I landed in Hanoi at 9:30 p.m. and was met with an insufferable heat and a personable taxi driver. I had expected the heat. The articles and videos which had educated me on Vietnamese travel were careful to caution other travelers on the oppressive climate. Having just flown from Alaska, I knew I would need to deliberately acclimate and incessantly hydrate. I emerged from immigration and was instantly sweaty. So it begins, I thought.
I found a taxi driver who spoke English and within a minute of shaking hands I was sitting shotgun in his hightech but plastic-feeling car. We sped south over the red river towards the old quarter in Vietnam’s capital. I was dropped in the center of a four way intersection which was filled and lined with tourists, vendors, motorbikes, dogs, musicians, cafes, bars, clubs, young children, and old drunk men. Later that night, while dozing off in a hostel bunk, a vivid picture began to form in my mind; an image of dense jungle and lush countryside and rich, authentic culture, away from tourist-ridden infrastructure. My heart was set on an opulent journey spent immersing myself in a culture so far removed from my own. In the afternoon of the following day I began preparations for my trek south.
I discovered ‘Style Motorbikes’ on a busy street corner a block back from the D. Hong highway. The small shop was well established but obviously run by foreigners. Dutch and American and Irish flags hung from poles above the door. Motorbikes of all shapes and sizes were parked in neat rows all around the front of the business. I squeezed between handlebars and headlights and entered through the open front door. The interior was a wonderful mix of gear, maps, and signs which proudly stated the prices of various bikes. Above the front desk a large map was hung. Hundreds of pins indicated the origins of many renters who came through Hanoi. Pins of all colors clustered in Amsterdam, London, New York, and Melbourne. I noticed that only one lonely blue pin was stuck in the North of Alaska. The man sitting at the desk gave me a steady handshake and a warm welcome. He spoke with a steady American accent. We began discussing my plan to travel south to Hoi An. The man was skeptical of my route and time frame, and he recommended I take at least a week to traverse from Hanoi to Hoi An, explaining that most travelers take two weeks to complete the route. I told him that I needed to be in Hoi An no later than the 15th. He told me that I would have to bike for at least 9 hours a day in order to make that schedule. He asked reasonable questions which quickly illustrated and made painfully clear my inexperience. “Biking experience? Not much? Okay, what is your experience with off-road versus cruisers? Hmm, well when was the last time you rode a motorcycle? Never…?”
The elephant in the room was that I, an uninsured, inexperienced and overconfident American wanted a motorcycle to complete a route in half the time that it takes even skilled off-roaders. I wanted a fully manual bike that could handle the dirt and rock roads I would encounter in the mountain passes with an included luggage rack for my pack. The man, bless him, was hesitant to rent me a mo-ped, much less a Harley. After discussing my various options for close to an hour we agreed on a Semi-automatic Honda Wave and a 30 minute driving lesson by a friend of the shop owner. He gave me several tips regarding my route and the challenges I may face while biking.
I expected a fair amount of paperwork but was instead presented with a single-sheet-contract. It asked that I offer my name, date of birth, and passport number. That’s it.
“No insurance?” I asked. The man let out a hearty laugh.
“There’s no insurance in Vietnam.”
I paid him $87 and was fitted with a helmet and a custom, route-specific map. My bike was parked in front of the shop and I was given a tour of its various functions by the shopkeeper. He then introduced me to a short Vietnamese man who wore a bright shirt, an ecstatic smile, and a pair of starkly yellow flip flops.
“This is my friend, Hai. He will teach you how to ride.” The American said.
Hai climbed onto my bike and patted on a small slice of seat behind him. I swung my legs over the back rack and slung on my helmet. Hai took off the moment my feet were leveled on the foot pegs. We sped through the afternoon traffic and I wondered how on earth I would ever drive in conditions like this on my own. I watched as hundreds of cars, buses, motorbikes, tuk tuks, and bicycles darted freely about in streets without lanes, signs, or stop lights. Two large metal bridges loomed overhead and I lifted several silent prayers as my skilled driver shot the gap between several semi’s and buses. I hung onto Hai as he followed the massing flow of traffic before pulling into a quieter, comparatively tranquil avenue. In an instant Hai hopped off of the bike, pulled me forward, leaned in close and explained.
“Break, okay? Horn, okay? First gear through fourth gear, okay? Clutch, okay? Kick stand, okay? Okay, go!”
“Go?” I asked him, overwhelmed.
“Yes, go! Do loop, come back.” He pointed towards the busy street which we had just escaped from. I gulped, straightened myself on the seat, and slowly shifted from neutral into first gear. I shakily did a small left loop, dragging the heel of my left boot along the gravel as I went. Hai yelled from the curb,
“Faster! Go, second gear, go into the street!”
I shifted into second gear without releasing the gas and listened as metal scraped against metal. All of a sudden, without intention or full knowledge, I was in third gear, barreling towards the packed but fast moving street. I turned right and flowed alongside a group of bikers. I attempted to turn back but, after almost hitting an old woman on a bike and a small child on a scooter, I continued on, stressfully. The shoulder of the highway was my ally and I stayed alongside it for as long as I could. I made a few attempts to turn back and watched helplessly as Hai and the tranquility of the side street faded behind me. It was 10 minutes before I finally saw the beaming face of my instructor. He looked worried and annoyed but still wore that same smile.
“Where you go?” He asked.
“I got a little carried away.” I responded.
Hai then offered the most encouraging, effective, and memorable phrase which would go on to help me through the many daunting moments of my journey.
“Listen,” He began, “You must commit, fully. Never fear, just go. You only die if you back down, do not hesitate. Also… use your horn.”
I attempted the same loop, this time with an unusual and unwise level of confidence. I snaked between buses and taxis and felt generally capable. My horn was a handy friend and I quickly learned to use it far more than even the most terrible road-rager in the western world. I learned that the horn is of vital importance as a biker in Vietnam, comparable to the brakes and gas, and I utilized it as often as possible.
Hai and I said goodbye back in front of the bike shop. I found a car-park near my hostel and, after several practice loops around the old quarter, paid a security officer to lock my bike alongside a hundred others. The following morning, after a seriously huge breakfast, I walked through the narrow streets to the parking lot and began checking my bike for the day ahead of me. My plan was to take it easy on my first day and only bike about 4 hours south to the scenic village of Ninh Binh. Studying the map, I noted several gas stations and the major turns I would need to take in order to escape the already escalating morning traffic of Vietnam's capital. I pulled myself onto the hot seat of the Honda and, very slowly, started along the street towards the bridge. Twenty minutes later I was cruising along a large highway pass which gave me an excellent view of the city. An hour later I was out of the city completely. The bustle of the metropolitan area was replaced by massive and terrifyingly fast semi-trucks hauling grain and soot on freeways laid through agricultural communities. Most of my first day on the road was spent coughing up the soot from semi-trucks (I had not yet gained the full courage to pass them).
The entire day I rode the razor's edge between the mighty utopia of courage and the dismal abyss of endless fear. Everyone I had talked to who had experience biking in Vietnam told me the same thing at one time or another:
“You are going to have near-death experiences.”
I heard stories of incredibly close calls and prayers lifted to a God most bikers did not believe in until those close calls.
“I almost died on 6 separate occasions.” One German motorcyclist told me the night before I began my trip.
Listening to their narratives, I wasn't all that worried. If I'm careful and slow I will be alright, I thought.
It was about one o’clock in the afternoon on June 10th, when I really understood what all those other bikers were talking about.
I was traveling at a decent speed, still checking my rear and blind-spots every now and again. My senses were still sharp and efficient as I plugged along on a fairly empty countryside road. Then, in an instant, a blue van pulled out from an unseen left street. I put on my brakes as hard as I could and swiftly turned my handlebars to the left. Passing the van with only inches between us, we both honked in panic and fear. My bike and body continued on but my throat and stomach were left somewhere near the van. Pulling over, I still did not breathe. My heart skipped four or five beats before it started working again. The image of my front tire less than a meter from the speeding car was imprinted into my mind and I saw it each time I squeezed my eyelids. After a minute of processing I began driving again. I was only an hour from my destination. I could not arrive fast enough.
The moment my eyes met the distant horizon, set with petroleum plants and starkly rising cliff sides, I knew I was incredibly close to refuge and a long, ice-cold shower. Ninh Binh, though catering to tourism year round, is a complete environmental immersion.
The agricultural lands of the North are cut short by an immediately tall mountainous landscape. I went from rice fields to remarkable and almost fictitiously marvelous towers of stone and dirt in an instant. Once enveloped by the glorious scenery, all of my stress, worry, and caution faded away until I was left with only a courteous sense of awareness. I hummed ruefully to songs stuck in my head as I raced over well paved roads and, eventually, gravel covered pathways. Ninh Binh was a remarkable breath of fresh air. I traversed narrow trails raised up between large rice fields all under the shadow of large hay-stack looking mountains. Passing homes hidden between thick bunches of trees, I was barked at by dogs and yelled at by small children. I felt like a bull in a china shop plowing through the tranquility of the quiet farms and homesteads with my loud, bucking honda engine. The sun was lost beneath the cliff sides. Only golden and orange light poured into the valleys and alleys and the various shops and stops of the wondrous region. After a few minutes the dirt road became a narrow path no more than 3 feet wide. I found my accommodation, an obscure bungalow-inn set 7 miles inland from the main town, and stopped my bike with gratitude. Feeling sore and grateful, I unmounted my motorcycle’s seat. The innkeeper was poised and ready for me. She was watching youtube on her Ipad as I walked towards the bamboo-covered desk. I inquired about a night at her lovely cliffside hotel and she joyfully informed me, through broken English, that she had plenty of rooms available. I showed her my passport and flashed 400,000 in Dong cash ($16 USD) before she signed me up and handed me a key. I found my cabin nestled underneath a colossal outcropping of vegetation-clad cliffside. The room was a pleasant respite.
It was air conditioned and had a stack of white bath towels. I immediately stripped and showered and laid on the large mattress, clean and thankful.
I was hungry. The day was getting late and so, excitedly, I dressed and hopped back onto my bike in search of a place to eat. I backtracked along the rocky path until I found a small field and a raised wooden hut. Beneath the hut a young boy sat with a group of 5 or 6 oxen. He flicked flies off of the backs of the large animals and smiled at me as I slowly passed his homestead. The air had cooled off considerably and my spirits were high as I found and followed a paved road for a few minutes before I saw signs advertising a lakeside restaurant. The signs guided me along a winding trail which snaked through thick patches of kapok trees. The restaurant was built into the looming stone precipice and looked over a vast lake and a close mountain range which was purely silhouetted as I parked my bike alongside a dozen others. The menu which was presented to me by the restaurateur had enough diversity to satisfy every person of any origin. I could have gluttonously consumed Italian, Mexican, Japanese, Chinese, and a wide array of Western cuisine. Instead I ordered a local dish called Bun Bo Xo which consists of beef, lemongrass, and a variety of thinly sliced vegetables. The meal was remarkable. As I puttered back towards my cabin in the fading light of day all I could think of was sleep and another cold shower.
I awoke in my air conditioned room the following morning and immediately began loading my bike. I bought two bottles of water from the inn-keeper and secured my bag to the rack of my motorcycle as the sun turned the sky pink. My map, which I kept in a small cubby between my legs, was referenced briefly before I lifted my kickstand. My goal was to arrive in the mountain village of Pho Chau before nightfall. It would require about 9 hours of biking. The morning was already hot as I started maneuvering the farmland around 6:30.
Two old shepherds were leading their goats and oxen along the main dirt road. I slowly and apologetically weaved through the cattle. Once my wheels struck the asphalt of the Mai Son highway I began opening up on the throttle and sped through tunnels and over bridges. Mid-morning came and went much faster than I had expected as I continued south through Bin Son and Thanh Hoa. Large roundabouts the size of ‘The Arc De Triomphe’ were my hourly challenge. Each time I entered one it was all I could do to avoid racing semi-trucks and the many unpredictable hordes of motorbikes and, if I was fortunate, adequately exit in the correct direction. At noon I stopped at a fruit stand and devoured two oranges and a mango while watching the highway. The landscape had taken a humdrum turn. Houses and shops dotted the countryside but, for the most part, there was very little excitement in the flat fields and dancing heat mirages.
The heat was truly a battle. I sweat through my clothes and my nose usually maintained a steady drip, accumulating perspiration from my hair and neck and face. A man on the side of a remote road sold me another liter of water. The water was always hot, even when I hid it deep beneath my pack. I was filled with comfort as I began cruising along well paved, shaded roads. The jungle which offered me shade also made it incredibly difficult to gain any sense of direction. I followed my physical map the best I could and occasionally used my phone to ensure that I was actually headed south. The canopy above me was rich with screaming birds and crickets. I stopped a few times to stretch and massage my thighs, which were taking a bit of a beating on the more unmaintained routes.
I ran out of water around 4:00 in the afternoon and watched miserably as the battery in my phone died due to the excessive heat. My map offered me no assurance that I was traveling in the right direction or that the road I cruised was the correct one. Then, all of a sudden, the thick jungle broke and I entered a remarkably beautiful valley. Splendid golden light poured over the mountains and cast mammoth shadows on the distant village, which rose up on a green hill like a fortress. I saw a sign that indicated I was only 17 kilometers from the village of Pho Chau.
I came into Pho Chau just before 6:00 o’clock. I was in a terribly dirty state. In fact, as I noted in my journal that evening, it was on the night of June 11th 2023 that I, Matthew Nash, was the dirtiest I have ever been. The undersides of my arms were pitch black from grease, oil, and the crumbling texture of my handlebars. The tops of my arms, sunburned and ragged, were covered in a thick sheet of grime. The collar and sleeves of my shirt were soiled with mud and sweat stains. Small scrapes littered my knuckles and shins and knees. My bare left elbow had spots of dried blood and even more dirt from lounging on the side of the road when checking my rear suspension a few hours earlier. Salt water was crusted around my ears, eyes, mouth, and nose.
You can imagine how happy I was when I found a hotel which would accept me. The village only had one hotel and I did not have a plan B in case it was closed or full. The hotel manager, who did not speak English, welcomed me with a smile. She informed me, through Google translate, that she had to prepare my room before I could check in. I was shown to a chair on a balcony which overlooked the main village market. While I waited I conversed through gestures with an ancient-looking Vietnamese man. The man sat across from me and wore only a small pair of shorts. His torso was wrinkled and his face was set with eyes so old they may have seen the French occupation. Because we did not speak the same language we resorted to a show-and-tell. He fished a folded picture from his left pocket. I held the photo up to the light and saw that, in it, the old man was standing next to an elderly Vietnamese woman. I showed the man my visa and gave him several rough sketches I had done the night before. He rushed to his room and returned with his passport and citizen ID. The man on the ID card was unlike the man who sat across from me. The man in the photo was well groomed and wore a military uniform. I followed suit by showing him my blue U.S passport. He smiled a toothless smile and held onto my passport for a full minute, flipping through the pages, inspecting my past itinerary.
The manager informed me that my room was ready. I said goodbye to the old man and shook his hand gently.
Showers are gifts. I forget about them, like breathing and food and good times, but when you are filthy, truly disgusting, a shower is a kiss from Christ. I watched the dirt steadily drip from my body and file into long streams before draining into a hole in the corner of the bathroom. I scrubbed for 10 minutes and emerged from the shower cleaner than I had ever been before. I washed my stinky clothes and hung them on a broken AC unit next to an open window. I donned my only clean garments, a pair of cargo shorts and a brown tank top, and headed out the door.
I walked slowly through the central market and analyzed the town as a whole. It had no central theme other than practical buildings and old cobblestone streets. The town assumed a simple and beautiful nature in my mind. It is built on a small hill in the basin of a valley with two soft, distant mountain ranges on either side. The shadows from the ranges stretched across the valley until it reached the rooftops of the homes and shops.
Pho Chau is exactly what I was searching for. It was exactly what I could not find in Ninh Binh or Hanoi: The authentic, local, untainted Vietnam.
This place is not built for travelers. It is not built for anything other than working, sleeping, living, loving, rearing, earning, and spending. The difference between this village and Hanoi is night and day. It was obvious, from the reactions of the locals, that Pho Chau does not see tourists often. Old men scowled at me. Shop owners waved to me. Young women smiled at me. I was practically jumped by a group of enthusiastic youths. Several of them decided to gift me pebbles and bottle caps. They ran off excitedly, all tumbling about one another, speaking fast. I continued walking until I found a shop that offered cheap Pho. I slurped from a plastic bowl and watched darkness flood the streets. Lights were turned on and all the fans were turned off.
When I returned to my hotel I met a man named Thang. He spoke English and we talked for an hour before he offered to give me a tour of the village on his bike. I agreed and a minute later we were flying through the streets on his cruiser. He showcased the various businesses he owns around town. Through a metalshop, a community center, a realty office, and a gym we spoke about his life and experiences abroad. Thang, on top of managing four businesses, is a political advocate. He writes various articles and blogs in opposition to the communist government. I interviewed him for the better part of an hour over coffee in a corner cafe. He told stories of imprisonment and persecution and continued efforts by him and his, now underground, team of campaigners. We said goodbye and I retired for the night, exhausted and at ease.
The following morning was a flurry of effort and motion. I began South along the Ho Chi Minh highway, exiting Pho Chau as the sun rose. Determined to beat the heat in every possible way, I flicked on my headlights and valiantly charged through the dark and empty streets. Ho Chi Minh Highway is an iconic and well established road which cuts through the most wonderful landscapes. As the sky lit up I watched the locals in the countryside begin their daily activities. The entire morning was spent in high spirits. Around noon, as the sun began its full assault, I stopped for gas and a bottle of water, half of which I poured over my neck. I continued on through the Quang Binh province. My destination for that night was the coastal city of Dong Hoi. The villages, as I continued south, grew more and more remote.
I tried not to bellyache over the inescapable discomfort of humidity. I could feel the sun crisping the base of my neck and the soft white underbelly of my arms. My knuckles suffered under the direct sun. I sought a cold drink and a patch of shade. The sides of the road consisted of shrubs and gravel and the occasional house. Finally, after an hour of lusting over the thought of an ice cold coke, I saw what appeared to be a restaurant. The wheels of my bike sputtered gravel as I came to a sharp stop beneath a large tree. Walking into the front of the shop, I noticed that it was completely abandoned. No motorcycles or cars were parked. No staff or customers could be found inside. I lifted one hopeless ‘hello?’ into the air before walking out, back towards my bike. As I began pulling my helmet over my head I saw a shirtless man emerge from the doorway of the shop. He waved to me and smiled enthusiastically. I walked towards him, shook his hand, and explained, in very limited Vietnamese, that I did not speak Vietnamese. I made the gesture for ‘eating’ by lifting my fingers to my mouth, and he immediately led me inside. He sat me on a plastic chair in front of a plastic table. He disappeared into the back and quickly returned with a woman by his side. Together they positioned three fans and a large air conditioning unit in front of me. Each time I offered to help I was ushered back to my small chair. A can of Coke was pulled from a cooler and placed on the plastic table, complimented by a glass filled with ice. The aluminum and glass were both frosty.
The woman and man scuttled into the back, returning 15 minutes later, each holding a large tray supporting various dishes, cups, and pots. They set the trays down on the table in front of me, pulled out chairs on their side, and sat down. It was an enormous amount of food. Rice, steamed lemongrass, fried rice, beef, pork, chicken, sticky rice, fried fish, eggs, soup, and a large bowl of cold salad. They encouraged me to dig in. I took my first bite and they watched carefully. I chewed, swallowed, and gave a thumbs up alongside a grateful smile.
“It’s amazing! I love it.”
They beamed and rejoiced. I pushed a dish towards them as an invitation to join me in my massive meal, but they refused. They rubbed their stomachs, indicating that they were already full. They continued to sit across from me, silent and smiling, while I devoured the delicious food. After a few minutes two young women, who I later learned were their daughters, came into the room. We all sat around, trying to communicate but mostly failing. I asked questions through google translate and when one of us misunderstood or failed to acknowledge a phrase our immediate default was to fall into communal laughter. The feast continued and beer was brought out and the laughter kept on heartily. The older daughter, an 18 year old named Linh, was interested in my camera. I took various family portraits of the four and the younger daughter taught me how to write my full name and introduction in Vietnamese.
I checked the time and was astonished to see that two hours had passed. Two hours without a word of verbal communication, just laughter and photographing and eating and drinking. When I pulled out my wallet to pay the shirtless man shook his head and did not accept payment. I attempted to slip Linh a few measly bills but was met with a sincere and firm response. They gave me a water bottle for the road and I waved to the merry family as I walked out the door. They never asked who this sweaty, uninvited foreigner was, they only shared both a meal and company, two things I craved badly.
Back on my bike, I poured water on my neck and drove fast through the countryside. I was only two hours from Dong Hoi and found myself in a lackadaisical mood as I entered a smooth valley road. I followed the valley until its end and climbed up a mild mountain range before plunging into another gorge. A wide, dirty river runs along the center of this valley, called Song Gianh. I puddered along the East side of the river for the better part of an hour.
Then I crashed my motorcycle.
I was traveling at 64 Kilometers an hour. I know because I was zoning out, staring at the speedometer when, in the distance, I saw a small red car pull a fast left turn and stop directly in my path. I put on the breaks, hard, but it was no use. As my bike made impact with the hood of the car and my body was hurled over and along the windshield, I lifted a desperate prayer:
God, please let me live.
I landed well on the other side of the car, tucked, and rolled several feet. I stayed down. My left leg and my right shoulder were both numb. The driver and his family piled out of the car.
They surrounded my frame, which laid haphazardly in the center of the busy road, and helped carry me to the shoulder of the street where I was propped up under the shade of a large stone wall. A crowd began to form as other drivers and passerbyers came to see what the stupid westerner had done this time. When they saw the blood and my bike and the red car the crowd erupted into a flurry of comotion. Water, rubbing alcohol, bandages, neosporin, advil, and a dirty, sweaty bandana were all brought to me. A man with a deep tan and a blue hat crouched in front of me and rolled up my pant legs. He rubbed neosporin deep into the gashes on my thighs and shins. As I sat there, drinking water in the shade, being pampered by a hoard of kindhearted locals, I felt truly relieved. Then the pain hit. I felt it first in my shoulder, which was the first thing to hit the car. The pain carved an electric arc in my neck, down along my biceps and elbows to the tips of my fingers, back up my arms where it then shot down to my hips and my torn legs. I wanted to stand and find my bike, continuing on until I found a safe haven in Dong Hoi, but there I was - in the dirt, peering up at the adults in the situation like a child who had just fallen from a tree. I checked my head and a man in a yellow shirt, protected by the shade of two others, checked my pupils for dilation. I did not want to jump the gun; I simply could not believe that my wrists and knees were intact, unshattered. Still, I knew, after checking my neck and head and major arteries, that I was alright. Now the large task of recovery was at hand. I gritted my teeth and tried to distract myself with practicalities.
Against the murmurs and admonishments of the crowd I pulled myself to my feet and started to ask the real questions: My phone? My bike? My pack? The car? Was everyone else alright?
I found my phone exactly how I left it before the crash. Unharmed, still telling me to turn left on Doang Cha Avenue in 120 meters. I then inspected my bike. The handlebars and entire frontal frame was mangled into an ugly sight. The headlights, transmission, front body, and tire rim were all either damaged or gone. The right mirror was completely missing (I found it 12 meters from the site). I looked at the entire pitiful scene with an impossibly unhopeful eye. I recalled the words of the kind American, in Hanoi, who sold me the bike:
“There’s no insurance in Vietnam”
I examined the car which I had hit. The front-right side of the body was peppered with small dents. The right headlight was busted. A spider-web crack had erupted in the far left side of the windshield. I realized that it was from my head smacking against the glass when I first landed on the hood. I thanked God that I was wearing a helmet.
The entire time, while I analyzed the scene, I was followed by a group who were all, in their native tongue, beckoning me to sit back down and tend to the scrapes on my arms. I slumped against the wall and let several of them rub alcohol on my cuts and cover them with various bandages. In my pack, which had miraculously stayed attached to the rear of my bike (a testament to the bowline), I had a full first-aid kit with gauze and limb wraps. I wasn't bothered to access it, though. My support team was doing a fabulous job at patching me up. Once the last bandaid was secured I stood back up and found the man who was driving the red car. He did not speak English and so his daughter, a woman named Mai, translated for us. Mai was kind and wore a full formal getup. Her hair was perfect and her lips were covered in a thick but even layer of red lipstick. She told me that they were all on their way to a wedding of their cousins when I came barreling over their windshield.
I asked several questions about the logistics moving forward. She would turn to the crowd and translate, and I would watch with amazement as the crowd fell into chaos about every decision, obviously disagreeing. When there had been enough yelling the driver of the car would speak up to the daughter and the daughter would turn to me to translate. Finally, she imparted the most impactful news:
“We have agreed,” She began, “That the crash was our fault.”
The driver approached me with his wife and laid a hand on my shoulder. He gave me a thumbs-up and gently patted my arm. The daughter continued,
“We will cover your medical and your bike fixes. We take you to mechanic now.”
The wife began a barrage of arguments towards her daughter. The older woman, also dressed in formal wear, was contorting her face in an odd mixture of worry and anger and general displeasure. The daughter was apparently consoling and assuring her when, in an instant, the father snapped his fingers once in irritation. The wife stopped her complaints and the daughter said something to the father. I was in the dark, aside from presumptuous observations based purely on facial expressions, and so I asked Mai what they were saying.
“My mother wants to take you to the hospital. She thinks you may be badly injured.” The mother came close to me and placed two fingers on my temples.
“She thinks you have a head injury.”
The mother pointed to my head and then walked over to the car and pointed at the large, head-shaped crack in the windshield. She had a point. Even so, I was alright. Shapes and lines and colors were all sharp, and though my neck hurt, I knew I was certainly un-concussed. I did my best to dissipate her concern, though the mother did not surrender her maternal instincts in full; she continued to give me wary looks as I collected my scattered belongings, probably to substantiate my claim to good health.
The crowd dissipated as I climbed onto the back of a man’s motorcycle. Mai told me that he would drive me to the mechanic and that someone else would walk my bike there as well. Once we arrived I was ushered into the garage where a group of dirty mechanics all sat, smoking cigarettes. As soon as the procession arrived all of the men, who wore denim coveralls, leapt into action. Mai explained what happened to one of the mechanics and the man nodded along. I explained, with Mai as my mouthpiece, that I needed to be in Dong Hoi before dark. After a minute my bike arrived and it was brought into the shop. Mai translated regarding prices, duration, and the technical side of things. She and her parents insisted they pay for the damage. Her father approached me and handed me over 1,000,000 Dong in cash. The damages would cost nearly 800,000 dong (About $40 USD). They told me it would take 2 hours.
Mai led me by the hand into an air conditioned lobby. She sat next to me and we talked for 10 minutes before she rose and beckoned a mechanic over. She briefly spoke to him and then turned to me.
“I have to go now. My cousin is getting married in an hour.”
Before she left she brought me a bottle of water and a cold can of coca cola. I attempted to thank her but felt remarkably inadequate. How do you thank a legitimate guardian angel, someone who turned a theoretically nightmarish situation into a simple and straightforward problem with a feasible solution? She and her parents left, driving away in their dented red car.
I sipped on the water and watched the men work on my bike. They were impressively efficient and I observed them with fascination as they replaced the body, transmission, and entire front tire frame. I dug into my pack to find my first aid kit and re-dressed several of the gashes on my legs. I found a bathroom and washed the dried blood off of my hands and wrists.
Less than an hour later I was approached by one of the men and was beckoned to rise. I walked into the garage and saw a completely new motorcycle. I could not believe my eyes, it looked better than when I first rented it in Hanoi. Two brand new mirrors were attached atop a brand new frontal frame. I tested the transmission and gear and was astonished to hear it start up immediately. I paid the mechanics and thanked them profusely before re-tying my bag to the rear rack. Before I left one of the men approached me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and uttered one effective word of advice,
“Slow.” He said.
I gave him a thumbs up and promised to be careful. I swung my sore legs over the bike and, slowly, pulled out onto the street.
3 hours later I was sitting in a bar overlooking the beaches of Dong Hoi. Vendors and tourists and locals flocked about as the sun set over the South China Sea. I ran out of bandages and resorted to napkins stuffed in my socks and the creases of my pants. Later I popped ibuprofen, took an icy shower, and fell into a deep sleep.
The fourth and final day of my motorcycle trek was certainly the most taxing and challenging. I was in the home stretch and I could practically smell the coastal air of Hoi An. The La Son highway took me far inland and I rode for hours through dense, steep jungle. I began climbing to higher elevations and was blessed with some wondrous sights to offset the difficult heat.. The entire morning was a blur of exhausting turns and excruciating bumps. Various toll roads and alternate routes caused me to reference my phone often and subsequently drain it of its battery. All I wanted was to be in Hoi An. All I wanted was to get off of the motorcycle and find a cool, quiet place to rest. Hour upon hour, I rode on.
I got in the groove, rejoicing with incredible merriment at the wondrous landscapes and the fact that I would soon find myself in a beautiful town with a train taking me to Ho Chi Minh City the next day. Then came a few final challenges. I came around a smooth corner and was greeted by a towering cliffside and a roadblock at the edge of a dark tunnel. Three police trucks were parked on either side of the road and five policemen stood nearby. As I came around the corner all of the officers quickly filed into the center of the highway. There was a deep puddle of water all around the roadblock, and as I broke hard my back tire swung out and almost caused me an embarrassing crash. I regained my balance and stopped directly in front of one of the officers, my boots already filled with dirty water.
“The tunnel is closed.” The officer said.
“Why?” I asked.
“A burst waterline. No traffic through here.”
I looked into the tunnel and I saw that the puddle continued far into the shadowy abyss. Still, it did not look too deep to drive through. I tried reasoning with the officer, explaining that I would go very slowly, but the officer obviously had his orders.
“No traffic comes through here.”
“Well, how far back is the nearest detour?”
“This the only mountain road to Danang. You will have to return to highway A21 and follow coastal route, about 150 kilometers back.”
For whatever reason, panic struck me. 150 kilometers? I thought bitterly. I had been on the bike for 9 hours and mid-day had come and gone. I was unsure if I’d make it to Hoi An before dark and, more importantly, make my train early the next morning.
“Is there no other way, something closer?” I asked, sounding more like a child than I would have preferred.
“Highway A21 is the only other way. Sorry.”
“Can’t I just… pass through? I’ll be so careful.” I pleaded with the officer. I was practically on my knees begging.
“No.” He responded firmly.
I had been backtracking for a few minutes, lost in an undeserved resentment towards the police, when a desperate but, at that time, ingenious idea struck me. I noticed my fuel gauge was on E. I took the cola bottle which I was using for my gas reserve and hid it deep underneath my pack. I turned around and headed back towards the tunnel, confident that I could pull this off.
I spoke to a different officer than the one before. He did not speak English but all I needed were gestures and a bit of acting. I pointed to my fuel gauge and held up my hands, exasperated and hopeless.
“Empty! Not enough gas to go back!”
The officer nodded his head in understanding. He walked over to his truck and conferred with a few other officers. After a few minutes he returned. I explained that I needed to go through the tunnel to Hoi An, otherwise I would run out of gas. The officer thought for a moment and then lit up with a smile.
“No passage… but we give you petrol.” He said.
He walked over to another truck and pulled out a large translucent gas tank. While he siphoned gas from the truck into the tank another officer walked over to me. He began murmuring about something indiscernible and took an interest in my uninteresting bike.
“Rental?” He asked.
“Yes.” I responded.
He looked at my handlebars and gauge and checked out my wheels and frame. His eyes searched my ride and my heart beat faster as he looked towards my back rack. His mouth gaped wide with surprise.
I looked back, grimly, and saw what struck his attention. My gas reserve had worked its way out from under my pack and was hanging halfway off of my bike. He quickly yelled to the officer siphoning the precious gas. The jig was up, and the officers became very angry. The policeman standing by my bike pulled the cola bottle from its place and held it up for all of the other men to see. They all began yelling at me in Vietnamese and the officer near the truck removed the hose and tank from its place and swiftly moved towards me. They accused me of lying and cheating and wasting their time. Fair enough. I snatched the gas bottle from the officer which caused him to grab my collar angrily. I kicked my bike into 3rd gear, from neutral, and spat gravel from my back tire as I punched forward towards the tunnel. I examined the dark passage with interest. For one fleeting, tempting, eternal moment I considered blowing past the roadblock and charging through the veil of darkness. I flicked on my headlights. I could almost smell the sea salt breeze. Then reason gripped me and I thought of how short-lived the mountain pass police chase would be. I pulled a quick u-turn and sped past the yelling officers, back the way I came, entirely defeated.
I settled in for a few hours of backtracking. I checked my mirrors occasionally just to ensure that the petty-squabble did not inspire one of the officers to give chase.
I stopped at a gas station and bought two bottles of water and an ice cream sandwich. I sat on the hot curb and watched a group of Chinese tourists file out of a large sleeper bus. The man who was filling my bike offered me a cigarette. I looked at the lit cigarette he held in one hand and the pressurized, operational gas hose he held in the other. I politely declined. My maps indicated that I had another hour of backtracking before I could begin on the coastal highway. In my maps I noticed a thin brown line stretching across a mountainous expanse. Google did not acknowledge it as an actual road but, after lengthy consideration, I decided to try my luck at the shortcut.
Shortly after I made this decision to go off-road, my phone died. I was thoroughly on my own.
I weaved through private farmland and on remote residential pathways before I found a wide dirt trail that climbed steeply into the tall jungle mountain range. I rode in second gear along the rocky path and prayed often that it would drop me somewhere along the coast. Thirty minutes later I was descending on the other side of the range and saw the shimmering image of the ocean in the far distance. This gave me all of the hope and joy that I could ever need. Dehydrated, exhausted, and sun-scorched, I broke out in enthusiastic song.
On that day, if you happened to be sitting under a particular tree, along a particular road deep within Vietnam’s Danang mountain range, you may have heard ‘When peace like a river attendeth thy way’ emitting from a particularly sunburnt American.
Within an hour, I was back on a major highway which snaked high above the coastal cliff sides. I used signs to navigate the increasingly complex system of toll-roads and byways. I cruised through small towns propped up to service the narrow cliffside highway and took in the breathtaking scenery. It reminded me of my childhood drives along the coast of Southern California. I then began the final descent of my journey. The view of Danang city caught me off guard - seeing a city the size of San Francisco after days in the jungle was a surreal and welcome experience. The white skyline of the urban area was approached with speed and excitement. I passed through the city and found myself crossing a bridge, into the town of Hoi an. Evening was beginning its daily ritual and the sun was hiding behind the horizon as I pulled my Honda Wave into ‘Style Motorbikes’ on Cura Dai street.
The woman behind the desk was a blessing. She could sense my exhaustion and invited me to sit on a couch, presenting me with a cold beer while she filed my paperwork. I signed a simple contract and received my deposit back. The bike was taken from the front of the shop into the back, out of sight. I handed over my helmet along with the bungee cords I used to lash down my bag. In the fading light of day, with swollen feet, I walked from the bike shop. Following overgrown hedges in tight village streets, I thought with gratitude about all I had met and all I had seen, all in only a few days. My yearning for authenticity in Vietnam's northern-countryside was fulfilled in earnest, through the kind and true faces of strangers across the region. I continued walking through the alleyways, towards downtown, Towards a jewelry shop to exchange cash, towards a hotel and, most importantly, towards a large bowl of Pho.
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