Pity the Vietnamese Postman

We left Hoi An for the hills. If potholes were to somehow replace petroleum as the world's energy source, Vietnam would be wealthy indeed.

It was with a small amount of apprehension that we headed west from Hoi An. We had bought an "administrative atlas" in Hanoi that delicately, if not accurately, detailed the inticracies of the local roadways. We have gotten in the habit of frequently comparing the maps in the atlas to those in our more accurate guide book to correct our course or make better navigational decisions. Studying the guidebook, and its index, thoroughly, we came to realize that the next 500km of our trip was simply not there. One city in the atlas garnered a casual mention, and that was at the southern-most end of an approaching leg. "Hopefully there will be a hotel." "Yeah."

There are two major roadways in Vietnam. Highway 1 follows the coast and is by far the most popular. It is traveled by tourist bus and big rig and mini van and motorbike. Highway 14, or Ho Chi Minh Road, follows the Ho Chi Minh Trail, was only recently completed, and is traveled by Honda Cub, tractor and ox. Our plan was to take a lateral road west, from 1 to 14, travel along 14 in the mountainous jungle, then cut back across to 1 around Nha Trang. Everyone told us that Ho Chi Minh Road was beautiful and brand new and nice, and a much better drive than Highway 1. They did not mention the condition of Highway 40 however, which as we drove it, continued to deteriorate.

At this point I must mention that the countryside landscape just twenty kilometers off of Highway 1, on 40, was stunning. Stepped, emerald green rice paddies, tiny thatch homes, sometimes with walls of straw and mud, lush rolling hills topped with thin wispy trees. Beyond a scooter here and there, or an occasional truck, we were the only people on the road, which compared to the often hectic traffic on 1 was quite a relief.

Now at this point, before I start what may sound like bitching about the road conditions, I must say that the Minsk motorcycle is like a gay marine - a fun trooper to ride. It'll take a pothole without complaint. It'll fall down and not cry. It'll climb a mountain, sometimes in second gear, without wavering. So usually, when the road got really bad, the riding got really fun.

In our atlas, Highway 40 is a squiggly blue line without break and without forks. In reality it is a squiggly black line with tons of forks and long patches of dirt or gravel or mud or just, sort of, nothing. We had about 150 kilometers on this road, until we reached Kam Duc where it meets Ho Chi Minh Road. From there, the only town on the map that looked as if it might be big enough for a hotel or guest house was Dak To, which was another 100km. Sometimes the road was smooth as silk, like it had just been paved. Then abruptly, and shockingly, if my eyes were glued to the scenery, it would turn into a dirt road. The Minsk is sturdy, but not very stable in loose ground, so the first thing I'd feel is my front wheel slipping out from under me. Yeeaaaoooww! Dirt for a while, then back to paved road for 100 yards, and then a gravel road. Then a bridge in horrible disrepair. The weather was getting gloomy and thirty minutes before Kam Duc, we hit the worst patch yet, a water-filled ruddy mud pit approaching a neglected concrete bridge. At this point, between Mike and I was a stern-faced Vietnamese man on a vintage Honda Cub (a 50cc scooter with tires about as thin as your pinky). He slowly and dexterously began negotiating the maze of deep and not deep ruts. Like a dumbass, I became impatient and rather than following him I decided to pass. Vroom, the loud Minsk made quite a show as it roared past (at 10mph). I tried to look over and smile to project some sense of comraderie, but I was too fixated on staying upright. Ahead of me were two large pools separated by a narrow mud bridge. I tried to stay on the bridge, but my front wheel slipped to the left and the bike went with it. I popped my right leg out in an attempt to keep the bike from falling over on me, but the flywheel of fate was too momentus to overcome. The bike slipped into one rut and my foot went deeply into the other. My Minsk sat on its side, still running, and I was fumbly with the kill switch when the stern old man putt-putted by with a big good-natured grin on his face. I couldn't help but laugh. The man went ahead and gallantly notified Mike that his friend was in trouble.

We crossed the bridge and steered up a winding road to where 40 and 14 finally collided. Here there were several homes on one side of the road and a severe 40 foot tall embankment on the other. We pulled up to one of the homes which had a small driveway and a little case with water and soda and smokes and gum for sale. We were to see many of these cases on our journey. Both families came out of their homes, kids, parents, babies, teenagers - not so much to greet us as to assess us. Hello we said. They laughed and after a pause replied hello. I took my helmet off and they laughed at my bald head. This was to cause much enjoyment for the city and country folk alike. I pointed to my head and rubbed it and they laughed and we all sort of got the joke and so big smiles for everyone. Hello one more time and hello again in reply. Staring. Mike bought some cigarettes. Staring. Then we noticed some kids at the top of the embankment. Hello we shouted. Laughter, then Hellllo! came the reply. Mike smoked a cigarette, I looked at the fork in the road ahead of us and then looked at the map. We said Ho Chi Minh? (meaning which way to Ho Chi Minh City) and pointed in one direction. They nodded yes. Then I pointed the other direction. They nodded yes. Well, that makes sense because that's Ho Chi Minh Road. Okay. Eventually we figured it out and realized that many of our future decisions should be made the same way. We're heading west. Left means south, right means north. That's it. We went left.

We had lunch in a small town whose name I forget. We rolled up to some little place, basically somebody's living room - and that's how most businesses are set up, even in the cities - and we looked haggard. Our bikes were muddy and caked with road crud, as were our pants from the knee down. Our faces were dirty from rubbing our grubby fingers in our eyes attempting to get the bugs out. Our jackets were wet and spackled with mud drops and we were sore from the bumping going. We went through the hello and laughter routine and felt a little self conscious as the family stared at us intently through our meal. Halfway through our pho it began to rain. Hard. We had been through some light rain already, more like heavy mist, but the roads were definitely wet, so besides getting a little wet, it didn't seem like it would matter much.

Now Mike is very cool and so he'll never admit the same, but driving those twisty mountain roads in pouring rain was scary! Ho Chi Minh road is brand new and totally smooth. There is a thick white stripe painted down the middle which I quickly became familiar with as my front tire hit it on a tight turn and started to slide laterally. Holy shit, that'll get your heart pumping. My visor was up because when it was down a combination of the rain and my breath fogging it up reduced visibility considerably. So the rain is pelting my face, and the road is turning this way and that, and that fucking stripe keeps sitting in the middle of the road in ambush, and occasionally a bus or a tractor or a cow would walk into the road. I would later learn that this was nothing compared to the same conditions at night, but at the time my hands were pressuring new grooves into the grips.

We were high in the mountains and the rain came in fits. On one pass, my rack broke requiring me to carry it on my back. We stopped to make the adjustment and peek over the valley that layed beneath us. Lush jungle. Vines strangling plants growing on plants growing on trees. Everything was six layers deep and a thousand shades of green. A river snaked through the ravine below and fog seeped into the mountain tops, vanishing and then reappearing as if the hills were breathing.

When we reached the other side of the ridge, the rain stopped and the sun emerged. By the time we reached Dak To, that night, we were dry. Dry besides my shoes. I brought these grey suede Adidas trainers. They are so toast now. Scarred with motorcycle grease, drenched with rainwater, filled with sand, mud and veneered with a grimy layer of accumulated smog.

Dak To was the first major town we encountered. It was about a mile long, had two guest houses and apparently, an army base. We checked in to the guest house, where they gave us the penthouse suite. Well not really, but we had a huge balcony that we shared with the presidential suite next door. We walked for about fifteen minutes looking for an acceptable place for dinner and finally settled on a place whose name alone engenders culinary cravings: My Dung. We giggled and went inside. Immediately afterwards a group of six or seven army men came in and sat at the table behind us. They ordered food and beer like us and after a few minutes, one of them came over and sat with us. It was immediately clear that these boys had been drinking. Normally we get by on a combination of our two Vietnamese phrases 'sin chao' for hello and 'cam un' for thank you (actually make that three with "muc") and a vigorous attempt at a charades-like sign language. Beyond that, and generally, we rely on our conversation partner's often tenuous grasp of English. Tonight there would be little English, but the army men were pretty sure that if they just emphatically repeated everything in Vietnamese several times we would eventually get it. Now we know what it's like to talk to an American. Soon the whole table joined us and we ordered beer upon beer, drinking them quickly due to cheering in the Vietnamese style. When you cheer here, the prompter points to his glass (if the group includes those who do not grasp the Vietnamese language) at the level to which the cheerers should drink. It is usually either half, or all. Even though the beer here doesn't contain much beer, I was decidedly tipsy within fifteen minutes. Then as brusquely as they had appeared, they left, discretely paying for all the beers they had drank with us. At countryside prices, we would gladly have paid for their entire meal, but they paid for us without a word.

Next we went to a bia hoi down the street where beer was 5000 duong a litre. That's five quarters for a gallon. We were given two litres and watched as various patrons would roll up on their scooters or bikes and refill large plastic jugs or simply arrive emptyhanded and receive plastic bags filled with beer tied at the top in a bow. A sloshy late-night gift for the alcoholic of the house.