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T the end of January, I entered into a somewhat toxic relationship. The unhealthy type, the sort where your friends’ softly hint at you to leave while you grapple for excuses to stay.

Her name was Miss Murphy and she was a 110cc of Chinese junk. She was my first, but I was clearly not hers and this was the most obvious problem.

During our 2 500km journey through Vietnam, Murphy made her disdain for me quite clear, throwing me off where she could and attempting suicide multiple times, despite my cajoling and caressing as we drove down dusty roads together.

Vietnam is famous for its young travellers who, with scant motorbike experience, will spend just enough dollars on tired machines to make the journey down (or up) this wildly intriguing and constantly shocking country.

I set off with two friends and a few key points of advice from seasoned riders: throw out any previous road knowledge you have and adapt quickly to the lawlessness.

One: When a cow is crossing the road, always move in the direction it’s going as it is normally tied to something that may lead to swift decapitation.

Two: Hoot incessantly to make yourself noticeable in a place where people drive as if no one else exists.

Three: You may never know why the chicken crossed the road, but do your best not to kill it or anything else.

There is nothing quite like driving the winding roads of the Ma Pi Leng Pass of Ha Giang Province, heading into the clouds with a sea of mountains below you — a place where I am sure the dinosaurs once roamed. Banana trees flourishing among rice paddies, the pale green of palms bursting through the deep green vegetation painting the hillsides, buffalos caked in mud … and the sound of your rack and bag dragging along the road as you go.

Luckily, there is a Xe May shop (mechanic) every 50m, except when you need one — Murphy strikes again. Thankfully, the Vietnamese are ingenious quick-fix innovators, and if a Boer maak ’n plan, then the Vietnamese are born with one.

How do you fix a rack that has been welded more times than all the nearmiss accidents you’ve had on the journey? Wedge two thick branches through it and underneath the back of the bike, wind flimsy wire around it and it should last you at least another 200km.

But you know how the saying goes: When it rains, it pours. A thousand kilometres in, Murphy having thrown almost every part she could onto the road during one of her many tantrums, and me still bragging about her engine, it poured.

Rule number four of motorbiking through Vietnam — be prepared for rain. There is absolutely no way to keep your feet dry but eventually they will go numb so it won’t be a problem.

Somewhere between Vinh and Phong Nha, on a boring stretch of A1 highway, where the only accompanying sounds and sights were those of huge trucks hurtling past at speeds that would be illegal anywhere else, Murphy called it quits and peppered to a halt on the side of the road — in the rain — just as Shannon’s bike literally tore in half.

For the next 30 minutes there was nothing we could do but laugh — hysterical, delirious laughter that comes from inhaling petrol fumes and being drenched by trucks.

Half of Shannon’s bike lay in the road as if someone had mistakenly pushed the eject button, while Murphy gave dejected groans as we unsuccessfully tried to start her. All the while, the rain fell relentlessly on our soaked spirits.

It was all funny until we invoked Rule Five: Always have a friend brave enough to tow you.

That’s when we stopped laughing and began screaming: “STOP FLIPPING BRAKING!” “I’M NOT FLIPPING BRAKING!,” with the rope slackening and tightening, bikes veering off in opposite directions and legs flying above heads with sharp, jerky movements. We made it to a mechanic who patched us up enough to make it 10km to the comfort of a typical rock-hard hotel bed.

There were days I felt like a valiant pioneer with nothing but my bike, my tent and the ever-changing landscape.

Then there were days that I was the object of local laughter; a dejected sight of desperation as I begged someone to help save my bike, again.

I finally said goodbye to Murphy in Ho Chi Minh City, leaving with grazed knees and the type of wisdom that only those sorts of relationships can teach you. — © Leah Alves

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