Bike Trip, Vietnam

 
I won’t forget in a hurry the laughter that rippled through the cycle shop when I emerged from the changing room resplendent in the colourful garb of the serious cyclist. True, my skinny legs were clad in skin-tight lycra shorts; I sported a loud canary-yellow tour-de-france top; and a large blue cycling hat sat awkwardly atop an unruly mop of ‘travel’ hair.

I blame my friend Jay. If he hadn’t burst out laughing so quickly and so loudly, the others in the shop probably wouldn’t have even noticed my ‘look’. They certainly wouldn’t have joined in the chuckles or smirks as they did. I’m still in admiration of the stoic shop attendant, who managed to keep a straight face as he stepped forward and turned my cycling helmet the correct way around.
 
Whatever. A month and 1000km around New Zealandís pulchritudinous south island later, I wasn’t in the least concerned about looking silly (although I  still did). For one thing I was far too exhausted; for another, I had a great tan. But mostly I was just way too preoccupied with this new and liberating mode of travel.
 
As any cyclist will tell you, riding a bike long distances makes for a very multi-sensual and independent traveling experience. You can feel the weather around you, smell the surroundings ( mostly good, sometimes bad), stop when you want, touch whatever you like…in contrast to traveling by bus or train, cycling felt like I was seeing everything in a  more vivid ”real-time” way.
 
After a month in the saddle learning the merits of talcum powder (prevents bottom sores), bananas (keep your energy levels up) and carrying a puncture repair kit, I was so convinced that being on a bicycle was my future that I opted to travel Vietnam on two wheels too.
 
Cycling in South-East Asia is a wildly different proposition to navigating a country like New Zealand. Hardly anyone in Vietnam speaks English, the roads are often in poor condition, pollution can be terrible, and the rules of the highway are based less on law than on a crude Darwinian survival instinct. On the plus side, the scenery is exotic and the spring rolls are incredible.
 
It definitely helped that Vietnam is a country of bicycles. They’re everywhere: big ones, small ones, rusty ones, chunky ones, falling-apart ones, bikes with buckled wheels, bikes held together with string. It was the French who bought bicycles to the country initially in the shape of velocipedes, though they gained popularity in the 30s when China began mass producing them. They came in particularly handy during war-time to transport goods and munitions along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
 
A country of cyclists Vietnam may be, but my initial reaction when arriving in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) was still unbridled terror. I felt a lump harden in my throat as I witnessed bicycles battles it out with trucks, mopeds, motorbikes, cyclos and cars in a hair-raising stream of criss-crossing motion. I watched frightened tourists repeatedly place feet on the road to try and cross, then swiftly pull them back again as a vehicle roared past. It was like a real-life version of the 80s computer game, Frogger.
 
Needing time to adapt, I holed up in a downtown backpackers for a few days and traipsed the city on foot, gaining a closer perspective of war-time Vietnam at places such as the War Remnants Museum and nearby Cu Chi, where a vast network of underground tunnels used during the wars against the French and Americans have been transformed into a quite fascinating tourist attraction.
 
Many people still associate Vietnam with the war. Indeed, after the South fell to communist forces in 1975 the country was pretty much isolated from the world. In the 80s that all changed; the doors opened and free-market economic reforms (such as limited private enterprise) were introduced. For a new generation of Vietnamese, war is a distant memory and the main concern is rebuilding lives, communities, businesses - which explains the indefatigable bustle in HCMC.
 
Wanting a taste of rural Vietnam I decided to cycle south to the Mekong Delta, one of two main cultivated areas (the other being the Red River Delta). The Mekong Delta is known as the ’rice bowl’ of the country, vast acres of lush paddies ensuring Vietnam is the second biggest exporter of rice after Thailand. The area is known for its traditional living - its floating markets and picturesque scenery. The fact that it is also flat as a pancake and my legs were still shaky after tackling NZ’s mountainous south island helped clinch the deal.
 
Edging out onto HCMC’s roads for the first time - a colourful, silly-looking Westerner on a large frame mountain bike - I felt, well, ridiculous:  a tall, thin clown on wheels. After a few hair-raising, wheel-wobbling minutes of traffic-dodging I realized that being a part of the traffic stream wasn’t as bad as it looked. From the outside it looks chaotic, sure, but in fact everyone drives at just the right speed to stop quickly if they need to, and all the beeping isn’t so much indicative of near-accidents as of cautious drivers alerting everyone of their presence.
 
My fear quickly turned into an addictive adrenaline rush, which in turn passed into a feeling of general unpleasantness as I headed out on the major motorways through HCMC’s endless industrial conurbations. The traffic became larger and denser and the fumes were disgusting: for the first day or two I felt like I was breathing through wool.
 
I proved such an anomaly that buses and trucks insisted on beeping greetings at me at close range with their ear-splitting air-horns. This experience may have been seriously debilitating had it not been balanced with friendly waves, face-splitting grins, disbelieving stares and people running out of shops and houses shouting ”Number 1! Number 1!” with tremendous gusto, obviously unaware that I was alone rather than heading up a longer Tour-de-France style convoy.

Of course, younger kids on bikes wanted to race: a great motivator initially but after three or four childish displays of off-saddle virtuosity, I realized I would soon be worn out.
 
As I pushed further into the Delta, the scenery improved and the traffic and pollution decreased. Roads narrowed and bustling main streets were superceded by small villages with food stalls and rickety houses. Iconic scenes of rice paddies peppered with workers in conical hats started to appear. After an uneventful stop at My Tho, I arrived at Can Tho, the unofficial capital of the Delta area - and arranged a private sunrise tour of the famous floating market for the next day.
 
There’s something about blazing through the streets of a Vietnamese town on the back of a moped at five in the morning that’s quite unforgettable. By the time the sun was burning off the morning mist I was on the river, watching boats dance with each other on the waves as tiny men and women propelled them forward, trading fruit, rice, meat, goods. The highlight was pulling up alongside a tiny window through which a concertinaed  lady cooked a delicious breakfast on a stove no bigger than my camera.
 
The journey down to Chau Doc was filled with more memorable scenes of traditional Vietnamese life; thousands upon thousands of large spiders nesting in the telephone wires along the road; hairdressers asleep on hammocks; mopeds carrying impossible loads; dogs barking bravely at tables; incense drying on bridges; women washing clothes in rivers. The constant sight of young female students sat ruler-straight on their bikes, sailing through the dusty countryside chaos in their pure white Ao Dai dresses must rank as one of the most graceful things I have ever witnessed.
 
Then of course there was the food. Vietnam’s ubiquitous roadside stalls are a boon for the cyclist. There’s always somewhere to pull over and eat tasty pho (noodle soup) and cha go (spring rolls), or grab some local fruit such as mangosteen, dragon fruit and rambutan. Call me lucky, but I ate at these stalls at least four or five times a day (cycling makes you hungry!), trying new and different things all the time, and didn’t experience even a hint of a bad stomach.
 
Satisfied with my exploration of the Delta I headed back north to the colonial mountain resort of Da Lat. Since I didn’t have time to cycle the whole route from HCMC to Ha Noi, I took a bus part way. The only buses that take bikes are the local ones, which made the traveling more interactive and more interesting. I sat on ripped seats, deafened by the relentless cacophony of the air-horns, trying to make conversation with curious workers and giggling schoolkids.
 
Da Lat is famous for its cafe culture, honeymooning couples and cooler climate. The climate part I noticed right away. After breathing the tropical sun for a few days, I now had to wear a coat in the evenings. With an average temperature of 17 degrees, Da Lat is not the place to come for a suntan. The surroundings are stunning though - mountains, pine-covered hillsides, lakes and forests are all on view or within easy reach.
 
The atmosphere was relaxed when I arrived in the late afternoon. People milled around in cafes or played board games out in the cool sun. My main options at this late hour were visiting Chicken Village (famous for its giant chicken statue) or Thien Vien Truc Lam, the Bamboo Forest Meditation Centre. Feeling more in the mood for piety than poultry, I opted for the meditation centre, which, despite a tacky cafeteria and gift shop outside, managed to cultivate a sense of serene integrity.
 
Pretty as it was, there wasn’t much to detain me in Da Lat, so I headed back down towards the coast. After some steep climbs, the subsequent descents were a cyclist’s dream: first a 10km drop, followed by an even more exhilarating 16km, both of which afforded views of tea plantations, mountain villages - even the South China Sea from one look-out point along the way. It felt like I didn’t touch the pedals for hours.
 
Despite the descents it was still a long, hard day and I arrived in the coastal resort of Nha Trang exhausted and ready for some sandy relaxation. Unfortunately the beaches were patrolled by the most persistent hawkers this side of a Moroccan souk. Within a couple of minutes of flopping down I was approached by ’Mimi Number One’; then ’Mimi Number Two’; then ’Lulu Number One’ (their names, not mine).
 
They squatted around me like I was a fire on a cold day and wouldn’t go away until I had purchased two packs of chewing gum, some Polos, two tubs of tiger balm and a postcard. Even then ’Mimi Number One’ was grabbing at my flinching feet in a determined effort to sell me a foot massage.
 
The nightlife was just as bad, or at least the club called 007 was. Ten out of ten for ambition though: the owners had apparently borrowed the sound system from Wembley Arena and consulted Pink Floydís lighting technician for a space the size of a bungalow. Trying to order a drink was one of the most farcical things I have ever done since the barmaid a) didn’t speak English and b) couldnít hear anything I was saying. I stood at the bar, flayed by light projections and pounded by sound before repairing to bed, queasy and defeated.
 
From Nha Trang I continued along the coastal highway (National Highway 1), which proved just as spectacular as the Delta though in different ways. Rather than paddies and bridges, this section of the south-central coast offered Cham towers, limestone formations, sandy beaches, coves, and a fresh cool breeze that made riding a real kick, and even compensated for the constantly fluctuating gradients. The sea-food dishes at the stalls made a refreshing change from chicken and beef too.
 
Towns such as Tuy Hoa and Qui Nhon proved unremarkable but Hoi An was a different story. The tiny boutiques and tailor shops, vibrant cafes and historical buildings in the Old Town gave the place an immediate charm. Even at night, under the artificial glow of neon and street lighting the town possessed a slightly Westernised coziness I hadn’t felt elsewhere in the country: it felt almost Christmassy.
 
As well as being the kind of place I could hole up in and write a novel, Hoi An had several attractions nearby, all reachable by bike. Cua Dai, a wonderfully undeveloped beach was a pleasant 5km from town, and slightly further in the other direction, My Son offered some of Vietnam’s most ancient Cham ruins. Sadly, many of the temples and buildings were damaged in the war, as evidenced by large bomb craters nearby, but the area still offers a quite magical feeling.
 
Hoi An is fairly close to the border zone, located further north at the Ben Hai river, that from 1954 to 1976 separated North and South Vietnam. Though tempted to continue along the coastal ride up to Ha Noi, I was curious about the Reunification Express, the train that traverses the entire 1726km between HCMC and Ha Noi, and which was reinstated as a symbol of unity in ’76.
 
I compromised by cycling north to Da Nang - a winsome and breezy route as it turned out - then catching the overnight train to Ha Noi. I was given a compartment along with four Vietnamese people: a sweetly grinning elderly couple; an intellectual with an approving interest in my books; and a boisterous younger guy who kept slapping my leg and laughing uproariously about something or other.
 
If the company was great, the compartment was like a prison cell. It had narrow, fold away dorm-style beds, shiny plastic walls, naked strip-lights, a motionless fan, a fold-up tray for food and - to complete the scene of domestic bliss - bars on the windows. At around 6pm someone knocked on the door and gave us a basic meal of rice, tofu and greens, after which everyone went suddenly to sleep. At 7am, deja-vu ensued as the same people brought the same food again for breakfast.
 
Of all the places you don’t want to be when your train lurches dramatically to a halt, the lavatory is high on the list, if not at the top. Unfortunately that’s where I happened to be when the whole train suddenly shuddered and stopped. I emerged wet-trousered and mildly annoyed to see bodies scurrying to and fro along the train’s narrow corridors. Squeezing through a crowd that had gathered at a door I saw another crowd standing outside, around what looked like a red sack near the side of the train a few carriages down.
 
The ’sack’ turned out to be a man’s  body; the red stuff was blood. Presumably he had been run over while trying to cross the tracks, or perhaps he had attempted suicide. I couldn’t see if he was still alive or not, though as he got carried into a taxi acting as an ambulance it was apparent that he wasn’t in possession of all of his limbs.
 
The crowd quickly dispersed when the taxi pulled off towards the hospital and the train resumed. What would have been a traumatic event in most Western countries was just one of life’s little hiccoughs in Vietnam. A few hours later, I was disgorged at Ha Noi station and told I would have to wait for my bike, which had apparently been put on another train. When it arrived I found myself back in the same bustling traffic conditions I had experienced in HCMC.
 
Somehow, Ha Noi was preferable though. The weather was cooler and the people less curious and friendly (a legacy of the North’s mistrust of strangers, they say), but there was a more laid-back feel about the place. The roads were wider, leafier, the architecture more interesting.
 
This was the end of my cycling trip. All I had time for now was a boat trip around Halong Bay, an evening in Minh’s jazz bar watching the musicians smoke cigarettes and play with equal passion, and a random meeting with a German man who had been coming to Vietnam independently for fifteen years to find abused monkeys and place them in zoos.
 
I have to admit that after several hundred kilometers it was a relief to get out of the saddle for a while. I was fit as a fiddle by now and sporting a great bike tan (i.e. brown everywhere apart from a dazzlingly white midriff and upper thinghs). My calf muscles were the size of pillows and I had enjoyed one of the most interactive and independent travel experiences of my life.

Given the option of an air-conditioned bus and a pair of sensible trousers,  I’d still choose the bike, the open road and a pair of silly-looking shorts any day of the week.