After nearly four days of continual rain, Russ and I had tried to kid ourselves that we were due some dry weather. As we crawled down the stairs with our heavy packs, it became apparent that the clouds had other ideas. A flat, dark grey sky and a heavy monotonous patter signalled that this weather wouldn’t give up easily and we spent several minutes lashing our belongings to the back of the bikes and covering the lot with layers of plastic sheeting and a few second-hand pac-a-macs. My lightweight trousers were destined to get extremely wet but I consoled myself with the knowledge that they would dry very quickly once we got into the highlands where, Tin had assured me, summer was in full swing. We set off, swaddled in layers of thin plastic, which may have had a better chance of keeping us dry were it not for the gaping holes around our necks and the sheer malevolent intensity of the rain. It wasn’t by any means cold – Vietnam’s tropical location making sure of that - but after seven hours of riding with wet clothes plastered to your skin, the core body temperature certainly begins to drop. I say seven hours…for at least one of those hours of merciless, unrelenting deluge we were off the bikes and gulping thick, sweet mouthfuls of Vietnamese coffee or wolfing down sustenance at the local version of a transport café – watched curiously by local travellers on their way through the mountains. There was a silver lining or two to the continual rain. Every piece of mountain scenery was able to make its own majestic appearance - at first dissolving out of the mist until the dark, densely forested slopes solidified into a crisp contrast against the flat, pale light of the sky. Another delight was the roaring, gushing fullness of the rivers and the torrential streams and rushing gullies that fed them. The tumescent, murky boiling of the valley bottom, evoking memories of Willie Wonka’s river of chocolate; the white fury shooting down surrounding rock faces, a reminder of the elemental force of nature in a hurry. Our stops were kept to a minimum: owing to Russ’s timeframe (flying from Ho Chi Minh City on the Sunday), we were having to complete a five-day trip in four days. This meant that our first day would cover a monumental 330km…pretty serious going when your backside isn’t used to motorbike seating…more so when it’s pissing it down with rain for most of the day! We finally came into sunlight at about 4pm – still with 90km to go. While the sensation of not completely freezing my arse off was registering somewhere in the pleasure quarter of my brain, it was being vastly out-gunned by the growing discomfort from my nether regions. My backside was taking turns at being numb and feeling like it had been trampled on by a stampeding herd of the water buffalo that occasionally wandered into our path. I have every admiration for the driving skill and attention to safety of our two guides Tin and Tong – every rut and jutting stone avoided; every dumb beast of burden or small, oblivious child, noted and reacted to. Not once did I feel unsafe on the back of my heavily-burdened bike (try me and my luggage alone = 160kg!) – but, nevertheless, I gratefully jumped off as Tong parked up (in the foyer!) at our hotel, where we arrived long after the sun had dropped into the mountains.
After showering and donning warm, dry clothing Russ and I gingerly climbed on the back of the bikes for Tin and Tong to take us for the first of many excellent culinary experiences. The décor and seating arrangements at our restaurant of choice were basic to say the least – plastic stools, bare concrete floors and basic bathroom facilities. Nevertheless, the food was delicious and in sufficient quantities to make a dent in my ravening hunger. Very similar to my barbeque experiences in Korea, we had a hot brazier deposited on our table along with several plates piled high with wild boar and venison. To combat the slight fever my amphibious, bike-riding exploits seemed to be bringing on, there were also several cloves of garlic. These were placed on the grill (whole), long enough to take away the acrid sharpness and soften the flesh before munching them up with a strip of deer or hunk of boar. In no time I was feeling strong enough to drink a beer and even partake of some of Tong’s rice wine. This ubiquitous spirit tastes like a very light Speyside malt…with a dash of methylated spirits. Not exactly an appealing combination to the cultured palate – but mine has never reached such heady heights and I was more than happy with pleasant warming of the cockles, produced by the afterglow.
The four of us slept in a dorm that evening…for about ten minutes I was able to appreciate my ability for disturbing others’ sleep. Tin dropped off first and began to produce the most extra-ordinary succession of guttural snorts and groans. If the rest of us hadn’t been absolutely shattered from our epic, mountain journey I’m sure Tin’s Captain Bligh would have been subject to a mutinous uprising from his crew and banished to the corridor…as it was, we all had a bit of a chortle at his expense and promptly fell asleep.
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