getusoutofhere.net (for the burmese refugees)

“On the road with Ho Chi Minh”

The cycle tourist in distant lands draws quizzical looks from locals. In India people would sometimes offer me a lift, assuming I was cycling because I couldn't afford a bus ticket. One old man in the Himalayas asked me whom I was escaping from. Another waved me down, looked at my bike and commented with a role of the head; "I believe you need a wife. Perhaps I can assist."

In South East Asia children will laugh while the elderly may wonder if I'm doing penance for past sins. Perhaps I am. Crawling out of bug ridden beds into malarial bogs before slurping on pig gristle and setting out in the saddle should at least shorten my spell in purgatory; assuming I make it that far.

There are several sensible reasons to hang up the wheels and buy a bus ticket. On a bus you never get wet, sun burnt or exhausted. On a bus there’s no danger from being mauled by rabid dogs or dumped on by pigeons.  

On a bus you turn stale while the world spins by. Catch sight of an ancient Temple behind a bustling market and in an instant it’s gone. Follow a slow trail to a mountain top where superlatives fall flat against the scenery and then, in the next instant you're back on the motorway.  

On a bike you can stop to discover what was inside that Temple, rummage through that market and allow the world to slip from your shoulders on top of that mountain. Juxtaposed with the malarial bog and the effort to reach the top, the sense of achievement is all the sweeter.

Having extolled the virtues of the cycle tourist I should now say that the Bangkok to Birmingham tour is fast becoming a cycle/bus/train venture…and not necessarily in that order.

“Two men in a bog.”

At the North Laos/North Vietnam border crossing a customs official eyes me up suspiciously and asks me to unpack my panniers. Out come the bare necessities; clothing, an all in one tool kit, mosquito netting, books, a drawing pad, a camera, a first aid kit, documents, six spare spokes, six banana's and a white bag full of white powder.

The customs official dips his nose into the bag, sniffs, sneezes and wishes me a safe journey through Vietnam. Washing powder, essential for any cycle tourist hoping to avoid metamorphosis into a crustacean.

Nam Xoi border opened less than two years ago and at present receives a trickle of travelers and trucks. On the Laos side there's next to nothing, save an empty noodle store and a few dogs dozing. On the Vietnamese side the people are gearing up for the future. The town, with a population of no more than a few thousand, clings to the mountainous track that connects Laos to Vietnam. As you enter a new hotel has just been constructed and the proprietor isn't going to let me pass till I take a room. At only $7 I've no objection. Taking a stroll down the high street it seems the whole town has been waiting for my arrival. People everywhere are saying hello and welcome. Obliged to respond I walk down the dusty high street like a local hero.  

The more you travel, it seems, the more there is to embrace. For every snarl there are a thousand smiles, focus on those and the journey just gets better.  

It feels good to have made it relatively unscathed from Thailand to Vietnam.  The mountains of North Laos and North Vietnam, known as the Annamitic Range will soon be in my wake. For the adventure traveler, the nature lover, the explorer or even the seeker, these mountains and their communities remain un-spoilt by the insipid mediocrity that all too often trails in the wake of mass tourism.  

Climbing to the rooftop I take one last look at the vista below. The burnt red sun is slipping over Laos and fading on Vietnam, casting a sheen across the upper layers of the forested mountains and the terrain of eagles. On a couple of occasions I've seen them hover, focus and plummet the forest to rip out their prey from the arms of a tree or the bosom of the earth.  

One hundred and fifty kilometers or eight hours on a slow bus separate me from the next ATM (cash machine). One bus every two days connects this town with the outside world and it leaves from the front of an open-air restaurant adjoining my hotel at 11am. With a few dollars left it’s imperative that I catch this bus.  

“A local on my bike!!!”

Forget about banquettes and balls, the best parties occur spontaneously. At 10am I'm sipping coffee, yawning and counting down the minutes before my bus arrives. In front of me a couple of stray dogs rummage through a scrap heap, a butcher’s woman sanitizes a slab of pork by swatting glutinous insects and a motorcyclist revs up his engine to thicken the humidity with fumes. A group of locals gather for a communal breakfast and call me over. It'd be rude to refuse so I accept and before I know it my plate is full of fine Vietnamese cuisine. Like every foreigner who passes through, I quickly become the centre of attention.  

Your browser may not support display of this image.The proprietor’s wife puts some traditional Vietnamese music on, someone else produces a bottle of moonshine and before I know it my cup is full and the party is in full swing. A young guy with metallic teeth in a green Viet Cong helmet pulls out a two-foot long bamboo pipe with tobacco stuffed into a nozzle at its southern end. Choking on a pull draws laughter and in turn another cup of moonshine. Caution would advise restraint but with music, food and friendship reaching a crescendo, the fetid ass of a dull Tuesday morning is kicked into oblivion.  

The bus finally arrives at midday. Roping my bike onto the roof the driver charges me more than double leaving me with less than $5 until I find the next cash machine. To add insult to injury the bus is full and I'm forced to sit at the back, beside a sack full of roped-up live chickens and two gas canisters that bounce two foot into the air every time we hit a pothole.  

A hill tribe lady steps onto the bus with her baby boy snuggled up in a hammock suspended from her shoulders. His eyes, wide as a pool, expand to an ocean as I stand up to stretch my back. Looking down his head recedes and his mouth opens wide in amazement at this 6 foot giant from a strange land, the likes of which he's never seen before. Its a beautiful sight and for a moment I worry he's going to start bawling but when I smile he merely gulps, shakes his tiny head and falls asleep on his mothers bosom to dream of a 'land where the wild things are.'  

It’s nightfall when I reach the town of Tan Hoa, 200 km's from the capital city, Hanoi. A cash machine saves my life and leads me to a room. Quickly I discover the Vietnamese laid back regard for privacy. There are no curtains or even a shutter on the glass door to my room. In the morning the cleaning maid doesn't knock, but just walks in while I’m taking a shower. For a moment the scene resembles a take from a carry on film. Shocked and defiled, my most delicate English sensitivities seem to be bombarded by communist barbarians…but of course the truth is far from that.

'An Englishman’s home is his castle,' this idiom summarizes most people’s attitude to privacy in the western world. In developing nations however, the peoples living quarters are more open to one and all. Through necessity, extended families pack themselves into confined spaces and quickly learn to adapt. Travelers on low budgets are wise to understand this before throwing tantrums over having their space invaded.  

The cleaning lady, unabashed merely smiles, wishes me good morning and leaves the room.

By 8am I'm pedaling down the highway to Hanoi and by 9am I've learnt my second Vietnamese lesson. The drivers of North Vietnam may well be the craziest in the world. Trucks, buses, cars and motorcyclists tare down the highway like kamikaze hell raisers. The pecking order follows that order and on numerous occasions I find myself veering into the gutter whilst vehicles overtake and swing back into their own lanes with seconds to spare before smashing into oncoming traffic. It’s a relief when I pass a major intersection and the traffic recedes.  

“A Vietnamese cycle courier.”

On the second day from Tan Hoa and less than thirty km's from Hanoi a motorcyclist pulls alongside me,

"Where are you going" he calls out.

"Hanoi," I gasp through the muggy heat.

Two kilometers further on we pull up in a roadside restaurant.

Your browser may not support display of this image.Around thirty-five years old with excellent English skills he introduces himself as Joe.

"That's my English name. My Vietnamese name will be difficult to pronounce."

The pleasure of dining with locals is that they know what to order. Fresh coffee accompanied with vegetable spring roles wrapped in rice paper makes a fine starter. An English teacher and a guitarist with a penchant for making up songs, we soon establish a lot in common.  

Growing up near the demilitarized zone in Dong Ha Joe remembers the final days of the Vietnam War.

"My family supported the troops in Saigon so we welcomed the Americans. One of them was my friend. He was always joking and saying he wanted to go home. By the end, even my family wanted them to go home."

We spend the afternoon working our way through a huge jug of orange juice and talk about playing the guitar and teaching English. Before we leave I push him on what he remembers as a child during the war.  

"I have a story you will love," he says.

"In the early days of the war my Uncle was too short and too light to be accepted into the army. He tried everything. Before recruitment he would make his shoes higher and stuff heavy rocks into his pockets. Some people laughed at him but he was proud and wouldn’t give up."

Surprised that they'd have such requirements he assures me it’s a true story and continues.

"Eventually he persuaded my father to falsify his ID. My father, a big man, went to recruitment with my uncle’s name-tag and my uncle joined the army. When my Uncle fought he was shot dead by the Viet Cong."  

Joes father, unlike his brother and an estimated one million others, survived the war.

"To this day my father has experienced guilt. Every year he visits his brother’s tomb to say sorry and lay down gifts."

Joe tells me to enjoy my journey and hopes we'll meet again. I hope so to.

By the time I reach Hanoi its dark and the streets are swarming with motorcyclists.

“Vietnamese whisky; pretty strong stuff.”

The streets of Hanoi, often promoted in tour brochure blurb as being 'laid back' are in fact a hornets nest of frenetic activity. As you approach the city center, known as 'the old quarter' the streets narrow, the traffic thickens and the crowds grow. The continuous hooting of motorcycle horns and the incongruous overlapping of traffic and people keeps my senses sharp as I zero in on 'the old quarter' with a Lonely Planet in one hand and a French baguette in the other.

No ones waiting for things to happen in Hanoi. As I stop to study my guide book someone shouts;

Have room, not expensive."

How much?"

"$8"

Immediately another guy appears, he tells me he has a room for $6 so I follow him. Just as we approach the first guy reappears and tells me I can take his room for $5. A huge argument ensues and as they begin tugging and pulling at my shirt sleeve I shout 'stop' and take the aforementioned room for $6.

Hanoi is a superb example of a French colonial city. Surviving American bombs followed by decades of trade embargoes and Russian planners Hanoi has now emerged resurgent. It's impossible not to be affected by the buzz, the optimism and the enthusiasm being generated by its people. At 8% Vietnam has the fastest growth rate in South East Asia and trails only China in East Asia. The results are palpable. Five years ago the streets were full of bicycles. Today bicycles are left to rust in the garage while the volume of motorcycle traffic almost coagulates at traffic lights. In five to ten years time motorcycles will be ditched for cars. This may not be good for the quality of life in Hanoi but when things change this rapidly no one thinks twice before investing and building.

Market traders and open front shops spill out onto the streets. Fashionable European and Vietnamese style restaurants jockey for space amongst art galleries and an eclectic array of shops selling everything from detergent to flesh colored Buddha’s that glow in the dark.

“Vietnam Doll.”

rom the end of the Indo-China War up until a few years back Hanoi most certainly was 'laid back.' A trade embargo from the US and most of Europe following the Vietnam War coupled with ineffective government programs left the country impoverished for decades. Economic reforms in 1986 encouraged private ownership and free trade. Communism may hold the reigns of power in Vietnam but its capitalism that feeds this city and sets the pace. This may seem like a marriage made in hell to many but when I asked my guest house owner what he thought to the idea of democracy in Vietnam he laughed and replied:  

"Well, you live in Bangkok; look at the mess democracy has landed Thailand in. Maybe one day it'll work here, but not yet."

On the third day of wandering the streets of Hanoi a sense of listlessness sets in. Hanoi, for all its colonial charm and Asian mystique is also hot and muggy in late June. In need of a pick me up I look to the skies for inspiration and lo and behold who should appear from behind the skylines fluffy brow but my fiancée, Liz Smailes, on a direct flight from Bangkok.

Armed with a bottle of duty free red wine the gloom is quickly lifted as we toast Hanoi and upgrade our room.

One night in Hanoi can encapsulate flavors from three epochs of this city and its tempestuous history. We begin with the French period. A string quartet plays Mozart in a courtyard dwarfed by a spiraling staircase leading to balconies decorated with art deco railings. Waiter's dressed in black blazers serve the most delectable French cuisine for less than $15. The moon is transcendent as we work our way through a course of snails followed by steak in red wine sauce to be washed down with a large brandy. When the quartet starts playing the theme tune to Fawlty Towers I splutter laughter into a large brandy glass and move onto Hanoi's next epoch.

“…from behind the skylines fluffy brow...”

“Vietnamese Venom.”

After pickling our livers with Vietnamese venom its time to step back into the 21st century.

Following a narrow warren of alleyways into the old quarter we soon discover Hanoi parties through the night. Bars serving fashionable beers play music more familiar with London's art house scene, welcoming an eclectic mix of characters and defying the closing time orders of 1am. In Hanoi the old order is fading fast. Young people are driving their own cultural revolution. Some people compare it to the changes that occurred in the west during the sixties. When we finally leave the bar the moon is falling and the streets are silent, save for the sound of an old man remonstrating with his son for returning home late and drunk.

I don’t, the youth of today!

With the world becoming ever smaller global travel, once the pursuit of the adventurous or the indulgence of the rich is today accessible for people from all walks of life. Increased globalization plus a general economic boom throughout South East Asia has also led to a sharp increase in the number of ex-pats that have settled in the far east.   

They come in all shapes and sizes so to label them as one would be an injustice. But we can label a few. There are those so weak in their own countries they wish themselves upon societies weaker than their own. There are those who simply love to travel, those who can make more money working in Asia than the west and those who see the east as offering more freedom and opportunities than back home. Oh, and there's Garry Glitter.

“Remains of the day.”

My girlfriend Liz has friends in all corners of the globe. She collects them like I collect empty beer bottles. In Hanoi the contact is a young looking middle aged guy from the US named Jeff. Jeff moved to Hanoi about fourteen years ago. Something of an entrepreneur with an astonishing ability to store information Jeff fits into the category of an ex-pat who sees the east as offering more freedom and opportunity than back home. The list of Hanoi located businesses that Jeff has helped to establish during the current boom is impressive.

With the hint of a goatee Jeff walks into the grand surrounds of the Sofitel Metropole Hotel like he's walking onto a yacht. He greets us like a game show host greeting his audience. His girlfriend by contrast is quiet and modest. The waiter bows subserviently when I ask for a beer. The grand opulence of the Sofitel Metropole, touted as one of Asia's great luxury hotels is something to savor. I make the most of my one beer as soon Jeff will be taking us on a culinary tour away from the tourist hotspots. We're soon joined by a Californian woman named Anita Rosenberg.

Around the same age as Jeff Anita is a feng shui practitioner, her practice is called ‘House Whisperer’ and like Jeff her career highlights are dazzling. She has a smile that could charm a Hollywood star and indeed she even had lunch with George Clooney once. Feng shui is the ancient Chinese belief that the way your house is built and the way objects are arranged affects your health, happiness and success.

At a small shop house where eggs are prepared in an unusually exquisite style Anita manages to get a word in sideways when Jeff stops talking to fling back a beer.

"Oh, ya know, Vietnam's kind of exciting but there are a lot of restless spirits here."

"What" I splutter through a mouthful of egg yolk.

"Yeah, I see ghosts wherever I go."

"Even in America."

"Yeah, but the ghosts in America are friendlier. Here the spirits are restless."

I suggest the ghosts should be happier here. What with the economic boom and the end of the war but Anita's not so sure.

Tentatively I look over my shoulder but apart from the egg lady who looks a shadow of her former self I see no ghosts.

“The egg lady.”

Put crudely Christians, Catholics and Muslims fear eternal suffering and pray for redemption while Hindu's and Buddhists strive for salvation through reincarnation. Many Christian's and Muslims think Hindu's and Buddhists are ‘nuts’ when they hark on about rebirth. Former England football manager Glen Hoddle was sacked when he suggested people suffering in this life are paying for sins committed in a past life. Likewise when a Christian tells a devout Hindu that he'll suffer in hell for eternity if he doesn't follow the word of the Bible that Hindu may understandably feel deeply offended or just laugh off the aforementioned as, well, ‘nuts’. If that Christian were the manager of an Indian cricket team he'd most likely be sacked.

To most westerners the concept that spirits are amongst us at all times and must be placated is hard to believe but in countries such as Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and Cambodia this is the norm. In Thailand there's a spirit house for every corner of every neighborhood. These houses; adorned with incense, ornaments and offerings of food keep the spirits of the dead content. You'll rarely see these spirit houses neglected and even in run down neighborhoods of Bangkok they're never defiled or damaged by hooligans. In Thailand politicians will regularly and openly consult fortune tellers before making important decisions. This partly accounts for the mess the countries in.

“Hanoi family gathering.”

A couple of nights before Liz fly's off to Malaysia we meet up with Jeff for one more time. The night turns into an adventure as we discover bars in the old quarter as stylishly adorned as anything you'll find in London's Soho. Listening to Jeff leaves both Liz and I a lot more informed about Vietnam, the culture, the economy and changes. He's a stickler for facts and statistics so when I mention about ghosts I'm surprised to hear that, like Anita he sees them everywhere.

When Liz finally fly's south I battle with the ghost of sloth to drum up the energy to pedal north. The further from the center I pedal the more dilapidated Hanoi becomes but when I finally reach the countryside the lush green fields of Vietnam are a soothing sight. As the worlds largest supplier of rice its no surprise the mercifully flat landscape from Hanoi to the Chinese border is dominated by rice fields. On the first night out of Hanoi I find a room in an anonymous town that, in stark contrast to Hanoi seems to have frozen in time. There's barely a heartbeat to be detected amongst the local people. Sitting in a hole in the wall restaurant I lazily watch the high street while the day lazily ticks by.

The barber seems to conduct his business by looking across the street at the chemist, who appears to transact his business by keeping his eye on the butcher, who in turn stares at the grocer, who stands at his door yawning at the tailor. The motor mechanic wrenching screws and hammering metal seems to be the only person in the high street whose trade engages his attention. When a fly lands on my lap time freezes. For a moment I consider waving it away but instead I just yawn and doze off.

“Pass the soap, love.”

 

Coming up next……….Vietnam continued and China

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