Vietnam: Cycles
It did not take long for the chaos and clutter of Central Saigon to give way to the chaos and clutter of the outskirts, suburbs and eventually the agricultural land bounding the great metropolis. There were increasingly more potholes, squat toilets, feral cats, hammock cafes and piles of burning garbage the further out of the core we got. During the hour it took to reach the city limits, the backdrop changed from modern marbled mid-rises to a seemingly unending row of 1-level poured concrete structures with tin roofs and no real front doors. These structures were residential in the back, but with some level of ‘retail’ in front, selling anything from souvenirs to banh mi, coffee to coconuts— all just a few feet from the swarm of motorbikes, literally hundreds of them speeding by per minute.
Our guides from the well-regarded Easy Rider tour company met us on the sidewalk in front of our hotel at 8:30 Friday morning, just like they said they would. Patti and I are not normally big on tours— I especially am more of a ‘get lost and find out’ traveler. But with the limited number of longer-haul transportation options available, we had decided to take a chance on this adventure which would boogie us from Saigon down through the Mekong Delta and then back up north and east to DaLat in the Central Highlands. Neither of us had ever been on a long motorcycle ride and had no idea what to expect.
It would be impossible to say enough about Sonny and Tim, but I’ll make a symbolic effort here. The entire experience was A+ and our guys were warm, articulate, intuitive, informed, hilarious and infinitely skilled at navigating a 150cc Yamaha motorcycle through any traffic, whether it be horn-blaring delivery trucks, packs of other 150cc motorbikes also carrying passengers (often 3 or even 4 of them!) or herds of water buffalo. By the time they’d strapped our gear onto the backs of their bikes, we felt like old friends. With a last glance at our Saigon hotel, we merged into traffic and out of the cocoon of District 1, into Vietnam.
That first day was hard. Neither of us were prepared for the workout 9 hours on the back of a motorcycle would be. Not just the butt, but the quads and lower back too, with the deterioration of the roads once leaving National Route 1 west of the city, on the outskirts of the Delta. We never rode much more than about an hour without stopping for something, be it a coffee, meal, a quick Vong or an educational opportunity. That first day we stopped to talk to some rice farmers and to some eucalyptus twig traders on the canal.
After not one but two ferry rides, we finally reached the hotel in Can Tho at about 7pm and fell immediately into a deep sleep on the cardboard mattress, not to stir until the alarm went off just before 5.
When Anthony Bourdain made the Cai Rang floating market a household bucket list item during his historic first trip to Vietnam in 2002, the markets were still functioning trading posts. Villagers would paddle to the site hours before dawn to position themselves to trade their turmeric, water spinach and jackfruit for seasonal flowers, live snakehead fish, and rice wine. It was the marketplace. But even since Bourdain, there have been four bridges built spanning the river as part of the Central Mekong Delta Connectivity Project. The bridges have made life for the common Delta resident more convenient— but have also diluted the function of the markets. Today the vendors are there with their wares largely for photo opportunities and maybe to offer a bowl of sunrise Pho. It was delicious, and the experience breathtaking even now. But, you know— it aint like before the internet.
This said, the modern food distribution network of Vietnam couldn’t be more different than how things flow in the US. Stuff may now be getting from one side of the river to the other without need of a boat, but it’s still gettting there in small batches— often on the back of a motorcycle. And once it gets to the other side, it’s still sold off a blanket on the sidewalk or a resin table in a tiny storefront. There are no grocery stores, certainly no Cstco or WLmrt. The staggering variety of raw food for sale on any street corner was grown nearby, harvested or slaughtered that morning (when it is not, in fact, still alive). Talk about your farm-to-table. There just aint no middle man.
The second day on the bikes was much shorter, not getting rolling till after our 3-hour floating tour. It felt good to be moving again. It really is a great way to travel in a narrow, colorful place with good weather. Patti rode with the captain Sonny, and they were always the lead bike. So I had the luxury of watching the locals stop, turn and stare as Patti roared by, through the center of the village. It wasn’t like she was naked or glowing or wearing Gene makeup. But we always seemed to be something of a curiosity, as if the locals had never seen another non-Vietnamese person in their lives.
And they certainly have. While it’s a fact that we noticed very few other honkies outside of Can Tho, it is also true that this is a commonly traveled path and that tourists do use it to get in-and-out of the Delta and to the Central Highlands. But there was a lot of smiling and waving and and I was left with the impression that Patti and I are frightfully popular here.
Not with everyone though. Most of the waving and air-guitaring actually came from the very young and the very old. Ages 9 through about mid-70s seemed fairly indifferent to our presence. But the school kids and the ancient? Definitely our target audience. Particularly the ladies. The ladies…
The old Vietnamese ladies— such a force they are! They survived the war and rebuilt this place with their own strong hands because often times their husbands did not survive. And still they work, selling frogs or stirring tapiocah batter over a boiling caldron or hawking daily lottery tickets. They smile easily and ride a bicycle everywhere they go, which isn’t far. Not every 90-year old woman in Vietnam rides a bicycle. But it’s equally true that everyone who does ride a bicycle in Vietnam is a 90-year old woman—usually wearing a conical and often pedaling against traffic. She does not look to the side.
There were more bicycles on the roads as we rid the Delta and began following the Ho Chi Minh Trail east of Phuoc Long. The feral cats turned into stray dogs and there were more brick buildings. Traffic thinned and the green spaces between villages got longer and more pastoral. The rice and rubber of the lowlands began to give way to the money crops of the highlands: cashew, macadamia, cocoa, pepper and— of course— coffee.
Lord, the coffee. It’s true that most things are better with condensed milk and sugar stirred up from the bottom— but it’s more than that. The coffee is rich and strong and fragrant and the milk just makes it that much more delectable. The locals drink it mostly iced, but in an effort to stay off the pot, we’re avoiding ice when possible— so we’re drinking it hot. Whenever we get the chance. It’s everything you’ve heard. Sweet baby Buddha, it is heavenly.
Day 5 was the brochure day, with a long sunny ride through the rice paddies of the M’Drak Valley. Stopping the bikes and dismounting on the side of the road, it occurred to us that it was very quiet here— something we couldn’t have said about anywhere else we’d been. Our drivers said ‘see you up the road’ and without further explanation just rode away, leaving Patti and I standing alone on a farm road in the middle of nowhere. A generator chugged in the distance, but otherwise it was totally quiet. Funny how silence can choke you up when you’re not expecting it.
But our guides knew. They seemed to always know exactly what to do or say— or what not to. Sometimes an explanation of a site seen is useful and appropriate. But knowing when to fade wordlessly into the background and let a traveler steep in a moment that requires no explanation— that’s where the magic happens. That’s the beautiful part. And leaving us on that road without explaining to us why was a great example of this type of presence Sonny & Tim displayed every kilometer of this long journey.
The last night at the Lak Lake hotel was a celebration, re-connecting with another Easy Rider tour whose paths we had crossed on occasion during the previous week. Two young Danes were also seeing Vietnam for the first time and it was lovely to debrief with some other westerners having our same experience in parallel. Dinner consisted of tilapia in tomato sauce, steamed vegetables, spring rolls and of course lots of white rice. The 8 of us hung out at the long table well after dinner, sipping Tiger lagers and toasting shots of banana wine. It was a fitting finale.
The last day on the road was an eventful and emotional one. The inspiring Linh An Pagoda. The silk factory. The weasel coffee roasters and the cricket mart (yum!). But with each progressive stop, my mood grew more and more melancholy, knowing we would be saying goodbye to our easy riding champions very soon. These guys had been so much more than drivers. So much more than tour guides. They’d been our advocates and our translators. Our protectors and teachers. Idiot checkers, constant reminders, porters and drinking buddies. They had become our friends. We will always be friends.
DaLat City, Wednesday
