Monday 24 February (continued)
Our vehicle was ready. I have no interest in mechanics or motoring so only looked at its size and noted the registration number began with AB 23. Using my tried and tested words replacing initials/numbers recognition I mentally recorded Allan Border Dermott Brereton and that was my part done. Dexter tested the bike – which was a Honda – and the woman on duty offered some suggestions for our route, marking these on a paper map (you have to define these things today because everything seems to be digital). She then provided coloured rain protection. I plumped for purple and Dexter was left with the lime green.
I put on my green crash helmet and resembled a smiling Kenneth Mars as Franz Liebkind, the mad writer in The Producers. As we set off I mused that the only time in my life on any form of motor bike had been a 500-metre jaunt from my house to the Ocean Beach Hotel and return. Here was three days of it, with a full backpack – again something I had never used – strapped to me. Breaking new ground at an advanced age was sobering.
We filled the vehicle with fuel and set off. Dexter was ecstatic as he rode through the fog and occasional glimpses of pretty hills and green foliage. We were less than 5km out of Ha Giang and, I was ambivalent about the scenery. Used to the road from Perth to Kalgoorlie-Boulder – up there with the most boring six hours on earth – I wondered if it would all be like this? Ha! Wait and see old man.
The land on our vision side was pretty ho-hum, the foliage a tad scrubby near the roadside and not much in the way of mountains as a backdrop. Soaking this up as though he was riding Kilimanjaro, Dexter became eager to capture it on his mobile’s video. Reality kicked in. It would be difficult for him to video while keeping everything together. His father’s constantly shifting arse on the seat behind him was proving difficult too.
“Dad, you don’t understand, every time you adjust your seating, I struggle to control the bike,” he said. “Sorry.” But I cannot really have been sorry because I kept doing it. Taking verbal instructions has never been my long suit. Then, when I was designated to film scenes of interest, by the time I retrieved my mobile from my pocket, the vista had passed.
When we stopped for what the late Tour de France commentator Phil Liggett described as a comfort break, I began to appreciate the terrain a little more. The ride was fun. Despite the impost and my shifting bottom, despite the mist becoming rain as we climbed higher, I just knew this was going to be good. Three days was going to test endurance but it was getting prettier all the time. You begin to tell yourself if so many people do it there must be some merit to it….and there were a lot of people doing it. Tourist groups, individuals on pillion with an experienced Vietnamese rider, were plentiful. I began to realise the enormity of what Dexter was achieving as very fit-looking young men and women of all nationalities sat behind the local guys doing the chauffeuring.
We stopped for a few more photo opportunities and the cloud was omnipresent as we rode on. I felt cold and I was being protected by Dexter’s body. He rode directly into the wind undeterred.
As we rounded a corner there was a police presence and we were waved down. Dexter had warned me about this. Apparently you need an international drivers’ licence to ride or drive in Vietnam. Few people bother because of the high cost. The fine for not having one is less than the licence fee. The police fine the rider, then issue a receipt to show any other police road blocks on the route. My warning, delivered at home, was succinct. No stupid comments, no glib remarks, no outbursts when the dollar amount is revealed. Don’t say anything.
As previously said, verbal instructions don’t sink in. As the bike was brought to a halt, I was instructed again: “Don’t say a word.” My chauffeur was discussing matters with a police officer when he was told to go inside the shed-like building which they had commandeered as an office.
A higher-ranking officer offered Dexter a chair and I followed them in. Discussions flowed and phones were produced to translate.
It was a big shed and I could see women at the back working in what looked like a kitchen. Some smiled. I asked the officer if there was any food here. He said no but I became fidgety after awhile and began walking towards the work area to have a closer look.
The officer yelled at me to sit back down. So did Dexter, louder and more forcefully. When Dexter told the policeman he didn’t have the correct amount of cash on him to meet the fine, he was told that one of his men would follow him to an ATM to get it. This was a scam. We all knew it but I was trapped in the cone of silence. Dexter said “My Dad might have it?” and turned around, while taking more money from his own wallet to meet the amount. Total three million dong (about $A180).
As we left, Dexter’s frustration was palpable. He believed my orange cashmere jumper, visible through the purple rain gear, had prompted a geriatric wealth tax. “The kid’s father looks like he has plenty, I’ll go for the upper amount.” On our way out, I saw a policeman’s baton resting on a ledge. I thought I should make an inspection but then reasoned I was probably in enough trouble already. Thank God, I didn’t. I got a verbal serve as I remounted.
Off to find lunch. The honey and banana pancakes were long gone in sating my appetite and Dexter was about to realise how much I wanted food at exactly the time I wanted it.
Dexter did the tourist ratings’ form and we eventually stopped at a small settlement. We walked into a recommended place. Non-Vietnamese looking men were omnipresent, the place had a really bad vibe. We sat for less than 30 seconds and I said “I’m out of here.” There was a place on the other side of the road about 50m down the track.
Nhu Hang Trayen Nguyễn (my translator defines parts of this name as ‘like a cave’) was spacious but looked homely. A middle-aged woman in a Russian Cossack-style fur hat showed us to a table and Dexter ordered a Red Bull. I was cold, it was drizzling and went for ginger tea. It was so good I ordered two more without asking him and he loved his.
A bloke in a beanie smoking a long wooden pipe looked pretty idle when we walked in but turned out to be the cook. The woman called our order – dry beef noodles for me and beef noodle soup for my companion – and the man stood. He was the husband.
Both dishes were judged very good and we thanked the couple profusely and tipped accordingly. Sometimes, a simple dish when you’re wet, tired and hungry can be the most memorable meal. This did it for me.
The rain suits were becoming a very unfashionable lifesaver. It began to get even wetter and very cold. We stopped for a ginger tea at a lookout cafe, which we were to find plentiful as the trip continued. We ordered and sat looking at the view when a dozen motor cycles pulled in with paying passengers on the pillion. This was to become the norm. We either got to places before tour groups or avoided places where they held the high ground. There were certainly a lot of them and this proved crucial later in the trip.
I had promised Dexter that any amount of stops he wanted to make would be welcomed by me (as opposed to my usual modus operandi of getting from point A to point B in the quickest possible time). However, I thought these would involve food and drink. Here he was pulling to the side of the road because he saw a guy who had scaled a rock. This gave the man a brilliant view of the valley below and when he came down, Dexter decided to climb up too.
Watching this with some curiosity, I thought what if he slips? A mile down a hillside and me as witness with no phone service, no motor bike riding experience, not many skills at all. Once he saw how slippery the surface was at the top, Dexter thought the risk versus reward was not justifiable. He returned to the bike.
More uphill riding through mist and cloud and rain. Once again, I slid my arse on the pillion and the bike veered sharply. Dexter finally lost it with me – entirely warranted – but the message was only received, not recorded. It would happen again and I would be apologetic but this didn’t help.
We rode through a small town and Dexter stopped to take photos of the red banners tied across the street. He was fascinated by the hammer and sickle motif on each. From Russia With Love.
There wasn’t any food place that looked good but it was now six hours in and we were getting very cold.
Ascending a hill and approaching a sharp bend, Dexter and I spied a man standing on a rock at the edge of a cliff. He was swinging a long-handled sledge hammer while almost enveloped in mist. Surreal. Both of us were jaws agape at the sheer beauty and originality of it. I later thought it would make a great intro for one of those film distributor/producers that precede movies? Something like the man belting the gong in J. Arthur Rank films.
Dexter negotiated the turn and, once the road eventually straightened, wanted to stop and go back to film it. But I was cold and I talked him out of it. It became the regret of the trip. My discomfort cost him a piece of original video that could never be repeated. We talked about this often for the next nine days and I felt guilty. Not much impressed the two of us equally on this ride but this was a moment that had. My only explanation for the man’s actions was that he was a sculptor breaking a big piece of mountain rock for his art?
Further on, the most beautiful terrain of the day appeared. The Vietnamese Highlands? Green mountains with distinct V’s between them allowed vehicle access on excellent bitumen roads. In the valleys, terraced farmland and marshy-looking ground. Dexter was enthralled. I was feeling the effects of my seventh hour as a pillion passenger. “Get me to our accommodation, please” I implored, my companion bewildered by my lack of interest.
“Where is Dong Van?” I asked as we rode on. Eventually, his maps directed us to an all-wooden premises high in the mountains. Our hosts leapt to action on our arrival and one used a blowtorch to light a fire pit in the open lobby. The air was bone-chillingly cold.
The architecture and interior were dominated by wood, thick and dressed, thicker and rough hewn. All covered with a creosote-like deep brown stain. There were sofas, a small bar, some tables and chairs for dining and somewhere, though I didn’t see it, a karaoke machine. All this in an open air design. The frontage welcomed the elements but the elements weren’t welcoming on this day. It was cold.
We divested the wet rain gear, warmed our hands near the flames and then explored the lobby area. Small bottles lined a shelf on one of the walls and these were revealed as homemade peach liqueur. The host did not need to repeat himself. I asked if I could try a nip. Delicious. A bottle was bought and we had two glasses by the fire. Then another two. Down the hatch.
We were shown to our room, a Queen-size bed on one level and three single beds on a mezzanine. Slatted wooden windows, without glass allowed the outside in. A curtain between bed and window was the only block to the cold. “How do we heat the room?” I asked the man showing us our quarters. He revealed every bed had an electric blanket and turned the QS bed one on.
We began to settle in, then the man returned. Charitably, he gave Dexter the bedroom next to mine. “No one else staying here tonight,” he said.
The only way to get warm was to shower and get into bed. Refitting the orange cashmere, I revelled in the warmth. Hallelujah! I slept until Dexter woke me at 7pm. Dinner time.
This was a hotpot and barbecue. Do-it-yourself cooking over a flame. Not exactly what we had expected but it was fair. After dinner, I ate half of Dexter’s chocolate and begrudgingly gave up the rest. I was in bed by 8pm. Warm again. I slept soundly, so much so that I didn’t hear the karaoke action going on in the lobby. It was the owners and their staff hitting the tunes. Dexter told me the next morning they were keeping him awake and he went downstairs to complain. They packed up and went to bed too.
END OF PART III
I WRIGHT 