A recent rummage through an old diary of thoughts and observations from a life on a bike, living on the road has inspired me to publish a tale and some old pics. Throw back Thursday I though I would call it, and the plan is a tale and a few old photos, once a week, you can guess which day. First up, a chance encounter as Phong and I explored our rather super Northeast Vietnam tour.
Northeast Vietnam, 2011, summer, around lunchtime.
At lunch time we roll into the dusty main street of a one horse town. A wooden lean-to fixed to the front of an egg shell blue house with wooden lattice shutters serves as the town diner. We lean our bikes beneath the shade of a banyan tree as a girl, hiding from the sun beneath a turquoise parasol, drives a small heard of cattle along the dusty main street. I pause to watch the girl use her parasol to urge one of the cows to stop eating an old ladies poinsettias, and by the time I enter the restaurant Phong is already in deep conversation with the proprietor and his wife. I am not an expert in the Vietnamese language, but for all the world it appears that Phong is explaining how to fry noodles. Our hosts appear fascinated by this new learning from the wise city boy. They stand transfixed as Phong goes through the finer details of stir frying, their concentration only broken when they realise that standing in the doorway, framed by the bright light of day against the dark interior of their home, is an Englishman.
We exchange pleasantries and I take a seat. There is a little more conversation regarding the frying of noodles, and then three small glasses are plonked before me.
I am hot, thirsty, and very hungry, I know full well what the three small glasses mean, I am gripped by fear. I protest, I ask, nay beg Phong to politely explain to this gracious man that as much as we would love to join in an afternoon of frivolity and merriment, needs must that we soon be on our way - sober. Phong flicks me a glance, I know it well, it says "there will be no discussion, no negotiation, we are in Vietnam and we must honour the traditions and customs of this proud nation" (yes, he can convey all that in one glance, he would make a fine wife). Our host makes a small speech as he fills each glass with home distilled rice liquor, Phong translates; â€œit is not often I have the honour of hosting a well spoken city slicker from Hanoi, and a worldly traveled foreigner - friends, a toast!â€ We down our tots of fiery brew in one and our host pours three more glasses and commences on another speech, I can see where this is heading - and so it begins.
Each moment, each movement, every thought made by man and beast, and every incident of nature for the next hour is deemed worthy of a toast. Scattered around the room are bodies, clearly victims of a previous toasting. In a dim corner sits a jovial looking fellow, his eyes roll slowly, and from time to time his tongue flops from his mouth only for him to look thoughtful for a few moments before returning his tongue to a more dignified position with a grimy finger. In the middle of the room is a large table where an elderly fellow in a straw hat wobbles precariously on a flimsy plastic chair, seemingly oblivious that one leg is on the very edge of a step and that he was on the brink of disaster.
One hour, a plate of fried noodles, and countless glasses of hooch later we emerge staggering, ever so slightly, and blinking weary eyes into the bright tropical daylight. Our host sways in the doorway as he bids us a thousand fond farewells, and we wobble through the dust narrowly missing several more victims of our host’s hospitality as they snooze quietly in the afternoon sun.
We cautiously mount our machines and gingerly pedal on to the top of the next pass where we stopped to catch our breath and rehydrate. The view is magical, mythical. As I sit sipping from my water bottle I am spellbound by a scene where I quite expected to see elves and goblins and hobbits, and little green dragons that puff plumes of smoke instead of breathing flames. I turn to Phong, “I think I can stop now” I say. Phong looks puzzled. “Now I have seen this” I say gesturing at the jungle covered karst hills spreading out to the distance, “I think that I can find a home, and settle down”. “Oh yes” says Phong, “I think you probably can”
The lovely village of Tam Son where we spend two nights which alosw us to explore on of South East Asia's best kept secrets.
Phong heads into a small Hmong village
Winding up to Heaven Gate Pass
Typical Northeast Vietnam scenary