Advertisement
Published: September 10th 2008
Proud papa
Father and son in some unknown town about an hour southwest of Da Nang.The alarm goes off at 7 a.m. on our day off. It takes me a moment to A) register the snappy cell phone ring tone is not part of my early morning dream, and B) remember that we’re committed to a daylong motorbike excursion through neighbouring Quang Nam province with our Aussie friend Quentin and his girlfriend Chau. It’s a plan we excitedly hatched over a bucket of Heinekens on the beach two days previous, but it takes three or four snooze buttons before I can muster the same enthusiasm I had that night. A little muesli and yoghurt and homebrewed Vietnamese coffees get us moving and out the door somehow only 15 minutes behind schedule.
We meet at their place near the opera house and head west out of the Da Nang City limits. This is the second time we’ve taken this route, the first being crammed into the back of a tour van with six other people on the way to a school-sponsored overnighter at Ba Na Mountain (see
A tale of campfire, techno and karaoke). The scenery is unquestionably better absorbed through the open air, and I look at things again for the first time. We head
through the industrial outskirts and out into the country.
Within 25 minutes of leaving downtown Da Nang, we stop to visit some friends of Quentin’s whose house lies just off the highway, approachable only by a short steep bike path into the trees. We are greeted by An and An - different pronunciation - a brother and sister duo who could pass as fraternal twins. Quentin met Ms. An on the side of the road during one of his many motorbike journeys. She invited him to her house for lunch, they struck up a friendship and now her family is offering to sell Quentin some land. It’s so Vietnamese.
We slip out of our sandals before entering the house and seat ourselves on oversized, dark wooden furniture, the staple of most Vietnamese homes. It’s a small and simple house, with a smooth concrete floor and wooden slat walls that show sunlight through its cracks. We get acquainted with the two Ans, and learn that Ms. is studying to be an English translator and Mr. is taking computer science. The mother joins us, bringing a glass of ice water for each of her guests. She speaks French, English and
Vietnamese. Another situation where I feel seven years of French lessons were a complete waste.
“Parlez-vous Francais?” the mother asks.
“Un petit peu,” Marc and I both give what has become our standard reply. The truth is, my response is more of a literal answer in that “Un petit peu” is really all I can say in French.
We spend most of the time talking to Quentin about our former professions and admiring a large, laminated puzzle, a collage of Olympics posters over the last 50 years, that’s been given prominence high on the wall. We wait patiently for the uncle/father/cousin group of what turned out to be six men to arrive so they can take us out to see the land in question.
After 20 minutes or so, we are led into the bush to view Quentin’s land, two hectares of largely untouched earth with a ticket price of thirty thousand dollars. The brush is high and thick; a large hill offers a spectacular view and therefore the ideal location to build the house. A shallow, clear creek borders the property. Quentin, who has been living and working in Vietnam in various English language training
capacities for about six years, is interested in co-buying a piece of land, not just to build a home, but to build a dorm-like facility to bring students or clients - a place for retreats, team-building opportunities, or a shooting off point for tours into the wilderness like the one we plan to undertake today.
Marc explores the land while Quentin makes calls to his potential partner and I make small talk with Chau. She’s 24 and from the Mekong Delta. She met Quentin a year and a half ago in Saigon, where he owns a restaurant in the backpacker district. I sense irony in the story of the country girl who moves to the big city and falls in love with the foreigner who dreams of moving to the country. The negotiations end with talk of red books and yellow books and lawyers and who’s phoning who before we finally get back on our bikes and depart.
We drive past an ostrich farm and across rivers with white rock beds, on roads that switch from brand new, roomy and smooth to narrow and destroyed in a matter of meters. At times, Highway 616 is not much wider
Near Prau
The picturesque river crossing where we stop to eat...but not swim. than a new suburban sidewalk, but hardly the quality, twisting and elevating around tight mountain turns. Motorbikes and mid-sized vehicles of the oncoming variety appear out of nowhere driving in the middle of the road.
The scenery changes quickly. The mountain terrain looks rougher, speckled by grand black rocks. Accessible only by shoddy, oft-repaired suspension bridges, stilt houses with thatched roofs peak through trees on the other side of the now murky river. We stop to break at a picturesque river crossing where four young boys playfully swim. We’re startled by their appearance: darker skin, rounder faces and muscular features. Chau speaks to them in Vietnamese, which they understand, but their mother tongue is another language. Maybe Laotian, maybe Cambodian, she’s not sure.
We eat the ham and tomato rolls Quentin has packed in the cooler strapped to his motorbike and contemplate going for a dip to cool off.
“The water’s moving, so it must be okay,” says Quentin, repeating advice he says he once heard indicating it’s safe to swim.
“If you swim in the water you will smell like buffalo,” Chau warns, and we turn to note the sleepy water buffalo cooling his underbelly
not far upstream.
We forgo the swim, finish our rolls and decide they would best be washed down with beer. Being Vietnam Day, a national holiday, we are turned away from our first attempt because the owners are too engrossed in a friendly, money laden game of cards to offer us any service. Not far up the road, we find a cool spot that offers the hospitality we’re looking for: cold beer and red plastic chairs.
While Chau chats with the owner, Quentin, Marc and I swap stories about Canadian and Australian culture, landscapes and recreation before turning our discussion to US politics, sports, family heritage, tattoos and whatever comes up, including the fact that Marc’s non-existent ass has become affectionately known as his “lower back.”
We hop back on our bikes and before long we come to a crossroads in the city of Prau. This is even new terrain for Quentin, who is keen for long and random drives throughout the Da Nang area. We fill up on gas and head south on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, rather than back from where we came. This historic highway was a major supply route for the North
Vietnamese army, the Viet Cong, during the American War. VC soldiers schlepped supplies and weapons from the North Central city of Vinh, the birthplace of Uncle Ho, all the way to Saigon - two thirds the length of the entire country. After just 10 minutes on this zipper-like passageway, today in much greater condition than during the war, it’s impossible to imagine how they did it.
The scenery is rich with character, both in landscape and in people. Emerald mountains undulate, overlap, and loom over a brilliant terracotta river. Cattle graze on roadside greens, while less fortunate water buffalo drag heavy wagons under the watchful eyes of their female owners. Some men work, while other men trudge home after their work is finished. Teenage boys with freshly-styled hair wear their best shirt and set out in small groups toward the next town with plans of cruising the strip by foot. A remarkably raw young woman walks barefoot in a jewel-toned sarong. She is followed by the infant strapped to her back, a cow and a few small children. She smiles at us, and the moment is beautiful.
Our little Honda struggles up the inclines, as Quentin’s bigger Suzuki
Shelter from the rain
We pulled under this overhang situated just off the Ho Chi Minh Trail when it started pouring. with a lighter load speeds away. We delight in the downhill lengths, when Marc takes it out of gear and we coast silently and smoothly, inhaling every moment of our freedom.
“You guys really move it on the downhill,” says Quentin, as we catch up after falling behind for quite some time.
“A lot of mass on this bike,” replies Marc.
“A lot of lower back,” Quentin quips, likely thinking Marc said “ass”. Momentum and laughter take us further ahead.
Shortly after we pick up from a five-minute rest stop at a dam construction site, it begins to rain. Slow, heavy drops splash our clothing. It starts cutting at our faces and we know that even if we stop to put on our two-main rain suit, we’ll be soaked and unable to drive anyway. We see Quentin and Chau franticly pull off the highway toward a long, wooden structure with a metal roof that looks abandoned and offers shelter in its overhang. Just as the rain starts to come down hard, we maneuver our motorbikes in under the awning.
Moments later, a man appears and welcomes us inside. He pours tea and hands out towels.
Family gathering
The family (or maybe just people in the general area, we're not sure) that took us in during the rain. This man is in the midst of singing. Within five minutes, about a dozen men, women and children fill the room, doing nothing more than staring and smiling at us, except the two ladies who busy themselves with removing each other’s head lice just outside the doorway. They cannot speak a lick of English.
The only man interested in actually sitting with us is completed wasted. Hey, it’s a holiday. He converses with Chau and Quentin, who can also speak Vietnamese, and continually attempts to speak to me and Marc, as well. As Quentin translates, the drunk man says, “Look, she’s laughing. She must understand me.” No, dude, you’re just cracking me up. He spontaneously sings through the rain with a remarkable voice. The whole room claps in unison, though Quentin informs us they are very sad songs about the war. Right…this is the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The rain stops and we kindly thank them before promptly returning to our bikes and hightailing it out of there. Less than five minutes later the road is dry. It didn't rain here.
About 45 minutes from Da Nang, we make a final stop to rest our backsides and have an iced coffee in a no-name town. I’m
The wee welcome wagon
The first children to spot us at our final rest stop. greeted by an old image of Britney Spears on the café table, but I am mistaken to believe the town is familiar with foreigners. Within ten minutes, almost every child in the area has swarmed to the café, staring, giggling and touching us with great interest. The adults gather too and we get a kick out of making the children squeal with laughter and Marc takes many photographs. Everywhere we go today we are celebrities. And all day I’ve wondered how Chau is received by her fellow Vietnamese, considering her relationship with a foreigner. I am dying to ask, but the national custom of helping people save face by never making them uncomfortable trumps my usual propensity to pose inappropriate questions.
The final stretch showcases vast, checkered rice fields and muddy ponds contrasted by bubblegum pink water lilies. On the valley side of the highway, shirtless and shoeless boys plays soccer with makeshift bamboo goal posts, while pastel watercolour tombs dot the hillside. The road becomes a six-lane divided highway with dense traffic, and we spot our city on the horizon. The sun is setting, pink to bluish to dust. All told, we’ve been on the road for nine
hours, including stops, and travelled a distance of 300 km. It was just a slice of Central Vietnam, but as Quentin said, “It was epic.”
Advertisement
Tot: 0.187s; Tpl: 0.04s; cc: 13; qc: 73; dbt: 0.091s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
Momma Smith
non-member comment
What a Day!
Wonderful pictures, and beautiful writing -- I felt like I was on the trip with you - and loved it. I had a thought when you mentioned all the kids gathering around - could be neat to carry a polaroid camera - and give them pictures of themselves or with you as you go (might cost a fortune in film tho!) We miss you both !!!! love and hugs - mom