Biking Vietnam, The Courage to Fail

I met Rose when she convinced me to stay in one of the bungalows she owned. She convinced me before her glasses broke, but once they did I knew we would be friends. Covered head to toe in a burka and a floral shirt with a flowing pink skirt, her expression was cheeky. “Shit!” she cursed as the pieces fell into the grass. I happened to find one and, unable or unwilling to pronounce my name correctly, she said, “Thank you Anker Wat.” The next day when I asked if I could borrow a book from the collection of discarded ones in the corner of her office, she didn’t hesitate.

“Some people see no more in climbing mountains,” Walter Bonatti writes in the prologue of The Mountains of My Life, “than an escape from the harsh realities of modern times. This is not only uninformed, but unfair. I don’t deny that there can be an element of escapism in mountaineering but this should never overshadow its real essence, which is not escape but victory over your own human frailty.”

I read this in Malaysia a week after Max, George, Ewan and I ended our two months in Vietnam by climbing Mount Fansipan, the tallest mountain in Indochina. I sat in the shade of a palm tree as two monkeys pillaged the coconuts above, remembering the small trek we had just completed.

Coming off that mountain, and for the first time in my life, I knew how it felt to be truly proud of something I’d done. Not necessarily in the hike, but in all the days, and all the months and all the friendships leading up to it. I’ve realized that it’s the things you’re most afraid to do that allow you to become the type of person you want to be.

Just yesterday, through the sterile aisle of a supermarket, Max helped me get some last minute things for my next trip. That’s when I confided in him that I was afraid to go. He told me fear’s a good thing. He said fear means you’re doing something that’s important to you.

Travelling to me isn’t about climbing a tall mountain so that I can say I did it. It’s not about the perfect picture of me driving my motorbike off into the sunset. (These, of course, are the perks.) But travelling to me is about overcoming my greatest weakness, which is self-doubt. Sitting on the summit of Fansipan with a beer in my hand surrounded by three people I’ve grown to love so sincerely was worth the going up. It was one small victory in a long line of others over all the limitations I had set for myself.

As Max and George high fived my hands through the window of the airport bus, I realized the weaknesses I’d overcome and the new confidence that serves as my sole companion on this upcoming journey. Now all those people—Rose and Max and George and Ewan-- are elsewhere in this world, and still, I don’t consider myself alone.
I am with myself.

Of all that nature has revealed to me throughout these months-- sleeping under her torrential weeping, seeing the sky of a different night, the moon from a different angle-- the lesson that had the greatest effect on me was not the realization that really I am nothing. But that I should make the most of it.

So I’m writing from a plane that’s landing in Australia’s Gold Coast because for two years I’ve talked about becoming a cowgirl, and there’s cowgirl work in the Land Down Under. I didn’t think I would ever actually do it because somewhere lurking inside me was something present and barely visible and solemn, and it was fear.

In the same way the perfect words can line themselves up at the perfect time in someone’s life, the book Rose lent me voiced truths I hadn't myself put words to: “Fear has many aspects and facing it demands self-control. For me, it has often proved a spur to courage, including, if necessary, the courage to accept failure. ”

If I’d set out to feel this way and complete these tasks, I’m not sure I would have had the confidence to do it. But I had the confidence to buy the ticket and sit on the plane. That plane took me to so many places I didn't know I was going and it showed me the importance in having courage-- the courage, if necessary, to accept failure, but the bravery to try anyway.

Biking Vietnam, Destinations

Technically it wasn't my fault, although I did quote Robert Frost when I sensed they were swaying.  In their silence, those who did not dissent agreed and as we sat on the side of the road debating the better choice, I quoted the poem. "Two roads diverged in a wood," I said-- and Generous picked it up from there-- "And I, I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference."

Instead of heading back to Da Lat and finding the main road which would lead us easily to lake Lak, we chose the road that "wanted wear;" the one we thought would lead us the scenic way to the same place."Tis the nature of the adventure," I said enthusiastically, as I so often do. Jessie narrowed her eyes in annoyance. ('Tis the nature of our relationship.)

Three hours later and having gone less kilometers than that, I emerged frantic from the jutting rock path entering the same pavement I had only recently exited. It was relief that filled me when my wheels squeezed the paved road and my engine stopped coughing as loudly.  Oil dripped in my wake-- my bike had suffered a hard blow. I needed a mechanic.

I tried to explain all this to Enri that night-- about the cutting rock roads, the deep water holes, the thin, rickety bridge, the decision to turn around and then the suctioning mud that eventually led to my ruin-- but with his limited English, he couldn't understand.  Instead he simply put his finger up for me to stop talking as his phone rang a country tune, interrupting all conversation.  It rang about every two minutes, plucking high notes on a synthetic guitar. He'd answer and pretend not to hear the person on the other line. Holding the phone out, he'd look at it questioningly then decide it must be broken and put it away, continuing the conversation.

Enri is the brother of Joseph and Joseph, having met us while my bike was being repaired, invited us to his house for wine. Throughout the night, Enri continued ignoring his wife's calls as his young neice poured water into a jug filled with fermented root. She handed the long straw made of thin bamboo and a plastic tube to Jessie first and then to me.  Its taste was sweet and bitter, the color of honey and once consumed, made your body temperature rise immediately. 

"I'm sorry," said Enri after putting his phone back into his pocket. "But we talk about me now. How do you like Vietnam?  America is my paradise." This surprised me less when I discovered his sister worked for the US army during the war (and now lives in North Carolina). Later, when I tried to speak to him in what little of the language I know, he said his tribe does not speak Vietnamese.

As Ri  began to explain how his tribe is a minority to Vietnam, his brother took out their Latin Bible and began singing Spiriti Sancti and Generous, quite sincerely, tried to sing along, mouthing the notes a half step too late and bending an avid ear to the singing man.  Looking on, Mekong's mouth got wider as he listened to Generous' poor attempt. "Whhot is he doing?"

An hour later, we were drunk dancing to twist and shout and Mekong was debating whether he should take the neice up on her advances.  In my attempt to explain (quite beligerently) how that would not be the best way to thank the family, Generous stepped in, called Mekong a twat and told me if I were a man he'd hit me in the face and then we all fell asleep.

Now, there are many ways to wake up after a heavy night of drinking.  Sometimes it's with a sore head, a heavy tongue, a physical hangover or a moral one.  But this wakeup was much different. Enri walked in, short and confident and said, "Good morning. I've lost my motorbike and I've lost my wife." As we sought for responses fresh from sleep, his attention quickly turned. "Oh! Come see," he said motioning for me to come out to the porch.  "There they are."  I looked out onto the light blue lake that stood a stark contrast to their bright green coffee plants, bushy on the bluff.  As I watched the two water buffalo cross gracefully-- their backs and horns reflecting in the early morning sunlight-- the mountain air,cool with the smell of wood smoke--I wondered about his wife..

"Before you go, we get fresh water." Ri insisted.  "Just a short kilometer for fresh water."  We agreed and stopped at a cafe along the road (where Ri also speculated he left his bike) and a  waitress brought out four large Pepsi's and popped the lids.  Ri motioned for us to drink up.

"Fresh wata!?" said Mekong.  "Oh, you ah a legend!"

Ignoring the statement, Ri revisited the matter of his wife leaving him.  "If she divorce me, I take my water buffalo and go live in the hills." I noticed him considering this possibility and his eyes began to sparkle gleams of appeal.

Two ignored phone calls, three hangovers of a higher evolutionary order and four "fresh waters" later, we hit the road that just yesterday led us to this lovely family: fresh pavement of another road leading to another destination. Our next immediate destination wasn't anything epic though.  And as a jackhammer crumbled the sidewalk outside, it wasn't particularly choice either. But as destinations so often are, our lunch spot was misleading as to what it actually contained. It was over lunch while scanning a copy of Lonely Planet when we realized where the road less traveled had truly taken us the night before.

"...While french-colonial rule recognized the Montagnards as a seperate community," Generous read aloud, "South Vietnam... attempted to assimilate them through... abolishing tribal schools and courts, prohibiting the construction of stilt houses and appropriating their land....In the 1960s the tribes were courted as US as allies against North Vietnam and were trained CIA and US Special Forces."

We spent the night with the Montagnards.

Generous, Jessie, Pete, Me, Ri, George, Joseph

Jessie drinking the rice wine

Biking Vietnam, Payback's A Female Dog

The sound of the rooster strikes me awake so astutely that I must not have been very asleep.  In the distance it sounds like someone's dragging furniture across the clouds and the night flashes bright. I know a storms coming and then the drops start and its here-- the drops being inside my tent. Cursing the bulky camera that I'm too tired to take out of the purse I'm sleeping on, this isn't what I had romanticized when we said "camping."  We're in the side yard of a cafe where a family lives, sleeping on a bed of gravel.  I can hear the distant hum of a television.  I can hear the not-so-distant shrill cry of a rooster.

The best way to travel also turns out to be the cheapest: make friends with the locals, drink the liquor as long as it flows, and accept when they insist you're too drunk to drive anywhere. Be grateful and remember it usually pays to say yes. Flies swarmed and landed on the best seafood I've ever eaten. The second best suctioned itself to the side of my mouth, flailing it's tentacles in a last ditch effort. 

I touched my heart as small Boa did the night before when I gave her a coconut cookie.  Her young mouth could only form the sound "ah," and I can speak only a fragment more Vietnamese than that, but still I said thank you—Cam on. I touched my heart, looked at her grandmother and said "Cam on... for letting us stay the night." We paid for our coffees, packed our tents and started our engines.

It's really something following a group of friends on a journey through crumbling back roads, the sharp curves revealing each person in turn. Slate dark cement washes up onto the deep brown foliage and the mountains peak and dive as we drive up and down. We're burned by the stinging sun then cooled by the rains.  We rest in the warm shade and bundle in the cold night.  In one day, we experience all seasons.

"Alright George," says Mekong once we arrive in DaLat.  "Call the Fuck. Tell em to sheet oaff." He looks at me and snickers and I know we're gonna have fun with this name.

Mr. Phuk is an Easy Rider who takes tourists on his bike through hard-to-find destinations. He's offered to escort us on the back roads across the central highlands for an exorbitant amount of money and apparently all his beer bills. Collectively, we decide not to do it and now Generous has to tell him.

"But I kind of like Mr. Phuk."

"I don't care if you like em.  For $15 per person per day, Mr. Fuck can sheet oaff!"

The fun we have with his name is only second to the fun we have with the name of Generous' motorcycle. Her name is Sally and she's a bicycle.  Any key turns her on and anyone gets a ride. Mekong says when he's finished with his bike, Jessica, he'll dig a big hole in ground and bury her.

Here lies Jessica.  At least she's not a SLUT lok SALLY!

Mekong slams Jessica into Sally's rear and snickers.

"At least she has virtues," argues Generous.

"She does not! Sheet off! Anyone can ride her in any direction therefore she has no virtues."

The demands of concentration silences everyone on the road and hunger makes our decision hasty as we pull over for lunch.  Each bike parks-- Sally, Jessica, Black Betty, Ariel and Ursala.

We sit down and order quickly.  Ga Pho.  Chicken Pho.  It doesn’t take too long to come out and I can't wait for the broth to cool before burning my tongue on it.  The meat must be pork because it smells like pork.  It looks like beef though and Mekong, wide eyed claims it's "exoctly lok the mystery meat I had in Saigon." But Mekong makes a lot of claims. The other night, he claimed his toe was falling off. “Look at et,” he says in astonishment.  “Et doesn’t look hewman.”  And then his tone changes to indignation, “Well I don’t know what Om gonna do when I get back to England and Om not suffering from puh-menant disease.  Oll have to razor maself in the arm just to feel normal.”

The thought of his toe-- which looks like Wyly coyote dropped an anvil on it-- still doesn’t put me off my meal. I don't care.  I'm starving.  I use one chopstick to hold the meat in place and the other to pull it from the bone. 

As the soup gets lower and lower, its contents reveal themselves with ease and I can't believe what I'm seeing. No.  I hold it up between my chopsticks and everyone starts laughing.  I’ve spent two years in Korea having avoided it and not one month into Vietnam and  I've just eaten dog.  It smells like pork, looks like beef and tastes like dog. Hanging between my chopsticks is its severed jaw. Oh God, judging by the extent of his cavities it must have been quite old.  The owners laugh at our discovery and claim it's monkey. Lying bastards.  "It's dog!"

Pete having just paid says resolutely, "Yep, it's dog.  They're charging dog prices."

Mr. Phuk! It turns out the cheapest way to eat can also be the least enjoyable.  Although, In all honesty I can’t say I don’t deserve it. After making fun of Generous’ beloved Sally:

And gloating in the face of Pete’s sea sickness:

And turning hysterical at the site of Mekong’s pulsing red toe:

...I can’t say in good faith that it was undeserved. But on the upside, it didn’t cost much.  Unless of course there's a Judgement Day and I pay for it then.

Here lies Anne-Claire.  She ate dog once.  But at least she’s not a SLUT like SALLY!

Biking Vietnam, The Struggles Finds Its Humor

We arrive in Mui Ne along with the rain that followed us the entire way, slithering and snaking alongside the coastal road.  Every hour found us pulling off to meet Jessie on the shoulder, her face red and fuming with frustration, her bike red and wheezing with exhaustion.  "Fuck!" she says after she's screwed on the gas cap and strapped back on her bags. "Shit!"  I begin laughing.  I know what she's done.  She's locked her keys under the seat.

Along with Generous' bike-- which we've found can be started with any Honda key-- Jessie's seat lifts easily to fit a hand underneath.  This proves convenient as we resolve the problem, but Generous is still furious about his discovery-- not only because any Honda key will open his bike, but specifically because Mekong Max's will.  Seeing the scheming behind Mekong's eyes and the way the cheaky bastard snickers as he considers the possibilities, I understand why. 

Jessie stacks her bags back on the seat and straps down the bungees while Generous makes a new discovery. "Fuck!" he says: his keys have fallen out of the ignition.  Apparently, once started his bike can continue working without any key at all. Apparently, it fell out a few meters back when he had to re-start the bike after it puttered out up a hill.

We laugh and resolve all the problems and my headlight guides me the rest of the way to Mui Ne, affording me .3 seconds notice before slamming me violently into potholes.  Once at our destination, we meet our friend Ewan at his guest house and sleep hard to the sound of crashing waves against a cement coast.  In the morning, Jessie awakes Mekong and Generous abruptly:  "A cat was killed on the road and it was convulsing and there was blood everywhere. It was so sad.  Okay, get up, ya'll.  We're leaving.  This place is too expensive."

"Hurry up," she says to me as she stuffs clothes into her bag.  They said if we're out a minute passed 11:30, they'll charge us for the day."

I rush to gather my things and decide to spite their inhospitality I'll steal the comb in the bathroom. Pete-- being my only witness—conspires. "Get the bob roll too."

Twenty minutes later I'm staring at the receptionist and insisting there was never a comb in our room.  Mekong comes to my defense, eager for argument; angry himself over the principle of having to pay for hot water that didn't work and a presumed complimentary drink.

"Who would steal a fucking comb?!" he argues, extending his arms straight and his fingers wide in indignation. Gesturing to me, haggard and barely awake, his bottom lip protrudes in bewilderment, "Does it look like anyone's brushed their hair?"

I walk back to my bike and quietly tell him in fact, I've stolen the comb.  Since I'm not going to pay $1 to replace it I open my bag and feign surprise at its discovery while casually covering the stolen toilet paper. "My bad,” I say. “I guess I accidentally packed it."  The receptionist doesn’t feign surprise.

We move down the street to a place of similar quality that fits our budget. The clouds clutch at the coast and a storm quivers and shakes as drops meet the ground.  Mekong and I sit it out under a tin roof and read as I sip coffee.  Mekong drinks too much tea and vibrates as he tells us he can't join us for dinner.

"I ock-shully feel ill!"

I get home with a wine bottle and ask our new friend Nyet if he can open it for me. As he pushes it in with the dull end of a wrench from his repair shop he says, "Mok" and I twist my face to show that I don't understand. "Mok. You friend Mok."

As Mekong giddily walks up wide eyed and jubilant we learn that once he left us-- too sick to eat-- he drank rice wine mixed with banana wine all night with Nyet. "Ah! And the family made fish. They insisted I eat it.  It was luh-vely! You should have tried it!"

Along with Nyet, we all stay up drinking and listening to music.  Nyet tries to teach me to count to five and Mekong-- to the tune of "Na-ny Na-ny boo boo"—sings to Generous: "Oh'm gonna steal ya bi-ike.  Oh'm gonna steal ya bi-ike." Night becomes morning like late becomes early and everyone goes to bed and the freedom feeling of travel continues: the stuggle finds its humor. 

Before sleep, I lay back and glimpse at the sky in time to catch a shooting star. And I wish for nothing.

Biking Vietnam, The Beginning

The alarm goes off at four in the morning and the beeping sounds more like laughter.  It's laughing right in his face. He's not going now.  “Pouring” doesn't describe the type of rain we're hearing.  It sounds like we're all sleeping under a tin roof beneath Niagara Falls.  The water is incessant; constant like a faucet.  He's not starting his journey now.  He'll have to wait.

In Vietnam the natural is only a little more foreign than the unnatural.  Walking the busy, buzzing streets feels like being in a bee hive-- motorbikes zoom around you, cutting in an angle into oncoming traffic, barely missing you.  Like schools of fish, hundreds of Vietnamese on motorbikes make sharp turns simultaneously.  One moment you're looking at their backs and the next you're looking at their sides.

Ho Chi Minh is the city we're starting from-- "we" meaning my family away from home.  It's me, my best friend Jessie, Pete who we met at the start of our travels and have been with since, Generous George (nicknamed for his giving heart) and Mekong Max (nicknamed for the wounds he let fester in the Mekong). The first time I met Mekong, I rushed him in a tuk-tuk (a cart that's pulled by a motorbike) shivering and shaking to the hospital.  As he looked at me wide-eyed and desperate, his mouth slightly ajar, I told him he probably had the dengue fever.  "But it's alright," I said. "You should be fine." Meanwhile, I couldn't get Dylan out of my head.

When he died
I was hoping
that it wasn't contagious.

It turns out he didn't die.  And that's how I got the nickname Dr. Dengue.  So there's five of us. Jessie, Pete, Generous, Mekong, and Dengue, and we've all bought motorcycles.  And we're travelling Vietnam from south to north.

Of course, with our limited budgets, the haggard (made in China) pieces we were able to talk off the ledge of a twenty-story building aren't the most reliable. They come with missing mirrors, downhill starts, and spare parts, "just in case."  So we come anticipating break downs and stunted trips in the blister-hot sun as sweat drips from our noses and hope diminishes.  It's also the beginning of the rainy season here and when it's not raining, the world resumes its underwater effect, melding the straight lines with sweltering heat.

While watching a program of three men attempting the same feat, one man cursed the lightening while acknowledging its dual purpose-- his light was out.  By the end of the trip he said he'd done something like 1000 km on a bike, 100 on a train and 50 on his face. So far we've been lucky though and only had a few casualties to account for-- two people with three muffler burns.

Then again, we start tomorrow.

Wish us luck.