliding with the tame blue of another as they began to flow together in an oddly colourful transition, and of local life being played out in it's timeless simplicity below, oblivious to the two foreigners speeding by, trying to take it all in, only a few hundred feet above.
Hoi An is off the map. Well, it's on the map, but due to the incredibly consistent work done by the signpost department of Vietnam, you would never find it if you didn't stop at each junction in the road and ask someone which fork to take to get there. It is certainly not logical! We found it eventually, just where the locals said it would be, and trundled down the main high street looking for the hotel we'd booked. We found it, again eventually, at the far end of town. Seeing as we had three days in Hoi An, we decided to head for a more central, more expensive option, and found the good people at Hotel Ha An very accommodating. The room was spectacularly pristine, a real shock after the places we had become accustomed to, with a japanese feel to the decoration - white pebbles in the shower, and fresh flower petals on all crisp white linen. The complete opposite to how I looked - a muddy, exhausted, exhaust-fumed face more black than burnt.
The aim of the extended stay in Hoi An was simple. Tailored suits. Hoi An is a small town, mostly populated with shops for tourists, and most of those willing and able to size you up and sell you something that fits. Perfectly. We headed for Yaly at the recommendation of the receptionist, and found it exceptionally busy, even at half past six in the evening. After some careful deliberation and thoughtful perusal of various photos of suits the staff had managed to extract from any and every magazine that came their way, I decided on my material, pattern, style and colour, and was awarded the full assistance of a terrifically attentive young girl for my efforts. Alice her name was, though most of the staff referred to her as "Alic", so it was possibly westernised for ease!
I ordered an overjacket, suit, and 4 shirts, got measured extensively, paid a deposit, signed something, and went looking for Tris, thinking it was high time to get some food. Tris had other ideas. Fully engaged in making his own helper (Nancy) work incredibly hard answering all sorts of questions that hadn't even popped into my head, he emerged several hours later full of details of stitching, lining, and lapel information I had no idea was even customisable. We were to come back the next morning for a fitting, and then they would be ready to wear. A fully tailored outfit in less than a few hours! God knows how many people were stitching away up in the rafters to get that done...
Or, at least, that was the plan. I got to my bike, saw that it was a bit lacking in enthusiasm after it's epic journey the day before, expressed most significantly by an absence of air in the rear wheel, and sighed quite loudly. My foot brake pedal was also in need of bashing back into shape after a small argument with a stationary vehicle the day before, so we decided to get a mechanic to fix everything. Some more conversations with the reception staff and we were taken to a very jovial mechanic not far from the hotel. He looked at my bike with glee. Tris' bike looked fine but wouldn't start, so between us we waited for an hour and a half while the wide-mouthed, grinning mechanic set about his morning's work.
By way of a greeting, the mechanic volunteered in broken English "You handsome man" aimed in Tris' general direction. When a man with some blackened teeth (and those lucky enough not to be blackened giving off a remarkably dull nicotine / exhaust fume coated yellow) calls you handsome I'm not sure it can be taken as that much of a compliment. The state of teeth in this country is generally awful. Some of the younger generation, the girls especially, have taken it upon themselves to keep a full set, but by far the majority of Vietnamese have some missing, and those that are still there are hard to look at without wincing. As there are quite obviously no dentists (at least no good ones) available to the majority of Vietnamese, I guess the primary method for identifying a victim in a "homicide" wouldn't be by matching dental records, but rather by holding up a dulux paint chart and matching the colour of the teeth off on the primrose through eggshell shades. The further up the chart they go, the younger they must be...
The wait did have it's plus side. I was able to find a shop that sold me a pair of fingerless gloves for the cheap cheap price of 70,000d, and spent quite some time fitting my fingers through the various holes, attempting not to burst any of the blisters which still occupied most of the space on the back of my hands. After confirming that they would be splendidly useful for the job in hand (as it were), I then reversed the delicate operation and set about re-applying the Daewoo wondercream with (careful) vigour, taking my various medications and staying in the shade.
The receptionist was a big help, he translated (slowly but unsurely) the various mumblings and outbursts of laughter of the mechanic into something approaching English for us, and seemed genuinely pleased to be able to practice a foreign language. He was especially interested in keeping the conversation going, and at one point asked how old I was and whether at my age I should have a wife, as he seemed rather nervous to be approaching 26 himself and still be unmarried. Perhaps it had something to do with his teeth...
An exasperating 480,000d later we were ready to go. With my bags firmly strapped to the back of my bike, the wheels inflated, engine started, oil changed, sunglasses perched, hood up, helmet on and gloves nice and sweaty already, we set off ever upwards to where we were aiming to have been the night before - Hoi An. The roads were not as good, the going was slower, but we made it to the town in just less than 3 exhausting hours of concentration, direct sunlight, a distinct lack of signposts, pulsing wind and a several lungfuls of hot exhaust fumes. But the scenery was beautiful. We crossed over many bridges which gave magnificent views of the rivers below, of fisherman reeling in their nets by hand as they squatted impossibly on the tip of the bow of their thin boats, of blue-painted junks moored by the hundred in sleepy bays, of the rich red waters of one river colliding with the tame blue of another as they began to flow together in an oddly colourful transition, and of local life being played out in it's timeless simplicity below, oblivious to the two foreigners speeding by, trying to take it all in, only a few hundred feet above.
Hoi An is off the map. Well, it's on the map, but due to the incredibly consistent work done by the signpost department of Vietnam, you would never find it if you didn't stop at each junction in the road and ask someone which fork to take to get there. It is certainly not logical! We found it eventually, just where the locals said it would be, and trundled down the main high street looking for the hotel we'd booked. We found it, again eventually, at the far end of town. Seeing as we had three days in Hoi An, we decided to head for a more central, more expensive option, and found the good people at Hotel Ha An very accommodating. The room was spectacularly pristine, a real shock after the places we had become accustomed to, with a japanese feel to the decoration - white pebbles in the shower, and fresh flower petals on all crisp white linen. The complete opposite to how I looked - a muddy, exhausted, exhaust-fumed face more black than burnt.
The aim of the extended stay in Hoi An was simple. Tailored suits. Hoi An is a small town, mostly populated with shops for tourists, and most of those willing and able to size you up and sell you something that fits. Perfectly. We headed for Yaly at the recommendation of the receptionist, and found it exceptionally busy, even at half past six in the evening. After some careful deliberation and thoughtful perusal of various photos of suits the staff had managed to extract from any and every magazine that came their way, I decided on my material, pattern, style and colour, and was awarded the full assistance of a terrifically attentive young girl for my efforts. Alice her name was, though most of the staff referred to her as "Alic", so it was possibly westernised for ease!
I ordered an overjacket, suit, and 4 shirts, got measured extensively, paid a deposit, signed something, and went looking for Tris, thinking it was high time to get some food. Tris had other ideas. Fully engaged in making his own helper (Nancy) work incredibly hard answering all sorts of questions that hadn't even popped into my head, he emerged several hours later full of details of stitching, lining, and lapel information I had no idea was even customisable. We were to come back the next morning for a fitting, and then they would be ready to wear. A fully tailored outfit in less than a few hours! God knows how many people were stitching away up in the rafters to get that done...
2nd September
With no impending destination hundreds of kilometers away to try and reach, it was lovely to be able to create a base of sorts in the hotel and take life more slowly. Unfortunately the weather also had the same idea, and the oppressive heat of the last few days slowly lessened, then exploded into a tumultuous rainstorm that would last 5 days.
The suit fitting was scheduled for 10am, so at half past nine we meandered through the market, through the rain to search for Alice and Nancy and to try on our new suits. It wasn't English rain. It was wetter and hotter, and trekking through the drenched market place covered my flip flops in something approaching the smell, consistency and texture of fish entrails. On closer inspection it turned out to be fish entrails. Marvellous. The smell has permeated everything in my luggage and I can still smell it now. The market place smelt rotten and felt rotten, and the constant whingings of "buy me", "buy now" emanating from the various vendors seemed to hang in the already stale air. The tactic must have worked though, as the sellers seemed to have enjoyed rather better, or at least fuller, nutritional conditions than most other Vietnamese I'd seen and could obviously afford to have fed themselves into a more western build - the odd bulges around the mid-region being proudly displayed. The smell in the market was like off, rotting, festering cabbage with food offcuts unfit for consumption (literally) thrown in, all encased in a hot, humid air of contamination that gets in your nostrils, your hair and your clothes. And your feet, somehow. Despite the rain there was no roof structure as such in the market, merely tarpaulins draped at strategic angles from pole to pole, leaving odd spots of water pooling and bulging from interesting areas of the tarpaulin. If you were foolish enough to walk under one without ducking you could be guaranteed a bucket load of water over your head. It didn't cool you down.
I hoped our walk through the market was going to be the last time we had to endure it, but Yaly's 10am estimation was optimistic at best. The fitting must have been, it turned out, to assess how accurate the tape measure was. Which was not very. Putting on my emaciated trousers only served to remind me that my waist was extremely westernised, but the shirts fit well! I was asked to come back at 3pm for another fitting, once the trousers had been altered to better accommodate my figure, and got the first incling that I might be making a few trips back and forth through the market. Not an appealing thought.
On the way back to the hotel I happened upon one of the many other tailoring shops and took heed of the words the receptionist had said - Yaly is the best quality, but the other shops are much cheaper. With this in mind, I ventured in and ordered the most flamboyant jacket I could piece together. Bright yellow silk lining, a blue and yellow silk pattered fabric, and some hefty padding. It looked hideously brilliant and would apparently be available by the afternoon. Skeptical, I paid up front.
Despite the rain and the smell, the local life in and out of the market was wonderful to watch. I took some photos of the marketplace, though it's occupants weren't too happy about it. We decided to go back to the same bridge we drove over to get some good photos, but because of the rain, and an odd way of remembering distances, the bridge turned out to be about half an hour away. On a bike. So much for not riding... The rain also spoiled most of the view, which was rather predictable. At 3pm we went back to Yaly for what I hoped would be the final fitting, but they seemed to have other plans. The trousers fit slightly better this time, but the suit jacket was (would you believe it) too wide. Another appointment for 6pm and a distinct sinking feeling in my stomach, and we had a discussion. If this continued, we wouldn't be able to have a big driving day north tomorrow, and our itinerary for reaching Hanoi (via Halong bay in all it's natural beauty) seemed like it was getting further and further out of reach. We might, gulp, even have to get a train.
At 6pm we trailed back through the market, through the fish, in the rain, this time wielding umbrellas (courtesy of Ha An and the wonderful smiling receptionist), and ventured in to Yaly for the third time that day. It was busy. Alice had acquired another customer, from Australia, and I waited dutifully in the magazine section while the general hubbub and sound of tailoring went on all around me. There were some other Australians who seemed to be in the same predicament, and we had a good chat about Top Gear, the questionable nature of some of the things the program skipped over, my wonderfully oozing arm and the magnificent story that accompanied it.
Needless to say, once Alice was freed from her Australian labours, I was fully expecting not to have a completed set of clothes. I wasn't disappointed. "You come back at 10am" was my smiling response after fitting number three, and there was nothing for it but to accept... I wandered back to the other shop, expecting to be told the same story, but was pleasantly surprised when they presented me with a finished jacket! I tried it on, and although it didn't fit perfectly it was pretty close, and I smiled at myself and it's loud hideousness in the mirror.
As it happened, 2nd September is National Vietnam Day, which went a long way to explaining why most of the towns and villages we had driven through up to this point were liberally decorated with red and yellow flags - half with stars and the rest with the ubiquitous hammer and sickle. I wore my brilliant new jacket, we took umbrellas and headed out to a local restaurant, where I ordered a little bit of everything. Literally. It was written in English on the menu "A little bit of everything", I couldn't resist. It was delicious, but eaten delicately as I didn't want to spill any and overstimulate the patterns on my new jacket, which was going down well until the electricity ran out. We were seated near the entrance, luckily, as the residual light from the street offered a fading glow to see the food by. I watched as a continual stream of festival goers meandered through the streets on the way to the river in the fading sunlight, and felt full.
We joined the throng, following the hideous tinny noises coming from cheap Chinese toys and balloons down the streets towards the river. By now the sun had set and we were greeted by a multitude of sellers, most likely having already packed up their goods and wares from the market stall earlier, moved slightly nearer the river, and now peddling floating candles on stapled cardboard. We got one each and Tris eagerly dropped his into the river, where it promptly extinguished. I got mine delivered much more safely to the water via an ingenious inverse-umbrella drop manoeuvre, and mine stayed lit! Feeling a little paranoid and god weary, Tris ventured back to the stalls to buy two more, just in case, and managed to get both onto the river still alive. Complete guarantee to make it to Hanoi in one piece!
The rain did have another unintended consequence. My blistered hands turned from being raw to being a bit mushy, and slowly but surely bits of skin started bunching up on the back of my hands and along my arms in a vague attempt at peeling. While wet. Not lovely.
The festival was concluded in the rain, the thin flickering lights up and down the river giving a lighter, endearing feel to the hardship that seems to be endured by the Vietnamese. The laughter, the smiling young couples with all their teeth, the splashing children and the wisened older women taciturnly rowing out into the middle of the river to gently steer some stray candles back on course spanned the generations, and made the dimly lit but uniquely foreign event come alive.
With a small amount of frustration at not yet having any proper completed garments, the last night in the hotel was spent looking out at the rain, putting my now rotting footwear outside on the balcony, and hoping that we would be able to leave fairly early the next morning to put some serious kilometers behind us.
The suit fitting was scheduled for 10am, so at half past nine we meandered through the market, through the rain to search for Alice and Nancy and to try on our new suits. It wasn't English rain. It was wetter and hotter, and trekking through the drenched market place covered my flip flops in something approaching the smell, consistency and texture of fish entrails. On closer inspection it turned out to be fish entrails. Marvellous. The smell has permeated everything in my luggage and I can still smell it now. The market place smelt rotten and felt rotten, and the constant whingings of "buy me", "buy now" emanating from the various vendors seemed to hang in the already stale air. The tactic must have worked though, as the sellers seemed to have enjoyed rather better, or at least fuller, nutritional conditions than most other Vietnamese I'd seen and could obviously afford to have fed themselves into a more western build - the odd bulges around the mid-region being proudly displayed. The smell in the market was like off, rotting, festering cabbage with food offcuts unfit for consumption (literally) thrown in, all encased in a hot, humid air of contamination that gets in your nostrils, your hair and your clothes. And your feet, somehow. Despite the rain there was no roof structure as such in the market, merely tarpaulins draped at strategic angles from pole to pole, leaving odd spots of water pooling and bulging from interesting areas of the tarpaulin. If you were foolish enough to walk under one without ducking you could be guaranteed a bucket load of water over your head. It didn't cool you down.
I hoped our walk through the market was going to be the last time we had to endure it, but Yaly's 10am estimation was optimistic at best. The fitting must have been, it turned out, to assess how accurate the tape measure was. Which was not very. Putting on my emaciated trousers only served to remind me that my waist was extremely westernised, but the shirts fit well! I was asked to come back at 3pm for another fitting, once the trousers had been altered to better accommodate my figure, and got the first incling that I might be making a few trips back and forth through the market. Not an appealing thought.
On the way back to the hotel I happened upon one of the many other tailoring shops and took heed of the words the receptionist had said - Yaly is the best quality, but the other shops are much cheaper. With this in mind, I ventured in and ordered the most flamboyant jacket I could piece together. Bright yellow silk lining, a blue and yellow silk pattered fabric, and some hefty padding. It looked hideously brilliant and would apparently be available by the afternoon. Skeptical, I paid up front.
Despite the rain and the smell, the local life in and out of the market was wonderful to watch. I took some photos of the marketplace, though it's occupants weren't too happy about it. We decided to go back to the same bridge we drove over to get some good photos, but because of the rain, and an odd way of remembering distances, the bridge turned out to be about half an hour away. On a bike. So much for not riding... The rain also spoiled most of the view, which was rather predictable. At 3pm we went back to Yaly for what I hoped would be the final fitting, but they seemed to have other plans. The trousers fit slightly better this time, but the suit jacket was (would you believe it) too wide. Another appointment for 6pm and a distinct sinking feeling in my stomach, and we had a discussion. If this continued, we wouldn't be able to have a big driving day north tomorrow, and our itinerary for reaching Hanoi (via Halong bay in all it's natural beauty) seemed like it was getting further and further out of reach. We might, gulp, even have to get a train.
At 6pm we trailed back through the market, through the fish, in the rain, this time wielding umbrellas (courtesy of Ha An and the wonderful smiling receptionist), and ventured in to Yaly for the third time that day. It was busy. Alice had acquired another customer, from Australia, and I waited dutifully in the magazine section while the general hubbub and sound of tailoring went on all around me. There were some other Australians who seemed to be in the same predicament, and we had a good chat about Top Gear, the questionable nature of some of the things the program skipped over, my wonderfully oozing arm and the magnificent story that accompanied it.
Needless to say, once Alice was freed from her Australian labours, I was fully expecting not to have a completed set of clothes. I wasn't disappointed. "You come back at 10am" was my smiling response after fitting number three, and there was nothing for it but to accept... I wandered back to the other shop, expecting to be told the same story, but was pleasantly surprised when they presented me with a finished jacket! I tried it on, and although it didn't fit perfectly it was pretty close, and I smiled at myself and it's loud hideousness in the mirror.
As it happened, 2nd September is National Vietnam Day, which went a long way to explaining why most of the towns and villages we had driven through up to this point were liberally decorated with red and yellow flags - half with stars and the rest with the ubiquitous hammer and sickle. I wore my brilliant new jacket, we took umbrellas and headed out to a local restaurant, where I ordered a little bit of everything. Literally. It was written in English on the menu "A little bit of everything", I couldn't resist. It was delicious, but eaten delicately as I didn't want to spill any and overstimulate the patterns on my new jacket, which was going down well until the electricity ran out. We were seated near the entrance, luckily, as the residual light from the street offered a fading glow to see the food by. I watched as a continual stream of festival goers meandered through the streets on the way to the river in the fading sunlight, and felt full.
We joined the throng, following the hideous tinny noises coming from cheap Chinese toys and balloons down the streets towards the river. By now the sun had set and we were greeted by a multitude of sellers, most likely having already packed up their goods and wares from the market stall earlier, moved slightly nearer the river, and now peddling floating candles on stapled cardboard. We got one each and Tris eagerly dropped his into the river, where it promptly extinguished. I got mine delivered much more safely to the water via an ingenious inverse-umbrella drop manoeuvre, and mine stayed lit! Feeling a little paranoid and god weary, Tris ventured back to the stalls to buy two more, just in case, and managed to get both onto the river still alive. Complete guarantee to make it to Hanoi in one piece!
The rain did have another unintended consequence. My blistered hands turned from being raw to being a bit mushy, and slowly but surely bits of skin started bunching up on the back of my hands and along my arms in a vague attempt at peeling. While wet. Not lovely.
The festival was concluded in the rain, the thin flickering lights up and down the river giving a lighter, endearing feel to the hardship that seems to be endured by the Vietnamese. The laughter, the smiling young couples with all their teeth, the splashing children and the wisened older women taciturnly rowing out into the middle of the river to gently steer some stray candles back on course spanned the generations, and made the dimly lit but uniquely foreign event come alive.
With a small amount of frustration at not yet having any proper completed garments, the last night in the hotel was spent looking out at the rain, putting my now rotting footwear outside on the balcony, and hoping that we would be able to leave fairly early the next morning to put some serious kilometers behind us.
3rd September
Today's plan was to get the suits from Yaly, pack them carefully, set off up the coastal road, and eat into the vast distance that lay before us. However, any plans we kept making on this trip seemed to have a horribly unforesightful way of being over optimistic. The morning trek through the market was, again, sublime, but ultimately pointless as the suits still weren't ready. Still! We were assured they would be ready by the (late) afternoon and took the opportunity of having nothing to do, in the rain, to just relax. I flicked through the local newspaper and read some delightful articles in praise of Uncle Ho (of Ho Chi Minh City fame) and how his wisdom and frugality was still being put to good use today with the introduction of a bamboo bank. The practitioners of said bank were to place whatever money they could in the hollow stem of a bamboo plant, and save for important things like their children's eduction and for a rainy (or, at this rate, non-rainy) day. I suppose it's lucky Vietnamese money is waterproof! It was a propaganda paper certainly, but very entertaining to read, especially since they'd gone to the trouble of printing the whole thing out in English.
Several fittings and market visits later we had the finished suits! Finally! A liberal scratching of duct tape and plastic bagging later I had mine all waterproofed, wrinkled, and packed. There was no shelter during the ritual of packing up the bikes, so it had to be done in the rain. Which, as it turns out, is not fun. To really hit the nail on the head, I realised with a sense of supreme idiocy and dread that I'd packed my bungee chords. At the bottom of one of my bags. I couldn't possibly subject the contents of the bag to the deluge that was going on all around me, so I turned to plan B. Some thinning green rope I bought in the UK (in a panic moment, realising I didn't have a plan B), was then used instead. I tied 50ft of the damn stuff in several looping attempts at securing the bags down, and after approximately half an hour I had managed to do it so they wouldn't fall off. Just. I dreaded the refuel that we'd eventually have to do. If it took that long to get the bags on and off each time we surely wouldn't make it to the north of the country in time to make my flight home...
With everything set, wet, and the sun already low in the sky, there was nothing for it but to head for Danang. Vietnam's third largest city, but third by quite some way - compared to the 10 million people that inhabit Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi each it houses less than 100,000 people. Danang was less than an hour's ride away, and we reached the outskirts without incident. Driving into the centre of the city was a bizarre experience. The road was still being constructed, there were thousands of trucks and construction vehicles on the dirt and gravel tracks either side of the main gravel track that everyone else seemed to be using for the road, and on either side it looked as if the city had recently been bombed or destroyed by an earthquake. No building seemed intact and the effect of the continual rain was to make it look like flood or possibly hurricane damage. The destruction went on for kilometer after kilometer, gradually reducing in intensity as houses and shops started to become populated and inhabited.
The map said to head for the Princes Hotel, situated near the coast, so we headed for the coast road as the last of the sunlight showed the way. Headlights on and the neon lights of the heart of the city behind us, we thundered out on the weirdly empty coastal road on a magnificent 4 lane highway towards... nowhere. After ten minutes of fairly unhindered driving and seeing perhaps three other vehicles, a feeling of foreboding came over me and we stopped to check the map again. The, ahem, coast that was displayed on the map was in fact not the coast. It was the bank of a wide river, the print of the map arranged in such a way as to not show the other side. Hastily turning around and heading back towards the neon, we eventually found a bridge, crossed it, negotiated the one-way system of roads (and, on one occasion, pavement - the one-way system was stupid), and found the hotel.
The hotel was, for want of a better word, dodgy. The owner seemed remarkably enthused to greet us - amongst most of the incomprehensible half-english that he spat at us, phrases that stuck out were "you want girls" and "I get you anything". We hastily paid for the room, and the room only, took one look at the damp seeping through the walls, thanked the host, who worryingly looked like he didn't want to leave us alone, and double locked the door.
After a pointless shower, a re-dressing of my now terrifically oozing wound, and another slathering of anti-blister cream, we braved reception once again and quickly headed for a restaurant recommended by the guide. Com Nieu. They served frog, so we ordered it. Tentatively. It came in various options on the menu, however the options were all in Vietnamese, and I had trouble imagining just how many ways there were to serve it. Whatever it was that I chose, my frog came fried, cleaved into several pieces and, feeling hungry enough to attempt it, I began to munch on a particularly meaty looking chunk of batter.
There were bones in it. The meat tasted very much like watery chicken, and was quite nice, but the skin (still on and distinctly spotty) was not as appetising. It must have been quite a large frog, bigger than a fist, to have donated so much meat to the meal, and judging by the size of the leg bones it must have been able to jump fairly high. Would I have it again? Probably not.
Tomorrow, phase 2 begins in earnest...
Several fittings and market visits later we had the finished suits! Finally! A liberal scratching of duct tape and plastic bagging later I had mine all waterproofed, wrinkled, and packed. There was no shelter during the ritual of packing up the bikes, so it had to be done in the rain. Which, as it turns out, is not fun. To really hit the nail on the head, I realised with a sense of supreme idiocy and dread that I'd packed my bungee chords. At the bottom of one of my bags. I couldn't possibly subject the contents of the bag to the deluge that was going on all around me, so I turned to plan B. Some thinning green rope I bought in the UK (in a panic moment, realising I didn't have a plan B), was then used instead. I tied 50ft of the damn stuff in several looping attempts at securing the bags down, and after approximately half an hour I had managed to do it so they wouldn't fall off. Just. I dreaded the refuel that we'd eventually have to do. If it took that long to get the bags on and off each time we surely wouldn't make it to the north of the country in time to make my flight home...
With everything set, wet, and the sun already low in the sky, there was nothing for it but to head for Danang. Vietnam's third largest city, but third by quite some way - compared to the 10 million people that inhabit Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi each it houses less than 100,000 people. Danang was less than an hour's ride away, and we reached the outskirts without incident. Driving into the centre of the city was a bizarre experience. The road was still being constructed, there were thousands of trucks and construction vehicles on the dirt and gravel tracks either side of the main gravel track that everyone else seemed to be using for the road, and on either side it looked as if the city had recently been bombed or destroyed by an earthquake. No building seemed intact and the effect of the continual rain was to make it look like flood or possibly hurricane damage. The destruction went on for kilometer after kilometer, gradually reducing in intensity as houses and shops started to become populated and inhabited.
The map said to head for the Princes Hotel, situated near the coast, so we headed for the coast road as the last of the sunlight showed the way. Headlights on and the neon lights of the heart of the city behind us, we thundered out on the weirdly empty coastal road on a magnificent 4 lane highway towards... nowhere. After ten minutes of fairly unhindered driving and seeing perhaps three other vehicles, a feeling of foreboding came over me and we stopped to check the map again. The, ahem, coast that was displayed on the map was in fact not the coast. It was the bank of a wide river, the print of the map arranged in such a way as to not show the other side. Hastily turning around and heading back towards the neon, we eventually found a bridge, crossed it, negotiated the one-way system of roads (and, on one occasion, pavement - the one-way system was stupid), and found the hotel.
The hotel was, for want of a better word, dodgy. The owner seemed remarkably enthused to greet us - amongst most of the incomprehensible half-english that he spat at us, phrases that stuck out were "you want girls" and "I get you anything". We hastily paid for the room, and the room only, took one look at the damp seeping through the walls, thanked the host, who worryingly looked like he didn't want to leave us alone, and double locked the door.
After a pointless shower, a re-dressing of my now terrifically oozing wound, and another slathering of anti-blister cream, we braved reception once again and quickly headed for a restaurant recommended by the guide. Com Nieu. They served frog, so we ordered it. Tentatively. It came in various options on the menu, however the options were all in Vietnamese, and I had trouble imagining just how many ways there were to serve it. Whatever it was that I chose, my frog came fried, cleaved into several pieces and, feeling hungry enough to attempt it, I began to munch on a particularly meaty looking chunk of batter.
There were bones in it. The meat tasted very much like watery chicken, and was quite nice, but the skin (still on and distinctly spotty) was not as appetising. It must have been quite a large frog, bigger than a fist, to have donated so much meat to the meal, and judging by the size of the leg bones it must have been able to jump fairly high. Would I have it again? Probably not.
Tomorrow, phase 2 begins in earnest...
4th September
Phase 2 begins! Phase 2 consisted of 800km of driving, and some sightseeing on the way. A bit like phase 1 actually, but on a much tighter schedule. We set off early, straight out into the rain and the one-way streets, and quickly moved away from the only place in Vietnam that made me feel uneasy. The main road out of town was especially busy, and as we moved towards the bottleneck everyone started piling into one lane. As everyone slowed down in unison, so began the handlebar dance, a synchronised swarm movement of flailing arms and legs as everyone tried to stay moving, stay balanced and stay upright, the ultimate aim seemingly being able to say "Look! No legs!". On the wrong side to see what was going on, it was a few minutes before I could thread my bike forwards enough to realise. The entire main road out of town was flooded. Completely!
Fully geared up in my layering system and having already put on wet clothes in the morning, I didn't feel as off put as the locals at ploughing straight into the deep water, so at the first opportunity, throttled my bike over to the right hand lane and powered through the middle of the road, by myself, trailing two huge sprays of water either side of me. My exhaust pipe fully submerged and my fishy boots getting a good oiling from the dirty road water, for a change it was the rest of the locals that looked on at me and the grim, determined smile on my face was echoed in theirs for the half kilometer or so that I occupied their attention. It was wonderful.
The rain was consistent, but of a more bearable intensity as we drove northwards, through towns, villages, and countryside still beautiful in the grey light. With barely a care in the world (from the waist up, of course), I was lost in thoughts, smells and memories when I noticed a red light up ahead. Dutifully stopping and taking the badly needed rest to relieve the pressure on my now completely re-molded posterior, I readied the gears, took stock of the petrol situation (30km at least in the tank), gazed at the dreary melancholic action of a man outside a spray shop giving a new shiny metal coating to an otherwise rusting bike frame, and heard the handful of bikes that had also stopped at the traffic lights with me begin to rev their engines. I did the same, took the weight from my legs to my bum to the seat, and panicked.
Disaster.
The rear wheel on the bike complained loudly against the tarmac of the road, the handlebars suddenly weighed like cast iron and I felt completely unbalanced. Some lunatic on a perfectly functioning vehicle roared past me laughing and pointing. It wasn't particularly funny and I didn't share in the joke, but rather concentrated on not falling over and re-learning how to ungrip my hands from the handlebars. I realised, I had a puncture.
I stopped, exasperated. Tris was unaware and sped off up the street. I breathed in. Out. In. Out, and then in again. I got off the bike, inspected the situation, and felt a small pit of fear forming in my stomach as I recalled the steps taken by the mechanic the last time he changed a rear wheel. Oh god. Oh, sodding, god. We had the tools, but collectively, and no actual first hand experience at changing a tire. What was I going to do? Crap. Wait! We had a video of someone else doing it. Yes! We could playback the video and just mimic what he did. I can mimic, it can’t be that hard. Ok, plan A in the bag. Now I just had to get Tris’ attention to make sure he knew what was going on. He had stopped a few hundred feet up the road.
Some frenetic hand waving, semaphoring, and vigorous pointing at my tire and making an explosion sound later, Tris had absolutely no idea what the problem was, but trundled back down the street anyway, just to see what all the fuss was about. “Ah”, he volunteered.
While I was setting out plan A in all it’s simplistic glory and motioning Tris to fetch the tire irons from his stash of tools, a better solution presented itself. A mechanic’s shop approximately 10ft away. The pit in my stomach smoothed over and the prospect of finding the appropriate footage on the camera now marvelously unnecessary, I pushed, kicked and manhandled the bike to the expectant mechanic and sighed rather loudly. He had, apparently, been watching with some amusement at the whole episode and knew exactly what needed to be done.
Tip number 6 – if you’re going to get a puncture somewhere on a 2000km journey, try to have one right next to a mechanic’s shop.
Tip number 7 - if you're going to get a puncture, make sure you get it when stopped, stationary, at a traffic light. It's much safer that way.
A small 50,000d payment and a good 15 minutes later he had the tire off and was inspecting the rubber for the puncture hole. It wasn’t hard to find, and is perhaps best described as not so much a puncture hole as a complete destruction of the interface between the valve and the inner tube. It had literally exploded. Nothing for it but to replace the whole tube with a brand new one, not 3 days after the last puncture, and he did so gracefully, with relative ease, and all for less than $3!
Our destination for the day was Hue (pronounced to rhyme with blue hay), which according to the guide was the intellectual heart of Vietnam, being host to the capital of the ruling lords during the 19th century. Feeling some intellectual curiosity, we reached the incredibly cheap hotel, mysteriously called Thai Binh 2 without a Thai Binh 1 counterpart, parked the bikes and checked in. A taxi took us to the citadel in the pouring rain, and we sloshed out over the flooded moat into the ruins of the ancient fortress.
Well, ancient might be a bit strong. Plastic might be more reasonable. The whole citadel was originally built as a stronghold, surrounded by a moat, and the central palace was further fortified to become a citadel within a citadel. Within that was the forbidden Purple City, which was triple fortified against attack. At least, triple fortified from a 19th century attack. The problem was, it was attacked in a rather more 20th century fashion during the war. From the air.
It was completely bombed to shreds. There are renovations ongoing that hope one day to restore the ruins to their former glory, but it felt decidedly odd that they were only 150 years old. The style of the regal enclosure was one that looked properly ancient, thousands of years old, but just… wasn’t. I can see that one day when the renovations are complete and you can wander around as the ancient lords used to it will be very impressive, but for now you can see the dropped tools from the building work just strewn across the public walkways and the whole feel of the place is just one of incompleteness. Thoroughly disappointing, though the pouring rain didn’t help.
We reached the other side of the citadel and out back into central Hue. At many points along the way, and especially once leaving the pay-to-enter tourist ‘attraction’, we were accosted by locals trying their luck. It may be the intellectual heart of Vietnam, but it didn’t stop them stooping to the levels of locals in the rest of the country. They were all vying for our attention, and most had memorised the following phrases: “Hello!”, “Where you from?”, “How long you stay in Vietnam??”, and then the clincher “You buy something?”. There seemed to be no variation in order or phrasing of these inane questions, and by the time the sixteenth local was headed our way to ask, my patience and smile was beginning to wane. By some stroke of intellectual genius, the third question this sixteenth local asked was not “You buy something?”, but “You English! You like football?”. Football! Well no, no I don’t follow it particularly, but by god, a different conversation! “Yes! Yes” I screamed, “Manchester United number 1!”. We entered into a fairly incomprehensible exchange on both sides as to the ins and outs of Manchester United, not helped with my distinct lack of knowledge of up-to-date players, though the words Eric and Cantona produced a smile all round. Just when I thought things were looking up, “You buy something?” came out of his mouth, and I went away depressed, though impressed at the lengths he went through on his sales pitch. Maybe Hue is the intellectual heart of the country after all?
Feeling slightly in need of some familiar comfort, we spied a coffee shop just down the road, and ordered two large mochas. A crowd of teenagers in the corner laughed and pointed at us, but at least they weren’t trying to sell us anything. The coffee was delicious, and the chocolate almost like that you get back home. Pepped up and ready to go, we headed for a bar called DMZ, and I employed my time very constructively by thrashing Tris at pool 5 – 0. A very relaxing evening, drinks, and even a toastie later, I was ready for the next day’s drive northwards. It was going to be a big one.
Fully geared up in my layering system and having already put on wet clothes in the morning, I didn't feel as off put as the locals at ploughing straight into the deep water, so at the first opportunity, throttled my bike over to the right hand lane and powered through the middle of the road, by myself, trailing two huge sprays of water either side of me. My exhaust pipe fully submerged and my fishy boots getting a good oiling from the dirty road water, for a change it was the rest of the locals that looked on at me and the grim, determined smile on my face was echoed in theirs for the half kilometer or so that I occupied their attention. It was wonderful.
The rain was consistent, but of a more bearable intensity as we drove northwards, through towns, villages, and countryside still beautiful in the grey light. With barely a care in the world (from the waist up, of course), I was lost in thoughts, smells and memories when I noticed a red light up ahead. Dutifully stopping and taking the badly needed rest to relieve the pressure on my now completely re-molded posterior, I readied the gears, took stock of the petrol situation (30km at least in the tank), gazed at the dreary melancholic action of a man outside a spray shop giving a new shiny metal coating to an otherwise rusting bike frame, and heard the handful of bikes that had also stopped at the traffic lights with me begin to rev their engines. I did the same, took the weight from my legs to my bum to the seat, and panicked.
Disaster.
The rear wheel on the bike complained loudly against the tarmac of the road, the handlebars suddenly weighed like cast iron and I felt completely unbalanced. Some lunatic on a perfectly functioning vehicle roared past me laughing and pointing. It wasn't particularly funny and I didn't share in the joke, but rather concentrated on not falling over and re-learning how to ungrip my hands from the handlebars. I realised, I had a puncture.
I stopped, exasperated. Tris was unaware and sped off up the street. I breathed in. Out. In. Out, and then in again. I got off the bike, inspected the situation, and felt a small pit of fear forming in my stomach as I recalled the steps taken by the mechanic the last time he changed a rear wheel. Oh god. Oh, sodding, god. We had the tools, but collectively, and no actual first hand experience at changing a tire. What was I going to do? Crap. Wait! We had a video of someone else doing it. Yes! We could playback the video and just mimic what he did. I can mimic, it can’t be that hard. Ok, plan A in the bag. Now I just had to get Tris’ attention to make sure he knew what was going on. He had stopped a few hundred feet up the road.
Some frenetic hand waving, semaphoring, and vigorous pointing at my tire and making an explosion sound later, Tris had absolutely no idea what the problem was, but trundled back down the street anyway, just to see what all the fuss was about. “Ah”, he volunteered.
While I was setting out plan A in all it’s simplistic glory and motioning Tris to fetch the tire irons from his stash of tools, a better solution presented itself. A mechanic’s shop approximately 10ft away. The pit in my stomach smoothed over and the prospect of finding the appropriate footage on the camera now marvelously unnecessary, I pushed, kicked and manhandled the bike to the expectant mechanic and sighed rather loudly. He had, apparently, been watching with some amusement at the whole episode and knew exactly what needed to be done.
Tip number 6 – if you’re going to get a puncture somewhere on a 2000km journey, try to have one right next to a mechanic’s shop.
Tip number 7 - if you're going to get a puncture, make sure you get it when stopped, stationary, at a traffic light. It's much safer that way.
A small 50,000d payment and a good 15 minutes later he had the tire off and was inspecting the rubber for the puncture hole. It wasn’t hard to find, and is perhaps best described as not so much a puncture hole as a complete destruction of the interface between the valve and the inner tube. It had literally exploded. Nothing for it but to replace the whole tube with a brand new one, not 3 days after the last puncture, and he did so gracefully, with relative ease, and all for less than $3!
Our destination for the day was Hue (pronounced to rhyme with blue hay), which according to the guide was the intellectual heart of Vietnam, being host to the capital of the ruling lords during the 19th century. Feeling some intellectual curiosity, we reached the incredibly cheap hotel, mysteriously called Thai Binh 2 without a Thai Binh 1 counterpart, parked the bikes and checked in. A taxi took us to the citadel in the pouring rain, and we sloshed out over the flooded moat into the ruins of the ancient fortress.
Well, ancient might be a bit strong. Plastic might be more reasonable. The whole citadel was originally built as a stronghold, surrounded by a moat, and the central palace was further fortified to become a citadel within a citadel. Within that was the forbidden Purple City, which was triple fortified against attack. At least, triple fortified from a 19th century attack. The problem was, it was attacked in a rather more 20th century fashion during the war. From the air.
It was completely bombed to shreds. There are renovations ongoing that hope one day to restore the ruins to their former glory, but it felt decidedly odd that they were only 150 years old. The style of the regal enclosure was one that looked properly ancient, thousands of years old, but just… wasn’t. I can see that one day when the renovations are complete and you can wander around as the ancient lords used to it will be very impressive, but for now you can see the dropped tools from the building work just strewn across the public walkways and the whole feel of the place is just one of incompleteness. Thoroughly disappointing, though the pouring rain didn’t help.
We reached the other side of the citadel and out back into central Hue. At many points along the way, and especially once leaving the pay-to-enter tourist ‘attraction’, we were accosted by locals trying their luck. It may be the intellectual heart of Vietnam, but it didn’t stop them stooping to the levels of locals in the rest of the country. They were all vying for our attention, and most had memorised the following phrases: “Hello!”, “Where you from?”, “How long you stay in Vietnam??”, and then the clincher “You buy something?”. There seemed to be no variation in order or phrasing of these inane questions, and by the time the sixteenth local was headed our way to ask, my patience and smile was beginning to wane. By some stroke of intellectual genius, the third question this sixteenth local asked was not “You buy something?”, but “You English! You like football?”. Football! Well no, no I don’t follow it particularly, but by god, a different conversation! “Yes! Yes” I screamed, “Manchester United number 1!”. We entered into a fairly incomprehensible exchange on both sides as to the ins and outs of Manchester United, not helped with my distinct lack of knowledge of up-to-date players, though the words Eric and Cantona produced a smile all round. Just when I thought things were looking up, “You buy something?” came out of his mouth, and I went away depressed, though impressed at the lengths he went through on his sales pitch. Maybe Hue is the intellectual heart of the country after all?
Feeling slightly in need of some familiar comfort, we spied a coffee shop just down the road, and ordered two large mochas. A crowd of teenagers in the corner laughed and pointed at us, but at least they weren’t trying to sell us anything. The coffee was delicious, and the chocolate almost like that you get back home. Pepped up and ready to go, we headed for a bar called DMZ, and I employed my time very constructively by thrashing Tris at pool 5 – 0. A very relaxing evening, drinks, and even a toastie later, I was ready for the next day’s drive northwards. It was going to be a big one.
5th September
Phase 2 continues. Today was to be a massive driving day, interspersed with a trip to the Vinh Tunnels. If we could find them. By now we knew well enough not to rely on any signposts or helpful things like directions to guide us there, so “expedition Tris” studiously gazed at the map over a breakfast of deep fried omelette to make sure we knew where to turn off. Ish. The deep fried omelette made me sick, which was just what I needed to set me up for a big driving day, and as I ventured outside a small part of me wished some enterprising passer by had taken a shine to my bike in the night and liberated it from my evil clutches. Or at least done the decent thing and liberated my bike’s evil clutch so I wouldn't have to subject my bum to another day of riding. It was still there. Damn. My bum agreed.
As the morning ritual of strapping the luggage to the back of the bikes began, the rain started to abate. By the time we were set to go it was more of a drizzle, and by far the best condition it had been in for days. There was a small panic moment when Tris realised he’d left his helmet on the bike overnight and thought some enterprising passer by had chosen the easily stealable helmet as the object of his immediate affection, but a quick trip to reception proved otherwise. The receptionist had cleverly put it behind the front desk…
The turn off to the tunnels was a couple of hours drive from Hue, much nearer Hue than Vinh despite being called the Vinh Moc tunnels. The drive was good and smooth, but still drizzly, and we quickly ate up the kilometres. We stopped to refuel, again going through the ritual of de-luggaging and re-luggaging, and took the opportunity to have breakfast, which consisted of a bottle of liquid with the word ‘tamarind’ on the side, and some coconut flavoured biscuits. The drink was interesting, having all the disposition of a frumpy sweet potato with the healthy heartiness of sunny delight. It was hideous, but that was all there was and I gulped it gratefully.
The concept of overtaking is a tricky one for a bike. You have the acceleration, but not the overall speed, so have to wait until a lorry slows down while climbing a hill, goes round a corner, or more likely gets held up by a slower moving vehicle in front before you make your move. In this situation, you have two options. The overtake, on the outside of the lorry, involves some bum-clenching, fearfully brilliant moments of acceleration as you venture out into the oncoming traffic lane and go into sensory overload as all your being concentrates on getting you past the massive object quickly and safely, ramming the throttle to maximum, kicking down a gear or two, and praying. The other option, much more loved of bike drivers everywhere, is the undertake. Possibly as dangerous or coffin-inducing as it’s name suggests, undertaking carries the same grim austere air about it as you would find in any funeral parlour. Undertaking involves using the hard shoulder as the overtaking lane. The major difference being that it’s much thinner than the overtaking lane, and if you mistime it, get it wrong, or fail to notice a stationary bicycle, oncoming traffic (that tends to use the hard shoulder as an alternative to using the correct oncoming traffic lane), or more dangerously, someone popping out from a hidden road, you might end up rather flatter. And slower. And in quite a lot of pain. However, undertaking seems to be the method of choice for most bike riders, and so I employed it to my advantage whenever the situation demanded it, which was quite frequently.
We reached the turn off to the tunnels, gloriously signposted to nowhere, and ventured for about twenty five minutes down some marvellous winding roads, gradually getting thinner and more coarse the nearer we approached the coast. At some point we must have crossed over into prime insect breeding territory, and dragonflies, mayflies, or quite possibly clarksonflies judging by the size of them littered the road and the air just above it. Right at head height. Driving into them is much like being shot at by a buzzing paintball gun. Not particularly accurate, incredibly annoying, and if one hits you it hurts. It also distracts your attention, wobbles your balance, and generally leaves you feeling rather emasculated and shuddery.
As we got closer and closer to the tunnels, I rounded a corner and happened upon a puddle that spanned the entire width of the road, in a trough, with vegetation either side of it. I slammed on the brakes, not knowing how deep it would be, but before I could say anything, Tris flew past me and straight into the puddle.
Disaster.
No, not really. Luck was on his side and the water barely even touched the exhaust pipe. Back up to speed, we eventually approached the tunnels, badly signposted even when only a few hundred yards away, and paid for the privilege of parking our bikes in the provided car park. We were completely in the middle of nowhere, in a snake infested jungle, and at the mercy of the car park attendant, who gave us no choice but to trust her to guard our luggage. Badly needing to relieve myself, I headed for the nearest loo, only to find a bitter old woman running towards me upon my exit, shouting at me and ordering me to pay 1,000d for the privilege. 1,000d amounts to a couple of pence, and I know it's worth a lot more to her than it is to me, but still, the tone of her voice and dispassionate shouting conviction that we must pay was extremely irritating after the friendliness of the locals in the rest of the country. Well, apart from Hue...
Venturing into the tunnels was an odd experience. I expected them to be a typical tourist attraction, but as soon as I had descended the steps it felt… real. There were strategic low-watt bulbs placed at irregular intervals along the pathway, which wasn’t flat. The walls looked as if the rock had been blasted away, and the ceiling height varied enormously, though there was hardly anywhere I could stand up straight. It was very claustrophobic, the only thing not dusty and brown were the delicate wisps of moss that somehow survived on the feeble light produced by the bulbs. Just as I was wondering what it would be like to have to live like this underground, Tris, who was in front, gasped suddenly and for a split second I felt like the walls were closing in and I was genuinely petrified. A few steps further forwards and I realised what had startled him. A set of plastic figurines posed variously, sitting in a sunken cut-out off the main tunnel, just as their real-life counterparts would have been during the bombings. Like a house of horrors at a fairground, but much more real, and somehow genuinely scary. Apparently 17 babies were born underground during the bombings, and the entire village of people survived for 10 days without daylight in the tunnel complex at one point, successfully resisting the Americans the entire time. Ominously inspirational.
Despite the disarming brilliance of the effect just being in the tunnels had on me, the tour was very badly organised! We saw a light at the end of a tunnel, headed for it, and promptly found ourselves overlooking a fabulously unheavenly beach. No signposts (of course) to indicate where we were supposed to go next, so a long set of steps leading upwards seemed like a good idea. Following them to their conclusion left us in the snake infested jungle, hot, sweaty, and most probably quite tasty to any passing reptiles. During some pretty fast walking in the general direction of the car park, we passed through a couple of local villagers’ gardens only to be waved away and pointed in the right direction. Extremely hot and bothered, we endured another round of “you buy something?” while getting back on the bikes, and eventually headed off with a slightly more sombre outlook on life.
After riding back through the paintball-infested clarksonflies and onto the main road, the visit amounted to a 2 hour detour, so we had to make up for lost time. A few dozen kilometers down the road I noticed the needle on my fuel gauge (by now the only functioning instrument on my dashboard) was approaching the E, and motioned to Tris (whose dashboard was similar, but extra-useful with no functioning instruments) that we needed to refuel. We found a petrol station, stopped, unpacked, fuelled, repacked, and set off in the light drizzle. The ritual complete, I turned out onto the road and sank back into my sour pose, full of contemplation. A few kilometers on from the petrol station I realised with some alarm that my bike could no longer turn right.
Disaster.
I slowed down, leaned over to the right and pushed the handlebars left. No problem. I leaned over to the left and pushed the handlebars right. Nothing. There was no oncoming traffic, so no immediate problem, but only being able to turn left was a slight inconvenience that didn’t bode well for the remaining hundreds of kilometers left on the journey, during which I was fairly convinced that being able to turn right would come in handy. I panicked, tensed, snapped the handlebars sharply to the right, and there was a satisfying crunch sound. It worked!
Disaster.
The steering might have been fixed, but the engine roared in complaint, and wouldn’t stop. I breathed in. I twisted the throttle back to a more reasonable position, but the engine still gunned at full power. I stepped down a gear, no change in the engine, and tried to force the bike down one more gear into 2nd. The noise was painfully loud, and remembering the story of the Frenchman who got stuck in an automatic Renault, racing down the motorway after the car engine wouldn’t stop, I ripped the key from the ignition, slammed on all brakes and breathed out as the engine finally died.
Tris returned after his short detour up the road to see what the fuss was about this time and why I wasn’t sitting on my bike driving forwards. A short expletive session later and he was up to speed. We decided the problem must be fixable, and the best way to fix it was to take most of the front panelling off, affording a closer look. Which was fun! As I got the tools out (handily located at the top of my luggage, almost as if I was expecting something...), a young crowd of people started amassing around us, looking on expectantly to see what had happened and what these crazy foreigners were going to do about it.
Even with the engine off, the throttle twisted more than usual. Not good. Once the front panelling had been removed we had a closer look at what the problem was. It wasn’t easy to see, but the throttle definitely twisted more than usual. Yup, that must be it. I had a case of extra-throttle-twistiness that a bit of tightening and rescrewing would surely fix. The drizzling had decided to increase in intensity for the moment, and was almost a pleasant relief from the heat. The various nuts and bolts and screws that we had passionately removed all went into my helmet as we worked on the panelling, and I eventually got a proper look inside. Some poking around and general umming and ahhing later I had a conclusive diagnosis.
“It’s broken”. Two engineering degrees between us and a sense of wanting not to disappoint the crowd that, by now, was clearly enjoying the spectacle, we decided to do a more thorough investigation, and came up with a reasonable hypothesis. The accelerator cabling had come loose at the front of the bike somehow during the course of the day (during the refuelling?), catching on the plastic panelling (now torn, following 'the incident') when I was trying to turn right. When I snapped the steering back into line, I must have ripped the accelerator cable into a more taught configuration, meaning that the throttle was now ‘shorter’ and permanently on. It actually made sense! When all this became clear, it also became clear that this was not a by-the-side-of-the-road fix it job, duct tape had it's limits, and we were going to have to get a mechanic to look at it. Preferably one with experience, rather than an engineering degree. This urgency was picked up by the crowd of locals, who excitedly pointed up the road to a small hut, indicating (I presume) that there was a mechanic in there.
This was, quite simply, the last thing we needed. However, buoyed by the possibility of a mechanic, and the good fortune I seemed to keep having at breaking parts of my bike exceedingly near to someone who knew how to fix them, I put the gear in neutral and pushed my (incredibly heavy, it turns out) bike the few hundred metres up the road.
As it transpired, the guesswork or translation of the excited pointing on behalf of the locals was only partially correct. There were a few straggly bits of pipework and an inner tube or two hanging up in the shack, but no-one at home, and it didn’t look like a proper workshop. Someone pointed to a watch and indicated that we could possibly wait an hour or so, but we couldn’t afford to lost that much time, so set out again along the road. In the middle of nowhere. Plan B. Tris volunteered to push the bike while I sped ahead on his still functioning one to look for another mechanic shack. With a mechanic in it. About a kilometer up the road I found a smattering of huts and a lot of people changing the tire on a bus. Excitedly, I went up to them and asked, pointed, gestured and mimed the situation. They seemed completely baffled by the whole attempt, and only twigged when I had the good sense to hold up the bolts and nuts and screws, and half of the front panelling of the other bike and mimed a shrug. Then they understood! They pointed across the road to a much smaller hut, occupied by what looked like a very young family.
I sped over to the hut, tried the same mime, gesture and pointing little act, and the father figure seemed to get it too. I motored back down the road to find that Tris had made good progress, turned round, and within a few more minutes my broken bike had been manhandled into the small hut in the middle of the Vietnamese wilderness. I made a twist of the throttle action, made a roaring engine sound, and we were given small plastic seats to sit on to watch the rest of the action.
The next hour or so passed quickly. There was absolutely no chance of English, the six or seven kids were all boys, giggling and laughing, and all of them proudly displaying their homemade slingshots made of old inner tires and bamboo (bamboo is used for everything here!). One of the older kids held a dozen huge but dead rats by the tails and another held several emaciated chicks by the necks. Quite dead. There was a baby being fairly violently rocked in a makeshift hammock, and a breastfeeding mother who turned away from us. And a well dressed man with a mobile...
While the mechanic tinkered away at the poor bike, the well dressed man (dressed like he was from Interpol) soon arrived, extremely interested with two westerners in his midst. He proceeded to take photos of both of us individually on his phone, seem quite pleased with himself, and then sat behind us, obviously sending our images to HQ and talking on the phone. I took little relief from the fact we were in the DMZ and was convinced we were being tracked on our journey through the country.
The total bill came to 150,000d for a new accelerator cable, two oil changes, a couple of chain re-lubrications and a general tightening of bolts and screws all over both bikes. We were so buoyed by the service, it’s hard to state how in the middle of nowhere we were, that we offered 50,000d as a tip (pocketed exceedingly quickly). Amid much giggling and laughter, we set off back up the road feeling much better about the state of the bikes and I was amazed at how lucky I was to have broken down within reach of someone who had exactly the right length accelerator cable ready to install. The joy was short-lived however, as Tris realised that the laughing, giggling kids had taken it upon themselves to liberate the umbrella that was fixed to the back of his bike and keep it for themselves. They stole it, and after we volunteered such a generous tip…
It had been raining the entire time and the journey onwards from the hut continued in the same vain, though without incident, and we made it to Dong Hoi with the rain still falling. The guide was disappointingly vague on this town, so we headed to the cheapest hotel yet, less than $5 for the night. The receptionist spoke a simple selection of English phrases, and interpreted our hungry requests into an escort to a really awful local restaurant. We ordered some beer before realising just how awful, and had to quickly drink up, pay, and leave without disturbing the badly dubbed soap opera blaring out of the TV in the corner. We headed instead to QB’s, recommended by the guide for it’s uniqueness. It was certainly unique, an American diner homage to decades gone by. Round one was some flaming B52s, followed by some more well deserved beer, and a steak washed down with the most artificial tasting chocolate milkshake I have ever had the misfortune to put to my lips.
Still, after such a day, the nourishment (of sorts) was exactly what I needed. Seeing as we had, again, failed to eat into the huge distance still ahead of us, and seeing as the number of days before the flight home was diminishing quickly, we had no choice but to have another gargantuan day tomorrow.
As the morning ritual of strapping the luggage to the back of the bikes began, the rain started to abate. By the time we were set to go it was more of a drizzle, and by far the best condition it had been in for days. There was a small panic moment when Tris realised he’d left his helmet on the bike overnight and thought some enterprising passer by had chosen the easily stealable helmet as the object of his immediate affection, but a quick trip to reception proved otherwise. The receptionist had cleverly put it behind the front desk…
The turn off to the tunnels was a couple of hours drive from Hue, much nearer Hue than Vinh despite being called the Vinh Moc tunnels. The drive was good and smooth, but still drizzly, and we quickly ate up the kilometres. We stopped to refuel, again going through the ritual of de-luggaging and re-luggaging, and took the opportunity to have breakfast, which consisted of a bottle of liquid with the word ‘tamarind’ on the side, and some coconut flavoured biscuits. The drink was interesting, having all the disposition of a frumpy sweet potato with the healthy heartiness of sunny delight. It was hideous, but that was all there was and I gulped it gratefully.
The concept of overtaking is a tricky one for a bike. You have the acceleration, but not the overall speed, so have to wait until a lorry slows down while climbing a hill, goes round a corner, or more likely gets held up by a slower moving vehicle in front before you make your move. In this situation, you have two options. The overtake, on the outside of the lorry, involves some bum-clenching, fearfully brilliant moments of acceleration as you venture out into the oncoming traffic lane and go into sensory overload as all your being concentrates on getting you past the massive object quickly and safely, ramming the throttle to maximum, kicking down a gear or two, and praying. The other option, much more loved of bike drivers everywhere, is the undertake. Possibly as dangerous or coffin-inducing as it’s name suggests, undertaking carries the same grim austere air about it as you would find in any funeral parlour. Undertaking involves using the hard shoulder as the overtaking lane. The major difference being that it’s much thinner than the overtaking lane, and if you mistime it, get it wrong, or fail to notice a stationary bicycle, oncoming traffic (that tends to use the hard shoulder as an alternative to using the correct oncoming traffic lane), or more dangerously, someone popping out from a hidden road, you might end up rather flatter. And slower. And in quite a lot of pain. However, undertaking seems to be the method of choice for most bike riders, and so I employed it to my advantage whenever the situation demanded it, which was quite frequently.
We reached the turn off to the tunnels, gloriously signposted to nowhere, and ventured for about twenty five minutes down some marvellous winding roads, gradually getting thinner and more coarse the nearer we approached the coast. At some point we must have crossed over into prime insect breeding territory, and dragonflies, mayflies, or quite possibly clarksonflies judging by the size of them littered the road and the air just above it. Right at head height. Driving into them is much like being shot at by a buzzing paintball gun. Not particularly accurate, incredibly annoying, and if one hits you it hurts. It also distracts your attention, wobbles your balance, and generally leaves you feeling rather emasculated and shuddery.
As we got closer and closer to the tunnels, I rounded a corner and happened upon a puddle that spanned the entire width of the road, in a trough, with vegetation either side of it. I slammed on the brakes, not knowing how deep it would be, but before I could say anything, Tris flew past me and straight into the puddle.
Disaster.
No, not really. Luck was on his side and the water barely even touched the exhaust pipe. Back up to speed, we eventually approached the tunnels, badly signposted even when only a few hundred yards away, and paid for the privilege of parking our bikes in the provided car park. We were completely in the middle of nowhere, in a snake infested jungle, and at the mercy of the car park attendant, who gave us no choice but to trust her to guard our luggage. Badly needing to relieve myself, I headed for the nearest loo, only to find a bitter old woman running towards me upon my exit, shouting at me and ordering me to pay 1,000d for the privilege. 1,000d amounts to a couple of pence, and I know it's worth a lot more to her than it is to me, but still, the tone of her voice and dispassionate shouting conviction that we must pay was extremely irritating after the friendliness of the locals in the rest of the country. Well, apart from Hue...
Venturing into the tunnels was an odd experience. I expected them to be a typical tourist attraction, but as soon as I had descended the steps it felt… real. There were strategic low-watt bulbs placed at irregular intervals along the pathway, which wasn’t flat. The walls looked as if the rock had been blasted away, and the ceiling height varied enormously, though there was hardly anywhere I could stand up straight. It was very claustrophobic, the only thing not dusty and brown were the delicate wisps of moss that somehow survived on the feeble light produced by the bulbs. Just as I was wondering what it would be like to have to live like this underground, Tris, who was in front, gasped suddenly and for a split second I felt like the walls were closing in and I was genuinely petrified. A few steps further forwards and I realised what had startled him. A set of plastic figurines posed variously, sitting in a sunken cut-out off the main tunnel, just as their real-life counterparts would have been during the bombings. Like a house of horrors at a fairground, but much more real, and somehow genuinely scary. Apparently 17 babies were born underground during the bombings, and the entire village of people survived for 10 days without daylight in the tunnel complex at one point, successfully resisting the Americans the entire time. Ominously inspirational.
Despite the disarming brilliance of the effect just being in the tunnels had on me, the tour was very badly organised! We saw a light at the end of a tunnel, headed for it, and promptly found ourselves overlooking a fabulously unheavenly beach. No signposts (of course) to indicate where we were supposed to go next, so a long set of steps leading upwards seemed like a good idea. Following them to their conclusion left us in the snake infested jungle, hot, sweaty, and most probably quite tasty to any passing reptiles. During some pretty fast walking in the general direction of the car park, we passed through a couple of local villagers’ gardens only to be waved away and pointed in the right direction. Extremely hot and bothered, we endured another round of “you buy something?” while getting back on the bikes, and eventually headed off with a slightly more sombre outlook on life.
After riding back through the paintball-infested clarksonflies and onto the main road, the visit amounted to a 2 hour detour, so we had to make up for lost time. A few dozen kilometers down the road I noticed the needle on my fuel gauge (by now the only functioning instrument on my dashboard) was approaching the E, and motioned to Tris (whose dashboard was similar, but extra-useful with no functioning instruments) that we needed to refuel. We found a petrol station, stopped, unpacked, fuelled, repacked, and set off in the light drizzle. The ritual complete, I turned out onto the road and sank back into my sour pose, full of contemplation. A few kilometers on from the petrol station I realised with some alarm that my bike could no longer turn right.
Disaster.
I slowed down, leaned over to the right and pushed the handlebars left. No problem. I leaned over to the left and pushed the handlebars right. Nothing. There was no oncoming traffic, so no immediate problem, but only being able to turn left was a slight inconvenience that didn’t bode well for the remaining hundreds of kilometers left on the journey, during which I was fairly convinced that being able to turn right would come in handy. I panicked, tensed, snapped the handlebars sharply to the right, and there was a satisfying crunch sound. It worked!
Disaster.
The steering might have been fixed, but the engine roared in complaint, and wouldn’t stop. I breathed in. I twisted the throttle back to a more reasonable position, but the engine still gunned at full power. I stepped down a gear, no change in the engine, and tried to force the bike down one more gear into 2nd. The noise was painfully loud, and remembering the story of the Frenchman who got stuck in an automatic Renault, racing down the motorway after the car engine wouldn’t stop, I ripped the key from the ignition, slammed on all brakes and breathed out as the engine finally died.
Tris returned after his short detour up the road to see what the fuss was about this time and why I wasn’t sitting on my bike driving forwards. A short expletive session later and he was up to speed. We decided the problem must be fixable, and the best way to fix it was to take most of the front panelling off, affording a closer look. Which was fun! As I got the tools out (handily located at the top of my luggage, almost as if I was expecting something...), a young crowd of people started amassing around us, looking on expectantly to see what had happened and what these crazy foreigners were going to do about it.
Even with the engine off, the throttle twisted more than usual. Not good. Once the front panelling had been removed we had a closer look at what the problem was. It wasn’t easy to see, but the throttle definitely twisted more than usual. Yup, that must be it. I had a case of extra-throttle-twistiness that a bit of tightening and rescrewing would surely fix. The drizzling had decided to increase in intensity for the moment, and was almost a pleasant relief from the heat. The various nuts and bolts and screws that we had passionately removed all went into my helmet as we worked on the panelling, and I eventually got a proper look inside. Some poking around and general umming and ahhing later I had a conclusive diagnosis.
“It’s broken”. Two engineering degrees between us and a sense of wanting not to disappoint the crowd that, by now, was clearly enjoying the spectacle, we decided to do a more thorough investigation, and came up with a reasonable hypothesis. The accelerator cabling had come loose at the front of the bike somehow during the course of the day (during the refuelling?), catching on the plastic panelling (now torn, following 'the incident') when I was trying to turn right. When I snapped the steering back into line, I must have ripped the accelerator cable into a more taught configuration, meaning that the throttle was now ‘shorter’ and permanently on. It actually made sense! When all this became clear, it also became clear that this was not a by-the-side-of-the-road fix it job, duct tape had it's limits, and we were going to have to get a mechanic to look at it. Preferably one with experience, rather than an engineering degree. This urgency was picked up by the crowd of locals, who excitedly pointed up the road to a small hut, indicating (I presume) that there was a mechanic in there.
This was, quite simply, the last thing we needed. However, buoyed by the possibility of a mechanic, and the good fortune I seemed to keep having at breaking parts of my bike exceedingly near to someone who knew how to fix them, I put the gear in neutral and pushed my (incredibly heavy, it turns out) bike the few hundred metres up the road.
As it transpired, the guesswork or translation of the excited pointing on behalf of the locals was only partially correct. There were a few straggly bits of pipework and an inner tube or two hanging up in the shack, but no-one at home, and it didn’t look like a proper workshop. Someone pointed to a watch and indicated that we could possibly wait an hour or so, but we couldn’t afford to lost that much time, so set out again along the road. In the middle of nowhere. Plan B. Tris volunteered to push the bike while I sped ahead on his still functioning one to look for another mechanic shack. With a mechanic in it. About a kilometer up the road I found a smattering of huts and a lot of people changing the tire on a bus. Excitedly, I went up to them and asked, pointed, gestured and mimed the situation. They seemed completely baffled by the whole attempt, and only twigged when I had the good sense to hold up the bolts and nuts and screws, and half of the front panelling of the other bike and mimed a shrug. Then they understood! They pointed across the road to a much smaller hut, occupied by what looked like a very young family.
I sped over to the hut, tried the same mime, gesture and pointing little act, and the father figure seemed to get it too. I motored back down the road to find that Tris had made good progress, turned round, and within a few more minutes my broken bike had been manhandled into the small hut in the middle of the Vietnamese wilderness. I made a twist of the throttle action, made a roaring engine sound, and we were given small plastic seats to sit on to watch the rest of the action.
The next hour or so passed quickly. There was absolutely no chance of English, the six or seven kids were all boys, giggling and laughing, and all of them proudly displaying their homemade slingshots made of old inner tires and bamboo (bamboo is used for everything here!). One of the older kids held a dozen huge but dead rats by the tails and another held several emaciated chicks by the necks. Quite dead. There was a baby being fairly violently rocked in a makeshift hammock, and a breastfeeding mother who turned away from us. And a well dressed man with a mobile...
While the mechanic tinkered away at the poor bike, the well dressed man (dressed like he was from Interpol) soon arrived, extremely interested with two westerners in his midst. He proceeded to take photos of both of us individually on his phone, seem quite pleased with himself, and then sat behind us, obviously sending our images to HQ and talking on the phone. I took little relief from the fact we were in the DMZ and was convinced we were being tracked on our journey through the country.
The total bill came to 150,000d for a new accelerator cable, two oil changes, a couple of chain re-lubrications and a general tightening of bolts and screws all over both bikes. We were so buoyed by the service, it’s hard to state how in the middle of nowhere we were, that we offered 50,000d as a tip (pocketed exceedingly quickly). Amid much giggling and laughter, we set off back up the road feeling much better about the state of the bikes and I was amazed at how lucky I was to have broken down within reach of someone who had exactly the right length accelerator cable ready to install. The joy was short-lived however, as Tris realised that the laughing, giggling kids had taken it upon themselves to liberate the umbrella that was fixed to the back of his bike and keep it for themselves. They stole it, and after we volunteered such a generous tip…
It had been raining the entire time and the journey onwards from the hut continued in the same vain, though without incident, and we made it to Dong Hoi with the rain still falling. The guide was disappointingly vague on this town, so we headed to the cheapest hotel yet, less than $5 for the night. The receptionist spoke a simple selection of English phrases, and interpreted our hungry requests into an escort to a really awful local restaurant. We ordered some beer before realising just how awful, and had to quickly drink up, pay, and leave without disturbing the badly dubbed soap opera blaring out of the TV in the corner. We headed instead to QB’s, recommended by the guide for it’s uniqueness. It was certainly unique, an American diner homage to decades gone by. Round one was some flaming B52s, followed by some more well deserved beer, and a steak washed down with the most artificial tasting chocolate milkshake I have ever had the misfortune to put to my lips.
Still, after such a day, the nourishment (of sorts) was exactly what I needed. Seeing as we had, again, failed to eat into the huge distance still ahead of us, and seeing as the number of days before the flight home was diminishing quickly, we had no choice but to have another gargantuan day tomorrow.
6th September
With yesterday’s accelerator cable incident directly responsible for the lack of kilometers completed, there was no option but to achieve 350km in one day or we would have to get a train. I really didn't want to get a train. Starting early, checking the bikes for bruises, and setting off at a more reserved pace to try and keep the bikes running for a whole day for a change, our destination was Than Hoa. If we managed it, the next day would be a 250km drive north-east-wards to Halong Bay through delightful scenery, and give us a day to relax before ultimately heading to Hanoi and the airport. On time. We had to make it.
The rain abated and the roads were good but my fantastically inoptimal layering system maintained a nice even 500 degree temperature at my core and my, by now completely, fatigued body still did not understand how to deal with the sweat/humidity problem. The scenery was as beautiful as ever, the gradual ride onwards seemingly getting more and more picturesque the further we drove from the equator.
The landscape was undeniably beautiful, and with the roads by now a constant and acceptable danger, it fell to the pain receptors in my brain to try and sort out the bum situation. The design of my Nonda was amazing. I’d seen it stripped and put back together, and in a few pieces by the side of the road in a ditch, but even after all the strife, the suspension on the back wheel never failed to smooth out the rougher bumps in the road. The front suspension was doing it’s job as well, the engine was ticking over responsibly, the lights were dim, but on, the fuel gauge was still working, and pretty much the only part of the bike not endearing itself to me was the seat. It’s not that it was the wrong shape, it’s that it was so exactly the wrong shape it’s as if the designers had put such an effort into making all the other various parts of the bike so meticulously that they didn’t want anyone to actually ride it, lest it detract from their masterpiece. It was so gloriously uncomfortable it could actually distract you from the hideous honking horns of the passing trucks and lorries. I needed some way of counteracting the discomfort and finding some way of making 350km bearable.
It was hard. I imagined myself not on the bike. I saw small herds of cows and bulls cross the road every so often in front of me, one time the lead bull being ridden by a boy who couldn’t have been older than 5 or 6. The little boy, one sixteenth the size of his carrier, whipped the bull into the correct direction and giggled (his pristine teeth on show) as he was carried over the traffic safely from one side of the road to the other. I distracted myself for a good few minutes imagining what it would be like to be that boy, to live his simple life and to befriend his herd of cows, how they respected him, and how he was responsible for their presumably annual migration across to the wet flatlands. Even the dangerous part of the journey - crossing the new fast road and having to endure the honks and hoots of the monstrous machines that belch out foul smelling smoke - failed to dim his smile.
I was lost in contemplation, minding someone else's thoughts, until the sudden immediacy of the situation presented itself in my field of vision. I saw one of the cows that was following a bull blindly out into the middle of the road suddenly freeze, realise what was happening, and become incandescently panicked to be in the middle of lanes of traffic. The cow looked up, terrified, forcing the commuters that had slowed down to a less lethal extent to bear witness to a nervous ton of beef stare at them sideways, its haunting, wide-eyed fearful expression becoming more and more erratic as it swayed from side to side trying to find a patch of ground that didn’t have cars, trucks or bikes on it. That was the closest I saw to a potential bad accident, but in the end there was no problem.
There is a lot to think about on the roads. Despite the distraction of my imagination, the discomfort of the seat soon permeated my thoughts and I had no choice but to slow down, transfer my weight onto my boots, and sit in a squat on the foot pedals. This can last up to almost four seconds at a time before the bike destabilises or my thighs give way (mostly it was the thighs), but those four glorious seconds offer an eternity of relief.
I have mentioned before the appalling state of the signposts in this country, but it is hard to overstate just how terrible they are. Take, for instance, the no entry sign. There are some one-way systems, especially in the cities, and out of shear medical necessity the council (do they have councils?) must have felt that it needed some sort of way to alert drivers of all sorts of vehicles to this fact. However, it seems like there might have been some dissenters and money scroungers in the committee responsible for actually implementing the no entry signs, and as a result they decided to halve their costs by just putting one sign by the side of the road on each possible wrong entry into a one-way system. Unfortunately, this one sign gets put in the middle of the two lanes, perfectly slap bang in the middle of them, so if you were, for the sake of argument, riding a luggage-laden bike towards such a junction for the first time you would be faced with a choice of two lanes in front of you and a no entry sign in the middle of them. Which of course means “don’t go down the left hand one”, but this only becomes clear after having got it wrong.
Twice.
Another brilliant example of useful Vietnamese signage is the much overused upside-down triangle with exclamation mark inside it which could refer to, well… anything really. Look out! A ravine. Look out! A perfectly tarmacked road. Look out! Cows crossing. Look out! This is a sign. Occasionally I saw one at the side of the road for no apparent reason that I could fathom, but at least trying to fathom it occupied the part of my mind that up to that point was engaged in making my lips into a sore “ooooh” shape and feeling incredibly sorry for my bum.
In fact, there was a description of what all the various road signs mean in the back of the one remaining atlas we were cherishing. Unfortunately, these descriptions were in Vietnamese. Unhindered, and with immense satisfaction at having had the foresight and spare cash not only to buy a dictionary, but pack it sensibly in the top of my bag, I traced the line of words indicating what the exclamation mark sign meant. Nguy hiem khac. Nguy… The front half of the dictionary was the English to Vietnamese section, so I turned to the back half of the dictionary, only to find… English words M-Z. What the? I flicked through. Page after page. No, no Vietnamese to English section! What sort of dictionary was this? A one-way one apparently. Much like our journey. I have subsequently tried an internet translation of the phrase. Somehow I don’t think a sign at the side of a road that usefully urges people to “spit awkwardly” would be considered important enough to enshrine in metal, especially considering the frugality of the signpost implementation department.
In another vain attempt at passing the time and entertaining myself on the epic 350km day, I decided to reinvent cruise control. It was, to most intents and purposes, extremely simple. Accelerate through the gears, reach 4th, twist the throttle to the desired position… and hold. Just, hold. Don’t move, slip, twist, grate, nudge or disengage your right hand from the handlebar and keep an even pressure on the throttle. It sounds easy, but after the first few kilometres it becomes a challenge more painful to your wrist than simply sitting is to your bum. Which is brilliant because it becomes another game you can play – see how long you can resist the temptation to move your right wrist, or see how other bikes wastefully accelerate and decelerate around you. A lot, it turns out. After several dozen minutes it gives you an twinge that's probably best described as non-repetitive strain injury.
Perhaps the best distraction from the pain of sitting is simply watching people as they drive by. Most people have a determined look on their faces, which becomes more pronounced in the rain, and the further from the cities you get the more efficient the bikes seem to become at transporting more than one person per vehicle, so your expression to bike ratio goes up. They range from blank to sour to wet to miserable to conversational, to one tiny young woman tightly gripping the waist of her manly driver trying to maintain as much surface area contact with his back as possible, the most sublimely satisfied beaming smile on her face forcing her eyes closed. Upliftingly adorable.
Arriving in Than Hoa was not as expected! We found a magnificent hotel that was handily situated next to a small restaurant, which wasn’t unusual. It was sunny, which was by now more normal, and our hotel was middle of the range in terms of price and comfort, which we’d seen before. What was different was the noise. We had landed in the middle of some sort of religious ceremony, the object of which seemed to be to make as much horribly discordant noise as humanly (or tape-recorderly) possible. Which was a lot.
We headed for the local restaurant and had yet another incomprehensible experience at the hands of the service staff. This time however, we were ushered into a private dining area and presented with a menu. In Vietnamese. Only. There were a few crude clipart pictures of various sea creatures and animals next to some of the menu items, and these were easy to point to and order, so we had beef, squid, and (mistakenly) some sort of vegetable and fruit salad. Mostly edible, apart from the incomprehensible pickle-like addition that tasted of feet. By now it was becoming customary to order a pineapple shake with every meal, so in true British style we ordered them. It took ten minutes, a pad of paper, a pen, an interesting (Tris) interpretation of a pineapple drawn on the page, and the charade-winning simulation of shaking the whole thing up. It worked! Once this was established Tris was obviously feeling creative and began to draw various animals that he wanted to eat. He tried for snake again, something that was meant to be a tortoise, and shark, but they were having none of that. In the end the beef was delicious and even came with fried potatoes. Delicious.
There was no internet available in the whole town, at least none we could see and none that reception could provide. It was incredibly annoying, but the end of the journey was in sight and the excitement was rising. We were almost at Halong Bay.
The rain abated and the roads were good but my fantastically inoptimal layering system maintained a nice even 500 degree temperature at my core and my, by now completely, fatigued body still did not understand how to deal with the sweat/humidity problem. The scenery was as beautiful as ever, the gradual ride onwards seemingly getting more and more picturesque the further we drove from the equator.
The landscape was undeniably beautiful, and with the roads by now a constant and acceptable danger, it fell to the pain receptors in my brain to try and sort out the bum situation. The design of my Nonda was amazing. I’d seen it stripped and put back together, and in a few pieces by the side of the road in a ditch, but even after all the strife, the suspension on the back wheel never failed to smooth out the rougher bumps in the road. The front suspension was doing it’s job as well, the engine was ticking over responsibly, the lights were dim, but on, the fuel gauge was still working, and pretty much the only part of the bike not endearing itself to me was the seat. It’s not that it was the wrong shape, it’s that it was so exactly the wrong shape it’s as if the designers had put such an effort into making all the other various parts of the bike so meticulously that they didn’t want anyone to actually ride it, lest it detract from their masterpiece. It was so gloriously uncomfortable it could actually distract you from the hideous honking horns of the passing trucks and lorries. I needed some way of counteracting the discomfort and finding some way of making 350km bearable.
It was hard. I imagined myself not on the bike. I saw small herds of cows and bulls cross the road every so often in front of me, one time the lead bull being ridden by a boy who couldn’t have been older than 5 or 6. The little boy, one sixteenth the size of his carrier, whipped the bull into the correct direction and giggled (his pristine teeth on show) as he was carried over the traffic safely from one side of the road to the other. I distracted myself for a good few minutes imagining what it would be like to be that boy, to live his simple life and to befriend his herd of cows, how they respected him, and how he was responsible for their presumably annual migration across to the wet flatlands. Even the dangerous part of the journey - crossing the new fast road and having to endure the honks and hoots of the monstrous machines that belch out foul smelling smoke - failed to dim his smile.
I was lost in contemplation, minding someone else's thoughts, until the sudden immediacy of the situation presented itself in my field of vision. I saw one of the cows that was following a bull blindly out into the middle of the road suddenly freeze, realise what was happening, and become incandescently panicked to be in the middle of lanes of traffic. The cow looked up, terrified, forcing the commuters that had slowed down to a less lethal extent to bear witness to a nervous ton of beef stare at them sideways, its haunting, wide-eyed fearful expression becoming more and more erratic as it swayed from side to side trying to find a patch of ground that didn’t have cars, trucks or bikes on it. That was the closest I saw to a potential bad accident, but in the end there was no problem.
There is a lot to think about on the roads. Despite the distraction of my imagination, the discomfort of the seat soon permeated my thoughts and I had no choice but to slow down, transfer my weight onto my boots, and sit in a squat on the foot pedals. This can last up to almost four seconds at a time before the bike destabilises or my thighs give way (mostly it was the thighs), but those four glorious seconds offer an eternity of relief.
I have mentioned before the appalling state of the signposts in this country, but it is hard to overstate just how terrible they are. Take, for instance, the no entry sign. There are some one-way systems, especially in the cities, and out of shear medical necessity the council (do they have councils?) must have felt that it needed some sort of way to alert drivers of all sorts of vehicles to this fact. However, it seems like there might have been some dissenters and money scroungers in the committee responsible for actually implementing the no entry signs, and as a result they decided to halve their costs by just putting one sign by the side of the road on each possible wrong entry into a one-way system. Unfortunately, this one sign gets put in the middle of the two lanes, perfectly slap bang in the middle of them, so if you were, for the sake of argument, riding a luggage-laden bike towards such a junction for the first time you would be faced with a choice of two lanes in front of you and a no entry sign in the middle of them. Which of course means “don’t go down the left hand one”, but this only becomes clear after having got it wrong.
Twice.
Another brilliant example of useful Vietnamese signage is the much overused upside-down triangle with exclamation mark inside it which could refer to, well… anything really. Look out! A ravine. Look out! A perfectly tarmacked road. Look out! Cows crossing. Look out! This is a sign. Occasionally I saw one at the side of the road for no apparent reason that I could fathom, but at least trying to fathom it occupied the part of my mind that up to that point was engaged in making my lips into a sore “ooooh” shape and feeling incredibly sorry for my bum.
In fact, there was a description of what all the various road signs mean in the back of the one remaining atlas we were cherishing. Unfortunately, these descriptions were in Vietnamese. Unhindered, and with immense satisfaction at having had the foresight and spare cash not only to buy a dictionary, but pack it sensibly in the top of my bag, I traced the line of words indicating what the exclamation mark sign meant. Nguy hiem khac. Nguy… The front half of the dictionary was the English to Vietnamese section, so I turned to the back half of the dictionary, only to find… English words M-Z. What the? I flicked through. Page after page. No, no Vietnamese to English section! What sort of dictionary was this? A one-way one apparently. Much like our journey. I have subsequently tried an internet translation of the phrase. Somehow I don’t think a sign at the side of a road that usefully urges people to “spit awkwardly” would be considered important enough to enshrine in metal, especially considering the frugality of the signpost implementation department.
In another vain attempt at passing the time and entertaining myself on the epic 350km day, I decided to reinvent cruise control. It was, to most intents and purposes, extremely simple. Accelerate through the gears, reach 4th, twist the throttle to the desired position… and hold. Just, hold. Don’t move, slip, twist, grate, nudge or disengage your right hand from the handlebar and keep an even pressure on the throttle. It sounds easy, but after the first few kilometres it becomes a challenge more painful to your wrist than simply sitting is to your bum. Which is brilliant because it becomes another game you can play – see how long you can resist the temptation to move your right wrist, or see how other bikes wastefully accelerate and decelerate around you. A lot, it turns out. After several dozen minutes it gives you an twinge that's probably best described as non-repetitive strain injury.
Perhaps the best distraction from the pain of sitting is simply watching people as they drive by. Most people have a determined look on their faces, which becomes more pronounced in the rain, and the further from the cities you get the more efficient the bikes seem to become at transporting more than one person per vehicle, so your expression to bike ratio goes up. They range from blank to sour to wet to miserable to conversational, to one tiny young woman tightly gripping the waist of her manly driver trying to maintain as much surface area contact with his back as possible, the most sublimely satisfied beaming smile on her face forcing her eyes closed. Upliftingly adorable.
Arriving in Than Hoa was not as expected! We found a magnificent hotel that was handily situated next to a small restaurant, which wasn’t unusual. It was sunny, which was by now more normal, and our hotel was middle of the range in terms of price and comfort, which we’d seen before. What was different was the noise. We had landed in the middle of some sort of religious ceremony, the object of which seemed to be to make as much horribly discordant noise as humanly (or tape-recorderly) possible. Which was a lot.
We headed for the local restaurant and had yet another incomprehensible experience at the hands of the service staff. This time however, we were ushered into a private dining area and presented with a menu. In Vietnamese. Only. There were a few crude clipart pictures of various sea creatures and animals next to some of the menu items, and these were easy to point to and order, so we had beef, squid, and (mistakenly) some sort of vegetable and fruit salad. Mostly edible, apart from the incomprehensible pickle-like addition that tasted of feet. By now it was becoming customary to order a pineapple shake with every meal, so in true British style we ordered them. It took ten minutes, a pad of paper, a pen, an interesting (Tris) interpretation of a pineapple drawn on the page, and the charade-winning simulation of shaking the whole thing up. It worked! Once this was established Tris was obviously feeling creative and began to draw various animals that he wanted to eat. He tried for snake again, something that was meant to be a tortoise, and shark, but they were having none of that. In the end the beef was delicious and even came with fried potatoes. Delicious.
There was no internet available in the whole town, at least none we could see and none that reception could provide. It was incredibly annoying, but the end of the journey was in sight and the excitement was rising. We were almost at Halong Bay.
7th September
I awoke to the completely unnecessary sound of discordant religious noise being played at volume 11, packed the bikes in a hurry, twitched a little at the thought of another 250km on the seat, and set off in the right direction for Halong Bay - one of the most beautiful natural wonders of the world for it’s irresistible arrangement of almost 2,000 island-ettes scattered around the calm waters.
But first we had to get there, and that meant leaving the relative simplicity of highway 1, using a map, and venturing out into the maze that is the rest of the North Vietnamese road system. It was hell, but at least it detracted from the painful reshaping of my bum, which by now was just getting silly. So silly in fact, that I had to invent another game... which turned out to be the bum cheek game (or my 'Cheeky Girls' as it was once deliriously referred to). A simple premise, but it can take a lifetime to master. Or a few minutes. You put all your weight on one cheek, giving the other a well earned rest, and then shift to the other. But only (and this is the devious bit), when you pass a signpost to either the next town or the ultimate destination on your journey. If you have been reading up to now, you may have grasped that the lack of signposts in both quantity and accuracy might make this difficult, and it was not, in all fairness, a particularly good game. Due to the continuing inconsistencies of the signpost department, my right cheek did enjoy a much smoother ride than my left.
One of the most obvious changes that you see when driving up the country is that north of the DMZ, or de-militarised zone, the police presence is actually noticeable. There are, in a Baltimore accent, Police. Everywhere. The unbridled joy of leaning into and driving a tad quickly round a bend was met, on a few separate occasions, with a menacing and very translatable action on behalf of a Police’s truncheon and his corresponding open palm to slow down. I did. Impeccably.
It is hard to get across just how frustrating the lack of signposts is when you actually need one. It meant stopping much more frequently, consulting the map and any passers by unlucky enough to look interested, and generally diminishing the average speed for the day. We were in one particularly nameless town that may or may not have even been on the map, and had pulled over to the side of the road to consult the atlas once more.
Disaster.
In the blink of an eye, before I could muster the strength to be terrified, a policeman and his truncheon sidled up to Tris’ bike, parked a good 20ft in front of mine, and started talking to him. Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap, we had made it this far, no, no, why now in the middle of sodding nowhere did we have to go and grab the attention of a policeman? This was what I had been dreading, having to present my, ahem, documentation and, double ahem, licence, explain why I was in possession of a Vietnamese bike, some communist papers, and hope against hope that a bribe would be acceptable. If I had been sweating before I was certainly sweating now, and a passer by, seeing two westerners and a Policeman, started yelling and pointing at me "Polic, Polic!", as if deliberately drawing attention away from Tris and towards me. I panicked, thought about doing a runner, thought twice, panicked some more, and then... wait… Tris had the map out… the policeman was… yes… giving directions! And smiling! Relief. That donation to the gods was well spent.
At an opportune petrol station on the way out of one of the smaller towns we did the now time honoured, traditional choreographed de-luggaging, filling, and re-luggaging, except this time there was a slight pause between the two latter phases. The pump attendant, who it turns out is absolutely the only one allowed to handle the pump, gave me 40,000d’s worth of petrol. And then stopped. Just stopped filling the tank. “Er… fill, fill” I ventured, only to receive a smackdown’s worth of spit and vitriol from the less than charming pumpee. I was tired, I was stressed, we were most likely lost, heading down another wrong road and definitely had hours left to ride. In the heat. I would need to refuel again, but much sooner if the damned little man didn’t give me my petrol. So I persisted. “Fill fill”, this time with a charade-worthy mime performance to accompany it. But he persisted as well. He blanket refused to put any more petrol in, then filled Tris’ bike, again mostly, and that was it. I was incensed, I was fast losing my temper, tried several more times, but in the end had to concede as he held the upper hand. With the pump in it. Outrageously infuriated and almost steaming with tension I had a small internal fit, got on my bike as quickly as possible and, once out of earshot, screamed into the wind at the top of my lungs. Twice. It almost calmed me down.
Later, and calmer, I saw a magnificent opportunity to take a shortcut that only bikes could take. I could get in front of the jam of caravan of lorries ahead of me, out onto the open road in front, and avoid breathing in another showerful of fumes. It was a brilliant idea. However, the shortcut turned out to be a bit more of a Dad shortcut as I ended up having to detour around the back of a petrol station, across a muddy field, through a work site, over some railway tracks and at one point I had to duck under a barrier that some enterprising worker held up for me as I grinned my way through. The worst shortcut. Ever.
In one town we ended up going down an unfinished road. This was not particularly unusual for the trip, but it was a very unusually unfinished road, with no foundations, gravel, sand, or even markings on the soil. Slowing down obligingly for a passing lorry and trying to avoid breathing in copious amounts of dust, we had two choices - head back, or head through some side streets. Side streets it was! A few weaving minutes of back street manoeuvres later we found what we thought was the right road and followed it in what we thought was the right direction.
It wasn't, and due to the inexplicable lack of signposts it took almost 5km to realise. Stopping in the heat, panting, sweating, and silently and not so silently cursing our bad luck started to have an effect on me. What if we were lost? What if the map was wrong? What if we'd come too far in the wrong direction and didn't have time to make it to Halong Bay? Would we lose another day? Feeling slightly sick and very thirsty, a local man eventually pointed us in the right direction and we wound 5km back down the road, back on course, the wind over my face helping soothe my fears and cooling me down.
In all the time I've spent on the roads I have seen some strange things being carried by bikes. Some of the most wonderful cargo carried on the back of individual ones have included thousands of live, fluffy chicks; a snake; dozens of birds in dozens of cages; 5 children (arranged in height order so the tallest sat at the back, clamping his smaller siblings between himself and the driver); a convoy of sewerage pipes; hundreds of litres of petrol in vast kegs; some incredibly dangerous sharp metal poles (which I gave a very, very wide berth to); and 6 live pigs (yes, six of them - on one bike!).
In the right direction once again, the rest of the road was laid out before me. I had vague recollections of the Top Gear trio riding along this road, the thought of the last few tens of kilometers slowly but surely weaning away lifted my spirits, and I passed the giant causeway across to Cat Ba island. I recognised it. Not far! Not far at all! We were going to make it. The end was in sight, the speed cameras (speed cameras?) were holding me back from taking one last final sprint forwards but I sat up more straight, a smile forming across my dusty, grimy face. And then, there it was. Halong suspension bridge. I smiled, broadly, elation tingling over me. I looked left over the sprawling mini-city and gazed at my destination. Slowly, slowly I turned my attention round to the right and saw the bay. The few dozen islands I could see were perched quietly above the hard blue stillness of the water and acted as a beacon. I'd found them. I was here. I had driven over 2,000km to get here and endured hardships, mostly in the form of hard bike seats, and was just... here. Triumph. Unbridalled triumph. My bike had made it. I had made it. Over the bridge, and we were there.
Except a quick stop and consult of the map showed we had come too far. We weren't supposed to cross the bridge, our hotel was on the coast on a turnoff before you get to it. Retracing our steps, crossing the bridge again, and exiting properly took no time at all, and then we were on the coast road, a few minutes from the hotel, the Halong 1. It had a beautiful view. Of coackroaches. But we had made it! By way of proof, we drove to a scenic spot and got some photos of our bikes by the bay. I even managed to convince a local girl who had been watching us shyly to take a photo of the both of us.
We had made it!
But first we had to get there, and that meant leaving the relative simplicity of highway 1, using a map, and venturing out into the maze that is the rest of the North Vietnamese road system. It was hell, but at least it detracted from the painful reshaping of my bum, which by now was just getting silly. So silly in fact, that I had to invent another game... which turned out to be the bum cheek game (or my 'Cheeky Girls' as it was once deliriously referred to). A simple premise, but it can take a lifetime to master. Or a few minutes. You put all your weight on one cheek, giving the other a well earned rest, and then shift to the other. But only (and this is the devious bit), when you pass a signpost to either the next town or the ultimate destination on your journey. If you have been reading up to now, you may have grasped that the lack of signposts in both quantity and accuracy might make this difficult, and it was not, in all fairness, a particularly good game. Due to the continuing inconsistencies of the signpost department, my right cheek did enjoy a much smoother ride than my left.
One of the most obvious changes that you see when driving up the country is that north of the DMZ, or de-militarised zone, the police presence is actually noticeable. There are, in a Baltimore accent, Police. Everywhere. The unbridled joy of leaning into and driving a tad quickly round a bend was met, on a few separate occasions, with a menacing and very translatable action on behalf of a Police’s truncheon and his corresponding open palm to slow down. I did. Impeccably.
It is hard to get across just how frustrating the lack of signposts is when you actually need one. It meant stopping much more frequently, consulting the map and any passers by unlucky enough to look interested, and generally diminishing the average speed for the day. We were in one particularly nameless town that may or may not have even been on the map, and had pulled over to the side of the road to consult the atlas once more.
Disaster.
In the blink of an eye, before I could muster the strength to be terrified, a policeman and his truncheon sidled up to Tris’ bike, parked a good 20ft in front of mine, and started talking to him. Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap, we had made it this far, no, no, why now in the middle of sodding nowhere did we have to go and grab the attention of a policeman? This was what I had been dreading, having to present my, ahem, documentation and, double ahem, licence, explain why I was in possession of a Vietnamese bike, some communist papers, and hope against hope that a bribe would be acceptable. If I had been sweating before I was certainly sweating now, and a passer by, seeing two westerners and a Policeman, started yelling and pointing at me "Polic, Polic!", as if deliberately drawing attention away from Tris and towards me. I panicked, thought about doing a runner, thought twice, panicked some more, and then... wait… Tris had the map out… the policeman was… yes… giving directions! And smiling! Relief. That donation to the gods was well spent.
At an opportune petrol station on the way out of one of the smaller towns we did the now time honoured, traditional choreographed de-luggaging, filling, and re-luggaging, except this time there was a slight pause between the two latter phases. The pump attendant, who it turns out is absolutely the only one allowed to handle the pump, gave me 40,000d’s worth of petrol. And then stopped. Just stopped filling the tank. “Er… fill, fill” I ventured, only to receive a smackdown’s worth of spit and vitriol from the less than charming pumpee. I was tired, I was stressed, we were most likely lost, heading down another wrong road and definitely had hours left to ride. In the heat. I would need to refuel again, but much sooner if the damned little man didn’t give me my petrol. So I persisted. “Fill fill”, this time with a charade-worthy mime performance to accompany it. But he persisted as well. He blanket refused to put any more petrol in, then filled Tris’ bike, again mostly, and that was it. I was incensed, I was fast losing my temper, tried several more times, but in the end had to concede as he held the upper hand. With the pump in it. Outrageously infuriated and almost steaming with tension I had a small internal fit, got on my bike as quickly as possible and, once out of earshot, screamed into the wind at the top of my lungs. Twice. It almost calmed me down.
Later, and calmer, I saw a magnificent opportunity to take a shortcut that only bikes could take. I could get in front of the jam of caravan of lorries ahead of me, out onto the open road in front, and avoid breathing in another showerful of fumes. It was a brilliant idea. However, the shortcut turned out to be a bit more of a Dad shortcut as I ended up having to detour around the back of a petrol station, across a muddy field, through a work site, over some railway tracks and at one point I had to duck under a barrier that some enterprising worker held up for me as I grinned my way through. The worst shortcut. Ever.
In one town we ended up going down an unfinished road. This was not particularly unusual for the trip, but it was a very unusually unfinished road, with no foundations, gravel, sand, or even markings on the soil. Slowing down obligingly for a passing lorry and trying to avoid breathing in copious amounts of dust, we had two choices - head back, or head through some side streets. Side streets it was! A few weaving minutes of back street manoeuvres later we found what we thought was the right road and followed it in what we thought was the right direction.
It wasn't, and due to the inexplicable lack of signposts it took almost 5km to realise. Stopping in the heat, panting, sweating, and silently and not so silently cursing our bad luck started to have an effect on me. What if we were lost? What if the map was wrong? What if we'd come too far in the wrong direction and didn't have time to make it to Halong Bay? Would we lose another day? Feeling slightly sick and very thirsty, a local man eventually pointed us in the right direction and we wound 5km back down the road, back on course, the wind over my face helping soothe my fears and cooling me down.
In all the time I've spent on the roads I have seen some strange things being carried by bikes. Some of the most wonderful cargo carried on the back of individual ones have included thousands of live, fluffy chicks; a snake; dozens of birds in dozens of cages; 5 children (arranged in height order so the tallest sat at the back, clamping his smaller siblings between himself and the driver); a convoy of sewerage pipes; hundreds of litres of petrol in vast kegs; some incredibly dangerous sharp metal poles (which I gave a very, very wide berth to); and 6 live pigs (yes, six of them - on one bike!).
In the right direction once again, the rest of the road was laid out before me. I had vague recollections of the Top Gear trio riding along this road, the thought of the last few tens of kilometers slowly but surely weaning away lifted my spirits, and I passed the giant causeway across to Cat Ba island. I recognised it. Not far! Not far at all! We were going to make it. The end was in sight, the speed cameras (speed cameras?) were holding me back from taking one last final sprint forwards but I sat up more straight, a smile forming across my dusty, grimy face. And then, there it was. Halong suspension bridge. I smiled, broadly, elation tingling over me. I looked left over the sprawling mini-city and gazed at my destination. Slowly, slowly I turned my attention round to the right and saw the bay. The few dozen islands I could see were perched quietly above the hard blue stillness of the water and acted as a beacon. I'd found them. I was here. I had driven over 2,000km to get here and endured hardships, mostly in the form of hard bike seats, and was just... here. Triumph. Unbridalled triumph. My bike had made it. I had made it. Over the bridge, and we were there.
Except a quick stop and consult of the map showed we had come too far. We weren't supposed to cross the bridge, our hotel was on the coast on a turnoff before you get to it. Retracing our steps, crossing the bridge again, and exiting properly took no time at all, and then we were on the coast road, a few minutes from the hotel, the Halong 1. It had a beautiful view. Of coackroaches. But we had made it! By way of proof, we drove to a scenic spot and got some photos of our bikes by the bay. I even managed to convince a local girl who had been watching us shyly to take a photo of the both of us.
We had made it!
8th September
We're in Halong Bay! In celebration of the fact I woke late, looked in the mirror at the strange almost-beard-like formation on my chin, shuddered, had a breakfast of fried eggs and jam, and was accosted by an expectant boat tour salesman skulking around reception. He had the worst teeth I have ever seen on a man, let alone a salesman. The front 4 were moulded together with a crusty black and creamy paste, which did nothing for his pitch, and when he gave the price - an astonishing $90 for half a day, each - I decided to head into town to try our luck elsewhere.
Heading into town did, briefly, involve the bikes, and the prospect of not riding my Nonda for the day was weirdly disappointing. We had barely gone a minute down the road when we saw several touts advertising their wares and decided to check one of them out. $30. Lunch included. Bargain! Much better. We were told to meet back at the roadside in half an hour, so headed back to the security section of the hotel and left our bikes in the anticipatory clutches of the guard, gathered our cameras and bits for the day, and walked back to the tout on the roadside. When we got there the tout looked bemused and said, in sporadic English, "where the bikes?" and "boat leaves from jetty" and "not here" and "2km". Damn. By way of compensation the tout flagged down a passing motorbike, chatted away for a sentence or two, and then motioned for me to get on the back of the bike - instant taxi!
However, he then motioned for Tris to get on the back of the bike. The same bike. I was about to protest that there really wasn't room for that sort of thing, when Tris was thrust (poor choice of words) onto the last vestige of space on the back of the seat, and we rocketed off along the road - for the first time in a long while not being in control of the vehicle. That was probably the least comfortable 2km of the entire journey - if you are unfortunate enough to be in the middle of a passenger sandwich you soon come to understand the unwritten rule that you do not under any circumstances try moving or squirming. It simply is not the time or the place. $1 for that ride. It was not worth it...
The boat was anchored offshore so we clambered into a small rowboat, oarsman included, for the short journey to the "Hailong 19" which would be our seaworthy host for the next 6 hours. The oarsman had the most unique rowing technique that I now can't quite imitate, but involved a sort of repetitive involuntary paroxysmic reverse-hug reflex. We were given use of some ostentatious southern-american straw hats for the short duration of the ride, and even managed a photo or two with them on before giving them back. The boat itself was lovely and un-health-and-safety. The tables and chairs were not screwed down, there was an upper deck that you could, shock, actually climb on, and a wonderful absence of danger signs. You could even walk around to the kitchen area! Quaint. The only other people on board were the captain, his first mate who doubled as the chef, and a fellow tourist lady and her son. Six of us in all, in a boat built for 50. It was nice not to be there in high tourist season.
The tour itself was very slow, the only way to appreciate the surroundings. Halong Bay is a world heritage site, consisting of almost 2000 islands dotted around the calm waters. It was incredibly hot, there was barely a cloud in sight, and simply drinking in the view really felt like a just reward for having travelled here. As we motored off and the bridge receded into the haze of the background we approached the first stop on our tour. A typical, though largish, island. We climbed out into the hot, humid air and had to pay for the privilege of getting past the tollbooth on the island (the $30 bargain starting to sound not quite such a good deal), and with some silent cursing at having to climb up some steep steps in the ridiculous heat I plodded forwards and upwards. I wasn't quite prepared for what I saw. Round the corner of the top step was a small hole in the side of the wall of the island... that led into it's interior. The island was hollow! A cave structure which must have been very very old was cool inside and lit (unprofessionally), but the effect was incredible. We were in an area of outstanding natural beauty inside an area of outstanding natural beauty. It was amazing and slightly cooler, though a little crowded, after our luxuriously lazy trip over to the island from the shore.
Back in the daylight the heat hit me again and I stopped to buy 3 litres of water, which didn't last long. We had the rest of the tour to enjoy, so went back to the boat, I put my video camera down on the table, and as the engine powered up and we moved away from the island I watched as the captain laid the table for our impending lunch, presumably with the chef doing the steering. I gazed out of the window, lost in thought, and only turned around when the smell of recently cooked fresh fish wafted in my direction. I turned, ate, and sat in satisfied silence.
Disaster.
Something wasn't right. It wasn't the food, which was good, or the heat, which was bearable in the shade. It was something... missing. It took me a few seconds to realise that that something was my camera, the urgency hitting me squarely and instantly making me lose what little appetite I had. I looked on the floor. I looked under the table, on the chair, down the gap between the thin cushions, inside, outside. I turned to the other tourists on board who, being Vietnamese, spoke no English, and had an exasperated time getting across what had happened. I felt sick. The camera was expendable, but the card inside held over 2 hours of priceless memories from all the footage we had taken over most of the trip, documenting our massive drive northwards. I couldn't believe it. I knew I had put the camera down on the table, and I knew it wasn't there now. I knew the captain had been walking around while laying the table for our meal, and the only conclusion I could sensibly reach was that he'd pocketed it. This depressing thought was not buoyed by the knowledge that we had refused a 'proper' tour and had gone for the cheap (dodgy) version instead. I hated myself. I was silent, I couldn't speak. I was so angry I didn't know what to do. I confronted the captain, who spoke even less English than the Vietnamese tourist and her son, who fervently waved his arms and denied whatever it was I was accusing him of. The one word I gleaned from the conversation was "caves", and, possibly because I was so upset, I suddenly couldn’t be sure I hadn't dropped it on the cave island. I was 100% convinced I left it on the table, but the disarming fact that it was no longer there was playing tricks on my mind - the iota of doubt that had crept in was enough to send me into another panic. I ordered the captain to turn the boat around, and bizarrely he not only understood but acquiesced. The tourist passenger lady didn't seem to mind either, which now I think about it is slightly odd.
My return to the island was heart-wrenchingly disappointing. I scampered over to the tourist area, asked a dozen people if they’d seen a camera, and waited until someone finally understood me. He motioned me to lost property, a small tent on the shore, and I joined him in the search. Coats (in this heat?), scarves and various items of clothing, a few sandals and a fishing rod were the only items there. Exasperated and hollow, I scuffed back to the crowd of island workers and implored them to tell me where it was. I offered cash, but there was no change in their demeanour. Eventually, a man walked over and said, in English, that the island workers here were very trustworthy as they were all employed by the government and if they had seen the camera they would not have stolen it – lest they lose their jobs. I couldn’t be sure if that was the truth, but when I asked about my boat tour captain he frowned and said diplomatically that he couldn’t give any reassurance for non-government workers. I knew I would never see that camera again.
I spent the rest of the tour in misery and silent self-loathing. I stared out of the window almost the entire time, the incredible tranquil beauty of the bay not enough to pull me out of my despair and into even remote enjoyment. I felt sick and miserable. I searched the boat again, looked in cupboards, found keys to locked cupboards and searched in them, and everywhere else I could see that could house a stolen camera. I didn’t find it. It completely ruined the day, the scenery was outstanding, but the loss of the footage was just too depressing for words. The captain had it, I knew it. I just couldn’t do anything about it.
There was one more stop on the tour, at one of the tallest islands around. Another ticket to get onto the island, this time paid for by our guide, and without any kind of feeling I clambered up the 408 steps to the viewpoint. The view was incredible. It did, for the short time I spent on the top of the vantage point, calm me down. The sun was out, the clouds wispish and thin, the water flat from this distance and a glorious deep blue. The islands looked so… natural, and from where I was standing I got a glimpse of the floating city. The same floating city that Clarkson et al philandered onto at the end of their trip. Sadly we wouldn’t make it to the floating bar, but I saw it, my depression eased a little, and my spirits were if not uplifted, then raised about 408 steps-worth.
If I hadn’t been somewhere so intensely beautiful I would have been so angrily depressed for days. The calm waters and rich colourful naturalness had a wonderfully restorative effect on me and, carefully clambering back down in flip-flops behind a wheezing group of geriatric Chinese men almost methodically improved my mood with each lowering step. By the time I got back to the boat I accepted that the footage was lost. I had been through denial, remorse, anger, regret and now was at acceptance. An unhappy acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless.
The rest of the trip, now on the return leg, is perhaps best described as silence interspersed with odd ramblings of pathetic indulgence that Tris had to put up with. I knew I would not be getting the camera back, so there was nothing for it but to get a Police report filled out for the insurance claim. The tour ended, we disembarked, and headed off to the nearest Police station. It was an odd sensation, we had been studiously avoiding the Police our entire trip through the country. Now, we were actively seeking them out. Our taxi pulled up outside a very nonspecific building, I walked up to a desk and was motioned to sit down by a man in uniform. I had the indispensable one-way dictionary with me and pointed alternately to the words "camera" and "stolen", which was met with… absolutely nothing. No one spoke anything remotely resembling English, I shrugged at Tris, he shrugged at me, and I tried again. "Camera… stolen". Point, point.
Nothing. By now a crowd of a few Police were variously interested, amused and intrigued, and after an awkward silence of perhaps ten minutes one of the uniformed officers stood up, motioned for us to follow him, and pointed at a car. Well, a fifty year old jeep might be a better description, painted in standard edition army green it did not look inviting. It even had a battery +/- indicator on the dashboard. Old oldschool. He opened the back door and motioned again for us to get in.
I really really really was not sure about it, I could tell Tris was having his own mini cardiac incident, but seemingly emotionally drained for the day I simply accepted and got into the back. Tris followed. Then, two more people (bodyguards?) got into the remaining spare seats and I was forced to sit in the middle in the back, first moving a few truncheons and three very smart officer caps to one side. I thought about putting one on, but somehow it didn’t feel appropriate.
The short journey, conducted in sporadic chatter from the front seats and fearful silence in the back, ended up at the beach version of Police station number two. We were motioned into a small room off to one side and stayed there for a few minutes until an interpreter was found. The room was a sort of cell, there was a bed in the back, and a lockable door. An interpreter was found. He walked into the room and, the facial recognition part of my brain not even having to bother, I knew him immediately. The man from reception this morning with the black paste for front teeth. He had tried to sell me a (legitimate) tour. I had refused. I had chosen a cheap, dodgy one instead. I had had my camera stolen. He was now going to interpret my situation to the Police and attempt help me oeveral touts advertising their wtuation, though still fresh and painful, was not lost on me.
He frowned. We had a chat about cheap tours and dodgy captains, and I felt very, very small. And thus began the farce. We needed as many details as possible for the Police report, so Tris and I remembered as much as possible from the tour. The boat’s name? "Err... Hailong 19". Is that with or without an "I"? Damn. I was sure it was spelt with an I, as sure as I was that the captain had taken my camera. Tris thought otherwise, and in thensation the tout flagged down a boats in the area there was both a Halong and a Hailong under the 19 section.
The other camera! Tris had taken some photos with his camera, and we leapt on it. Flicking back through the photos we found one with the name on it. Hailong 19. Ha! This was like a real investigation, and though I was still very annoyed I did slightly enjoy the thrill of amateur detective work. Plus, I was right. It did have an "I" in it. It gave me confidence that my memory was working and my version of events was accurate. I didn't leave the camera on the island, it was stolen. The Policeman spent some time on the phone, all the while I was talking to the interpreter about what had happened, accusing the captain of stealing my camera and being generally unpleasant, when who should walk in, but…
The captain! Whoa. It is one thing to be convinced of something and accuse someone who only lives in your memory, however recent. It is quite another to have him show up in the doorway of a Police station in northern Vietnam, clutching a phone to his ear and looking much, much scarier than I remembered. He took one look at the two of us, paused, and then launched into an incomprehensible tirade of what I can only assume was abuse. And spit. From his body language it looked like he was being defensive, and a quick look over to the raised eyes of the interpreter confirmed the fact. Now he was actually here, actually in our midst, I thought it wise to carefully enter my version of events into the official Police record in an un-international-incident sort of way, so (as politely as possible) confirmed to the translator that the captain had nicked my camera.
When the tirade of spit continued to hurl out of the captains mouth, I decided to change tactic. I asked (via the translator) why, if the captain had seen me drop my camera on the island, he didn’t say anything to me or help me pick it up. No response. I then ventured that it was his word against mine, how was I supposed to prove my version was correct? Except... maybe I could. There was another witness on the boat. Two in fact. The tourist woman and her son. But it was now a good couple of hours since we left the boat and by now she and her son would be long gone. It was left at his word against mine.
The farce continued. The translator had obviously forwarded my queries to the captain, which silenced him for a minute. I felt quite pleased with myself. However, this was extremely short lived as almost as soon as the tinge of smugness was cheering my lips into the first smile I'd had since the caves, the Vietnamese lady passenger materialised out of thin air, walked into the police station, and started jabbering away to the captain. I was gobsmacked. Who got hold of her? How on earth did anyone get hold of her? The translator confirmed that the captain had her number. Had her number?? She seemed a bit too chummy with the captain to be a mere tourist, and the fact that he had her number was way too convenient for my liking. However, there we were, the six of us in the cramped office, all speaking at once, the poor translator not knowing who to turn to.
I gave my statement, in broken English to give the translator a better chance of understanding, and then the captain and the lady (sounds like an unpopular Disney film in the making), gave their written statements. Together. Unbelievably, they were allowed to sit together, talk, read and correct each other’s versions, swap spellings, and make sure their stories were watertight. And the same. Cheating, you might call it.
After two hours, most of it tense, and some of it tenser (at one point the captain and the lady, Tris and I were the only ones in a small room and there was some unblinking staring and some nervous fidgeting), I eventually got a bilingual photocopy of my statement stamped in an official communist red, and left in a hurry. Being very aware of the interconnectedness of everyone in the town, we decided to head for a non-local restaurant, lest the captain had friends in local ones, and ended up in Hanoi Restaurant, an oddly named hotel restaurant in Halong City. It was an odd experience, being the only two people in a huge ground floor restaurant, ordering a ‘special’ burger whatever that meant, and being suspiciously paranoid that the captains friends and cavalry were going to greet us when we stepped outside. They didn't.
The ‘special’ burger turned out to be a normal burger. With pineapple and honey smeared on it. It tasted sickly sweet like something that might be given for second prize at a fairground, the winner getting an actual burger. A bizarre end to a bizarre day, I felt drained and saddened and in need of some home comfort. When the only internet café we could find failed to log me into my email, I returned to the hotel tired and frustrated. Not a good end to the day.
Heading into town did, briefly, involve the bikes, and the prospect of not riding my Nonda for the day was weirdly disappointing. We had barely gone a minute down the road when we saw several touts advertising their wares and decided to check one of them out. $30. Lunch included. Bargain! Much better. We were told to meet back at the roadside in half an hour, so headed back to the security section of the hotel and left our bikes in the anticipatory clutches of the guard, gathered our cameras and bits for the day, and walked back to the tout on the roadside. When we got there the tout looked bemused and said, in sporadic English, "where the bikes?" and "boat leaves from jetty" and "not here" and "2km". Damn. By way of compensation the tout flagged down a passing motorbike, chatted away for a sentence or two, and then motioned for me to get on the back of the bike - instant taxi!
However, he then motioned for Tris to get on the back of the bike. The same bike. I was about to protest that there really wasn't room for that sort of thing, when Tris was thrust (poor choice of words) onto the last vestige of space on the back of the seat, and we rocketed off along the road - for the first time in a long while not being in control of the vehicle. That was probably the least comfortable 2km of the entire journey - if you are unfortunate enough to be in the middle of a passenger sandwich you soon come to understand the unwritten rule that you do not under any circumstances try moving or squirming. It simply is not the time or the place. $1 for that ride. It was not worth it...
The boat was anchored offshore so we clambered into a small rowboat, oarsman included, for the short journey to the "Hailong 19" which would be our seaworthy host for the next 6 hours. The oarsman had the most unique rowing technique that I now can't quite imitate, but involved a sort of repetitive involuntary paroxysmic reverse-hug reflex. We were given use of some ostentatious southern-american straw hats for the short duration of the ride, and even managed a photo or two with them on before giving them back. The boat itself was lovely and un-health-and-safety. The tables and chairs were not screwed down, there was an upper deck that you could, shock, actually climb on, and a wonderful absence of danger signs. You could even walk around to the kitchen area! Quaint. The only other people on board were the captain, his first mate who doubled as the chef, and a fellow tourist lady and her son. Six of us in all, in a boat built for 50. It was nice not to be there in high tourist season.
The tour itself was very slow, the only way to appreciate the surroundings. Halong Bay is a world heritage site, consisting of almost 2000 islands dotted around the calm waters. It was incredibly hot, there was barely a cloud in sight, and simply drinking in the view really felt like a just reward for having travelled here. As we motored off and the bridge receded into the haze of the background we approached the first stop on our tour. A typical, though largish, island. We climbed out into the hot, humid air and had to pay for the privilege of getting past the tollbooth on the island (the $30 bargain starting to sound not quite such a good deal), and with some silent cursing at having to climb up some steep steps in the ridiculous heat I plodded forwards and upwards. I wasn't quite prepared for what I saw. Round the corner of the top step was a small hole in the side of the wall of the island... that led into it's interior. The island was hollow! A cave structure which must have been very very old was cool inside and lit (unprofessionally), but the effect was incredible. We were in an area of outstanding natural beauty inside an area of outstanding natural beauty. It was amazing and slightly cooler, though a little crowded, after our luxuriously lazy trip over to the island from the shore.
Back in the daylight the heat hit me again and I stopped to buy 3 litres of water, which didn't last long. We had the rest of the tour to enjoy, so went back to the boat, I put my video camera down on the table, and as the engine powered up and we moved away from the island I watched as the captain laid the table for our impending lunch, presumably with the chef doing the steering. I gazed out of the window, lost in thought, and only turned around when the smell of recently cooked fresh fish wafted in my direction. I turned, ate, and sat in satisfied silence.
Disaster.
Something wasn't right. It wasn't the food, which was good, or the heat, which was bearable in the shade. It was something... missing. It took me a few seconds to realise that that something was my camera, the urgency hitting me squarely and instantly making me lose what little appetite I had. I looked on the floor. I looked under the table, on the chair, down the gap between the thin cushions, inside, outside. I turned to the other tourists on board who, being Vietnamese, spoke no English, and had an exasperated time getting across what had happened. I felt sick. The camera was expendable, but the card inside held over 2 hours of priceless memories from all the footage we had taken over most of the trip, documenting our massive drive northwards. I couldn't believe it. I knew I had put the camera down on the table, and I knew it wasn't there now. I knew the captain had been walking around while laying the table for our meal, and the only conclusion I could sensibly reach was that he'd pocketed it. This depressing thought was not buoyed by the knowledge that we had refused a 'proper' tour and had gone for the cheap (dodgy) version instead. I hated myself. I was silent, I couldn't speak. I was so angry I didn't know what to do. I confronted the captain, who spoke even less English than the Vietnamese tourist and her son, who fervently waved his arms and denied whatever it was I was accusing him of. The one word I gleaned from the conversation was "caves", and, possibly because I was so upset, I suddenly couldn’t be sure I hadn't dropped it on the cave island. I was 100% convinced I left it on the table, but the disarming fact that it was no longer there was playing tricks on my mind - the iota of doubt that had crept in was enough to send me into another panic. I ordered the captain to turn the boat around, and bizarrely he not only understood but acquiesced. The tourist passenger lady didn't seem to mind either, which now I think about it is slightly odd.
My return to the island was heart-wrenchingly disappointing. I scampered over to the tourist area, asked a dozen people if they’d seen a camera, and waited until someone finally understood me. He motioned me to lost property, a small tent on the shore, and I joined him in the search. Coats (in this heat?), scarves and various items of clothing, a few sandals and a fishing rod were the only items there. Exasperated and hollow, I scuffed back to the crowd of island workers and implored them to tell me where it was. I offered cash, but there was no change in their demeanour. Eventually, a man walked over and said, in English, that the island workers here were very trustworthy as they were all employed by the government and if they had seen the camera they would not have stolen it – lest they lose their jobs. I couldn’t be sure if that was the truth, but when I asked about my boat tour captain he frowned and said diplomatically that he couldn’t give any reassurance for non-government workers. I knew I would never see that camera again.
I spent the rest of the tour in misery and silent self-loathing. I stared out of the window almost the entire time, the incredible tranquil beauty of the bay not enough to pull me out of my despair and into even remote enjoyment. I felt sick and miserable. I searched the boat again, looked in cupboards, found keys to locked cupboards and searched in them, and everywhere else I could see that could house a stolen camera. I didn’t find it. It completely ruined the day, the scenery was outstanding, but the loss of the footage was just too depressing for words. The captain had it, I knew it. I just couldn’t do anything about it.
There was one more stop on the tour, at one of the tallest islands around. Another ticket to get onto the island, this time paid for by our guide, and without any kind of feeling I clambered up the 408 steps to the viewpoint. The view was incredible. It did, for the short time I spent on the top of the vantage point, calm me down. The sun was out, the clouds wispish and thin, the water flat from this distance and a glorious deep blue. The islands looked so… natural, and from where I was standing I got a glimpse of the floating city. The same floating city that Clarkson et al philandered onto at the end of their trip. Sadly we wouldn’t make it to the floating bar, but I saw it, my depression eased a little, and my spirits were if not uplifted, then raised about 408 steps-worth.
If I hadn’t been somewhere so intensely beautiful I would have been so angrily depressed for days. The calm waters and rich colourful naturalness had a wonderfully restorative effect on me and, carefully clambering back down in flip-flops behind a wheezing group of geriatric Chinese men almost methodically improved my mood with each lowering step. By the time I got back to the boat I accepted that the footage was lost. I had been through denial, remorse, anger, regret and now was at acceptance. An unhappy acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless.
The rest of the trip, now on the return leg, is perhaps best described as silence interspersed with odd ramblings of pathetic indulgence that Tris had to put up with. I knew I would not be getting the camera back, so there was nothing for it but to get a Police report filled out for the insurance claim. The tour ended, we disembarked, and headed off to the nearest Police station. It was an odd sensation, we had been studiously avoiding the Police our entire trip through the country. Now, we were actively seeking them out. Our taxi pulled up outside a very nonspecific building, I walked up to a desk and was motioned to sit down by a man in uniform. I had the indispensable one-way dictionary with me and pointed alternately to the words "camera" and "stolen", which was met with… absolutely nothing. No one spoke anything remotely resembling English, I shrugged at Tris, he shrugged at me, and I tried again. "Camera… stolen". Point, point.
Nothing. By now a crowd of a few Police were variously interested, amused and intrigued, and after an awkward silence of perhaps ten minutes one of the uniformed officers stood up, motioned for us to follow him, and pointed at a car. Well, a fifty year old jeep might be a better description, painted in standard edition army green it did not look inviting. It even had a battery +/- indicator on the dashboard. Old oldschool. He opened the back door and motioned again for us to get in.
I really really really was not sure about it, I could tell Tris was having his own mini cardiac incident, but seemingly emotionally drained for the day I simply accepted and got into the back. Tris followed. Then, two more people (bodyguards?) got into the remaining spare seats and I was forced to sit in the middle in the back, first moving a few truncheons and three very smart officer caps to one side. I thought about putting one on, but somehow it didn’t feel appropriate.
The short journey, conducted in sporadic chatter from the front seats and fearful silence in the back, ended up at the beach version of Police station number two. We were motioned into a small room off to one side and stayed there for a few minutes until an interpreter was found. The room was a sort of cell, there was a bed in the back, and a lockable door. An interpreter was found. He walked into the room and, the facial recognition part of my brain not even having to bother, I knew him immediately. The man from reception this morning with the black paste for front teeth. He had tried to sell me a (legitimate) tour. I had refused. I had chosen a cheap, dodgy one instead. I had had my camera stolen. He was now going to interpret my situation to the Police and attempt help me oeveral touts advertising their wtuation, though still fresh and painful, was not lost on me.
He frowned. We had a chat about cheap tours and dodgy captains, and I felt very, very small. And thus began the farce. We needed as many details as possible for the Police report, so Tris and I remembered as much as possible from the tour. The boat’s name? "Err... Hailong 19". Is that with or without an "I"? Damn. I was sure it was spelt with an I, as sure as I was that the captain had taken my camera. Tris thought otherwise, and in thensation the tout flagged down a boats in the area there was both a Halong and a Hailong under the 19 section.
The other camera! Tris had taken some photos with his camera, and we leapt on it. Flicking back through the photos we found one with the name on it. Hailong 19. Ha! This was like a real investigation, and though I was still very annoyed I did slightly enjoy the thrill of amateur detective work. Plus, I was right. It did have an "I" in it. It gave me confidence that my memory was working and my version of events was accurate. I didn't leave the camera on the island, it was stolen. The Policeman spent some time on the phone, all the while I was talking to the interpreter about what had happened, accusing the captain of stealing my camera and being generally unpleasant, when who should walk in, but…
The captain! Whoa. It is one thing to be convinced of something and accuse someone who only lives in your memory, however recent. It is quite another to have him show up in the doorway of a Police station in northern Vietnam, clutching a phone to his ear and looking much, much scarier than I remembered. He took one look at the two of us, paused, and then launched into an incomprehensible tirade of what I can only assume was abuse. And spit. From his body language it looked like he was being defensive, and a quick look over to the raised eyes of the interpreter confirmed the fact. Now he was actually here, actually in our midst, I thought it wise to carefully enter my version of events into the official Police record in an un-international-incident sort of way, so (as politely as possible) confirmed to the translator that the captain had nicked my camera.
When the tirade of spit continued to hurl out of the captains mouth, I decided to change tactic. I asked (via the translator) why, if the captain had seen me drop my camera on the island, he didn’t say anything to me or help me pick it up. No response. I then ventured that it was his word against mine, how was I supposed to prove my version was correct? Except... maybe I could. There was another witness on the boat. Two in fact. The tourist woman and her son. But it was now a good couple of hours since we left the boat and by now she and her son would be long gone. It was left at his word against mine.
The farce continued. The translator had obviously forwarded my queries to the captain, which silenced him for a minute. I felt quite pleased with myself. However, this was extremely short lived as almost as soon as the tinge of smugness was cheering my lips into the first smile I'd had since the caves, the Vietnamese lady passenger materialised out of thin air, walked into the police station, and started jabbering away to the captain. I was gobsmacked. Who got hold of her? How on earth did anyone get hold of her? The translator confirmed that the captain had her number. Had her number?? She seemed a bit too chummy with the captain to be a mere tourist, and the fact that he had her number was way too convenient for my liking. However, there we were, the six of us in the cramped office, all speaking at once, the poor translator not knowing who to turn to.
I gave my statement, in broken English to give the translator a better chance of understanding, and then the captain and the lady (sounds like an unpopular Disney film in the making), gave their written statements. Together. Unbelievably, they were allowed to sit together, talk, read and correct each other’s versions, swap spellings, and make sure their stories were watertight. And the same. Cheating, you might call it.
After two hours, most of it tense, and some of it tenser (at one point the captain and the lady, Tris and I were the only ones in a small room and there was some unblinking staring and some nervous fidgeting), I eventually got a bilingual photocopy of my statement stamped in an official communist red, and left in a hurry. Being very aware of the interconnectedness of everyone in the town, we decided to head for a non-local restaurant, lest the captain had friends in local ones, and ended up in Hanoi Restaurant, an oddly named hotel restaurant in Halong City. It was an odd experience, being the only two people in a huge ground floor restaurant, ordering a ‘special’ burger whatever that meant, and being suspiciously paranoid that the captains friends and cavalry were going to greet us when we stepped outside. They didn't.
The ‘special’ burger turned out to be a normal burger. With pineapple and honey smeared on it. It tasted sickly sweet like something that might be given for second prize at a fairground, the winner getting an actual burger. A bizarre end to a bizarre day, I felt drained and saddened and in need of some home comfort. When the only internet café we could find failed to log me into my email, I returned to the hotel tired and frustrated. Not a good end to the day.
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