Sunday 23 February 2025
Up early for breakfast at our sister hotel across the street. Good buffet style with eggs cooked to order but not the same standard as the Chateau. Dexter had a coffee venue picked out so we walked quite a way to Hidden Gem. It lived up to its name. Up three flights of stairs to an eclectic mix of furniture like railway benches and sewing machine frames. We each experimented with our orders. He a coconut coffee which came like a soda from a 1940s US film. It wasn’t Schwab’s and there was no Lana Turner but it looked great. Me a salt coffee which was served iced and very good.
Dexter booked a Grab (Hanoi’s Uber, the company’s green livery is everywhere, even sold to tourists alongside souvenir t-shirts) to Train Street. He showed me a photo of what to look forward to: coffee and snacks served from former homes within touching distance of passing trains. Oh Western Australia, where is your daring? We have cyclone fencing to keep people from crossing our rail tracks anywhere less than the designated points. Apparently here, you reached for the sugar and your fingers brushed the dust and metal of a passing train carriage.
As we alighted from the car we were immediately approached by an insistent woman in a yellow ao dai. This was no urger, this was a good-natured bully, who hand-rushed us up the stairs to her cafe. Dexter was disappointed that there weren’t cafes either side of the rail line. Turns out there were. Left at the top of the stairs. But the entrepreneur had steered us right. Beautifully conned but the coffee was good. Strangely there were goldfish in water glasses at the table.
We stayed for two trains – one each direction on the single track – and took a car to another site, further along the rail track. We decided to walk down a market lane which was a revelation. All forms of fresh produce on sale from trays and troughs overseen by one person on a stool. About two-thirds of the way down there was an incongruously placed, glass-doored shop selling high-end women’s clothing. Think Elle surrounded by produce sellers at the Canning Vale markets. We rounded the block and walked back up along the railway line without any further trains. Enough for me. Out of there.
Dexter – who knew he was a massage junkie? – had found a place where blind people do the massage and a portion of your fee goes towards charitable pursuits aiding Vietnam’ visually impaired. I booked 60 minutes and it was hard. At one point at the right side near my neck and shoulder was pressed hard and my body leapt from the bench like I had been hit with a taser. The masseuse kept asking “Too strong?” but I refused to yield. What doesn’t kill me made me stronger and the tension in that part of my body had been there through two marriages and a few relationships. It cost A$27. Felt sore but was worth it.
We returned to the hotel and showered then packed and checked out with our luggage left near the lobby. By this time I was over walking so we took a cycle rickshaw and queried the rider if he wished to take two 90+ kg men on the one bike. I offered to move to a separate vehicle but his attempts at finding another willing rider proved fruitless. Possibly he didn’t want to share as much of the A$11 fare to make it worth the other’s while? He got us to our address, Cha Ca. It was in the right street but not the same as I had attended the day before. This was more modern in a speedy, cafeteria-like atmosphere.
inquiries of a waiter and a three-way consultation with English-speaking diners led us to the place I knew. A young staff member was recruited into showing us the way. It was 150 metres further down the same road. Like me, Dexter loved it and it turned out it was on his list as one of the restaurants recommended by the late Anthony Bourdain.
Again with the more food! After our shared fish dish, he suggested we walk a short distance to have bun cha. This was meatball-style beef in a broth to which lettuce, coriander, noodles, chilli, fish sauce and peanuts were added at your whim.
Set in a quiet street, this proved another good choice. We crossed the road to Hanoi Street Hotel which advertised coffee and cake. Hot chocolate and tiramisu and we were full.
Thus watered and fed, we did the tourist thing and walked to Hoan Kiem Lake to circumnavigate the historic waterway. We had been promised that traffic was barred from the area at weekends, making promenade pleasant.
En route, we stopped quickly at a shoe shop and Dexter negotiated a price on a pair of adidas Samba. The toe of one of my Converse was opening and I couldn’t imagine the pair surviving three days bike riding in rain on the upcoming Ha Giang Loop. Cost about A$42 and Dexter said they won’t give service like the originals but they looked good and, at worst, could be used when leaf blowing.
Round the lake in light rain and a boy of about 12 stopped me and asked if I would talk English with him. I did this for about 10 minutes, answered his questions and noticed an older boy engaging Dexter for the same purpose. Knowing English in a world where tourism is vital to every country is a decided advantage for anyone. It felt good helping.
Back to the hotel and Dexter did the Ha Giang weather form. The start point had a 13 degrees maximum forecast so he went to buy himself a jacket. While I had been looking the other way for the past decade, Arc’teryx had become the label of choice. Everyone who didn’t know better was wearing North Face but my man went searching for a knockoff Arc’teryx to cut the wind while riding the loop.
I repaired to Etesia to get a glass of the bargain Barolo. At about $19 a glass I was ecstatic and it was Happy Hour. I wrote my notes of the day’s events and finished my wine. It wasn’t half price, it was a second glass for free so I ordered a Cotes Catalone Papillon Rouge. A syrah blend, it was very, very good. (Available from Vivino for A$34.35 a bottle, Etesia was charging A$40 a glass).
Time to leave and my bill arrived. The Papillon Rouge was free, the Barolo A$47. I had been looking at the tasting price, not the 125ml price. Aagh, wine? Like the punt it has its winning and losing days too.
Back to the hotel to await Dexter and I stood outside looking out for our ride. Because the hotel was so close to the lake, traffic shutdowns meant he couldn’t get close enough. Dexter arrived, thrilled with his new jacket and a North Vietnam propaganda poster extolling Uncle Ho exercising every day. So was Uncle Frank. Walking again. This time with our luggage, we headed to the bus office on the same route as to Hidden Gem.
The pavement outside the start point was filled with young tourists on their way to various parts of the country but Ha Giang had the most. The bus arrived and looked comfortable and I took a sleeping pill for the first time in my life. If I was on a bus overnight, sleeping was crucial.
Sunday 23 February – Monday 24 February 2025
Standing outside the office, I was gratified that when our bus arrived, Dexter’s name was first to be called. He was inside signing his name to show he and I were there. His plan had been to then go to the toilet but doubled back when he heard the ‘conductor’ call his name. We had our bags loaded in the hold and climbed aboard.
The conductor was efficient but brusque. I put this down to his often dealing with inebriated young tourists but taken aback slightly at his answer when Dexter asked if there was a toilet on board. “No way!” delivered without apology. Further, we were instructed in a strict tone to take our shoes off, place them in a provided plastic bag and leave them at the front of the bus. As Dexter put his on the floor, the bus driver saw he was carrying protein bars. “No food!” They were confiscated. I placed my shoes on a ledge near the front door, the rest were on the floor. Later this move proved crucial.
All my adult life, I had wanted to travel – more especially on a train – in bunk style accommodation similar to Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis having Marilyn Monroe as a fellow bunk mate in Some Like It Hot. As I was barked into position by the conductor, climbing to my bed and laying prone for what would be eight hours my protests began. “Next time, we take a limo. I don’t care if it costs a thousand! We’ll find it from somewhere.” Dexter cracked up as he filmed another take for his video coverage of our journey. Apparently, these were getting rave reviews from those who watched his posts back home.
It was then the excitement really began. Fellow passengers were being ushered into place in bunk order and Dexter eased past them to use the office toilet. The bus driver shouted in protest but he was gone. According to his account, some other Australian tourists let him jump the queue and he was hitching up his pants when one of them said. “Mate, your bus is leaving.”
The oldest passenger on the bus was shouting in protest. “Stop! Stop!” to no avail. Our pilot was no kindly Reg Varney from On The Buses, this was a veteran of driving ungrateful tourists to the holiday points of his beautiful country. If they couldn’t follow the rules, that was down to them.
Fortunately, the bus had to negotiate getting onto a busy motorway. Dexter caught up and was bashing at the passenger door insisting on reentry. The driver relented. Dexter thanked him and came back to his bunk giggling all the way.
All I had been thinking of was my fate had he not got on board. For the first time in my life, I was on a holiday to which I had contributed almost nothing of the itinerary, knew nil about what we were about to do because I wanted it to be a surprise and to reward my son with kudos when it all turned out well. I didn’t even know the name of the place we were going. Ha Giang Loop was a term he used. Was that the starting point of our motorbike ride? Was that the name of a town or a place of interest, like the Grand Canyon? Where was this bus going?
I dragged my privacy curtain across and attempted sleep, then asked for the second sleeping tablet. As I was deep in thought, the curtain was hastily pulled back. Again, I was being filmed, this time with a spotlight in my face. “What is this East Germany? Fuck off.” Another gem for his Instagram feed.
Settling in a second time, I felt my foot being tugged by a small bus assistant. He wanted to check my name and destination. No one told him that Dexter was my tour leader. He left to assail others but, a few minutes later, another toe tug. Another aimless question. As he left, I said “Next time you wake me, bring cocoa and biscuits.” Later events proved he didn’t understand but he laughed anyway.
The novelty of the ride made sleeping difficult for a person who usually goes semi-comatose as soon as the head hits the pillow. Fortunately, I had my book. Looking out the window was a fruitless exercise so I kept that curtain drawn as well.
After a couple of hours, I realised that a toilet stop was needed. Poked the head out of the curtain but it was lights out. Through the dark I made out Assistant Man sitting in the aisle in the middle of the bus. At the front were two female passengers hovering near the driver. Assuming they too needed a toilet stop, I left my bunk and walked to where the assistant was blocking my passage. When I said I needed to go to the toilet he waved me off without turning around.
A young Vietnamese passenger came up behind me, sussed the situation and said to me: “Let me talk to him in Vietnamese because I need to go too.” Again with the dismissal, so I attempted to step over him.
“Get back!!” he screamed with a wave of his arm. This was East Germany. We were on a Stasi-run bus.
Returned to my sleeper and hoped the book would take my mind off the burning urge to pee. Forty minutes later, the bus stopped. Reasoning that the toilets would have a queue, I moved away from the area and whizzed into a rubbish bin. Returning to the front of the big line of buses which had all stopped for the same purpose, I saw one reversing. “Oh no, not again?” Soon realising it wasn’t mine and that all the buses and their drivers looked pretty much the same, I began looking for shoes left on a ledge near the front door. There they were. The white Sambas in the plastic bag. Thank the Lord!
Returned to my bunk and had a fitful sleep before we pulled into Ha Giang about 4am.
Monday 24 February 2025
Already dressed it was easy for me to gather my few belongings and get off the bus. My bag was easily found. Unbeknown to me, Dexter was still groggy. Naked – on an overnight bus, still cannot understand why? – he had to dress before leaving. The bus driver was very impatient. He left his seat for the first time and yelled at Dexter to get off. Assistant Man and Dexter couldn’t find his backpack and the driver lost it again. Phone translation used: “Leave it on the bus and we’ll get it to you.” It was Dexter’s turn to say “No way!!” and further investigation showed it was always right next to where mine had been found. The driver looked ready to punch him but it’s not me he was looking at. It was Arnie with a nearly-shaved head. He thought better of it. My son laughed and walked past the two short men and into the guest house. Farewell Stasi bus. Nice memories.
The complete contrast of attitude was refreshing at QT Guest House where we had alighted. It was raining and dark but the woman on duty could not have helped more. Dexter’s initial plan had been to get aboard the bike and travel.
We thought better of this when the woman offered us a simple room with shower for A$3. Both of us needed sleep and this was a blessing. The room was backpacker quality but very clean and it had beds which we cherished until 7am.
We combined our necessary luggage into Dexter’s backpack and left my bag, filled with non-essentials for the next three days, at the guest house,. Sadly, Dexter realised he had left Uncle Ho on the bus.
Offered breakfast, I declined and we walked down the street to a seemingly unoccupied cafe. Pancakes with honey and banana and good egg coffees. The adventure was about to begin.
END OF PART II
I WRIGHT 