Safely on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, there are no road markers or landmarks I need keep my eyes peeled for any more. There are approximately 550 windy, rural kilometers between Xuan Mai and the ancient capital of Hue, which means I’ve got about three days before I need to be on the lookout for anything. It’s just me, my notoriously untrustworthy brand of soviet motorcycle and the open road. My only concern at this point is to never find myself (and more importantly, my Minsk with its shoddy, unreliable front headlight) stranded in the dark in the northern Vietnamese countryside. Out here, full-sized towns with hotels and gas stations show up as regularly as women at comic book conventions, so I need to keep my dust-crusted eyes peeled.
Those lush, orange Mekong sunsets seem to occur just before six PM out here. I make a quick mental note to start seeking out proper lodging between 4:30 and 5:00 every day. Anything after 5:30 is an unnecessary risk; anything after 6:00 is a clear and present threat to my wellbeing.
The air’s cleaned up significantly since I frantically fled Route 6 like a sunbather escaping a tsunami. The fast-paced, exhaust fume-choked Ho Chi Minh Highway might stretch all the way from north to south, but it’s a smaller, slower road and not meant for big trucks or heavy traffic. From time to time the sun disappears and a thin bed of wispy clouds eerily blankets the limestone landscape, but thankfully it never quite descends into rain. Wrapped in mist, the karst mountains look even more alien and ethereal than they normally do, and provide a blissful riding backdrop unlike any other place on earth.
I sent this picture to the Hell's Angels for consideration. They didn't write back, but almost immediately afterward my computer began flashing "Asshole Asshole Asshole" on the screen each time I right-clicked. I'm actually kind of impressed with the level of technological sophistication to their modern beat-downs...
For a time, there are no vehicles on the road in either directions, no villages selling cheap merchandise or polyester shirts featuring the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers or petrol in dirty, unmarked glass bottles, no children yelling or dogs barking or insurmountable clusters of people on honda scooters. There is nothing but myself and a rich, vast, unspoiled earth surrounding me, somehow both loving and uncaring at the same time as the small, rumbling speck that is me passes over her. And at that moment I get It. I’m not quite sure what “It” is, but a feeling of satisfaction and euphoria overtakes me and I’m imbued with the spirit of every man who’s ever hopped on a motorcycle and ridden off into the sunset at the behest of a particularly worrisome midlife crisis. It’s a moment of perfection, ruined only by my head’s painfully unending rendition of the crescendo of Freebird, which my subconscious has clearly decided is the best soundtrack for driving a motorcycle through Vietnam.
It’s a little annoying, actually, as it goes on far longer than the infamously long song’s guitar solo actually does.
People wave spiritedly as they see me, almost always with a warm and gracious smile. Children especially seem excited by my presence, often shouting the foreign “HELLLLLOOOOOOO” to me at the top of their lungs, like young magicians practicing a new spell. They jump up enthusiastically as I return the greeting. It warms me up inside. I’m doing good here. I’m a goodwill ambassador, helping to bridge the gap between Vietnam and America. I am a good person.
Luckily I don't stand out for being the only one to stop and admire the countryside. So I only stand out for being white and a foot taller than everyone else, then...
Shortly after four PM, the red sun is starting to hang low in the horizon on a thin bed of ashen clouds and I’m content enough with my first day to look for a stopping point at my earliest convenience. This is a wet land, sliced through with countless rivers and streams. At first, I’d pull over onto the shoulder of each bridge to admire the dense life surrounding the rivers. Clusters of fishermen float by in small boats and small huts perch tenuously over the edge of the waterside. By late in the day, I’m suffering from a kind of river fatigue, having passed over too many to even take note of the relentless proliferation of beauty.
It’s unclear how much petrol remains in my tank; the air ripples with fumes as I open it, but no liquid is visible from within its depths and a quick shake evokes nothing but a weak sloshing from below. A mild anxiety sets in as I realize that I haven’t seen any large towns since I began seeking them out over an hour ago. Passing over a particularly large bridge, I can see some of the tallest, most modern buildings I’ve passed all day built along the river’s banks on the opposite end, and there’s a sign pointing in their direction proclaming “Cam Thuy,” which I can reasonably presume is the name of the town. It’s nearing sunset and this is the most likely place within fifty kilometers to have both a hotel and a gas station, so it’s an easy choice pulling off.
Locals gawk as I swerve by them down the bumpy dirt road that dissects the small town. Two contemporary, gated government buildings with large red Vietnamese flags look out of place juxtaposed against the older styles of architecture running through the town — a mix of uneasy, ramshackle buildings with corrugated metal roofs and tall, narrow manors in faded pastel colors clearly inspired by the French styles.
A first glimpse of Cam Thuy with misty, karst mountains in the background. The unusually shaped, tall beige building on the right was my home for the evening.
Clusters of tables and chairs in front of buildings help reveal the restaurants, and markets and shops are similarly obvious based on piles of vegetables and fruits, mismatched clothing on jerry-rigged stands or used automotive parts in display cases next to dusty cannisters of oil. A shop with several posters of people’s heads bearing garish, improbable hairstyles points to the local barber. The heads, with their respective hairstyles, are often Asian but sometimes generic Caucasian shots and at times, most improbably with regard to the hairstyles, the heads of people of African descent.
There are printed signs everywhere, and due to Vietnam’s use of the Roman alphabet (or at least a bizarre, squiggly evolution of it), I can read all of them, even if I’m still left clueless as to their meanings. My lunchtime encounter provided me with a rapidly leaking bucket of new terms, though, and one of them I so presciently asked for was: “hotel” — “Khach San”. Unfortunately, a quick run through the small town isn’t successful at finding this term printed anywhere, despite a few buildings clearly emanating with what I’d describe as a hotel-y vibe. I break down and attempt to try out my new Vietnamese with a passing teen-aged boy in a remarkably clean and well-fitted school uniform.
“Khach san?” I cough out, surely violating his native tongue with extreme prejudice.
Again, I’m reminded of how different this country is from China, where I apparently am impossible to comprehend in any way. The boy nods immediately and points at one of the handful of buildings I’d earlier pegged as a potential hotel. In large neon letters above (which, by the way are either broken or simply unused at night), it describes itself as a “Nha Nghi” (pronounced, as best as I can tell, as “nYAH nYee,” which always sounds rather childishly taunting to me), which I learn is the equivalent to “guest house” and a bit more prevalent than actual, more formal khach sans.
The view from another bridge in northern Vietnam. In the first five hours of my trip alone, I must've passed at least ten bridges with views like this.
It’s initially surprising that there are at least three buildings that are so prominently listed as hotels (and probably a few more that aren’t as obvious) in such a small, non-tourist-riddled town. It’s later explained to me that nha nghis function partly as “love hotels.” No no, not brothels, though some do fit that classification as well. In Vietnamese society, families are very close knit and together all of the time, meaning it’s difficult for young couples to ever get some quality loving in. The guest houses then exist more for locals in need of privacy than for random, anomalous white dudes on motorcycles. They’ll still take my business, though.
An old woman sitting outside talking to two younger women cleaning vegetables stands up as I approach the guest house. ”khach san?” I ask, still using the term I somewhat know how to say. At this point I’m still partially uncertain as to the function of a “nha nghi”; I’m 100% uncertain as to how it’s pronounced, and not willing to risk an attempt at botching it in front of three women. She nods and says “pass-port?” in slow, broken English. I reach into my side pocket and retrieve the sacred document slowly, passing it over to her like a spy providing semi-classified information.
The official paperwork she brings out looks more wordy and significant than any I’ve ever seen for staying at a hostel. It takes her a few minutes to copy down all of my information and then she continues to scribble out a bit more that I’m unable to discern the purpose of. She then unlocks a small safe and places my passport inside; I can only assume I’ll be getting it back when I check out.
The room is 120,000 dong for the night — about eight dollars. She guides me up a large central staircase to an amply sized bedroom with basic furnishings. There’s a small television and a large, stand-up fan situated around a mid-sized bed that appears to have caved in a bit in the middle. ”OK?” she asks. ”OK,” I say. The shower is through a small door to the side and I strip down and take full advantage of it to wash away the dense layer of road dirt and grime that has formed a makeshift brown armor around me.
It’s a simple metal spout, jutting out from the wall in the bathroom, inconveniently located just above the toilet. I turn the nob, letting the water gush out, then quickly reach down to rescue the roll of toilet paper situated below it before the deluge of water strikes. The water is cold, but refreshing, and ostensibly clean. Free from the thick layer of dust and filth I’d accumulated across my body, I collapse into bed and turn the television on. There are three channels, all fuzzy, all in Vietnamese, and devoid of anything of universal visual appeal, like slapstick humor or quality T&A. No surprises there on any account.
My five-star room in Cam Thuy. Now with mirror!
I lay down on the thin mattress and do my best to resist the gentle embrace of exhaustion. A nap now means I’ll be awake well into the night here, and there’s unlikely to be much in the way of a spirited nightlife here in Cam Thuy. I listlessly read until dark before deciding to do a quick scan of the town for my dinner options: A small restaurant immediately to the right. Another further down the road on the left. A third, dimmer and less welcoming, near the turn-off into town. A gray building with two girls standing outside staring at me suggestively. Pho. Pho. Pho. Brothel.
I opt for the pho. Restaurant number two. My rationale is that I’ll be eating at the nearer place — option 1 — the next morning for breakfast anyway, so why not explore a little? The restaurant staff seems extremely excited to have me grace their establishment, and while no English is spoken and no attempts at conversation are made, they smile at me in a way that is borderline creepy through my entire meal. It doesn’t help that I’m the only customer.
From time to time I’m given a brief respite from all the attention by beaming a huge, semi-genuine smile at my hosts and offering a thumbs-up (people generally react well to the gesture in Vietnam, I found, though part of me was always a bit worried that it might have some other, more lewd or sinister meaning here) to let them know that all is well. But the smiles and stares always eventually return until I am well out of the building and down the road.
Aside from the occasional baby’s cry or bark of a dog somewhere in the distance, it’s a quiet town at night, and not well lit either. Fed and exhausted, I return to my comfortable room and promptly collapse into oblivion.
Morning Announcements, Morning Vodka
Morning comes, and with it a scourge of rash-like mosquito bites across all of my bare skin along with a loud, hissy announcement in Vietnamese broadcast to the entire town. A fiery, energetic wake-up call, filled with piss and vinegar and apparently being sent out to every member of Cam Thuy from a loudspeaker conveniently placed across the street from my hotel. The bites are my own fault — the nha nghi provided the fan, but I neglected to turn it on and thus offered up my body as a sacrifice to the merciless mosquito gods throughout the long, dank night. Lesson learned. The noise, on the other hand, is an unwelcome gift from the government and wholly unavoidable.
I stumble into the bathroom to wash my face and teeth and when I return, the announcement’s over and replaced by music that I can only assume is Vietnamese. It’s reminiscent of songs from an old Bollywood soundtrack, though, and crackles as though being played over an ancient Victrola. How wonderful it must be to wake to this daily before dawn! I debate a new outfit, but figure there’s no point in getting every article of clothes I own equally filthy and decide to make my Banana Republic jeans and Disco Biscuits t-shirt my official road uniform.
A random fishing boat
Downstairs, I’m surprised but happy to see my motorcycle resting inside the living room of the guest house. At some point, the building was fully locked down after dark, and the bike was presumably brought in for safety. I wave at the woman that rented me the room, sitting again outside on a bench in the front of the hotel talking with her friends, who all seem to be sorting some kind of amorphous pile of clothing. Bringing my hand to my mouth in pantomime, I make a gesture meant to imply “eating” to let her know where I’m headed, but I’m not certain she recognizes what I’m doing nor if she cares either way.
The restaurant next door is far livelier than my choice from the previous evening. An old couple sits at a table in the front eating pho quietly, and six men in vintage outfits sit around two tables in the back pushed together chatting uproariously. They spot me immediately and cheer as I come in, now laughing raucously and talking even more excitedly in Vietnamese as I pull up to a table diagonal to theirs. A beautiful young Vietnamese woman takes my order (“pho” — simple enough) and smiles in a way that melts my heart as she averts her eyes, before escaping to the kitchen.
Nearly identical in presentation to my past two meals, the steaming pho comes out, this time brought out by a subjectively less attractive teenage boy that I take to be the brother of the adorable serving girl. She’s standing at the door to the kitchen, watching me and nothing else. When I stare back, she hides her eyes once more, but I can feel them warmly ascend again each time I return to my meal.
The table of Vietnamese men lift a shot glass each into the air and chug its contents shouting something in unison that I can’t quite parse. It’s clearly not the first time they’ve done this — as is obvious from the empty bottle already on their table — but at just past eight in the morning, it would be the earliest I, myself, had ever gotten hammered drinking vodka (when not still up from the night before, of course). Voices are now raised to a happy, drunken clamor, and I instinctively know that the conversation revolves intently around me. Also: they are all staring right at me as they talk.
I push the finished bowl of pho away and, as if on cue, the men signal to me as one, wolves inviting a strange, lost dog into their rowdy pack. One says something intently to me in Vietnamese with a hopeful look of a rich and lively response, but my answer is a dopey blank stare.
“AH AH AH!” one says, lifting the clear, barely adorned bottle of Hanoi Vodka — both the location of the distillery and its brand name — into the air in a gesture of openness and sharing.
“Oh, no vodka for me early 9 AM, sorry. Also, I [I do a quick charade of riding a motorcycle] motorcycle down Vietnam ride trip. No drink. Mo-tor-cy-cle. Drive time no drunk.”
When speaking to people that clearly don’t speak any English, for some reason I fall into a slow, inaccurate version of English presumably meant to be easier to comprehend, but in reality makes no sense to anyone of any linguistic persuasion.
Their yells increase to unprecedented levels, pushing aside my argument as simply as they push one of the men out for me to have a spot at the table. The larger, somewhat dumpy man stands up with no complaint and cheerfully offers me his seat, then scampers to the back to grab another before I can refuse. The responsible motorcycle rider in me knows that taking one or more shots with the festive table would be unwise; the goodwill ambassador representing America to a new and apparently more intoxicated Vietnam can’t resist the urge to properly serve both countries.
And that’s when I utter a line that has proceeded more mishaps, accidents, embarrassments and unplanned pregnancies than any other sentence in history:
“Well, you know, maybe just one…”
Fishing community. Nice riverside properties with easy work commutes, but really spotty cable service
“OHHHHHH!!” they all yell as I sit down. In all likelihood, they shout an assortment of Vietnamese cheers. But everything blends into a cacophonous ”OHHHHHH!” in appreciation of my vaunted company. Shots are already filled for more than half of the participants before my ass even hits the chair. I lead the round and toss back the cheap vodka in a quick, fluid motion respectable enough for a goodwill ambassador such as myself. It burns like some sort of bucolic, snake-venom medicine, but I don’t let my discomfort show. As I smile out at the table, men on both sides of me tap either shoulder as a sign of appreciation and camaraderie.
Immediately the drunken Vietnamese men start to pour another shot, but I protest, more strongly this time than before. They cough back disapproval at my retreat, pulling me once more down with a mixture of laughter and fake sobbing at the thought of my departure. Reveling in this newfound connection between our two countries, I sit down for another shot. And then another. And then another.
With every sip of vodka I take, the cute serving girl that’s been watching me giggles and I smile back at her. One man notices my sly glance and says, pointing at her: “ahhhhhhh, deb chai!!” It comes off as both a question and a statement.
“Deb Chai!!” the men all shout back, doubling over in their seats. The girl blushes profusely and finally it appears to be too much for her as she runs back into the kitchen for good. I later learn that “deb chai” means “beautiful.”
Each further shot we take is preceded by a protest more weak and half-assed than the one before it, to the point where it begins to become a comedic show of retreat where neither party expects me to follow through on my escape. I anticipate a reprieve as the bottle finally empties out, but another, pristine and full, is lifted up from the floor before I can even think of hobbling out of the restaurant. It is still just under nine AM.
In Russia, I was told several times (over vodka) that an old proverb praises vodka for the ability to break down all language barriers. ”With enough vodka,” they say, “everyone can understand one another.” In Vietnam, at least, I disagreed. My written journal contains a single line from this moment, written in all caps: I WISH I HAD A DICTIONARY. The men laughed with me, shook my hand and high-fived me, did various charades, tapped me on the shoulders, hummed a popular song with me that I think was meant to be Lady Gaga and took plenty of pictures (though with my camera).
As with the prior day’s lunch, my map was extremely useful as a substitute for actual conversation, as it illustrated my future plans in ways my limited Vietnamese never could. By 9:30, the second bottle finally empties and it’s an immediate sign to all present at the table that our liquid breakfast is complete. A few of them leave right away, but as I’m significantly intoxicated now, I am in no particular hurry to make my way out of the restaurant.
The oldest, a mostly bald man in his 50′s now sitting against the wall, says something to his friends, who proceed to laugh, and then puts his right hand, balled into a gentle fist, to his mouth and proceeds to lovingly make out with it. Stopping for a moment he points outside and to the right, then takes up where he left off, dressing his fist in soft, artificially loud kisses, before pointing outwards again. My blank stares provide a high degree of amusement to both patrons and restaurant staff, including the deb chai young serving girl who’s made her way back out into the dining room again to watch the proceedings.
Riding in last night, I’d noticed a building near the entrance to town that had a certain brothel-like charm, and if the restaurant walls weren’t involved, he’d be pointing right at it.
“A real Vietnamese brothel, eh? Is that what you’re saying? Love-me-long-time? Ah? Kiss kiss fuck fuck?”
I start to kiss my own fist, matching his ongoing actions, before realizing that using the same visual metaphor is a terrible idea if we’re not quite on the same page. ”Like this,” I say, switching techniques and repetitively penetrating the hole in the fist of my left hand with the index finger of my right. ”Fucky fucky, you know?” They all cheer excitedly with their hands in the air and I can presume my guess was correct. He stands and points rapidly now.
“Nah, man. I have a solid rule of no prostitutes before lunch, so… you know, I’m sure you understand–”
He’s now pulling at me softly toward the door. ”No, no. Sorry, man. No! Seriously — I have to pay here first anyway…” I use the pending bill as an excuse to pay, wondering if any vodka will be factored into my final tally. Not knowing the Vietnamese for “check, please!” I hold out money to the man that appears to be the owner of the restaurant, but he waves his hand “no” in front of me, pointing back at one of the quieter men at the table. The unassuming man, who’s been pouring me shots all morning, points at himself with his thumb just a trifle smugly and smiles at me.
Not knowing the word for “thanks,” I smile and shake his hand as appreciatively as I can, and he accepts my thanks with a casual nod. I may end up leaving town several hours later than I’d planned, but at least I got a breakfast and half a bottle of vodka out of it, right? At the door the older, bald man in the white shirt is still waiting and, seeing me about to depart, begins vigorously kissing his hand again.
“Mister, as much fun and memorable as a morning of wild whoring with you would be, I really need to get back to my place and sleep off this unexpected bender you guys dropped on me. No, no. I just can’t do it.” He’s still staring at me with his hand up to his mouth in a bizarrely paused mid-kiss, and his eyes betray a hint of disappointment. I kiss my own hand one last time and then cross my hands in front of him in what I hope he recognizes as a universal “not gonna happen” gesture.
“Happy, you know… fucking, though…” I wish him well, sincerely.
As I walk off, he’s still calling back to me but exhaustion and intoxication keep me focused on walking straight back toward the hotel with no more interruptions. I force down a liter or more of water to dilute my unexpectedly poisoned system and collapse back onto my bed in the love hotel, this time with the fan cranking out air on high. I sleep for over three hours before I wake up and shake off the vodka hangover, and I tear down the stairs to collect both passport and bike to make up for lost time. I’m hungry, but don’t dare risk taking lunch in town for fear of finding myself drunkenly trapped here for another night.
In the lobby of the hotel, a group of four men sit around a bottle of Hanoi vodka, but luckily they don’t seem concerned enough with my passing to invite me into the circle. Heading out, I begin to notice a common pattern: the stores and restaurants are mostly run by women, and women walk along the road bearing large bags of food and merchandise on their backs. The town is busy and alive with people, and every single woman I see is hard at work. Meanwhile, almost all the visible men are hanging out in cafes, enjoying the beautiful day. Cam Thuy sure doesn’t seem to be the most fun place to be a lady…
My new friends and I, sharing one of many shots of premium Hanoi Vodka. Kissyhands is the guy on the right in the white shirt.
