Despite being deluged at times by horrifying tales of Minsks gone wrong, I freely admit that after five hassle-free days, it’s possible that I got a little cocky.

In the grand scheme of Minsk disasters, my first series of mishaps rank fairly low on the devastating scale, with the motorcycle thankfully dying not with the proverbial bang, but rather a series of inconvenient whimpers.  Or perhaps sputters.  Just a kilometer or so outside of a small, mountain town, the engine and all its associated torque simply wheezed out on me with no warning and the bike rolled on to a sad and temporarily fatal stop.

Peculiar, I thought, pulling over and attempting to restart it.  Irritating, I thought, after a few failed kickstarts, each more increasingly violent than the one before.  Motherfucker, I thought after about five minutes of said failures, upon realizing that the Minsk was not, in fact, just taking a short break.  There are two positives here, though:

1. The road back into town has enough of a slant downhill that I can practically coast the entire way there.
2. I am actually right next to a town, rather than off in the wilderness somewhere.  There’s a Minsk mechanic in every town right?

Note the sudden influx of palm trees. As ubiquitous as they are in Vietnam movies, I hadn't seen many until passing south of Hue

I naively believed before today that the universal answer to this question was: “Yes.”  In fact, the standard answer is much closer to: “Usually.”  And today, sadly, when I’m in desperate need of one, it is assuredly: “No.”With the exception of a single mishap, my trip yesterday out of Hoi An had gone by rather smoothly.

The most dangerous vehicles on the road in Vietnam are, by far, the passenger buses, as they are driven by soulless bastards whose parents never loved them when they were small.  Their horns, always fired mere feet from the back of my head, sound off with the eardrum-crushing, cannon-like peal of angelic trumpets proclaiming the apocalypse.  Except those times where the driver opts not to use them at all, announcing himself instead with a violent, unexpected headwind that almost always pushes me uncontrollably to the shoulder.

They are relentless and they are plentiful.  Apparently, everyone has somewhere to go in Vietnam — especially with the huge influx of Chinese tourists — with caravans of these buses generally traveling in large packs.  I could almost accept that as an expected road hazard in a country with a growing tourist trade.  Except that every single one of them just has to be in front, which means there is a non-stop barrage of these deadly monsters passing one another on roads that weren’t originally built for vehicles of their stature.  What a great place to be learning to ride a motorcycle!

Case in point: If I’m on a narrow, two-lane bridge with no shoulder, it’s probably not good that two of these large buses are coming right at me, side by side, right?

Beautiful views through the mountains when buses aren't coming at me, especially in the early misty mornings

I’m guessing that it is not.  The bus in my lane has only just shifted over and is starting to pass, and has not yet made it onto the bridge yet, at which point, if I am still upon it, my life will be be forfeit.  All of my memories do not flash before my eyes, but there is a frantic realization that I am likely about to die and a stuttering stream of obscenities spews forth from me as I realize that the Minsk is already going as fast as it can.  I lean forward and apoplectically shout “FUUUCK” as though the sheer volume of my curse might flow through the bike like a shot of motor adrenaline and incite my tiny engine to work just a little harder this once.With scant inches between us, my bike clears the bridge at an angle right along its edge, and I dart out into the grass on the other bank, swerving recklessly to a jerky stop.  Quietly cursing as uncontrollably as a sufferer of Turrets, I get off the Minsk and sit down on the grass until my breathing is finally somewhat normal again.  No, I am not a fan of Vietnamese buses.

The rest of the day is thankfully less eventful.  For a while, a mysterious tower looms above me in the distance, perched away serenely on a hill.  It looks to be an incredible relic from another time, but I hadn’t read anything about it when looking into today’s route.  Over lunch in the small town of Song Ve, I’m told by someone with middling English skills that it’s called Cham Tower.  Tempting, but I’m too short on time, and there don’t seem to be any easily marked roads leading to it.

My mysterious, fried non-pho lunch

Lunch, surprisingly enough, isn’t pho for a change, but rather some cold fried pork served with bean sprouts and lettuce with a spicy Vietnamese sauce on the side.  The dish came with a lukewarm broth with small, flaccid chunks of squash floating within.  It’s nice to try something different I suppose, but pho actually would’ve been better.  I still smile profusely and mutter “raht nyan” which is my best attempt at the Vietnamese phrase for “delicious!”

Nightfall finds me in the city of Quy Nhon (Kwee-Nyan) at a fairly nondescript hotel along the main drag.  An old man with irregular patches of facial hair runs over to me as I stop and desperately wants me to follow him somewhere, but his English doesn’t even extend to “hello” and I’m too exhausted to be curious.  The hotel’s nothing to look at, but there’s a nice cafe behind it.

Four teen-aged girls in matching uniforms (it’s not clear if they’re for school or work) are sharing dinner — a simple broth, and a large bowl of what looks to be spinach — and they invite me over to join them.  They don’t speak much English and clearly think my presence is hilarious, but I’m not one to turn down a free meal.  A male in his 20′s eventually comes up and gives me a plausible escape from their constant tittering and talks to me for a while.  His name’s Minh and he’s a college student studying business at the local university, and he seems very excited about my trip.  After a few beers, I politely retire for a fitful night of sleep.  I acutely feel every spring in the bed, and the half-broken fan — necessarily on to keep the mosquitoes away — clicks relentlessly through the night.

Cham Tower

Minh, my friendly English-speaking company for the night

One of the girls that shared dinner with me. Looking at the uniform again it's clear that A) it's a work uniform and B) it doesn't go well with sweat stains.

Back to the Breakdown…

“Nyah-shih?” I ask a group of teen-aged boys skeptically.  I’ve been pushing the bike for ten minutes now looking for some sign of a mechanic in this small village, and so far I’ve seen no positive omens.  The three boys are huddled around an overturned motorcycle in someone’s front yard, and there’s an assortment of tools spread about.  It’s not promising, but I’m short on options.  One of the boys — the oldest looking, thankfully — smiles and nods his head, and within moments, he’s tinkering with the inner workings of the Minsk.

One of the boys attempting to figure out what's up with the Minsk. He does not succeed.

I watch in nervous silence as they turn bolts, detach cables and generally tinker with the bike with an uncertainty that grows in proportion to my rapidly shrinking faith in them.  After fifteen minutes of this, the head boy comes to me and shakes his head in disappointment.  ”Nyah-shih?” I ask again.   Mechanic.  And hopefully a real one this time.  The boys walk with me three houses down and knock on the side door of the house, calling out for what I hope is this town’s master mechanic and solver of problems.

My prayers are not quickly answered.  He gives a hearty — and in my opinion, ill-mannered — laugh upon seeing my bike and shakes his head vigorously while talking to me in Vietnamese.  I’m lost as to the subtle meanings, but it’s clear from his general mocking tone that he is not going to be able to help me.

I often wonder how situations like this would get resolved if it wasn’t for some miracle translator, always dropping in at the last minute.  In this case, said miracle goes by the name Yue and, despite the town’s extremely small size and isolated stature, he just happens to be walking by as I sit on the steps of the mechanic’s house with my head in my hands while an assortment of Vietnamese people shout at each other while gesturing madly toward my Minsk.

“Are you ok?” he asks me.

I’m not, but do my best to fake it in the name of politeness.  It turns out that there is normally a mechanic in town that can fix Belorussian beauties like mine, but he cannot do it now, nor can anyone in the area.

“Why not?” I implore.

Tet.  Apparently the New Year celebration isn’t a simple one-day affair, but an all-out week-long extravaganza that involves, among other things, not fixing tourist motorcycles.  ”But I can pay more.. can’t we just ask him?”

No.  This is out of the question.  You will have to take it to a city, they tell me, and even there it’s unlikely anyone will be able to work on a Minsk this close to Tet.  Honda, maybe.  Not this bike.  No chance.

His pessimism is quickly contagious.

“Where’s the nearest city?”

“Quy Nhon,” he tells me.

That’s right: Quy Nhon.  The city I slept in last night, and apparently broke my motorcycle diligently escaping from.  One and a half hours to the north, by Minsk speed.  I slump my shoulders, collapse back onto the steps and nod to the mechanic to call his friend with a truck to take me there for 400,000 dong.  Minutes later, the truck arrives.  Its young driver is glum, possibly a little drunk, and doesn’t seem in any way interested in taking a trip to Quy Nhon.  The offer of pre-Tet spending money was apparently too much for him to pass up.

My driver, Yue and me -- headed South.

We foist the bike up onto the back of his truck and he starts to head over to the driver’s seat, but I stop him and call Yue back over to translate.

“Quy Nhon is here,” I say, pointing at the map.  ”North.  I don’t want north.  I need to get to Nha Trang.  South.  What about this city?” I point at a blue dot on the map that looks to be about the same size as Quy Nhon, but in the opposite direction.  Tuy Hoa.  If the numbers on the map are fairly accurate, it’s thirty kilometers to Quy Nhon.  It’s 80 to Tuy Hoa.  ”Will there be a mechanic there, do you think?” He squints his eyes in thought for a moment before answering reluctantly in Vietnamese.

“He say there is mechanic there, but he will not go.  Too far.”

“I pay.  Umm, Double.  800,000 dong.  Tell him.”

The man considers my offer for a moment then says something.

“One million, he says.”

“Actually, 800,000 is all I have on me,” I lie.  ”Tell him 800 is a really good deal.” I’ve got just about 500,000 more than that, but I’m going to need some cash for repairs as well, and from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t expect Tuy Hoa to be an ATM kinda town.

Through all the rice paddies, there were suddenly these little flags everywhere. It's either something local or Tet-related

The driver doesn’t look happy about the deal at all, but he sluggishly agrees.  Yue, apparently finding my presence the most fascinating thing in town, comes along as well.  I have no idea what I’d do without this kid, and almost consider offering him a permanent spot as my sidekick, despite him not really having anything interesting to say that isn’t translated from someone else’s words.  It’s a long, quiet hour to Tuy Hoa, and my troubles aren’t solved just yet.

Our first stop in town, a large motorcycle vendor and repair shop, practically laughs in our faces when we show them the Minsk.

“They say they cannot do this Bike.  It’s very hard now with Tet tomorrow.”

“Yes.  I understand this by now, Yue.  Trust me, I get it.”

Another place cannot help or point us in the right direction.  A third place points us to a fourth, who then gives directions to a fifth.  Fifteen minutes of aimless meandering through town, and it’s obvious the driver’s just about done with this errant American and his shitty soviet lemon.  The places we visit keep getting smaller and more ramshackle, but possibly that’s the only way to go when dealing with Minsks.  He pulls up to a covered hovel on the side of the road where four people sit drinking beers while a fifth sits on the dirt floor tinkering with a motorcycle.

“They can do it!” Yue tells me excitedly after some words are exchanged.

“No shit??” I high-five my translator with overwhelming enthusiasm.

“Hiii!  Where are you from?” a girl in her 20′s, sitting at the table asks me.

Uniquely French-Vietnamese architecture. We passed many of these ornately colored and designed standalone homes on the way to Tuy Hoa.

I tell the girl — who has the unfortunate name of Dung — and gleefully she invites me to sit down with her and chat while they work on my bike.  She’s attractive enough and speaks near perfect English, but seems almost too happy to please.  After the morning I’ve had, I won’t complain too much about getting free drinks and lunch from her, but while her mechanic friend takes my bike fully apart, she focuses on me with an almost uncomfortable intensity.

“Why do you want to go to Nha Trang for Tet.  You know we celebrate it in all Vietnam, right?  I think you should stay here instead.  Tuy Hoa is the best.”  From what I’ve seen of the town so far, I’m fairly certain this is not likely.

“Well, I bet that would be nice, but I’m really looking forward to the beach…”

“Aww, Tet’s much better in Tuy Hoa, I promise.  I just got a new apartment, too.  You can stay with me.  As long as you want!”

“Aww, Dung, thanks.  I’ve got a friend to meet in Nha Trang, though,” I lie.

“Hmm.”  She pauses.  ”Would you like to go see my apartment now?  I can show you!”

She’s a pretty enough girl.  I’m not sure why I turn down the offer, especially seeing how sad the rejection initially makes her and how lonely this trip has at times made me.  Maybe I just wasn’t that attracted to her.  Maybe I really just wanted to be in Nha Trang by sunset.  Maybe I just couldn’t get around looking a girl in the eyes and softly calling her Dung.

We keep talking for close to an hour — often with repeated offers for that tour of her apartment — but by 1:15, my engine coughs to a confident start and I pay the man 400,000 dong and go.  All told, I’m almost even on time with the truck ride, but I’m broke again and I’ll be pushing it now to get to Nha Trang with the sun still out.  As long as nothing else goes wrong, I should be alright, though.

Large fishing nets seen as we drive along the coast to Tuy Hoa.

A yak pulling a large cart of Tet flowers

The only Minsk repairman in all of Tuy Hoa

Dung, being elusive. She wouldn't let me take a picture.

How green was my valley

Something Else Goes Wrong

Coasting down an impossibly steep and windy mountain, I take in the epic ocean vistas while celebrating the fact that my Minsk actually summited the thing in the first place.  This ride should be amazing, and with the lack of traffic that I’m guessing Tet has inspired, it should be incredibly easy driving as well.  But it’s neither of these things.  Because right now, my motorcycle is most definitely wobbling.

If this is the roadside hindu god of not getting flat tires, then I assure you, it's broken

Listening carefully, I note that the engine is purring with a newfound vigor and, based on what I watched the mechanic do, has more parts in it that are brand new than old.  So why are my body parts (more specifically, my poor battered testicles, I’m afraid) getting so violently vibrated to the sound of “Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup”?

Oh wait, that’s why.  Hello, flat tire.

Once again, I’m lucky to be near a town when this happens, and not, say, halfway up the mountain I just awkwardly bounced down.

“You.. ok?” a woman asks me slowly.  She’s got some basic English competency, but she’s no Dung.

“Well, I have a flat tire.” I point it out.  “Where can I fix?”

“Yes, I know.  Close.  Four kilomets there–” she points back the way I came.  Up the frigging mountain.

“Ohhhh no.  I’m not pushing this thing back there.”

“No.  Close.  Sorry.  English..  Ahhhh.  There,” she points.  ”Four.  There.”  I think she means four buildings down.  That’s better!

One of the gorgeous spots coming down the mountain, right before my latest hardship

There’s a house that I now see doubles as a gas station — no pumps, but there’s a table with many bottles of a brownish liquid that I’ve discovered is petrol — where she’s pointing, and an older man sits outside on a chair.  I pull up to him and point my tire out with a smile and friendly shrug.  For reasons I can’t understand, he is apparently enraged with me and shouts angrily while waving for me to go away.  Nope, no help here.

Next door are several motorcycles in various states of repair, and I take the chance and knock on the sliding door of the house.  A man comes out and gives me a much warmer greeting than what I received from the last stand.  He looks at tire and immediately nods his head.  I’m officially out of dong once again, but his eyes light up appreciatively when I pull out some American dollars from my reserves.  No problem there.  Barely ten minutes later, he’s patched the hole, refilled the tire with air and I’m ready to go.  Can it be this easy?

No.  No it can’t.  He sits on the bike about to give it a test ride, I assume, but the second his weight is applied, we both jump back a bit as the tube violently explodes.  He looks at me sheepishly and smiles, then holds his hand out to dispel any fears this sudden pop might’ve garnered.  No worries, man.  It’s cool. He motions for me to stay seated while he goes somewhere.  I presume it’s to pick up a new tube, but who can tell, really?

Hanoi 1192 KM. I've come so far...

Ten minutes.  Twenty.  Thirty.  I sit there watching a jumping spider attempting to pounce on one of the many flies that fill the garage I’m hanging out in, and feel the seconds drag.  The spider’s not having much success.  Forty minutes.  Forty-eight minutes have passed, when his scooter returns triumphantly.  It barely takes five minutes to get the new tube in place, but there’s no way I’m getting into Nha Trang now with the sun still out.  I pay the man his ten dollars and cautiously jump back on the small highway and haul ass through the dusk.

It’s almost imperceptible at first, but there’s a vibration to the motorcycle that wasn’t there before.  A subtle bounce at slow speeds that turns into an uncomfortable, steady vibration at faster ones.  Some quick experimentation shows me the sad situation: I’ve bent the front wheel’s rim.  It’s not a major bend, but when one is dealing with wheels, it doesn’t take much to get this kind of a drastic effect.  With the sun going down and no mechanics around, I have no option but to press on through.

The last of the sunlight has faded into a cool light blue I reach Nha Trang, but it’s a large city and I spend too long getting my bearings to take full advantage of the fading light.  By the time I find what looks to be the tourist district, it’s fully dark out and I’m riding with no headlight down loud and over-packed city streets.  All I can do is drive slowly, stick to the sides of the road and be as ostentatiously visible as I can until finding some decent lodging.  The Blue Star Hotel is cheap, a block from the beach and gives me a reason to stop risking my life out on the streets.  The price goes up eight dollars on the night of Tet, but that still only pushes the price to twenty bucks.

Damn, I miss Vietnamese prices…

Fixing my first flat. Note: not my last.

Store after store of tailors with wide assortments of materials, patterns and styles

Months after visiting Vietnam, while staying with a friendly couple in Berlin, I called attention to their curtains.  This isn’t something I normally do, as I’m relatively slow to notice anything related to interior design.  But they had unusually tall ceilings in their flat, with large windows stretching almost the entire height of the wall, and the uniquely ornate curtains seemed to fit perfectly within an inch of the floor.  The pattern was vibrant and colorful and unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“Have you been to Hoi An?” they asked.  It was a good leading question, as I had and quickly knew where they were going with the conversation.  They’d visited less than a year ago and, having had no luck finding anything to fit the windows locally, decided to take measurements and simply have their own curtains made in the oceanside city with a worldwide reputation for cheap, high quality tailoring.  The streets of  the small town are, quite literally, lined with tailors displaying materials of limitless colors and patterns, with some of their best work modeled on clusters of mannequins huddled together outside like well-dressed patrons waiting in line for a popular club.

One of Hoi An's many markets. Note that despite how narrow the paths between stalls are, people still pass through regularly on motorcycles.

Traveling as I was by motorcycle, with a small, dusty bag containing all my compressed belongings on its back, I opted against having any fine, custom made suits stitched up for me.  But among foreigners in Hoi An, this lack of interest definitely put me in the minority.  Over drinks at outdoor cafes, women (and men, to a lesser degree) would show off their new fineries — intricate dresses in wide varieties of styles, unique handmade bikinis and swimwear, and yes, apparently home furnishings as well.

A few people presumptively asked me what I’d had made while in town, then quickly rebuked my “dirty Minsk” argument by explaining that they were having all their new clothing shipped home.

“You can’t go to Hoi An and not having at least something made,” one girl explained to me pedantically.

Somehow I found a way.

Hoi An itself is small, though has a rich history as a major port city, though the bustling trade years between 1500-1900.  So much business was done with the Japanese, that the city was once divided in two, with the Japanese side across a small, covered bridge with an intricately adorned pagoda attached.  The town is entirely Vietnamese now, but the bridge remains as a popular tourist attraction.

Passing Through Danang (Hue to Hoi An)

Under a thousand kilometers to go!

The boat cruises down the Perfume River from Hue don’t appeal to me in any significant way, so I pack quickly after coming home from the Imperial Palace and make a slow, confused departure from the labyrinth of city streets.  Highway 1A is the main road leading from north to south, and eventually there are large signs pointing to Danang as well.  The city’s changed a bit from how it was portrayed in the war movies I’d watched as a kid, but I felt no particular interest in any of its few tourist draws.

During the war, the city’s airport had so many daily operations that it was officially the busiest airport in the world at that time.  These days, Danang most famously offers tours of the De-Militarized Zone (DMZ), though it’s an attraction apparently aimed more at those with a deeper interest in the Vietnam War.  The infamous China Beach is just outside town, as are the beaches at My Khe, but with plenty of beaches already in my immediate future, neither of these are powerful enough draws.

The most notable thing, then, is the ride itself.  Driving along green, mountainous roads that curve and dip along Vietnam’s coast, I’m hit with views so breathtaking at times that it distracts from my driving.  Pushing the Minsk as hard as I can in first gear, I crest impossible climbs only to be greeted with views of a deep, neverending blue stretching out to the horizon.  The dangers and annoyances of traveling along 1A are almost made up for entirely by the sheer pleasure of pushing through these mountain roads, so staggeringly high up above the ocean.

Following such a ride, a bland port city like Danang with its hectic and frenetic traffic couldn’t help but repulse me.  After about fifteen minutes getting lost in the city, I grab some pho from a particularly unfriendly vendor and head out to Hoi An as fast as the Minsk will go.

A seaside village passed along the way between Hue and Danang

A ride though the hills along Vietnam's coast. The road ahead, a tiny slash through the trees, is just barely visible

Danang's main bridge. It's not a particularly dirty city, but not a stunningly clean one either, and definitely not where I felt like staying the night

Happy Middles, in Preparation for Tet

Grumbling and bitter, I drop my bags on the floor of my hotel room and collapse on the bed.  I’m tired, and the pho from Danang was neither satisfying nor tasty.  South America spoiled me with its glut of hostels and the style of easy socializing with other travelers that comes with them.  Since leaving Hanoi, I’ve spent every night alone in cold, strange hotel rooms and I was looking forward to meeting some other people in the apparently popular Hoi An.

A nicely decorated bridge in the heart of the small port city

The biggest “problem” then, is that hotel rooms in Vietnam are too cheap, making shared hostels unnecessary.  In all the obvious ways, this is a good thing.  But it hinders my plan to spend the evening speaking more than the same three line of English for a change drastically.  The hotel itself lacks a common room, short of the small reception area, and I immediately dismiss the idea of standing about there looking for new short-term friends like some kind of potential stalker.

Taking a seat next door at an Asian fusion restaurant, I try to focus on the good: I will finally be eating food that isn’t pho. Fixed price lunch: Lemongrass chicken, spring rolls, seafood soup, creme brulee.  Eight dollars.  No problem.

“Buy my postcards,” says a little girl of about nine, who’s silently sauntered up to my table.

“Nah.”

“Here, nice,” she says, ignoring my disinterest.  The postcards are arranged in a booklet that folds out, and suddenly a long column of fairly bland pictures depicting life in Vietnam is hanging in front of me.  Farmers toiling in rice paddies.  Old women with conical hats staring confusedly at the camera, almost certainly not aware they were posing for a post card. “Twenty thousand.”

The Hoi An branch of the Dharma Initiative

“Ha. Way too high.  Even if I liked them…”

“Ten thousand,” she quickly barks.

“You kind of suck at bargaining, kid.  Plus, these post cards are terrible.  They’re all of people farming and donkeys and shit.  These are post cards to send to people you don’t like.”

“Post cards are very good.  You send your mom.”

The waitress comes out and shouts something to the girl in Vietnam, clearly attempting to chase her away.

“No, no, it’s cool.  It’s actually one of the best conversations I’ve had in several days.  Here, kid…” I pass her 10,000 dong for the set.

“Twenty thousand!” she protests.

“They’re ugly.  Take the ten and like it.” She grabs the cash and runs off to a new target.

A legion of young children, armed with shitty souvenirs, post cards and passable English skills ambush tourists in both the most and least expected places.  Looking at (and eventually purchasing, for some reason) a large metal gong in one of the markets, a pudgy Vietnamese child with a giant grin runs up to me, holding out some hand-painted wooden dragonfly toys.

“I’m a little fat kid!” he says proudly, too clearly for it to have been anything else.  No more is said about the dragonflies, but his arms still hold them for me to peruse.

“Yes.  Yes, I guess you are,” I agree.  He smiles, but doesn’t seem to be going away.  ”No thank you, little fat kid.  Sorry!” He runs off right away, but the huge smile never subsides.  Some people just really love their jobs.

Locals hanging up red lanterns in preparation for Tet

It’s an attractive town, and more so now with the advent of Tet, the celebration of the Vietnamese new year.  Large, colorful lanterns — most predominantly red — are strung down all the main roads, sometimes bunched together in strange patterns that are only more beautiful by night when they’re illuminated.  There’s an anticipatory feeling in the streets, and while the tourists passing through only grasp a hint of it, the people living here all seem involved in some way with preparations.  Many of the craft stores here specialize in the large, paper lanterns that decorate the street, though most are too unwieldy to be good souvenirs.

Over a dinner of a local broth and noodle dish called cao lầu, a older man named Sherman asks if he can join me, and I see no reason to decline him, despite an apparent inability on his part to look cheerful.  He says that he’s originally from Sri Lanka, though his complexion is decidedly more western than that and his nasally accent is most reminiscent of South Africa.  While he talks, I can’t help but notice that his face seems trapped in a perpetual sneer, as though the world not only filled him with disdain but had an unpleasant aroma as well.

My dinner of Cao Lau. My articulate notes vividly describe it as "OK"

“You know,” he tells me, “I had a massage just earlier.  They have them everywhere, and it’s so cheap here, you know.”

“Do go on,” I tell him.  I’ve been on an impromptu tour of Asian massages thus far, from the relaxing full-body “Thai massage” to the relaxing full body “Lao massage” (identical to the Thai one, shockingly enough).  Especially after a few days on the Minsk which ranged from uncomfortable to grueling, I’m about due to test out what Vietnam has to offer.

“Well, I’ll tell you.  The little tramp tried to swindle me.  The massage was nice enough, but I had left my pants on the floor, and when I looked up she had moved them to the table!”

“And was she going through them?”

“Well, not at the time, but I know exactly what they’re all about here.  I stood up and told her I won’t be taken so easily and gathered my things and left.”

“But was the massage any good?”

“It was alright.”

Street incense, jammed into a tree. Spotted in various places throughout town. They like their city smelling nice, apparently

Sold.  I pay my bill and follow his directions to the parlor.  At fifteen dollars, it’s nearly ten more than what I was paying in Laos, Thailand or (the winner so far) China, but at about 60 dollars less than what a comparable massage would be in the States, it’s still a bargain.

I will state now for the record that I’ve never actually had an offer for the infamous “happy ending” while receiving a massage, nor have I genuinely wanted one.  I like reeling in pain from a brutal massage that turns the oak-like knots in my back to a soft putty while the tension practically oozes from my body.  Why would I want to distract myself from such a good thing by bringing my raging hormones into the question?  I truly assumed that should the opportunity (and associated body part) ever arise, I’d simply brush off the offer and let the regular massage resume.

As always, I neglected to take into consideration just how influential the genitals can be at times when making decisions.

Lantern makers, hard at work throughout town. The stores are open year round, though I got the impression they went into overdrive before Tet

The rubdown started off pleasantly enough.  Though I ignore Sherman’s complaints as the typical paranoia of the old guard, I still made a point of folding up my pants nicely and putting them under my shirt in a corner.  The masseuse, a woman in her mid-twenties, immediately got to work on my back before working her way down to my legs and feet.  Thirty minutes in, she instructs me in reasonably broken English to flip over, and that’s when I notice a subtle shift in the tone of my rubdown.

Almost immediately, she massages my knees with the tips of her fingers, softly moving in gentle circles as she moves her way up my thighs.  Most of her gestures focus on the thigh itself, but every few strokes lead her hands astray to the sensitive inner thigh, and before I know it, she’s reaching up under my boxers to the top of my legs.  We’ve yet to pass the point of no return, as her motions on my inner thigh still sit comfortably in the PG-13 range, but as she starts to perform a soft, repetitive stroke on my upper legs, it produces an immediate reaction as surely as if she’d pressed a simple button.

My mind, ablaze with the un-sexiest thoughts I could come up with as a means of resistance, can seemingly do nothing to halt the inevitable.  Since then, out of pure curiosity I have tried to duplicate this effective inner-thigh maneuver, only to find my legs cold and decidedly un-erogenous.  All I can say is that the woman is a skilled professional at the top of her craft.

Hoi An at night

“You want me finish?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Well, how much?”

Fifteen bucks more.  I cave with little hesitation.

The sordid business complete, she instructs me to put my clothes on as she starts to walk out the door.

“It’s only 8:40.  Massage is one hour,” I tell her.

She pauses and looks perplexed for a few seconds.  Maybe the standard reaction is for men to dart out the doors immediately with their heads down, inspired by some kind of post-orgasmic shame, but I paid for the full hour, damn it.

“Ok,” she acquiesces.  Not a “happy ending” then at all.  A nice, ultra-relaxing “happy middle.”

To her credit, she put just as much energy and effort into the last twenty minutes as she had the first thirty-eight and the middle two.  Such a professional.

Hoi An by day

...and by night

The Ruins of My Son

Peculiar advertisements throughout town hype visits to My Son, a name that is slightly less confusing when explained that it’s pronounced “Mee Sahn”.  The My Son ruins are a series of Hindu temples dating back over a thousand years, and were the longest occupied temples in all of Indochina.  Sadly, much of My Son was destroyed by carpet bombing during the Vietnam war, but a few of the temples are still in reasonably good condition.  It’s still one of the most famous archeological sites in Vietnam, and a good way to spend a few hours around Hoi An.

The tourguide spoke fluent English and was pretty interesting as well, but he couldn't compete with the snake eating a frog for the group's attention

Indigenous Buddhists still use the temple for ceremonies

Bhadresvara, a variation on Shiva combined with the name of the king that had My Son created

The Linga, a representation of the Hindu god Shiva. It is often considered to be a symbol of male creative energies, apparently...

Generic tourist shot.

Recreational Activities

Down by the markets in Hoi An is a large, outdoor dining area served by about eight different restaurants that all seem to have the exact same menu, and the stands seem to be named after the owners or head chef’s, like “Miss Lam’s” or “Mr Chien’s.”  The food’s alright for the price and it’s a nice spot to have a few pints of beer while talking to other travelers.  I speak with a British couple for a while, and Vietnamese men come by at times, walking from table to table to advertise supposedly happening bars and offer drink discounts.

The outdoor food court in the center of town

We take an enthusiastic hawker up on his offer after being promised a free bucket of alcohol each, not realizing that a lot of the popular bars are far enough from the town center as to require transportation to get there.  He calls a friend over and the three of us ride on the backs of their two motorcycles to the bar.  His club’s a bit seedy, with an over-reliance on blacklights to mask the lack of actual decor, but our large, first drinks each were, as promised, on the house.

The drawback to the free ride out, is that it doesn’t come with a corresponding ride home.  The path is straightforward, but a bit of a haul and I amble my way down the dark streets alone, passing sections that clearly don’t cater much to tourists.  Families huddle in small kitchens around televisions, or sit on porches talking to one another and generally paying little attention to a passing American.

By day, the beach is a popular option, though it’s not exactly the beach resort I had initially hoped for.  While attractive enough, the beach is relatively small and sits a prohibitive three kilometers outside of town.  There are tuk-tuks (three-wheeled moto-taxis) that shoot back and forth almost constantly from the small city center to the beach, by I opt for the freedom (and general badassed riding sensation) of taking my motorcycle.

Hoi An's Japanese Bridge. It once separated the Japanese side of the city from the Vietnamese side, but now it's just a cultural landmark

At the beach I spot the first other Minsks I’ve come across since leaving Hanoi.  Two Aussies have been making their way north from Ho Chi Minh City for about a week.  One’s had no difficulties at all, but the other’s been dealing with daily setbacks.  He’s worked on motorcycles before, so he’s been trying to fix the bike himself with each breakdown, but it’s been a difficult trip so far.  Privately, his traveling companion confides that he wished his friend would just seek out a mechanic instead.  It’s a reminder that as lucky as I’ve been, the clunky soviet hogs have their notorious reputation for a reason.

The beach at Hoi An is small, and has a disproportionate amount of vendors and activities for the few tourists currently visiting.  A large ZORB globe sits unattended and unused on a flat patch of open beach.  Spotting a potential mark, an older woman runs up to me with a basket full of jewelry.

“Very nice, very nice!” she cries.

“Sorry lady, I didn’t bring any money.”

“Ahhh, no money no honey,” she laughs.  ”You know that?  ’No money, no honey’?”

“Trust me, I know.”

I swim for a while before drying off in the sun and hopping back on the Minsk.  Hoi An’s not really compelling enough for me on its own to stay another night, but even with my right schedule, a little rest from the weary road is welcome about now.

Huế (pronounced, near as I can tell, as “Hoo-yay”).  Thriving capital of Vietnam for centuries, only to fall into disrepair and disrepute under Ho Chi Minh and the Communist Party.  Maybe they would’ve had more respect for the city had it not been a symbol of feudal times and kowtowing to foreign invaders.  After all, the once powerful Nguyen family had all but signed over Vietnam to the French in their later years before the last emperor abdicated the throne completely in 1945.  And located where it is, in the very bellybutton of modern Vietnam, the large city became a central point of skirmishes between north and south in the war with the Americans and a symbol of the divide.

Its unfortunate location made Huế a popular target from both sides.  Intense bombings from the Americans blasted historical buildings and ancient monuments with typical wartime indifference, and the north were merciless both during and after the war to a city that put a face on collusion with both the French and the Americans.  Probably the most famous of these unpleasantries was the Huế Massacre of 1968, where the Viet Cong occupied Huế for several weeks following the Tet Offensive and viciously wiped out nearly everyone in the city with southward political leanings.

Despite any negatives associated with the imperial regime, the Communist Party’s distaste with Huế couldn’t last forever.  The Citadel, with its enclosed Forbidden Palace given in to disrepair and neglect, was eventually accepted once again as a treasured landmark and a large draw for Vietnam’s growing tourism industry.  Further down the Perfume River, tombs of ancient emperors sit serenely along the waterside, and a slew of tour boat operators now run up and down the river daily to visit them.  And the Thien Mu Pagoda, besides being idyllically located on the banks of the Perfume, is the tallest in all of Vietnam.

Of course, none of these things are on my mind as I arrive into the most densely packed streets that I’ve seen since Hanoi at three in the afternoon, sweating and penniless.  ATMs are, as promised, in plentiful supply and it doesn’t take too long to track down a moderately priced, no-frills hotel here either.  I’m sure that, sans massacres, it’s a perfectly lovely city to hang out in, but my schedule doesn’t allow for too much wasted time anywhere.  It should take less than three hours to reach the beachside city of Hoi An, my next stop, so after a quick appraisal of local options, I figure this place gets 24 hours of my time, tops.  In short: no rest today.

Huế is known for having a unique style of cuisine,  and I’m definitely up for something that isn’t pho by now, but a few others in the hotel are headed to an Indian Restaurant called Omar Khayyam’s, so I join along (excellent Indian food, by the way, should you ever find yourself in Huế…)

The Thien Mu Pagoda

Thien Mu, literally "fairy woman," dates back to 1600 and is the unofficial symbol of Huế

Me, in front of the pagoda. It's about three kilometers from the town center and Citadel, and I risked riding without a helmet since I'd left it in the room and wasn't going very far. Despite seeing many helmet-less riders in the north, this is illegal in Huế, and many people warned me that police write tickets for it.

Sunset on the Perfume River. It's said that in the autumn, flowers from orchards upriver fall into the river, giving it a flower-like aroma

The Citadel and the Imperial Palace

Up early, I note that my skin is a frightening mix of brown and  red, except around my eyes where my sunglasses have imparted on me a white, inverted raccoon style marking.  Suntan lotion is the first item on the agenda to help with the already tortured skin on my body.  The eyes are a bit trickier, as small insects and dust make the shades a necessity when driving.  I’ll just have to make a point of not wearing the sunglasses whenever possible and spend my idle time staring at the sun…

Morning bia hoi

The Citadel is fairly impossible to miss in Huế, due to the massive walls around it that are mostly undamaged despite the effects of time, war and mismanagement.  Vast fields of flowers that look untended yet bloom too vividly and widespread for that to be true surround the large Citadel walls, calling even more attention to it.  I’d passed it coming into town and wasn’t looking forward to returning; the large street leading into it might be the biggest and less organized road I’d been on in Vietnam.

Crossing is, as was expected, a nightmare, and I pull to the side of the road to catch my breath.  A group of about six men sit out on plastic stools at bia hoi (cheap, outdoor been venue) and motion frantically for me to come over.  It’s just past nine in the morning, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore that they’ve been drinking, and doing so for quite some time apparently.  I’ve got a few hours to kill in town and indulge them in a single beer.  They seem friendly enough, but as usual we’ve got no clue how to communicate and when the manager tries to extort 100,000 dong (way too much) out of me, I give him 10,000 (possibly too little…) and walk away.

There are official fees to enter the compound, and unofficial ones paid to dubious men in the parking lot to ensure my motorcycle will still be waiting for me  in one piece upon my return.

The Citadel walls from outside, surrounded by fields of flowers. Flower vendors line the streets here as well in droves, though they're possibly out in greater numbers when I visit due to the oncoming Tet holiday.

A large outer moat surrounds the Citadel itself, with a smaller one surrounding the walls of the Imperial Palace inside

The inner moat surrounding the palace and the Forbidden City. It was known as such similarly to the Forbidden City in Beijing, as only the emperor, his concubines and those granted access were allowed inside. The punishment for trespassing was death.

The entrance to the Forbidden City, now with even more Ho Chi Minh! There are three gates in the entryway: The largest, center opening was reserved for the emperor alone. The right and left entrances were for concubines and other dignitaries.

The complex is quite large, and renovations are still underway throughout the palace grounds. While some buildings and the gardens around them are in pristine condition, other sections are still overgrown and under heavy renovation

Found on one of the many archways in the compound. I like these guys.

A last shot of my morning bia hoi friends as I depart. They don't seem as thrilled to be in the photo this time...

The town of Phong Nha

Still shaken and stirred from the unexpected afternoon encounter, my thrill at being a self-proclaimed goodwill ambassador has waned considerably.  Children call out to me, but my quiet response is half-assed at best.  Pausing only briefly to pick up a new bottle of oil and fill up the Minsk for tomorrow — always careful to shake the bike afterward as violently as possible to get the oil and petrol thoroughly mixed — I follow a tall mountainous ridge on my left down the town’s main street in search of a guest house.

Decorations can be considered minimalist at best, but the rooms are fairly comfortable

At 200,000 dong (about 10 dollars), it’s one of the more expensive nha nghis I’ve stayed in, but it offers a nice balcony view of the imposing ridge line across the street.  Locking all of my gear securely and parking the bike in the garage, I brush off my newfound trepidation — my experiences in Vietnam have been about 98% positive so far — and venture back out onto the street.  Phong Nha is apparently a national park and hosts a relatively famous cave, though some quick research shows that it’s not within walking distance.

The gray, cloudy sky gives the small town a mournful, overcast feel but it’s still one of the most attractive towns I’ve passed through in Vietnam.  Three young people pass me on the sidewalk — two men and a woman — without much fanfare until one of the men doubles back and catches up to me.

“Hello!” he says.  He’s in his early 20′s and wears a nicely buttoned up shirt and some long pants.  His smile is, as far as I can tell, completely without any unkind thoughts toward me.

“Hello,” I say, going on the assumption that his English is, like most people I’ve met, limited to possibly just that one word.

“Where are you from?” he asks me.  The accent is strong but the grammar is perfect.

“America,” I answer with the same nervous smile I always use when answering that here.

Main Street (possibly the only street), Phong Nha

“Ah, America!” he grins.  ”What state?”

“Maryand,” I say.  Then, seeing the standard look of confusion people give when I say that, I add: “Near Washington, DC.”

“Washington!  Ohh!  I want to go there.  I really want to go to New York!”

“Yeah, it’s nice…”

“Do you like beer?”

“Yes.  Yes, I do.”

“Come with me to my brother’s wife’s… No.  My sister is his wife–”

“Your ‘brother-in-law’.”

“Yes!  Yes, ‘brother-in-law.’  We have a bar.  Do you want to go?”

“Sure!”

“My name is Nan!”

“Well Nan, you can call me Yan.”

“Ohhh!”

Phong's brother-in-law and his son

The bar is impressively decorated enough that Nan’s brother-in-law is either an overachiever or this  is Phong Nha’s off-season.  Despite the densely packed dirt floor, the main room is a series of interlocked trellises and trees beautifully linked together by dense green vines and flickering christmas tree lights.  As we walk in, a man — presumably the brother-in-law — sits at one of the tables playing with a child of about three.  Nan speaks to the man in Vietnamese as we approach and the presumed brother-in-law stands up and grabs my chest with a solid squeeze, grinning.

“Thanks..?”

“That means ‘how are you?’” says Nan.

“No shit?”

“Would you like a beer?”

I would.  Nan runs back behind a counter and leaves me with his family.  At my feet, a Vietnamese toddler has his head craned back and is staring at me with wide eyes.  Inexplicably, his fingernails are all painted sky blue.  ”Hello,” I say, and the kid smiles.

Nan comes back with a glass filled with ice and two warm bottles of beer.  It’s not my preferred style, but works in a pinch.  As I slowly pour the tepid beer into my glass, the child looks up at me excitedly and reaches for my half-full can.  I carefully set the can down out of reach on the table and the child’s face fills with consternation as he lets out a whiny grunt.

Developing a love of beer at a very early age

His father says something to Nan and then sets a small, empty tea cup in front of the child.

“You can give him the beer.  He likes it!”

I shrug and push the can over to the small child and he pours it — just a little too much — into his cup and immediately gulps it down.  He’s fast to pour himself a second, though he at least takes his time sipping it this time.  As the four of us drink, Nan tells me about his schooling, his family and a wide assortment of travel plans he’s made.  I tell him some of my own adventures and can’t deny that at least a small part of me revels in his awe.

The Speed Trap

Felix, the French Canadian that sold me the Minsk, warned me that not all under-the-table motorcycle vendors have the proper paperwork that goes with the transaction.  Selling a vehicle  is apparently straightforward in Vietnam, without any third parties or government agencies needing to be involved, but the title must still be passed over from one owner to the next.  Surrounded as I am, here in the countryside, by three policemen, I’m very glad he provided me with one.

Boats and fishing villages as seen from a bridge. There seem to be more lakes and rivers the further south I get.

One policeman studies the small document fastidiously, while another has walked back behind their van and seems to be checking over my bike.  The third sits in the passenger seat of the police van attempting to convey to me exactly how much I have broken the laws of their land.  It’s said that in non-English speaking countries, it often pays to not talk in the local language when you’ve erred in some way, as police generally find dealing with foreigners too frustrating to pursue for any great length of time.  In this case, the frustration is obvious, but they most definitely mean to get their money.

The biggest difficulty for all of us then, is that I have none.

Since leaving Hanoi, there has not been a single ATM machine anywhere, and I’m told that Hue — my evening destination — is the first available spot where they’ll be readily available.  Upon realizing that I might fall short before arriving, I began budgeting religiously to ensure that both my motorcycle and self might be adequately filled, but as of this inconvenient traffic stop, I find myself with just 60,000 dong remaining.  Near as I can tell from the various numbers my officer is jotting down in an attempt to communicate with me, they’re looking for upwards of 500,000 dong — a whopping twenty-five dollars!

I suppose it’s possible that I had been speeding but it’s so hard to tell, for a variety of reasons.  For one thing, I don’t think I’ve spotted a single sign all day alerting me as to the maximum speed here.  And far more importantly, my motorcycle lacks a speedometer, making my reckless velocity impossible to gauge.  Today’s course has been the hilliest yet, with one behemoth of a mountain requiring me to drop to first gear for close to twenty minutes before idling my way down its backside for even longer.

Sometimes the scenery inspires me to pull over to capture a shot. Beautiful stuff.

The officer in charge has circled two other numbers on the page, and stares at me while he points them out.  40.  67.  With his pen, he keeps going back and forth between the two, but I stare back at him blankly, with a friendly shrug of the shoulders.  His point is obvious:  ”This is the speed limit.  This is how fast you were going.”  My point should be equally obvious: “I’m too stupid to understand what you’re saying.”  This plan doesn’t seem to be  working, however.

By now, all three have returned to the van and I’m unceremoniously surrounded.  Realizing I’m fighting for a lost cause, I undo my emergency money belt and extract an American twenty dollar bill, then hold it out for them.  They seem less than thrilled about the offer of green, so I take the pad of paper and draw two numbers for them myself: 20.  500,000.  I circle both  and mimic the pen-pointing game almost to the point of mockery.

“Good for me.  Good for you!  20 American dollars!”

It’s not clear if they understand a word I’ve said, but after a short discussion amongst themselves, the officer in charge nods his head and gives me back my registration.  Free at last, I tear away on the motorcycle with a newfound respect for its sputtering workhorse of an engine.  I’d had no idea I could get the Minsk up to 67 kilometers an hour.

Within the hour it’s clear that my time along the Ho Chi Minh highway has come to a loud and cluttered end.  Roadside shacks are replaced by clusters of buildings that slowly form busy city blocks.  Signs to Hue are everywhere, making navigation a breeze, but the sudden influx of cars, trucks and buses make the ride significantly less enjoyable.  It’s a sad precursor to the journey I’ll be taking along major highways from here to Ho Chi Minh City, but it’s probably for the best to start getting practice for that leg of the trip as soon as possible…

Fortunate Son.  Sweet Home Alabama.  Born to be Wild.  Ride of the Valkyries.  The soundtrack-worthy music of the Vietnam war, as determined by Hollywood.  Inspired by either a newfound boldness or classic stupidity, the Ho Chi Minh Highway now has a backing soundtrack courtesy of my iPod.  I make a point of keeping the music low enough to still hear the occasionally rumbling world around me, as the traffic out here is far from dense to begin with.  I would say that the track list borders on cliché, but my selection transcends cliché into outright camp.

The churches all seem to be a step or two up from any other buildings in town

The playlist switches to David Bowie for a time, and the clean air and arrogantly beautiful voice of the godfather of glam rock inspires me to put on a traveling karaoke show for the flora and fauna of Vietnam.  I shout out Ziggy Stardust to a herd of large, uncaring cows crossing the road as I swerve between them, and murder the lyrics to Suffragette City as bemused locals pass by me in a small car filled to capacity with boxes of produce.  My performance reaches a crescendo as the album ends with me pulling through small village, serenading Rock and Roll Suicide to a gang of children playing on the street.

“Gimme your hands!” screams David Bowie into my ear, and I shout it along to the small gang who have stopped moving to watch the foreign oddity pass through their town.

“Hello!” says a tall girl.

It’s mid-morning and I’ve yet to eat a thing.  It shows.  ”GIMME YOUR HANDS!  CUZ YOU’RE WONDERFUL!”  I raise my right hand aloft to demonstrate, then quickly dart my hands back for the handlebar, overcompensating as the bike wobbles jerkily to the left.

My motorcycle handling talents do not yet include driving one-handedly.

“How are you?” yells another, laughing.  The two wisps of English that nearly every Vietnamese child knows ring out like a repetitive birdsong through the passing countryside.  By now I know  that any proper answer to “how are you” will be disappointingly misunderstood, so I go with the response that I know will bring the most happiness to its recipients.

“HELLO!” I yell.  ”HOW ARE YOOOU?!”

And the crowd goes wild.

Breakfast Bongs

Past the children, two men sit on a shaded porch in front of a large shack, pulling smoke from a makeshift water pipe — a bong — crafted with a large piece of bamboo.  No signs list the place as a restaurant, but the haphazard arrangement of tables and chairs give it away.

“Pho?” I ask.

Tea and bong-hits before breakfast

A slow, lackadaisical smoke sifts through the toothy smile of the man holding the bong as he nods, setting the handmade implement down into a dirty white bucket.  Standing up, he guides me into the room and points at a table as he walks behind the “kitchen” — a cluster of counters and a portable gas stove — small tendrils of smoke still drifting past his head like ephemeral spider webs.  Despite the copious amount of smoke present, there is no hint of marijuana’s distinctive aroma and it seems the men are using the device, unlike anyone that has ever used a similar bong in the United States, strictly with tobacco.

His friend still sits outside staring at me and I invite him in, performing a series of actions that are steadily becoming a set routine.  A recitation of broken Vietnamese terms greeted with a smile.  A quick tour of my road map.  Hand gestures and charades.  After the food arrives, the two stick around, though my expressive physicality shrinks noticeably when armed with a soup spoon and a mouthful of large noodles.

Most roadside restaurants employ a decidedly minimalist decorating scheme

Setting down my spoon after finishing the large, brothy breakfast, the men motion for me to join them outside.  As one runs back inside to fill up a small teapot, the other loads up the bong in front of me from a packet of store-bought tobacco.  I’m not a smoker, but I take the darkened tube of bamboo and, as I was instructed to long ago in college, hold a flame to the metal bowl of tobacco at its base.  The smoke enters my lungs smoothly at first before crossing some invisible tipping point and becoming harsh and mildly caustic.  I expel the dense smoke with a few coughs, noting just how much I’d taken in, and the men laugh along with me.

We drink tea and try unsuccessfully to communicate a bit longer, while smoking communally from the two water pipes.  After the first round, I take only small breaths through the bong to be polite before passing it on.  When I signal that it’s time to leave and attempt to pay, he waves his hand at me, and I put away my money as I thank him profusely for yet another free breakfast.

I'm actually being serious when I say it's just tobacco. Or really ineffective weed.

With such a sterile-looking storage bucket, I felt very glad to have just had this against my mouth

Three hours later and I stop again, this time at a bustling restaurant in a larger town.  A table of men once more attempt to get me drunk on vodka,  and I succumb to a single shot before pho but miraculously drum up the willpower to resist all future offers.  The attention of nearly all the occupants focuses squarely on me, as those that know bits and blurbs of broken English settle around me to show off to their friends, and children play with my camera, somehow managing to bypass all automatic settings and take horrendously bad pictures of babies, animal tails and the floor.

Again, I play the role of goodwill ambassador, putting on my friendliest face while soaking in all the attention that is foisted upon me.  The generosity and warmth of all the locals I’ve come across so far amazes me, especially given all the anecdotes I’ve been told about northern Vietnam being particularly unfriendly toward foreigners.  I bestow a few closing high-fives to children and adults both and then take to the road, still riding on a euphoric wave of warm human kindness.  It won’t last long.

I think this guy was the proprietor of the restaurant. Either way, he really liked me for some reason.

The restaurant from outside

One of about 30 pictures taken by the kids here

A Show of Strength

At lunch, I marked the city of Phong Nha, 100 kilometers south of me, with a blue X signifying it as my intended home for the evening.  It’s a bit of a haul, but necessary if I am to make it to Hue, Vietnam’s ancient capital, in two days time as intended.  The land north of Phong Nha is particularly hilly, as well; a marked change from the endlessly straight roads I’ve ridden on thus far.  Today’s ride is the most beautiful, with clusters of karst mountains, verdantly covered in lush greenness, set about in improbable formations reaching up to the sky.

Self-taken on a bridge, hair color looking particularly unnatural...

The road rises slightly in front of me, disappearing into one such cluster, the biggest I’ve seen yet.  The tall green spires bunch together like an abandoned ancient city, long ago reclaimed by nature.  It’s awe-inspiring enough for me to pull off to the side of the road near a grouping of small buildings.  The largest, nestled across the street, houses what looks to be a pool table and a bar of sorts.  As I capture a shot of the road ahead, three young men almost immediately come out and walk toward me.

“Hello,” I say with a smile.

“Hello,” one retorts.  Young men, between 18  and 22.  Empty grins on their face, devoid of warmth or friendliness.  Immediately my heart starts beating more rapidly and I’m quick to put the camera away.

Upon crossing the street, the tallest one stands directly in front of me; he’s got a sleeveless black t-shirt on and a bizarre mullet that seems unnaturally raised in front and directly on top.  The long, dark hair falls down his back, yet the sides of his head are nearly shaved.  The other two pass around me and start to look at my bike admiringly.  Mullet holds his arm out to me, bent at the elbow, directly in the small space between us.  His hand is open and slowly cupped as though he wants to arm wrestle, despite there being no support between us.

“Hey,” he says.  ”Hey.  Hey.”

Short of options, I play along.

Swerving between livestock is practically a motor sport in rural Vietnam

Placing my hand in his, he immediately clamps down tightly on my hand and jerks me forward, closer to his body.  It’s a variation on arm wrestling, apparently, where the object is to bring the opponent’s hand to one’s own chest.  His victory over me is short and easily won, and he laughs.

“Yes, you are clearly  the winner,” I tell him.  ”Well done.  Nice.” A pause.  “Sooo, do you plan on letting go of my hand?”

He doesn’t seem to be.  His grip on my hand is tight, and the angle at which he holds me is awkward enough that my wrist is bent and it’s difficult to break free.  I jerk my hand from his awkwardly and turn back to my bike, doing my best to force a believable smile.  He laughs and immediately taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, offering his hand out to me again with a leery grin.

“You’re the best, dude.  The champion.  Uncle.”

“Hey.”  The hand still floats between us like an unspoken challenge and his glare is decidedly unfriendly

“Fine, let’s go.”

Having a better understanding of the rules, I fare slightly better this time, pulling him a bit closer to me.  His thumb nail is long and filed down to a claw-like point in the center, like a character from a bad monster movie.  It seems thicker and more enameled than a normal fingernail as well.  Resting where it is against the soft skin between my thumb and index finger, he jabs the nail inward, not quite forcefully enough to break the skin.

“Nice,” I wince.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of the kick start lever sputter down directly behind me and see that one of his friends’ feelings toward my Minsk have turned from those of admiration to downright criminal envy.  The other runs his hands over my bag, as though sensing something of value within despite not knowing what precisely it is.

“FUCK!  NO!” I shout.  I spin around at the man on my bike, yanking my hand free as I turn and feeling his bizarre claw scrape against my skin as the hand comes loose.  The one on my motorcycle holds his hands in the air as a sign of innocence and steps off the bike, though I can feel Mullet approach me from behind.  In a fluid motion, I jump on the bike and kick the start down, only to be greeting by a weak sputtering that amounts to nothing.

“Hey!” says Mullet.  He’s not smiling anymore and is closer than before, holding his hand out to play yet again, though this time the back of his fingers press directly against my chest.  I hear laughter behind me and spot the shortest one pulling on my bag, this time with forceful intent.  Uncontrollably, I let a variety of worried expletives fly.  Mullet is now pressed up so closely to me that it’s difficult to kick down without scraping my foot against his shin, but he’s left me no choice and I jab down sharply, slamming my foot and the kick lever against his leg.  The engine starts.

Time slows down as hands come at me menacingly, yet with the slow lack of resolve one expects from a pack of freshly awakened zombies.  Mullet takes a hold of my shirt at the shoulder with one hand, but it comes loose quickly as the bike tears off.  There’s a sharp tug behind me, and my gear is lopsided now, hanging a bit to the right but still on.  At least one of them had a strong grip on the bag, but the Minsk, for all its unexpected noises, morning leaks, irregular behavior and unreliable parts, was still just a little bit stronger.

This actually looked much hillier in real life

With unnecessary force I jerk my left foot upwards three times, pushing the bike into fourth gear in record time and almost certainly bruising the top of my foot.  There’s another building ahead of me on the right, but no other signs that this might be a town or village.  A few people stand along the side of the road, but we ignore each other as I dart through, determined to get as far away as quickly as possible.  I turn my head around to see if I’m being followed, but if there’s a posse coming after me, they’re taking their sweet time getting together.

The road curves and I take it a little faster than my skills allow for, crossing into the oncoming lane briefly before correcting myself as the road straightens out.  The road ahead, thankfully, stretches on emptily into the horizon, allowing for such indiscretions.  From behind, however, a tinny horn rings out at me.  I turn too quickly and the motorcycle jerks along with me.  A Vietnamese man I’ve not seen before, likely in his mid-20′s, waves wildly at me as he approaches.  ”HELLO!” he shouts.

My heart still racing, I make minimal eye contact and yell “hello” back before pushing the Minsk as fast as it’s capable of moving.  He matches my pace with no difficulty, riding in tandem with me uncomfortably close, especially given the experience I just had.  Glancing over, he’s staring directly at me, giving the road ahead only middling interest, a large smile plastered on his face.  He yells something at me, but I can’t comprehend if it’s even English.  Thirty minutes earlier, I would’ve felt no worries, but now…

“Dude, I’m not feeling very social right now.” I explain, knowing there is no possibility he will hear or understand me.  I wave politely, then motion for him to pass me as I release the throttle and lag behind him.  It’s a wasted maneuver; he slows down with me as precisely as if I were driving both vehicles.

“Hello!” he says.  He points at — the front of his motorcycle, his headlight, the road ahead– it’s unclear — then points over at me, yells something else.

“What?!” I yell, but he just smiles back dimly, his eyes locked on me as though he implicitly trusts me to steer for both of them.  ”Ok, thank you!  bye bye!” I wave and then speed up again, but our bikes move as one.

“Motherfucker!” I shout.

“Hello!” he says.

A morbid anxiety runs through me as he continues to wave me down.  His goofy grin seems too devoid of thought to be filled with malice, but combined with my narrow escape just moments earlier, I can’t help but worry I’ve found myself in the Vietnamese equivalent of The Hills Have Eyes.  The grinning biker follows me with the blind, giddy devotion of a puppy but my heart paces with a sickening paranoia as to his motives.

“GO!” I yell, waving my hand forward.  ”Go ahead!  Go!  I do not like you!”

“Hellooo!”  He points to the front of his motorcycle once more, smiling.

“Yes, you have a very nice motorcycle!  Go!  Go!” I wave frantically as I slow down, but of course he slows with me.  I can neither outrun him nor risk stopping completely, and so I opt to ignore him completely.  For a minute more, maybe two, he continues to ride alongside me, offering endless hellos and incomprehensible blurbs before finally shouting the best thing I’ve heard all afternoon.

“Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” I call softly, not bothering to look over.  His face has been locked in that same queer smile for the past five minutes anyway, so it’s unlikely to look different now.  My reign as goodwill ambassador is clearly at an end, at least for the day.  Adrenaline still setting my nerves on fire, I briefly picture an ambush of young Vietnamese men with broad grins waiting for me around the next bend, armed with sharpened fingernails and limited English vocabularies.  I immediately accept the utter ridiculousness of this and call myself out on being completely irrational.  But as I pass around every blind turn, I involuntarily hold my breath in fearful anticipation.

Just before nightfall, I pass a sign pointing out Phong Nha and make the turn into town.  ”Hello!” a teenage boy calls out to me, but I just keep driving.

The picture I stopped to take, thus setting the afternoon's unpleasantness in motion