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Published: December 9th 2007
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My route through Vietnam.After a few wrong turns and innumerable curse words I wheeled into Hoi An late, blinded by bus lights and searching for potholes in the dark. Sitting in a low lying coastal area Hoi An was one of a number of unlucky cities to be pounded by successive storms and devastating floods over the past month. Less than a week before I rode into Hoi An water levels had risen high enough to grind the National Highway to a halt and wreak havoc on the towns and villages along the central coast. The worst flooding to hit in years some said - bad enough to have local residents reminiscing over old photo albums and pointing out water level marks on buildings around town.
By the time I arrived the water levels had receded significantly, but near the river water levels were still fluctuating. Sensing the opportunity to make a quick buck, some women were offering to paddle tourists around the flooded areas and onto the river. Clean-up was well under way with young military men proving that they were just as adept at leaning on
shovels as Canadian city workers. The flooding was no joke though and one can only hope that the damage wasn't too severe and that the families and communities affected by the flooding will have the strength and support to begin rebuilding their lives and moving on.
As a once famous port city Hoi An has seen a range of influences over its years. Spared from the bombing during the American War the old city remains mostly intact offering visitors a glimpse into the lives of the Chinese merchants, Vietnamese sailors, French colonialists and the range of traders who left their footprints in passing. With a history of trading under their belts, the locals carry on the tradition with passion and flare - silk stores colour the streets and shoe stores, paintings, lanterns, and souvenirs fill in the remaining gaps.
Though I tried my hardest, believe me I did, it was impossible to ignore the sheer number of fat old package tourists who hobbled the streets of Hoi An's old city. After watching fragile old women showcase unimaginable strength by hauling lumber up hills and balancing buckets of water with bamboo sticks on their shoulders I was now witness
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The old quarters to useless old pensioners who needed help getting off their tour bus. Their tour guides were forced to pull double duty, acting as babysitters and diaper changers. Conversations of golf club memberships and retirement plans aside Hoi An was the perfect place for a few days of well deserved rest. I spent most of my time eating bowls of noodles, drinking tea and hanging out with a group of Australian's I met. The city was always in bed early. After a few Saigon beer and a game of cards I'd be left walking the silent streets to my hotel, my only company the huge rats who raced through trash piles in the dim street light. There was no question who these streets belonged to at night.
An alternate route took me thirty kilometres to Danang, but even away from the noise of Highway 1 there was still a fair share of excitement. A cement truck had rolled into the ditch taking with it a tangle of powerlines, giving the local village something to talk about during their afternoon tea. Less than a kilometre up the road I came upon a cafe fight between six drunk middle-aged men. Plastic tables
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Bananas and cigarettes down on the corner were flipped and a lot of red-faced yelling ensued. I was tempted to stick around to see if the catfight would eventually develop into a full force rumble but I didn't think that being knifed by a bunch of drunk and angry men was covered in my insurance policy, so I didn't stop. I spent a day in Danang only because a bakery just down the street from my hotel made delicious bacon, egg and cheese bagels that I couldn't stop eating.
Poking its head out of the South China Sea twenty kilometres north of Danang, the Hai Van Pass, or Sea of Clouds, was the only obstacle separating me from the ancient capital of Hue. A tunnel has been built recently, saving bigger vehicles from making the ten kilometre jaunt to the top, but being a man's man, a real crazy som-a-bitch, I headed for the clouds without even checking to see if bikes were able to pass through the tunnel. It took me about forty minutes to reach the top, with a French tourist videotaping me as I puffed to the finish line where I was met by some of the most obnoxious and aggressive touts I've
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The riverfront ever come across.
There are a few food and drink shops set-up at the top of the pass waiting for the tour buses who bring passengers to see the crumbling French look-out and snap photo's of the coast. When these poor unsuspecting tourists step off the bus they are accosted by little yelling women in conical hats who shove waterbottles, postcards, chocolate bars and jewelry in their faces and push, pull, and drag them every which way. Marketing experts would probably agree that abusing potential customers is not the most efficient way to close a sale, but their unorthodox methods seemed to be producing results. For most people being swarmed by aggressive old ladies who tug at your sleeves, a few dollars is worth it to relieve yourself of such an uncomfortable situation.
As I was watching the chaos unfold one of the shop owners, a thirty year old man, tried to strike up a casual conversation with me about penis size. Quite excited at the thought that, as a foreigner, I was living with a monster in my pants, he asked if he could see it. I laughed, thinking it a joke, until he made a quick
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Flooding near the river can't stop this girl nab at the waistband on my pants and I had to smack his hand like you would an undisciplined child reaching for a cookie before dinner. A strange place, that pass. Perhaps it's a lack of oxygen. I pondered the meaning of existence as I floated down the north side of the pass into a storm that followed me into Hue.
Hue was my final stopping point, the last outpost, if you will, before I headed west to Laos. I had to stock up on provisions. There is rumoured to be only one ATM machine in Laos, in the capital of Vientiane, so I had stash a pile of Vietnamese Dong into my money belt. I also bought a spare set of brake pads and began flipping through my RoughGuide to Laos.
There was really no reason for me to be bumming around in Hue for long, but the guesthouse workers took a liking to me and I found myself lingering for longer than expected. I couldn't figure out what it was they liked about me. Maybe it was my beaten down, befuddled appearance. Perhaps it was because I'd managed to squeeze myself into a $15/night guesthouse for
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The old city only $5, even though it meant I had to sleep on the seventh floor where the laundry was hung to dry. Either way, on my last night in Hue I was invited to feast on sticky rice and duck eggs along with the staff. Nothing says good luck like eating the head of an unborn duck!
Route 9, heading west from Dong Ha would eventually lead me back to the Mekong Laos city of Savannahket. But first I had to cross through the Annamite mountain range, the natural barrier that for over a thousand years has separated the Indianized culture of Lao from the ever advancing Vietnamese. Older guidebooks describe Route 9 to Laos as a potholed disaster, but thanks to a Thai/Vietnamese joint effort, with the support of the Lao government, highway nine is now a smoothly paved road and popular trade route linking the two larger countries with sleeply little Laos acting as buffer zone.
I left Dong Ha early knowing it'd be an uphill battle all day. I rode like a man possessed, and, with some help from the Ramone's I was in the small town of Khe Sanh by 1:30 pm. Khe Sanh was
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Glimpse into the past the stage on which one of the bloodiest battles in the American War took place. A quiet museum now lays on the hollow ground that US troops once used as a combat base and I took a short detour to visit. Apart from the elderly groundskeeper I was the only one there. The place had a eerie and deserted feel. The old airstrip was still packed red earth, nothing able to grow on it, and the small museum had a guestbook where returning War Veteran's poured out their memories and their apologies. A lot of young lives were wasted on this hill.
My hard morning uphill had paid off and from Khe Sanh I floated down to the Vietnamese border town of Lao Bao. Knowing that I'd soon be entering a country known to be deeply mystic and spiritual, I took it as a good omen that an Asian sun peaked out for the first time in days and warmed my face. As the border to Laos became visible I stopped, pulling up a seat on the sidewalk for some crackers and to gain my composure before going through immigration. I was surprised at my reluctance to leave Vietnam.
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A chinese temple My first week in the country I was looking for the nearest escape, but along the way the country had started to grow on me. Things that had first annoyed and frustrated me I now looked at with a curious fascination. As the layers peeled away I found myself continually impressed and shocked at the strength and independence of the Vietnamese people.
It was late afternoon and the border was quiet and unassuming as I arrived. As I waited apprehensively for my exit stamp I was hounded by neatly dressed women trading currencies at terrible rates. 'Mista! Mista! You go Laos? You change dong fo kip. Mista!? Mista?!'
As the stamp came down I had officially left Vietnam. I laughed a deranged laugh, a postal worker who'd finally snapped, and wheeled my way into Laos with voices trailing behind, 'Mista! Mista?!' I wouldn't miss the country THAT much.
I entered Laos without any difficult, though was suspicious when the official treated me kindly and wished me luck. Did one of his buddies stash some opium into my bag while I wasn't looking? Was I an unsuspecting drug mule? Was he going to kill me and eat my
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The enterprising women offering tourists rides through the flooded streets. Always quick to turn a buck in Vietnam. liver? Turned out he was just being polite.
The first site greeting me in the border town of Daen Savan was an enormous pig, late into pregnancy, who sniffed lazily in the middle of the road. All else seemed quiet. A dingy truckers stop was where I'd rest my head for the night, with a bucket of cold water and a ladle as my shower. The very morning I was riding past downed helicopters and crossing borders the Saskatchewan Roughriders from my home province had won the Grey Cup and the entire province was in estatic celebration. After dinner I ordered a BeerLao for my own little celebration. By 7:00 pm the streets were dark. A group of men sat over a pot of steaming beef and vegetables and drank cold beer. The restaurant owner was singing Thai pop songs over a home karaoke machine and everytime his young son took a look in my direction he would burst into tears and run to his mother. I finished my beer and ordered another. There was no need to rush on this night, nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit, look, listen. I had made it to Laos.
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Another delicious noodle stand and a shirtless barber.
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JustaRide
Travis Bernard
I suppose an apology is in order for anyone I may have offended with my comments about the older tourists in Hoi An. In no way did I mean to imply that all old people are useless, or that I have no respect for elder's. But after re-reading what I wrote it does come off that way. What I wrote was written in haste and anger after witnessing outrageous displays of rudeness and disrespect by a number of older men towards a waitress in a restaurant and it was insulting and a terrible generalization. I'm not an old people hater, I promise. Maybe I was just jealous because they are retired and I have an entire life of work ahead of me? Let's hope karma doesn't kick me too hard in the ass.