No, no that way: Sam Son to Hailam

December 15, 2016

Oh, the traffic... if it wasn't goats holding us up, it was cows

TWO highways run through Vietnam. The larger is Highway 1, which is all that it sounds. The other is the Ho Chi Minh Trail, now widened and surfaced but originally the forest path on which communists in the north carried arms to their troops in the south.

It was because Americans were frustrated by not seeing them from the air, especially at night, that they dropped Agent Orange. It killed every bit of vegetation. It destroyed pastures, forests and farms, farms that struggle even now to grow as they did 40 years ago. And, more tragic, it caused hideous deformities that continue, thanks to poison attaching itself to genes.

Our plan had been to ride the trail from south to north. Word says its remotest parts have the most stunning scenery that Vietnam offers. But it's also hilly and Steph's wrist won't allow a lot of hard or persistent braking. And, in turn, the remoteness demands greater distances and Steph's not up to that yet.

We don't rule out a day on Highway 1 and for short stretches it's the only way over rivers. But today we've been on tiny and sometimes unsurfaced roads through unexpecting villages. There's nothing as smug as to be held up by a bunch of goats while, in the distance, we could hear the grumble and groan of the main highway.

It didn't always work out like that, of course. We are so close to the empty, golden, tree-fringed beaches that we rode for an hour beside the sea wall. But beaches mean sandy soil and that made forest trails impossible.

Vietnam is the land of fresh fish, the boats always blue and flying red flags

Several times we rode on, peering along tracks to our right, looking for a genial escape from our coast road. The land was about to take a gentle curve and following the sea would bend us progressively off our route.

Locals are so fascinated by tourists, let alone tourists on loaded bikes (barely anyone but children rides a bike in Vietnam), that the briefest stop attracts a crowd. Three women in flowery clothing walked smiling out of their cluster of houses this morning just to meet us and, if they could, to help. We didn't understand each other but that didn't end the fun.

Only once did we have a battle of wills. A young guy on a motorbike, attracted by our distraction, halted and tried to understand. We mispronounced our destination but he pointed us nevertheless over the fields to Highway 1. That was the way he'd go on a motorbike and he saw no reason we shouldn't either.

We didn't have the language to explain. We wanted to turn left down a narrow, uncertain road and he insisted we go elsewhere. I showed him the blue line on the GPS. He stared for a good half a minute and grew animated.

"No, no", he insisted. And he waved to Highway 1 instead.

We had to insist to the point of rudeness. Frankly, whatever happened was better than trucks, buses and hooters. So we rode down our road anyway. I caught a last sight of his face. It showed bewilderment and disbelief. And a hint of anger.

If you guessed that we ended up in a bog or sandpit, you're wrong. We rode for an hour on a quiet road, fascinated by life in the Tropics. Things were constructed, dismantled and cleared beside the road. Deals were closed and conferences held in the open air. And then, as we advanced, the shouts and giggles of "Hallo, hallo!" followed us down the road like a Mexican wave.

Life goes on in the street, even when you want a haircut

Somewhere we stopped for bread and light, fluffy buns. We stood by the road to eat them. In moments we had the attention of a swarm of children leaving their school for lunch. It was 10 o'clock and they were spilling out on the other side of the road. And not a child would stop waving until we'd waved in return.

They egged each other to come over to talk. When one dared, others followed. They surrounded us, smiling, laughing, delighted and embarrassed when we spoke to them. It surprised them, it was clear, that these strange noises they had learned could provoke a reply, that they were understood.

"Hallo!"

"Hallo to you. How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"We are very well indeed."

"What are your names?"

We tell them but they're as difficult to them as Vietnamese names are to us.

"Where do you live?"

"In France."

They look puzzled.

"Paris," we say, pronouncing it Paree because that's how they know it. We don't live anywhere near Paris and I'm not sure we want to be taken for Parigots. But it's the only place they know and, viewed from a continent away, it hardly matters.

Eventually they rode off, hunger and parental concern overcoming curiosity. A posse adopted the job of seeing us out of town and then we were alone except for a small girl who rode, chatting, beside Steph.

"I am 13 years old," I heard her say."I go to school."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, I like it very much, thank you."

And then, reaching the path through the trees to her home, she said "Goodbye!" politely and disappeared.

Building standards have a certain eccentricity here

We got to the end of our day covered in a patina of red dust from the trails. But who cares? It's been a good day.

Today's ride: 65 km (40 miles)
Total: 567 km (352 miles)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	2
Comment on this entry	Comment	0