Provincial ousting

I’d loved to have kept tales of Vietnam with pictures of the country, but I’ve got out of sync. In truth it's all the fault of the dreaded security forces, I blame them for everything.

Primarily the room full of guys weren’t all so bad, the initial anger and stroppy behaviour came from one main culprit. He just happened to be the highest ranking of those present and the one worst for wear on the drinking stakes. There’s little you can do in such circumstances, none of them could communicate in English and we certainly could do no more than greetings and pleasantries in Vietnamese. However apologetic I tried being it had no effect, they weren’t about to let us leave. Any effort to make for the door was blocked and they became more insistent that I sit down, which I’d adamantly refused to do. Demands to see our passports had to be complied with really, but I made a point of retrieving them once they’d been inspected. They tried taking my camera off me, but I wouldn’t let them handle it, keeping it in my own hands and allowed them to scroll through. It wasn’t too ugly, they weren’t getting physical with us; the second time a guy demanded I hand over the camera I refused. It’s mine I gestured, not yours. (Photo: A sudden change in traditional building styles - Nr the Vietnam border, Cambodia)

We were definitely in a quandary, and due to a lack of communication it wasn’t one we could deal with. Very few solutions were available, neither of us had the number for the British Consulate, so we each tried to phone native speakers we’d met earlier on our travels. And at last we discovered the problem, we’d inadvertently entered a restricted border zone. Having a local on the phone proved helpful in more than one way, she could explain our mistake and maybe get them to see sense and let us go. We got some sound advice too, don’t give them your phones, cameras or any valuables; the chances are they’d keep hold of them and use them to extort money from us. I’m not sure if her bawling out the official was that helpful though, apparently he wouldn’t listen to reason so she gave him an earful. Probably that wasn’t exactly in our favour, whatever we might have hoped for in easing the situation only got worse. (Photo: Vast swathes of paddy, not small individual patches separated by earth banks - East of the Mekong, Cambodia)

The stroppy one found a clause in a book of regulations, exhibiting great pleasure in managing to pin something on us. So they wrote up a couple of forms and told us to sign them, no bloody way mate. Bored at getting nowhere with us they basically left us to sit on our own as they sat in the shade outside smoking and sniggering between themselves. Honestly, it was like a group adolescents who’d pulled off a good prank, we still assumed they’d get bored and let us go eventually, or cut to the quick and ask for a bribe. After four and a half hours a higher ranking officer turned up with an interpreter. It was simple she said, there was no problem, they realised we’d made an innocent mistake but we needed to sign the forms and then we could go. Was it really that simple, “we’ll then be free to go?” I asked. “Yes, you’ll be escorted away from the border and then free to go”. The lying bitch, they still insisted loading our bikes into a pickup was only to drop us back into Pleiku, on the main highway. But no, we were taken to the regional headquarters and held once more by Public Security officers. (Photo: Wetlands plains - Still many miles before the Mekong, Cambodia)

It was tedious, being assured there was nothing to worry about, that they simply had to interview us before release, so everything was officially recorded. Hours more passed, it got dark, and having searched all our possessions, viewed hundreds of photos, they produced statements of all the details of our trips through Vietnam. For the second time they lied outrageously; declaring we were in no trouble, it was merely a formality, sign the statements and we could go. You’d have thought once bitten twice shy, but I couldn’t give a damn. At least we weren’t locked up for the night, but we still weren’t released, not fully. Escorted to a hotel our documents were kept form us, we had to return again in the morning. We weren’t to leave the hotel, except for feeding ourselves. And in the morning they hit us with a fine of $100 each, the petty, deceitful bags of shit. (Photo: Family bath time at home in a water world - Approaching Mekong flood plains, Cambodia)

We were furious, and having gotten the Consulates number I phoned and asked them to intercede on our behalf. But no, they had us over a barrel. It’s officially illegal for foreign nationals to own motorbikes in Vietnam, and neither UK licenses or International Driving Permits are adequate to drive with, you must have a Vietnamese license. In no uncertain terms they told the Consulate the fine would stand and unless our attitude changed they would involve the traffic police and throw the book at us. It mortally wounded my pride to kowtow to the group of stiff necked officials sat around the table, smirking at getting one over us. Not only did they refuse to budge on the harshest fine for the border offense, they ordered us out the province too. Our passports and licenses were retained until we’d both paid our fines at the government bank, and then told to leave immediately. James was seething, I took time to make my point with the subordinate who’d acted as escort and interpreter. I wanted to give him something to consider should he reach a position of such power as to levy out fines to unsuspecting foreigners. Yeah, for sure our bike riding is flouting local laws, but it’s very common and none of the authorities blink an eyelid at it. (Photo: Prawn and shrimp nets laid up for evening- Mekong Tributary, Cambodia)

I’m glad it didn’t ruin our views of Vietnam, I’ve enjoyed the ride through immensely. From the flooded plains of rice paddy outside Hanoi, the beautiful national parks, rugged Central Highlands, raging river valleys and gently rolling wooded hills towards the south. It’s a wonderful place to ride any bike, even a 100cc crock of Chinese crap. Difficult times happen to test your mettle, I’m glad to say we laughed off all the testing times. As James struggled in two foot of mud and I stood giggling at this predicament, he didn’t lose his humour. Soaked through and facing yet another day of pounding rain, we didn’t delay our departure, we just got on with it. Rural people wherever your go are the salt of the earth, Vietnam is certainly no exception. Joyful smiles, excited waves and vigorous handshakes showed clearly peoples delight at seeing us. In our 1,000 mile bike trip, we saw only a handful of other foreigners, that was enough for us, we went to mingle with the locals. (Photo: Water, water as far as the eye can see - Mekong floodplain, Cambodia)

And now we’ve come to Cambodia, a country that instantly struck an accord with us both. But that of course is another story.

Bust in the border zone!

James, my current travel buddy, was met in Hanoi, he turned up at a bike dealer while I was inspecting the bikes they had for sale. Like myself he wanted to ride the length of Vietnam, unlike me he was looking for a companion to share the journey with. Let it not be said I’m not open to suggestion, so when he proposed we travel together I accepted. In the last couple of months I’ve enjoyed the company of many other tourists, for the guy who generally remains content with his own company this has been a nice change. It’s not as if I shun company, I am after all a sociable type animal. But it’s rare for me to travel with others, since China I’ve hung out with a string of fellow travelers, and taking it that step further by moving on to the next destination with them. It can be nice having company, but it can be restrictive too! I’m a man with a mind of his own, but I’ve been happy to share my time and compromise on always doing what I want without consultation with anyone else. In the past I've dumped off fellow riders who've ridden with me fairly quick, but I've been enjoying company during this journey. Riding is a bit different, from casual company, I like setting my own pace, whether fast or slow. James seemed an easy going guy, I still thought I might find it a testing time; I'm just too damned finicky. (Photo: Winding through the limestone karsts - Phoung Nha National Park, Central Vietnam)

There are two routes through Vietnam referred to as the Ho Chi Mhin Trail, a coastal route and the quieter, inland route. Down the coast it basically follows national highway 1, a hugely busy trunk road that is heaving with tour buses and trucks driving at death defying speeds making suicidal overtakes. The coast road is also where the bulk of tourist destinations are situated, and like nowhere else the Vietnamese really do have a knack of fleecing tourists. Invariably, foreigners are charged more than locals, for almost everything. And like everywhere else, the more tourists the worse this enigma becomes. Personally I’ve had enough of biased pricing, I detest being a target for greed and deception. So we plumped for the inland route, partly to avoid excessive financial exploitation, but mainly for the magnificent areas of natural beautiful. It passes though rural Vietnam, hundreds of miles of unspoilt land winding delightfully through areas barely changed for hundreds of years. (Photo: Communal bathing - Nr Phoung Nha, Central Vietnam)

Of course I refer to the land itself, little could survive the devastation caused by millions of tons of defoliation agent dropped by the American military during their attempt to annihilate Vietnamese attempts at independence. Also there are the disproportionate numbers of cancer victims in the country, thought to be contributable to Asian Orange, another of the gifts from Uncle Sam. In effect they not only slaughtered phenomenal numbers of innocent citizens, they left a legacy to blight the countryside for a very long time. The wonderful limestone karsts still tower above the mist-laden ravines, aged rain forests still harbour a wonderful array of birds, primates, reptiles and bugs. But so much of the countryside is only secondary growth, and the modern Viet people themselves are raping this at a rapid rate. Luckily there are protected areas, and far fewer amounts of timber are being felled in these. (Photo: Gaining ground - Phoung Nha National Park, Central Vietnam)

There’s been a marvelous amount of fantastic country to pass through, vast areas of flat paddy field with water buffalo wallowing in the post harvest mud. There’s been a distinct lack of rice terracing since I left the far north, as we got to hillier regions in the central area there was virtually no rice. Wild hills and natural forests ruled supreme in the centre of the country, virtually no human intrusion despoilt the wet and misty wonderland. Almost every day brought a whole new scenery, gently rolling hills of rough grazing one, surging torrents of muddy maelstroms ripping through wide valleys the next. Wherever we’ve been the astonishment of the villagers has been touching, all we have to do is stop to have people come and gather around us to greet us and practice the one or two questions they can muster in English. The areas have all been poor, rurally most houses of wooden and in need of repair. Kids are bare foot and grubby, only in their school uniforms do the have a semblance of tidiness. Without fail they are all smiling and full of joy, it gets tiring on the arms waving at the many kids calling out to us. In towns we've had adults coming to shake our hands and bid us welcome. These aren't areas that see many foreign visitors, and only one person has shown the slightest displeasure at our presence. (Photo: Misty haven - Phoung Nha National Park, Vietnam)

Before, when I said it had been quite wet, was definitely an understatement; that was only four days into the ride south on the HO Chi Mhin trail. Since then, day after day, the rain has lashed it down on us, with barely any respite. We rode through running torrents of water cascading down from the hillside, the road was awash and the resultant spray only increased the wall of water that battered us. My normal bike waterproofs can deal with such a deluge, the Vietnamese suit certainly can’t. No matter how hard I try the water seeps through, first at the level of my belly button, then gradually it manages to work it’s way into my crutch area. How fortunate I am, it’s warm here, so I don’t end up both cold and wet. Actually the weirdest feeling is having water pouring out my sleeves when I stop and let my arms drop. With my nice new Gortex shoes completely sodden, everything in my rucksack wet and the clothes I wear dripping wet something had to be done. So I bought wellies, a heavy-duty rain cape for my pack and doubled up on the rain jacket. The result? Dry feet, slightly drier torso and merely a damp crutch. At least my belongings didn’t get any wetter; they were still damp from the previous days though, a musty small pervades every article of clothing I possess. There's good reason why I only buy reliable bike gear generally, being soaked is a miserable experience; if only there was such gear to be had in Vietnam. (Photo: Only slightly wetter than our ride - Central Highlands, Vietnam)

I shouldn’t complain, James faired even worse than I did, he was soaked right through. We’ve been riding through rain every day, then for two whole days we had to ride through torrents of the stuff, it never eased off in the slightest throughout the day or night. Sods law rules supreme though, once we made the effort to improve our waterproofing the rain eased off. Which was just as well, getting wet may have been uncomfortable but the landslides were the biggest problem. They were a common occurrence in the Central Highlands, they came thick and fast, huge slicks of mud cascading down the hillsides uprooting trees and bringing them toppling into the carriageways as well. Most are simply a matter of taking it easy, picking a path through the shallowest of the gloopy, slippery overspill. Many posed much worse problems, having to plough through quagmires of mud that swallowed the wheels past the axles. I managed to chug through even the worst, not so my poor buddy. Seeing me plunge into a sinkhole of slimy crud, he decided to be clever, and pick his way carefully around. (Photo: A brief respite from the rain - Nr, Kon Tum, Vietnam)

Stuck fast he could neither move forwards nor backwards, his only hope was me coming to his rescue, by wading through oozing mud half a metre deep. Standing and laughing I suggested he come and give me a piggyback, I couldn’t believe he wanted me to wade through while he stood high and dry. A young local guy stopped and came to help, sinking up to his knees and losing his sandals in the process. Between the three of us we got him out, this was before the wellies were bought, we were all a complete mess. Next time he got stuck he wasn’t on his own, a couple of locals had the same problem, each stopping and assisting the other. Deep oozing mud blocked the whole road, again there was no easy way through and it was obviously claiming plenty of victims. As for me I took the plunge, went straight for it and kept the damned throttle rolled on, never letting up for the slightest moment. Once through I stood back and had a good laugh, especially when James came to a rather soggy stop in the middle of the worst of it. I damned near lost my new wellies getting him out, the other three guys getting my foot jammed under his front wheel didn’t help any either. At least wellies proved a lot easier to clean than my shoes had done. (Photo: Traditional south Viet house - Tan La, Vietnam)

But it did eventually stop raining, we got two days of nice weather; so good off came the jackets and away went the wellies. What a pity we’d passed the best of the scenery, finding ourselves on a main trunk road was horrible, neither of us found it acceptable so we made plans for an alternative route. On the map a small road ran for over 200km alongside the Cambodian border, it looked the ideal chance to see a part of the country other tourists had failed to reach. How true it was too. The road turned out to be a dirt track, to complete the whole 200km in one day would be pushing it, but it was worth trying. It was hard to find but it got there in the end, it was slow going but we were determined, if only we’d have got further than we did. At the first village, after only 10km a guy loitering outside a café waved us down. He was with another couple dressed casually in uniforms, James stopped, so I pulled over too and grabbed the map to confirm we’d found the correct track. There didn’t seem to be any problem, we asked where we were, pointing on the map the route we wanted to take and our final destination. As is generally the case in rural Vietnam none spoke English, so we tried our best to pronounce the appropriate village names and reiterated where we thought we were on the map. We did seem to have navigated right, but they kept pointing the way we’d come and telling us to use the main highway to Dak Miel. It was obvious the main highway was the common route taken, so we continued to point at the more obscure route, saying that’s the one we wanted not the busy highway. When they signaled for us to follow one on his bike we merely thought they were showing us the way to go. But no, only a few hundred metres later they led us into an official compound. We arrived and parked, amidst a jovial reception by a mix of guys in civvies and uniform. There was handshakes all round and tea served by our hosts. With much consulting between them they continued to point back to the highway, it was only when one of them drew a line across the track and signaled the road was blocked, or closed, that we thought we understood. At that moment we conceded the point and agreed that we'd go all the way back to the main route and head south that way. And that was when we realised it was not to be as simple as that. We made to leave and suddenly one drunk and surly official slammed his hands down on the table and shouted that we couldn’t leave. That was when it dawned on us there might be a problem, what the problem was we had no idea, but they certainly weren’t so friendly any more. And they were most emphatic that we were going nowhere. (Photos: 1] Coffee growing landscape - Duc Co; 2] Special delivery - Chon Than, Vietnam)

On the Ho Chi Min Trail

As it turned out I was wrong about the supposed Honda Win, it’s actually made in China, not a Honda at all. As there was very little else on the market my choices were limited, the only other bikes had almost no chance of getting spare parts for if needed. The last thing I wanted was to be broken down in the middle of nowhere unable to repair the damned thing. The Win is about the most popular bike here, so repairs and spares will prove easy to come by. Which is just as well, I have a feeling I’ll need plenty of both on our 1,000 mile ride south. Loaded up with my pack a brief test ride proved how unreliable first impressions can be. Pulling away the front end wobbled uncontrollably, the weight was too much for the suspension. It wasn’t a promising start, but redistributing the weight improved it a hundred fold. I started having doubts about the sincerity of the guy I bought it from though. Why can't people be more honest? (Photo: Rain forest clearing - Cuc Phoung National Park, North Vietnam)

Expecting SE Asia to be hot and steamy it came as a surprise to hear that the weather forecast for the first few days of our journey to be for heavy rain. But what can you do, it’s all part and parcel for riding a bike. Come rain or shine the road is still there to be ridden, and if you don’t ride when traveling you don’t get anywhere. At least we had decent weather for our first day, finding our way out of Hanoi would have been even more unpleasant in the rain. It was awful anyway, traffic in the city is chaotic, finding our way onto the right road was a complete pain. But we managed, with the help of numerous stops and questioning innocent bystanders. Stopping frequently to ask was the only way to do it, few road signs existed so it was the only way to navigate through the maze of chaos. Unfortunately we’d almost cleared the city limits when James got a message informing him that a parcel had turned up at the DHL office. So we had little choice but to turn back and hunt out the office. (Photo: Running repairs - Rural mechanic's, North Vietnam)

Eventually we didn’t leave the city behind until gone 2.30pm, so it wasn’t going to be a great distance covered that day. For the first hour or so we still had to contend with busy highways, buses and trucks ran almost bumper to bumper, motorbikes wove in and out overtaking or undertaking, whichever proved easiest. It was a manic initiation to riding my gutless fake Honda. Whenever I stopped finding neutral was murder, stalling in heavy city traffic was a nightmare. In the end beating the crap out of the footrest improved this, the gear lever was snagging on the slightly bent peg which restricted free play. It amused the roadside mechanic who lent me a lump hammer, he offered to move the gear lever round but I found it more pleasurable to beat it mercilessly. As the saying goes, “if in doubt, give it a clout”. (Photo: River people - North Vietnam)

Route 6 from Hanoi is a busy trunk route, once we turned off onto highway 15 things got quieter straight away. I’d purposely chosen an inland route to avoid the main road down the coast between Hanoi and Ho Chi Min. Our first port of call was to the Cuc Phoung National Park, a mere 120km from Hanoi. Our late departure meant it was pushing it, we ended up riding a rough track in pitch black conditions, through very muddy and wet conditions. Our lights were almost non-existent, unless revving the bikes visibility was down to a few feet. So we took it in turns to lead the way, neither being that keen to be in front. When I was behind James I could see better by using the light cast by his headlight, mine made a good job of lighting the foliage in the trees overhead though. I couldn’t adjust it any better than it was, riding at night is normally a no no for me; it certainly will be from now on. (Photo: Limestone karsts - Cao Pho, North Vietnam)

Riding blindly in the dark, unsure of exactly where the park was, it was nothing short of a miracle when a guesthouse appeared out of the gloom. Even more miraculous was the family restaurant less than a mile away, they couldn’t understand a word we spoke but we managed to get food and beer. Most the food was actually edible. Whilst the boiled rooster wasn’t the tastiest meal I’ve had it was a hell of a lot better than the instant noodles and chicken intestines served to us a couple of days later. Our trip has been through rural Vietnam, accommodation is rare and food is spartan. However much I think you have to take what you can I couldn’t stomach the intestines, it was like tasteless rubber. There aren’t many places to eat on our route, and fewer who can understand a word of English. Often we're taking pot luck with what we get, but there are limits. I coped fine with snake, though only discovered what it was after devouring a heap of it, it was actually quite tasty. (Photo: Paddy and karsts - Highway 15, North Vietnam)

The scenery has been delightful, though slightly obscured by overlying mist or heaving rain. Most days have seen us get completely soaked, I’m glad I decided to get a set of waterproofs. I nearly decided not to bother and make do with the jacket I already had, I only wish I could keep my feet dry too. Not that it puts us off, it isn’t cold and we’re still making good headway. The countryside is all wallowing water buffalo and peasants in coolie hats. Somehow they recognise us as westerners from afar, I didn't think we stuck out that badly; we’re on common bikes wearing common waterproofs and crash helmets. It’s nice though, everyone we pass shouts out greetings, flashing bright smiles. Our only questionable encounter was in a restaurant, the owner stuck two fingers up at us and walked away when we tried ordering a couple of beers. I can only assume bad feeling still runs deep with some of the older members of society here. I wonder if having an amputee in the family had anything to do with it, amputees have been a common sight in the countryside. Maybe in light of the devastation created by western governments it's not surprising some people still hold grudges. Let's face it the Vietnamese were brutalised by the French then had the shit blown out of them by the Americans. (Photo: Where the buffalo roam - Phong Nha, North Vietnam)