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.