Vietnam jetwings[1]

Adventure

The

motorcycle diaries

Sounds perfect; what could go wrong? Except for getting lost, the motorcycle breaking down, and your best-laid plans letting you down.

Text Christian Seiersen Photographs Marta Aguilar

E

very day hordes of motorcycles migrate across the concrete plains of Ho Chi Minh City, writhing in a demonic waltz with regal plumes of exhaust, carrying anything from extended families to scores of live geese.

Thanks, in part, to its simplistic design cues, Honda enjoys a decisive monopoly over the motorcycle industry, if such a term as ‘industry’ can be attributed to the underground warren of wheeler-dealing that constitutes buying a motorcycle. In the midst of such unadulterated chaos, our group would have some difficulty tracking down a band of suitably iconic bikes to serve on our proposed motorcycle trip around Vietnam, let alone ones whose exhaust pipes were not attached with Blu-Tack.

Venturing underground The fallout from the Vietnam War had birthed a litter of seedy bars, which had been reared in grubby clumps across the city, the most prestigious of which is the aptly named Apocalypse Now, the seemingly ideal starting ground for the search.

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Between the practiced gaze of the resident working staff, I spotted a wizened veteran occupying a corner table with the pseudomagnitude of a failed sea-captain. Having heard our predicament, he took a dramatic sip of his umbrella-enamoured cocktail before uttering a name whose very mention sent local motorcycle dealers scurrying to the road-side noodle bars from whence they came.

Kevin, something of a spectre in the city’s motorcycle industry but undoubtedly the McDaddy.

With no direct access into the bowels of Kevin’s operation, we instead met a sprightly American duo that was willing to sell, and had returned from leading a group of seven Minsk motorcycles up the fabled Ho Chi Minh Highway, a popular war-time route running up the spine of the country and one made famous by motor programme Top Gear. One of the duo’s carefully sculpted pony tail and ample girth were a nostalgic nod to his home country’s iconic cartoon character, the Comic Book Guy. However, while such apparel would have condemned him to a nomadic life of certain ridicule back in the US, his exodus to

Vietnam had bore fresh pastures. Now, rather than being viewed as an accessory for an unemployed addict of Warcraft, his hair was the garb of Greek mythology and he posed confidently on the street before us, a champion, a king among men.

Down to business We assembled in a small cafe to do business and, as the duo’s Vietnamese attaché paced outside like an attack dog, I considered our options. Fortunately mandatory insurance for vehicles was a concept as unfamiliar to the Vietnamese as multi-party elections, but what we were doing was undoubtedly illegal, and the fact that none of our group had ever set foot on a motorcycle’s gear lever, rendered our inevitable task of evading policemen an arduous one. What’s more, a recent visit to a Vietnamese emergency room and some painful stitches from a scooter accident, had taught me that Vietnamese drivers are a ruthless bunch. Vietnam clocks four motorcycle fatalities a day, and riding through a city is not as easy as the video game Grand Theft Auto would have you believe.

But none of this mattered now. There were four Minsks slumbering in the cavernous dark of a subterranean parking lot, waiting for us.

For those not acquainted with such testosterone-fuelled biking jargon as ‘Minsk,’ (essentially us, five minutes before purchasing the aforementioned vehicles) the Minsk is a bulky throwback to the glory days of communist Russia, when commissars roamed the countryside on them, herding peasants. Years later, a wall collapsed, a McDonald’s opened in Moscow and the Minsks found themselves exiled to the sculpted hills of Northern Vietnam where they were adopted by the communist-resilient North Vietnamese

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as a sentimental reminder of the ideology they had fought so bitterly for... and to carry grain.

Getting acquainted When we were introduced, I noticed our bikes had been stripped to near skeletal remains, no doubt by the frugal innovation of some of Ho Chi Minh’s most dedicated mechanics. Crucial parts like wing mirrors and headlamps had been sold to Honda Wave motorcycles across the city. My bike had been further emasculated by a smothering of sickly pink paint and now lay shivering next to the shrines of motorcycles that crowned the garage.

It took a further four days and endless crusades across the city in search of mechanics before our bikes all started at the same time.

Without functioning mufflers, the occasion was a sonic recreation of the eruption of Krakatoa, and the engines’ roars spewed across the road, easily drowning out the insectile drone of passing traffic.

With our worldly possessions strapped hastily to our backs like refugees, we fastened our $5-(and undoubtedly polystyrene) helmets and readjusted our goggles.

The open road stretched before us. Well, that and the glittering legions of Vietnamese motorcyclists, polishing their headlights in anticipation of having smelled fresh meat on the early morning haze.

Into the fray Our plan was to fine tune our biking skills in the Mekong Delta before embarking on the 1,150-km-ride up to Vietnam’s capital, Hanoi. The delta is a vast stretch of sparsely populated grassland

south of Ho Chi Minh, flayed by rivers surging to the Eastern Vietnamese coast. Its most prestigious inhabitant, the Mekong river, is the largest in South-East Asia and is responsible for the livelihood of millions, through industries such as agriculture and fishing.

The Minsk can be best described as an enigmatic bike. I had put the difficulties we had faced in Ho Chi Minh down to teething problems but, as we stuttered into the innocuous town of Tan An on our last vapour of patience, I realised our bikes’ mechanical problems were more deep-rooted. We had only managed 30 km and the journey had been disrupted by a host of engine problems.

Over the next week we would visit repair shops as frequently as we would restaurants.

We commenced this tradition of repair shops with a grand opening ceremony, involving the rousing of a portly mechanic from his hammock with a flourish of hand gestures directed at the motorised underbelly of our bikes. That evening, in the sanctitude of a local shack, we deliberated over a steaming bowl of Pho noodle soup—a bubbling broth which can contain anything from lemongrass to chicken’s feet, before deciding on the riverside town of Ben Tre as our next port of call.

Looks familiar?

As we set off with renewed optimism and the strained directions of a local fruit seller behind us, the scenery morphed into a mosaic of rice fields. The presence of farmers was betrayed by conical straw hats that bobbed rhythmically from the depths of the reeds. The government had clearly been busy, and at regular intervals communist flags billowed defiantly, even on the most rural of roads.

Under intense physiological pressure from our group willing them onwards, our bikes survived all the pebbles and dips the rustic roads had to 58 Jetwings International October 2010

throw at them, and we rolled into the next town like crusaders entering Jerusalem. During the triumphal entrance into the centre our cries of ecstasy soon turned to anguish as we began to recognise the buildings we had become acquainted with the day before. The paper lanterns that had greeted us so gracefully now sneered from their lofty perch.

Besides the cardinal error of not carrying a map, we had failed to account for the sizeable river blocking our path to Ben Tre. The road we had taken had skirted along the river nonchalantly before looping round and depositing us at our origin, all without a hint of rancour. When providing directions, the imperious sweep of the hand that locals would offer us, failed to account for small frivolities in the journey, such as crossing a 100-foot wide river.

They saw their role more as compasses and pointed us in the general direction of our destination rather than considering the various obstacles we would inevitably encounter.

The ferryman The next day we found a gutsy villager who was willing to pit the rotting timbers of her fishing boat against our iron-hided Minsks, and take us across the river. Using a small wooden plank we herded the bikes onto the creaking vessel and crossed our fingers as she yanked the starter chord fiercely. Local ferries are the more popular option in these circumstances, but we didn’t trust our sense of direction to go searching for one just yet.

Having negotiated our bikes onto the other side, we soon found ourselves in the tourist outpost of Ben Tre. Besides a smattering of restaurants, it is a popular place to arrange homestays, where tourists stay in a local’s house to experience the unique culture of rural life. Whilst slurping our celebratory noodle soup, we met a Vietnamese war veteran who filled our evening with tales of jungle

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warfare with the Vietcong before departing to sing karaoke with his wife.

The curse of Ben Tre Our cruise from Ben Tre was cut short when we encountered a giant pond, where construction works had leaked onto the middle of the dirt road. Spurred by the enthusiasm of local drivers, and a sizeable run up, the most audacious member of our group flew into this artificial marshland with the careless abandon of a toddler learning to ride a bike. Despite making good progress, the

wheels soon became engulfed by the sand, and by the halfway point he began sinking. With the aid of every able bicep within a kilometre, we were able to hoist him out, but not before the sand had sabotaged the bike’s engine. From now on, in order to start that particular motorcycle, we would all have to push it along for ten metres for a running start, just like a bobsleigh team.

This was the final twist that opened a floodgate of problems. For the next five days, a series of seemingly implausible breakdowns left our group stranded in one of Ben Tre’s spangled high-rise hotels, wallowing in self-pity and cursing the senility of our bikes. I took the opportunity to repaint my bike; it was now decked in bright red and bore the archaic hammer and sickle of communism. The steed of an officer, I told myself as we drove through wafts of innocent Vietnamese laughter, pressing onwards to Tra Vinh.

Tearing the chains We knew it would require a Herculean effort to escape the supernatural clutches of Ben Tre. We roared our way towards the coast, knowing at some point, that we would have to cross another river. As night descended, our bikes started to concede to the constant strain of the journey and one broke down. With no mechanic within miles, one of our group elected to push the bike along with his foot, while still driving himself. By supporting his foot on the injured bike’s exhaust pipe, and trusting its riders’ steering capabilities, he was able to push it along the motorway.

With no working headlamps between us, I drove behind the duo to illuminate this eerie procession with a torch. Meanwhile the final member gallivanted ahead, searching for comprehensible, and frustratingly elusive directions.

divine assumptions proved incorrect. The Swedish volleyball team we had imagined playing on the beach was replaced by an old man staggering through the shallows, whilst the wafts of freshly barbequed prawns was instead the stench of faeces, radiating from the cage of a dejected-looking monkey.

Without doubt, Ba Dong was the most depressing beach I had ever been to. The so-called resort was a cluster of wooden shacks facing the sea and the only attraction was a primate who had been cruelly displayed in a cage twice its size. As the only tourists ever to have been so wholly lost, we were regarded by the few other visitors with intense curiosity. However, as soon as their engines were loud enough to convince us they could tackle the journey back to Ho Chi Minh we readied our bikes for departure. We had a 150-km slug ahead of us and the thankless task of selling the bikes to someone with enough patience to even attempt to drive them.

Jesus perhaps.

Clouds gathered ominously in the sky and the now serpentine road wound through paddy fields and into the horizon. I had no idea if there were enough mechanics in the world to facilitate our return journey but this had been the best trip of our lives and, as we slipped our keys tentatively into the ignition praying it would start, I had absolutely no regrets.

Our convoy crept through the mystical silence of the South Vietnamese night, and it was in the early hours of the morning that we found a farmer who knew of a ferry-crossing down the road. Because of the obvious language barrier we didn’t know if it was still in operation or, for that matter, an actual crossing and not just his favourite fishing spot, but we were hardly in a position of strength and welcomed the rest. Even if it was interrupted by the maniacal yapping of a posse of village dogs.

An hour into the wait, I began eyeing up the surrounding scenery for potential camps. I may have even hallucinated, seeing the flickering mirage of a Holiday Inn in the shadowy depths of a forest. Mercifully, one member of our group, who had been perched expectantly on the landing, spotted the hulking leviathan of a ferry skulking in the blackened waters. We boarded it with the relief of soldiers being evacuated from the fiery recesses of hell.

Reassessing the journey While in the safety of Tra Vinh, with our battered Minsks collapsed guiltily besides us, we were forced to re-evaluate the itinerary.

In one week we had barely travelled 100 km, and what was meant to be a training exercise had turned into an epic journey comparable to Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps. Despite the obvious disappointment, we wanted to go out in style, like the charge of the light brigade—practically suicidal but a necessity as far as preserving honour was concerned. It was then that we decided upon the beach resort of Ba Dong as our final destination. This was, to the crowning moment of our Mekong foray, the holy grail.

One last hurrah And so we embarked on our symbolic dash for the coast. The rustic air somehow tasted sweeter and the rumble of our Minsks’ had an almost melodious tone. The guidebook had been sparing in its compliments for Ba Dong but I ignored this, believing there were far greater forces at work here. Unfortunately, my 64 Jetwings International October 2010

Fact file Getting there Jet Airways has daily flights to Bangkok from Delhi, Kolkata and Mumbai. From here, there are regular flights to Ho Chi Minh City.

Accommodation There are loads of options in and around Ho Chi Minh City.

Backpacker inns are commonplace, but luxury hotels are also found.

For more information Log on to www.vietnamtourism.com