Beyond Sin City

Some events are timeless, a classic occurred in Sihanouk Ville, before setting off for the islands in the south east of Cambodia. While sat down waiting for my food the peaceful tranquility was shattered by banging dance tunes approaching. They emanated from a tiny step-through motorbike, laden with a huge box strapped on the back. To my dismay the rider was a grizzled old guy in an oversize baseball cap and white lab coat. Parking directly opposite he got off and proceeded to disco dance and body-pop with full gusto. He was hilarious and loved every minute of it, a showman to the very last. I can assure you he got everybody’s attention, it was top class. Bizarre to say the least, but I save the best for last. He was the local fish merchant doing his night-time rounds. The man had style, as well as a damned good sense of humour. He didn’t sell any fish, but I think it really mattered to him. (Photo: The Heywain - Don Det, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

I need to start carrying my reading glasses at all times, I can’t even read menus or see my food clearly. My overnight stop between Phnom Penh and the Laos border proved the latest example of problems that can arise. I thought the barbequed meat looked like chicken. It isn’t that I felt particularly against eating frogs, it was more that it wasn’t what I’d bargained for. Stuffed frogs, with everything but head and feet, their chest cavities filled with a gritty mix of grain and paste. I got the feeling it might be better not to know what was in the stuffing. It was palatable and I ate most of two frogs, bones and all. It was little more than the back bones I left but still didn’t wish to waste it, so I fed the leftovers to a dog. To be fair it was a well-fed dog, but still, it turned its nose up at the offering. It made me wonder how edible food is when a street dog won’t eat it. I’ve tried frogs legs, they were better. With little meat and suspect stuffing I wish I’d have seen them for what they were straight away. (Photo: A monk driving a motorboat - Don Det, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

Two days was my guess for the trip from Phnom Penh to Don Det, one of the Mekong’s 4 Thousand Islands in the south of Laos. Having straightforward directions my only worry was getting the bike over another border. Bearing in mind it’s not in my own name, so I have no legitimate paperwork, it went surprisingly well. I had to pay $10 temporary exit tax to leave Cambodia, but entering Laos was much easier. The customs post stood a mile or more back from the actual border, the barrier was up, so I rode straight through. In effect that simple reckless action freed me up to dispose of the bike anyway I wanted. So I have done! For a piddling fee I’ve handed over the bogus documents and the bike is destined to retire onto the island of Don Det. It will have an easy life of pottering up and down the sandy banks of the Mekong River. How long it will last is anyone’s guess. It's served me well but I'm not sorry to see it go, it's only a matter of time before I had to dump it anyway. (Photo: View from King Kong restaurant - Don Det, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

Don Det for Christmas it seems to be for me. Though much busier than imagined, it is very laid back. There are a lot of foreign settlers here, a situation that has steadily increased for a few years now. Most the island properties line the riverside path, if there is room at the riverside itself a few bungalows may have been built. Tourism is mainstream on the sunset side, here on the east there are more long term visitors. Marriage as a means of setting up home and business is common. I make that sound so mercenary, I’m beyond criticizing the thoughts or decisions between two free thinking adults. The world is opening up more, and I don’t mean purely for travel purposes, cultural divides are breaking down. From what I’ve seen in SE Asia now inter-racial relationships are very much a part of today’s Asia. It would be wrong to associate this side of it with sex tourism, even though that is also in evidence. There really is only one Thailand, it must be host to the world's seediest sex tourism, none of the other countries have succumbed to the gross exploitation found there. (Photo: Some islands are aren't big enough for habitation - Don Det, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia have been waiting for me for some time. Many years have passed with the knowledge that I would travel these countries, I was merely waiting the opportunity and inclination to do them as a single journey. I’m glad I did, they have many similarities but are quite different too. All have suffered horrendous damage due to the crippling bombing raids of the USAF, but Laos seems to have avoided the mass slaughter of it’s population by infighting. They’re more reserved than the other two nations, and I wander whether this is sufficient to explain how it got away from the protracted armed struggle of Vietnam or the genocide of Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Ho Chi Min lead a revolution in Vietnam, the fight for a united, independent Vietnam. Pol Pot was just insane, he basically marched the whole population of city dwellers into work/prison camps and gradually exterminated millions of them. In Loas the problem was the bombing raids by the USA, they’d dump any left over from raids on Hanoi onto Laos territory. Many of the population cowered in caves for years to escape the continuous bombardment. (Photo: Well they are Water Buffalo - Don Khon, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

I wonder how the different histories have shaped the peoples, none appear irreparably scarred by the experience. Pol Pot had his reign of terror as recent as 1979, not long after America finally left Vietnam to it’s own devices. It’s strange that Laos, not actually at war with anyone, had more US bombs dropped on it than Vietnam and Cambodia. Their only sins were the Vietcong sypathisers up north, the yanks tried to destroy all supply lines, which is why whole communities resorted to living daily life in cave systems. As it happens the Americans also encouraged and supplied the royalist army trying to stir up an internal war against the rising tide of communism in Asia. All three countries were devastated by the biggest aerial bombardment of all time, many of these border regions still have armed ordinance lying in wait. Within about a decade the populations of all countries were decimated, there’s a huge population gap. But the numbers of kids is now immense, more than 50% of the populations are kids. If nothing else the people show one hell of a lot of perseverance. (Photo: Wee part of the waterfalls - Don Khon, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

Finally making my decision over which publisher to use was a relief, it felt more hassle than writing the book itself; which was a pleasure despite the emotional upheaval of doing so. Did I ever have a deadline? Maybe I should have done, I’ve faffed around with it long enough. Now it’s with the copyeditor for its final edit, I guess I won’t see it until next year now.

Oh, I guess I should wish you all fun Festivities as well. Enjoy the meyhem folks, I'll be in touch next year!

(Photo: My last voyage with the bike - Nakasarn, 4 Thousand Islands, Loas)

In the land of nod with the Pajama people

Cambodia really is a sleepy laid back country, it’s also very poor and the people have few opportunities in life. In such places it’s easy to see how locals view foreigners as a means of obtaining money, but I think the emphasis on this is a far cry from my experiences in Vietnam. Without doubt the peasant classes are not too different in either country, they’re a long way removed from the general hustle of mass tourism. Yet for the experiences in rural Vietnam I’m still inclined to think the Vietnamese are more likely to bump up their prices where foreigners are concerned. Of course in Vietnam tourism is better established, even following the Ho Chi Min Trail many sections see a continuous dribble of intrepid tourists riding through on their illegal motorcycles. By doing the whole length of the trail we passed through many areas where they obviously didn’t see many foreigners; people’s response to our presence is a clear indication of this. In neither country is there much evidence of wealth, I’m just glad to be back on two wheels to see the life away from tourism. (Photo: Rural setting in Cambodia – Kampot Province, SW Cambodia)

My route back to Phnom Penh took me around the coast, through Kampot province, before heading inland to the capital. How glad I am to have made this decision, it was a quieter route by far. Once leaving the main Phnom Penh to Sihanouk Ville road it was quiet roads and rural backwaters all the way. Much as I enjoyed the company on my down it was brilliant to be travelling under my own steam, at my own pace. I could concentrate on the world around me, with no regard for anyone else. I’ll never stop enjoying the look of delight on the faces of passersby when I acknowledge them. Without doubt the Cambodians are a touch more reserved than the Vietnamese, but dare I say they seem a touch more genuine in their response. In some ways this is unfair, we met a lot of locals in Vietnam thrilled at our presence, if only to ply us with rice spirit. (Photo: A small bike trailer, literally – Nr Kampot, Cambodia)

I didn’t mean to make the whole journey into Phnom Penh in one day, I almost wish I hadn’t but Kampot held little of interest. I got the closest to coming of this bike that I’ve been, and it left me feeling awful. Little more than pottering down the road a young dog wandered into the middle of the road, only to change its mind halfway across. Unfortunately I’d already corrected my course, moving far to the right to give it plenty of room. I tried beeping my horn, I was on loose gravel by then and could do little to reduce my speed as it walked straight into my path. The best I could manage was to veer further off the road, I still clipped it though. I’m just so glad I was going relatively slow, my foot connected with its jaw giving a resounding thud. I don’t think I’ve seen a dog run away so fast, yelping in pain and fear.
Was there anything I could do for it? I don’t think so, it didn’t hang about for me to find out, but to be honest I didn’t actually stop and try finding it. For those who know me well you’ll also know how wracked with guilt it made me. I’m not trying to justify it, but I’m sure there was no bone crunching feel or sound on impact. I only had soft shoes on and the force of impact would have been less than a well placed kick. It doesn’t matter really, it sickened me, both the event and my lack of compassion by not stopping, I only hope I’m correct in my assessment in a lack of serious damage to the poor thing. (Photo: 1] A quiet backwater – Approaching the Kampot coast, Cambodia; 2] In the land of nod – Phnom Penh, Cambodia)


Cambodian women with foreign men is a common sight, more so in the capital than the provinces but it’s still frequent, anywhere tourists have infiltrated. What can I say, in my mind it looks terrible, smacks of sex tourism. I’m glad to report that on the coast many of these couples were actually between foreign settlers and local women. It sort of gladdens my heart that folks have met and settled down together, of these unions there seems a natural balance. It’s invariably between two acceptable looking people, not an old western minger and fit young Cambodian. These do exist, especially in the capital, there is not the stigma attached that you find in Laos, where sex tourism in actively illegal. There relations between locals and foreigners should be declared to the local authorities, in theory making quick pickups nigh on impossible. (Photo: An example of beautiful traditional architecture – Phnom Penh, Cambodia)

Island life, I don’t think, is that far removed in nature anywhere in the world. If there is some form of livelihood other than fishing it may stand a chance of bypassing the influence of alcohol, on Kaoh S’dach that wasn’t the case. There isn’t any agriculture, and little industry outside of fishing or boat maintenance. I never fathomed how folks made any living, they certainly can’t rely on tourism, few tourists make it that far out. The local youths loiter, many appear inebriated but luckily don’t succumb to the aggressive drunkenness of the western world. Where they obtain the money is anyone’s guess, commerce with the outside world relies on seafood from what I can see, maybe the sense of community spirit ensures no-one goes short. As most the fishermen are often drunk, I think the pattern is pretty much set. Let’s face it, there’s bugger all to do on the island, who wouldn’t resort to alcoholic entertainment on an evening? (Photo: Mekong river folk – Phnom Penh, Cambodia)

Surprisingly I’ve seen little of this problem in the city, maybe everyone is too busy trying to make a living from the plentiful supply of tourists. Young kids of little more than 7 yrs old trawl the river area flogging bracelets and scarves to foreigners. They actually speak better English than the island kids, probably a matter of necessity. Today I broke one of my golden rules, I gave a handout to a couple of kids. Not monetary, I couldn’t finish my tub of ice-cream so gave them a treat. I had to stop an older lad taking it off them. He then suggested I give him a dollar, so he got a lecture on earning his own money, not begging. And what can you say when the truthful answer is that it just isn’t that easy in Cambodia? He sells books on the street, as do dozens of others, would I buy a book off him? No not really, because I don’t need another. So I wouldn’t give him any money, and couldn’t provide any solution to his dilemma either. Life sucks at times, I wish I could cure all the worlds problems in one foul swoop. (Photo: Monk on a motorcycle – Phnom Penh, Cambodia)

I wondered if the monks paid for the bike rides they obtained, considering they aren’t meant to handle money or have any possessions. Wake up Les, this is the modern world. I’ve now noticed many producing wads of notes from the folds of their robes, apparently times have changed.

Cambodian delights

We hit Cambodia with a great sense of elation, mainly due to sailing through the border with nary a comment about our bikes. We’d expected some difficulty, James remained convinced a simple bribe would suffice to get us through, but I held a more pessimistic view. Tales of abandoning motorcycles on the border were many, a sketchy few claimed there weren’t any problems. Uncertainty reigned, we hesitantly approached the border and had severe doubts as to what was happening when commanded to leave our bikes well away from the security post. We need not have worried, no-one mentioned our bikes. Once procuring an exit stamp we merely had to push them through the 100 metres of border control and then rode them up to the Cambodian side. An hour saw us through both sides of the border, and away we went all the way to the casino. Not to gamble, but to exchange the last of our Dong. (Photo: Boat life - Sihanouk Ville port, Cambodia)

An instant change in scenery occurred, which seems to be a familiar situation when crossing many borders. On our approach there had been loads of crops, neat patches of paddy, and numerous racks drying off palm fronds for roofing materials. Cambodian was a rough and ready scrubland in comparison, but it didn’t last long. Pretty soon vast swathes of paddy filled the entire horizon; these weren’t the small muddy beds separated by earthen banks, one enormous area of constant paddy dominated the area. Until reaching the flood plains connecting with the Mekong it was simply unbroken paddy with smalls copses of woodland dotted here and there. Even after the reaching the flood plains there was still plenty of rice paddy, anywhere that wasn’t completely inundated with water was given over to growing rice. Where there was water that is where the people live, whole families in tiny thatched shacks on surprisingly small rickety vessels. The main commercial catch is shrimp or prawns, but they sell anything they can catch, snails, frogs, water snakes, eels and even a small amount of fish. (Photo: Paradise lost - Initial view of Kaoh S'dach Island, Cambodia)

House styles were different too, being mainly of wooden construction on stilts, with slightly more decorative paneling on the eaves and apex of the roof. Up curved protrusions sprout from the gable ends, like buffalo horns I believe. Older places are made exclusively with thatched roofs, often these older houses stand side by side with newer, more substantial, houses with wooden tiled roofs. It seemed as if the old places were still in use for some purpose of another, it’s quite likely to be for other family members, expansion to cater for an ever increasing extended family. Though elders are still revered here the importance of the extended family is diminishing. At 75yrs old Ohm lives alone as one of only ten inhabitants of Kaoh Totang, her two sons have both moved away to the big city. Beyond fishing there is little to do in these parts, making money and participating in a modern world is as important for many islanders as it is for western folks. As always the bright city lights are a massive pull for youngsters, I guess it’s just as well they number of kids on the islands far outweighs the adult population. (Photo: Ohm's friend, helping harvest grass for roofing material - Kaoh Totang, Cambodia)

Phnom Penh, sin city, the highest concentration of foreigners I’ve mixed with since Luang Prabang. Hanoi may have had more but I didn’t stay within the main tourist enclave, preferring a small hotel tucked well away from most. We took a similar approach to accommodation when reaching the capital of Cambodia, taking individual rooms in a fairly plush hotel. We were the only western folks there, but within walking distance of the river area where most tourists hang out. If anyone thought this country was old worldy, with traditional values and disdain for the wanton nature of foreigners, forget it. The rest of the country is certainly very much like that, but not the capital. Foreign bars abound, scantily clad girls hustle for your custom as you walk past the bars. As you enter such places you’re surrounded by girls, it’s their job to escort you to a seat, to entertain you and keep you there as long as possible. They aren’t prostitutes, though I understand private agreements can be made, many are students supporting their studies. Apparently they are actually well paid, though I found the whole situation distasteful they didn’t waste time hassling you if you showed no interest. (Photo: Beach at Nomads Guesthouse - Kaoh Totang, Cambodia)

But the big city was nothing more than a rest stop, we were both fairly tired. The ride through Vietnam had been almost constant riding in some awful conditions, we have a full month in which to enjoy Cambodia and neither of us were in any hurry. James has friends setting up a dive centre in what’s renowned to be a beautiful part of the coast near Kaoh Kong. I had thought of going my own way from Phnom Penh, but the thought of a deserted island to stay on was too much to resist. I wanted my own space, so a hut on the beach to myself sounded perfect. Having a travel buddy has proved to be fun, this has happened rarely in my life and never to this extent; it’s been about six weeks in each other’s company now. We seem to compliment each other, and James does a good job at recognizing the times I’m getting het up with someone and quickly moves in the dissolve the situation. I do seem to have got a bit tetchy under the influence of alcohol recently, more than I’m used to so I need to be careful. (Photo: View from beach- Kaoh Totang, Cambodia)

Nights drinking till dawn aren’t the best solution to taking care, but they happen at times. You only have one life, why not enjoy it; so if having a drink is proving fun, why not? Of course the flip side is the abysmal hangover the next day, which is how we departed Phnom Penh. I’d love to say the scenery was gorgeous, which much of it was, but I was oblivious. The roads were straight, the going was good; even in our delicate state we went twice as far as we imagined that day. That was largely due to the realization that an absence of guesthouses forced the issue, we saw none after the towns immediately surrounding to the capital. Sihanouk Ville was reached just before dark, giving us time to contact the dive centre on Kaoh Totang. Unfortunately the only guesthouse was closed for another two weeks, in effect it made the whole reason for me coming this way a waste of time. But if you trust in events they have a surprising way of working out. (Photo: A select few of the hoards of kids on the island - Kaoh S'dach, Cambodia)

Miraculously James’ friend Sarah’s boyfriend happened to be in town that night. It was a tenuous link, but we had an escort to take us over to the Island the following day. Without the knowledge of the guesthouse owners we arrived and stayed on the Totang for three days, helping out during the days with the preparations for the start of the season on 1st December. I guess that saved the day, especially for me. Feeling a little like a hanger-on I felt more obliged to pitch in, so I did, for up to 6 hours some days. The atmosphere on the island was great, I constantly lost myself in a reverie of sight and sound; staring across the empty sea with nothing but the sound of lapping waves and cicadas. My accommodation was nothing more than a thin mattress on the dive shack floor, but it sufficed, I slept well. And in this manner a week flew by, a bit of work, some snorkeling, good food and good company.(Photo: Sunset from my guesthouse - Kaoh S'dach, Cambodia)

All good things come to an end though, the dive centre was in the process of moving, so it was time for me to vacate the premises too. Kaoh S’dach still isn’t a large island, there’s only one single track road the length of it. Most houses are built over the water, connected by dangerous walkways of loose, rotten planking. It can be precarious negotiating them in daylight, it’s damned dangerous in the dark or burdened with baggage. But on these rickety structures their whole world hinges. Sanitation is practical under the circumstances, wooden sheds with holes over the open seawater. It doesn’t inspire me to swim off the dock, though one poor guy seems to have the dubious job of donning snorkel and mask whenever there is any underwater work to be done. Chickens are raised without setting foot on dry land, being fed scraps of compostable material but existing almost exclusively on grain. There’s also a ready supply of fighting cocks, forever being groomed lovingly by their owners. I’ve not heard of an actual fight but the intention is obviously there. (Photo: Quarrying limestone blocks- Kaoh S'dach, Cambodia)

The kids are pure magic though, a chorus of “Hello, what’s your name?” follows you everywhere. A hoard of them will grasp both your hands, pumping furiously, “hello, hello, hello, what’s your name?” It doesn’t seem to matter with most what you reply, they’ll only laugh and repeat the phrase again and again. The only thing that bugs me is the complete lack of dental health, the majority of them have more rotten stumps than teeth, they’re going to be the first toothless generation. Fizzy drinks and sweets must be the culprits; I can’t imagine they’ve been available for too many years here, it’s a 4 hour boat trip from the mainland. OK, some adults teeth leave a lot to be desired, but they’re the minority. With kids it’s the norm, I can’t believe this isn’t recognised as an issue with the islanders. Though the level of motivation is very low among the local populace, for many it’s an effort to prise themselves out their hammocks to serve customers in their shops. Much easier is to get kids to do all the work, which is very common also. (Photo: Over the moon, King Hunter - Kaoh S'dach, Cambodia)

Cambodia is a wonderful place to experience. The people are friendly and helpful, they don't tend to over charge because you're a foreigner, maybe with the exception of boat captains. Food from the markets is exceptional, simple, tasty and cheap. Transport seems a bit hit or miss but this adds to the experience, riding through the country has posed no problems. Accommodation is cheaper than in Vietnam, and of a reasonable quality. Personally I'd rate it alongside Laos, which I adored.

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)

Hanoi hangover

As often happens in Sapa, the mist descended and the clouds shed their load. After two days of writing and correspondence on the Internet I was getting cabin fever, but a noon check out and night train meant I was forced out for some fresh air. The Black Hmong must have got used to me, I’ve not been subjected to their charming characters for days, in fact since my first day there. Despite virtually camping outside my hotel their attention was for the wealthier clientele further up the hill. I was always met with cheery welcomes and, I like to think, genuine regard for my health and happiness. I must say I like them, I’ve yet to meet any who have sold their souls for the tourist dollar. Happy and smiling after hours of walking they take the time to talk to you, it isn’t too hard a sell and they rarely seem fed up despite the fierce competition between them. (Photo: Black Hmong and police intervention – Sapa, North Vietnam)

With the rain easing off there was no excuse left, if I hadn’t got my arse in gear I’d have seen none of the surrounding villages. Heavy mist obscured my view across the conical shaped hills littering the landscape, but thinned out as I descended to the tribal village. Cat Cat, nestled on the slopes of a lovely hillside, surrounded by paddy with water buffalo grazing the remnants from harvesting. Terraces climb the steep slopes, many are no more than 0.5m wide, their curving earthworks shaped perfectly to fit the natural contours. Giant steps leading heavenward, before harvest strips of verdant green crown each and every step of the way, punctuated by rich brown abutments. It is still a local village, though lined with stalls selling whatever they deemed might appeal to tourists. The embroidered goods are locally made, you can see the women sewing as they walk along the road without once breaking pace. (Photo: Paddy platform and conical hills – Cat Cat, North Vietnam)

A very clever system of using water to pound grain is still in place, though had no signs of recent usage. Bamboo guttering feeds water into large hollowed out wooden scoops on the end of quite hefty wooden beams. The fulcrum is very close to the scooped end, at the other a pestle is fitted, which sits in a wood lined pit. Once the water fills the scoop it drops down disgorging its weighty load, lifting the pestle from its resting place. As the water empties the weight of the beam drops the pestle back into the pit and, if it were filled, would pound the grain into flour. It’s a brilliant labour saving device, one I’ve never come across before. Of course it depends on a steady flow of water. Not only that though, to make it efficient a whole series of them are necessary, so hilly terrain is also vital to get enough working at the same time. Unfortunately, though there are many still happily tipping and filling in a leisurely rhythm, they all show signs of neglect. Looking into the pits not a single one had any residue of grain or flour in it. (Photo: Water powered pestle – Cat Cat, North Vietnam)

Behind the commercial frontage the village life goes on pretty much how it has for eons, but the women spend an overwhelming amount of their time catering to the peripheries of the tourist trade. They aren’t involved in the more profitable end of the business, transport and accommodation, merely the provision of craftworks, of which some of the work is beautiful. For once I found myself feeling guilty for not buying from these women, but it isn’t what I do when travelling. I have neither the room nor the motivation to encumber myself with examples of local craftwork, there’s too many places, too many different examples. I question myself whether or not to buy something, but it’s only to assuage my guilt. Instead I put money into the local economy by eating locally as often as the café orientated towards the western visitors. (Photo: Pork scratchings – Cat Cat, North Vietnam)

Although I’ve only been in Hanoi for one day Sapa seems so far away. It’s always a bit strange catching nighttime transport, you drift off to sleep in one environment and awake to a totally different one. Coming from the tranquil setting of Sapa (don’t get me wrong here, it’s a bustling tourist venue) spilling onto the city streets of Hanoi at 5am is a whole new world. Though expecting throngs on crafty city dwellers hustling for my attention, I found my arrival easy to adapt to. One or two taxi drivers were very persistent, but giving a firm no soon got rid of them, once they realize you are not about to be swayed they’ll move on to an easier target. Once everything settled down, during which time I sat and had a coffee, I chose my own taxi and ensured he was using the meter correctly. By 6.30am I sat beside the Lake of the recovered Sword watching the local populace indulge in their morning limbering up and exercise routines. It was very reminiscent of China. (Photo: More paddy formations– Cat Cat, North Vietnam)

A busy day marked my initiation to Hanoi, a city I found quite likable. It is busy, the traffic is mayhem and people are constantly stopping you and using any pretext to sell their wares or services. I ask you, where else do shoe shine boys try and insist on polishing your canvas sandals? I covered all the Old quarter and Hoan Kiem areas searching hostel notice boards for adverts of bikes for sale. There wasn’t many, and it took up my whole day going to every single one I could find. Of the bike dealers, everything was overpriced and of dubious quality. They generally buy cheaply off tourists and sell to the next one who walks in, with a markup of a couple of hundred percent. The bikes are constantly driven 1,000 miles or more between Saigon and Hanoi, rarely receiving any attention other than to refuel. I guess the adverts of tourists selling their bikes as they depart from Vietnam reflect this too, they have the impression the price they paid the dealer is a realistic one. I was lucky to only pay $320 for a reasonable example of a 100cc Honda Win, which is actually a Taiwanese engine built under a Honda license. Only time will tell if it was a good buy. (Photo: Coolie, but maybe not cool – Hanoi, Vietnam)

After a day of settling in it was a great relief to go out on the town, 17 Cowboys was a worthwhile venue. A Wildwest bar with a difference, the live band played an eclectic mix of classic rock and the cute waitress' sported the shortest and tightest of mini skirts. Surely a bar with plenty of oriental promise.