Tuesday 25 February 2025
Up at 6.30am, pulled back the curtains and saw why Dexter booked this place. The view was spectacular. At 6.45am, it was enveloped in cloud and no view was visible; a half-hour later we had breakfast. The coffee was average but the croissant-dough style bread used for French toast with apple and yoghurt was very good.
Plastic rain gear on, soaked-through shoes we were back on the tour.
We rode into Dong Van to find an ATM and had some luck. As I walked into the space, a big contingent of westerners arrived on bikes. They had the same need.
We weren’t to know but the road ahead would provide the most beautiful scenery of the ride. Ma Pi Leng Pass.
At last, the vista impressed me. High up in the mountains looking down onto clearly visible water, described by Dexter as Gatorade blue, with cloud seemingly within touching distance. Below deep green valleys, beneath mountains on each side. And a river runs through it.
My first “Wow!” of the trip. This ride was worth it. Nearly every corner provided a photo opportunity.
In the passes, small lots of terraced farming sat beneath buildings the size of Australian home garages. The road ahead snaked around the hillsides with no barriers. A lone woman in a yellow head scarf, knee-length skirt and pale green Wellington boots was just visible in the video I was shooting. She was carrying a basket on her back.
We rode on and five minutes later Dexter saw a sign for a place which had great reviews. He deposited me at the side of an off-road. The woman passed me, climbing the same dodgy-looking path the two Australians had decided was too steep to ride together. I noticed the skirt was of red design with a blue hoop around the middle, bringing out the blue of her blouse. The head scarf and boots had a certain colour connection. Style on a hillside path. She and I exchanged nods of acknowledgement, neither of us educated enough to know the other’s language.
Thwarted by finding nothing on his solo ride, we rode on and Dexter came across what he was looking for. A small monument next to a hilltop-lookout cafe. The fog was thick but I could still see the door into the building. While he secured the bike I declared it locked. My rider strode two metres around the structure and found the open-air cafe. His head shook in disbelief at the handicap he was bearing.
Two Vietnamese coffees (condensed milk and espresso) and two Kit-Kats later we continued on.
We were still on Ma Pi Leng Pass on our way to a ferry ride – a small version of what we would later take on Lan Ha Bay, the poor man’s Ha Long Bay.
A steep, bumpy downhill ride brought us to the terminal and small bus which took us to the ferry. On entry, there were women wearing head scarves at long tables selling goods most people do not want. Certainly not us. A three-on-three volleyball match was being played nearby.
Wide concrete terracing took us down to ferries, each blue-roofed, with the red background-yellow star of Vietnam emblazoned on top. A Vietnamese flag blew victorious from its pole.
We boarded the ferry and waited for it to fill. A family of Joy Luck Club-looking women and two teenage boys came on next. The women had bling, the boys looked modest in a sort of grunge-style chic. More careful inspection revealed they were straight out of a GQ ad and outfitted at $5000 apiece.
As the ferry took off, the women began a cascade of selfies and photos of each other, exchanging garments to make each pic look different. Soon the boat stopped at presumably the most scenic point and they headed for the bow. They struck poses, continued to exchange accessories and allowed no one else a position at the front.
Two very polite American women with a guide took their own photos of the scenery without objection.
We continued up the river for another 20 minutes and turned for the return journey. The scenery was pretty. Here was the Gatorade blue up close, some terraced farmland within reach and the greenery of the mountains interspersed with occasional bare patches of orange and ochre and grey and black. Fairly frequent were thin, dry gullies, which in wetter times would carry more water to the river.
Some rock walls were as sheer as though a wheel of cheese had been carved by a razor wire. Parts were heavily treed, others just grasses and shrubs. Attempted terracing had left some sticks of trees, conspicuously without much foliage, reaching for all their worth. In the more accessible parts there were habitable-looking huts and crude staircases to the water. People living modest lives in scenery the wealthy crave. A lone steer watched us from the safety of mid-hill.
Halfway back, the ferry pulled into a jetty to drop the posing family at a private lunch. As they departed, I ran to the front of the boat and lay with elbow supporting me like Burt Reynolds in his famous Cosmopolitan shot. I called to Dexter to take my photo but he wasn’t amused. At least the Americans laughed.
We returned to dock and the volleyball game had a boisterous ring to it. The stall holders had joined the original contestants. Women in head scarves squealing with delight as the ball made its way to and fro across the net.
The bus took us back to the terminal and before I could alight the driver was out of his seat and heading towards his fellow workmates, seated around a small table. Recognising a victim of the punt, I said to Dexter “He needs to get back in the card game.” A few moments later I was vindicated. He had pulled up a chair and was preparing to invest. What a star!
We took the bumpy ascent much quicker than descending but then mayhem. A gathering of motor cycles (a Knievel of bikes?) dominated the path. Fallen rocks had blocked the way. What? Vietnam had been flawless thus far. What’s going on?
Took in the scenery of terraced land interspersed with unkempt foliage but it appeared no relief was in quick sight. I took a seat on another pile of fallen or discharged rock and waited it out. Dexter’s inquiries revealed that it was a planned clearing. Rocks from above had been bulldozed to the next level and a machine was on its way to push it further down the scarp. Patience was the order.
We waited 30 minutes with a thronging pack. Once cleared it was like a MotoGP start. Every rider for themselves. Pandemonium.
Back into the loop Dexter stopped again to photograph a lonesome cow near its protective shed. The backdrop was fog. Continuing on and this became more dense. Each time it enveloped us my rider became ecstatic. Who knew he was a fogophile?
Further on we stopped for coffee but this was a shop and they only had it in bottles. Instead of the warming drink, we bought a crap chocolate bar and replacement ponchos as our plastic suits had become torn.
By now we were heading into less-travelled roads searching for the way to our next accommodation. The passenger was recognising that it was more and more remote as we rode on. Then Dexter revealed a shock. The fuel gauge had become very low. We needed petrol asap but from where? Fifteen minutes later and he became really concerned. Fortunately, we came across a big group of motor cyclists all with guides.
When told of the problem, the first guide looked at the gauge and laughed out loud. He called his compatriots and a discussion commenced. One guy counted out the number of mountains until the next fuel: “One, two, three, four, maybe?” It wasn’t encouraging. Fortunately, an older guide joined the discussion. He said about 4km up the road were “local people” who may have supplies.
We rode on, anxiety peaking. Around a turn we saw a shop and pulled in. No one answered the first knock at the door. Eventually a woman came out but there was no fuel. Defeated.
The worry was palpable as we ventured on. Dexter pulled up at a stand around another turn. A raised box filled with glass bottles of what could be gasoline was near the road. Salvation. I quietly cheered. How my driver – organiser of this trip – was feeling I could only imagine? Running out of fuel in a remote part of the Ha Giang Loop with your 70-year-old father on board probably had not been high on his wish list?
We put in what should have been full. On departure, the gauge wasn’t at its peak. Not much further along, the oldest looking fuel pump I had ever seen was outside another shop. We topped up and paid the man extra to express the relief and the gratitude.
As we moved on, past remote towns and children playing I began to hear sounds. Dexter translated from young man’s ears to those of an older one. “Hear that? ‘Hello! Money?’” he laughed. My mind went to the remoteness of our surroundings. No matter how deep you venture, the filthy lucre was always in command.
Fuel problems solved, my mind turned to pain. The shoulder – with stiffness dug in deep by the Hanoi masseuse – was hurting. Every bump in the road was a shock wave through the shoulder and neck. Bumps in the road were increasing.
Up ahead was a former French fortress overlooking a valley. When climbed you appreciated the strategic placement of such a place, essential during the colonialism (1887-1954) of Gallic rule. While looking over the ruins, we observed two little girls coming across the field toward us. How sweet? “Hello. Money?” they said. We took a photo with them and paid the tariff.
Darkness was coming in as we headed through even more remote land towards our accommodation in Du Gia. Relief was huge when Dexter turned into a small uphill path, with the lone signpost ‘Du Peak Accomodation’ at the front. Fairly soon we passed a lit building with the same name but the rider kept on. Google Maps said our night’s rest was at the end of this road. My thought was any place doing commercial business would have a sign at the turn off and there had only been one sign. We had already passed that place.
The rider’s good run with Google Maps needed to be respected. I stayed silent. We rode and we rode and the road became more narrow with each 100m. Safety barriers were non-existent. Dexter was trusting technology and wanted to get to the end of the road to ensure the map was right. But the road had become a track.
As we rounded another corner this became less than a metre wide and it was muddy. Around a final corner (well nearly) and heavy mud caused him to skid. Dexter threw the bike against the mountain wall and urged me to get off carefully. Thus far, backpack on, I had dismounted with ease. This time, with Dexter sensing fatal danger as we were centimetres from the cliff’s edge, the backpack straps became tangled in the pillion seat.
Eventually I extricated myself from the bike and laconically wandered towards the handlebar end to ask him our next move. Meanwhile, Dexter could not believe how close we had come to putting the bike’s rear wheels over the precipice and how relaxed I was about the matter. Who knew?
Darkness had now set in. Unperturbed he decided to go on alone but went about five metres until the mud was unyielding. He turned the vehicle around and checked his phone.
Du Peak – the first time this name had been mentioned in his itinerary – had left a message telling him we were expected. We set off back the way we had come. It was a very slow, very dark and very scary ride back down the track. The headlights were illuminating straight on but not high or low to assist. Diplomatically, I stayed silent.
The accommodation entrance appeared and I could feel Dexter’s relief that this adventure was finished. He had spent an enormous amount of personal capital on anxiety and fear over our fate while his darling Dad had been oblivious to any danger we had both been in.
We checked in and repaired to our rooms. The reason for its choice had been the spectacular valley views. Darkness precluded that option so we showered and prepared for dinner. This turned out to be a big platter of meat, tofu, sausage rolls and eggs accompanied by two Saigon beers. It was good.
The host’s five-year-old son Guang entertained us by playing with bottle tops, fed into a bucket using chopsticks. Then bed. I slept but Dexter struggled. He later reported that he had three hours’ sleep because of the stress he was feeling over the near disaster. Selfishly, I was none the wiser and slept like a man who pays no rates.
END OF PART IV
I WRIGHT 