December 16, 2016
The Vietnam war breaks out: Hailam to Dien Chau
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VIETNAM is a long, thin country. Remarkably thin at times as Laos crowds from the west. The east and south both face the South China sea. Except that they don't call that here. To the Vietnamese, it's the East sea.
It's fringed by beaches of fine, golden sand that are the envy of the world. Right now, they're empty because we're out of season. The long cement road that edged the ocean for the last hours of our ride was empty as well. A few scooters passed but otherwise we were novel enough that people walked sandy paths from their houses to see who we were.
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It's been like that all day. Stop for a few moments and every passing school kid stops as well, to beam from a distance, sometimes to stare straight-faced and then turn away at the sight of a camera.
The best of these encounters happened on that long road through the woods at the back of the beach. Two girls of 14 or 15 passed on a scooter, the younger or at any rate the smaller wearing a silky black jacket embroidered "Paris" across the back. She was round-faced with short black hair and a permanent laughing smile.
There was the usual "Hallo" and much giggling and waving and then they turned, passed us going the other way, then turned again to ride up beside us. By now they had cameras ready.
"Selfie, selfie!" the smaller girl laughed. And for several minutes we went through every combination of photos that four people can manage.
Then two boys turned up, also on a scooter. They all knew each other. The smaller girl was about to say goodbye when instead she gave Steph a kiss on the cheek.
"No kiss for me?", I mimed.
She giggled in delighted embarrassment.
"What is your name?", one of the boys asked.
I told him. It's easier to remember than Steph's because the two syllables fit neatly into the language. He remembered it and, coming up behind the girl, said "Hey, Léo" and then a stream of Vietnamese that clearly said "I'll hold her and you come and give her a kiss."
More laughter and then, with waves all round, they parted.
It helped restore my faith in the goodwill and happiness of Vietnam. Because our previous encounter today was nowhere near as pleasant.
I had turned left at a T-junction and then slowed because Steph hadn't made the turn with me. I assumed she was waiting for traffic. And when there wasn't any, I stopped.
She had been caught by four teenage boys sharing two small motorbikes. On the back of one was a tall boy in a straw hat, the lack of intelligence in his face emphasised by his drunkenness. He made a grasp for Steph, missed and snatched her pale blue cap instead. I saw none of this but Steph tells me she angled her bike across the road and asked politely but firmly for her hat. Steph's idea of politely but firmly echoes the assertion that the female of the species is deadlier than the male. And the cap was returned.
It took a while for the motorbikes to pass us after that, doubtless because the other three were giving the drunk a hard time. But when pass they did, the drunk took a swipe at my arm and landed a brush rather than a blow.
The motorbikes were waiting further up the road. I'm not sure what the drunk was up to but he was dancing in an agitated way. Until he saw me, that is, and then he broke away and confronted me in eye-blazing Vietnamese and looked like hitting out. I didn't see it but Steph said he had a key in his hand.
He was tall for a local, something he depended on. But I am tall for a westerner and, while I had no intention to hit him, I stood my ground. Happily I never found out what he planned because his mates pushed him into a hedge and held him there.
"Sorry, sorry," they kept insisting, the smallest pressing his palms in supplication. We made it clear we had no hard feelings and I slapped the lads on the arm in friendship. We thanked them for their intervention.
Our guess is that the drunk had felt humiliated by a woman when Steph confronted him. Having then been further humiliated by his friends, his drunken logic had been to take it out on me instead.
His mates must have given another long talking to. It took a while for them to pass us again. And when they did, the drunk turned in his seat and shouted "Sorry!"
It was the one sour moment of the day. The journey started with five kilometres on Highway 1, at the end of which we stopped for the coffee we'd been denied at breakfast. Four men in their 30s were already there, one with enough English to ask why we didn't have motorbikes instead. And to rightly propose that Highway 1 was no place for cycling.
"Where you from?" he asked.
"France", we said truthfully, before lying again and saying we were Parisians. He translated for his mates. They thought for a moment and beamed.
"Zinedine Zidane! Zinedine Zidane!", they shouted together. Then followed all the other French international footballers they could think of.
There was a pause.
"Éric Cantona!" one remembered and they all laughed again.
"Thierry Henry", we offered to suggest we had the least idea what we were talking about. A warm blanket of complicity enveloped us and, happy, they went back to watching English football on the television on the café wall.
It rained for much of the day, but who cares? We dropped to an estuary lined once more with blue and red fishing boats, their superstructure a riot of multi-coloured wooden sheds seemingly plucked from somebody's garden and with no concern at the angle at which they stood.
We passed rows of empty racks like hitching poles, waiting for nets to dry. Men making who knows what in small workshops called in greeting as we passed. And all the time the rain fell gently and we didn't mind. Other than getting filthy, that is.
Today's ride: 62 km (39 miles)
Total: 629 km (391 miles)
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