RIDIN’ DOWN A DREAM
Bas de Vos dices with death to follow some beautiful Dutch girls across Vietnam
IT was in a club in Hanoi, Vietnam, that I experienced my first-ever pang of regret about not having paid more attention to Afrikaans at school. If I’d known about the two beautiful Dutch girls my companion, Curt the Canadian, and I would meet that night, I’d have made more effort. Still, we weaseled our way into their company and I strung a few Afrikaans words together in a desperate attempt to chat them up. They looked puzzled and switched to English.
Embarrassing, but things got better from there on. In fact, Curt and I thought things were going smoothly until the young women stood up and said they were off to bed.
“But the night is young,” we pleaded. They were adamant, saying they were heading south early the next day to the romantic seaside town of Hue.
Naturally, we and our other travel companion, Carl the Capetonian, were up at the crack of dawn — direction Hue.
We were travelling on three notoriously unreliable 100cc Honda Win motorcycles, purchased for R2 500 each a few days previously. Inspired by an old episode of Top Gear, we planned to ride the bikes 1 700km from Hanoi to Ho Chi Min city and resell them there. We hadn’t, however, expected to set off in such haste. And little did we know how harrowing riding in Vietnam would be.
Hoping to miss Hanoi’s infamous rush hour, we’d set an alarm for 6am. By the time we left, it was 7pm and traffic was at its peak. For three hours, we diced with death. Hanoi has a population of almost 7million and almost every one of them owns a scooter, which they ride as if trying to outrun a tornado. There’s no stopping, regardless of what is happening around you. There’s no discernible system at intersections: you just keep moving and weave your way through hundreds of other bikes, which come at you from all directions. If you’re lucky, you come out unscathed.
When Curt and I finally reached the city limits, we’d lost the third musketeer. We waited. Carl was nowhere to be seen. We couldn’t linger long, though. The Dutch girls would only be in Hue for two nights and we were already behind schedule. And so, although Carl was the least experienced on a bike of the three of us, Curt and I agreed that he was probably ahead of us and that we should catch up.
(When we saw Carl again three days later, it turned out he’d broken down behind us.)
We’d just reached the countryside, which is lined by rice paddies and little villages, when it began to rain. It was, after all, monsoon season. We stopped to put on our tiny waterproof ponchos, which don’t do much when you’re more than 1.9m tall.
We took the opportunity, too, to empty our bladders in some bushes. Halfway through the process, an elderly Vietnamese man popped out of the bushes and began chatting in fluent English, inviting us to his home. As we’d not encountered many Vietnamese who could converse fluently in English, we were delighted.
After copious portions of noodle soup with a large dose of politics on the side, our host offered us some beer and vodka. We declined politely. It was 11am, we’d only completed about 80km of the 600km ride, it was raining and we had to move on. Our new friend was disappointed but waved us on our way.
We rode and rode. For seven hours, we endured a persistent downpour. The rain and mist meant the visibility was awful. It didn’t help that the route was beset with countless meandering dogs and water buffalo, children and sacks of rice, which appeared suddenly through the fog. None, however, were as terrifying as the buses.
Vietnamese bus drivers, we learnt, receive bonuses for early arrival and fines if they’re late. They overtake anywhere and anytime, regardless of what is ahead.
Somehow, we survived. Exhausted and wet, we called it quits for the day in a small town where no one spoke English. Our requests for food and beds were finally answered when a kind-hearted woman phoned her daughter in Ho Chi Min City to translate for us. Dinner was more noodle soup and our beds were in a large, halfbuilt hotel with “free wi-fi”, which, we discovered, only provided access to the Vietnamese news. Before we fell asleep, we realised the queues of eager men outside weren’t there for the news — there was a brothel in the basement.
We left early. If we didn’t get to Hue that night, we’d miss the girls. The first few hours went smoothly. The weather had improved and we made good time.
Perhaps daydreaming of what lay ahead in Hue, I didn’t see Curt come to a sudden stop ahead. With almighty impact, I rode straight into his exhaust. Curt landed on his (fortunately helmeted) head. We scraped ourselves off the ground, examined our grazes and laughed.
One of the handiest things about motorbiking in Vietnam is that there’s a bike mechanic on every corner. Within three hours, the bikes were patched up and we were back on the road, now way behind schedule. So we did what any rightminded, injured motorcyclist would do: we rode like the clappers.
Curt became Valentino Rossi and I, Jorge Lorenzo. The road zigzagged up and down the densely forested limestone mountains through Phong Nha-Ke Bàng National Park. Despite the limited power of our little bikes, the riding on winding roads and through beautiful countryside was the most exhilarating we’d done.
Even so, we were not fast enough. We arrived in Dong Hoi, three hours from Hue, at 9pm. We were in pain from our collision, exhausted and ready to give up. We collapsed in two toddlersized plastic chairs in a café and ordered more noodle soup. As we ate, I logged on to FaceBook and saw the message: “Hey, guys :) We are going to get some drinks tonight. Hope you can join us. ;) The Dutch Girls X.”
We hopped back on our bikes and sped off into the night.
What followed was a three-hour rollercoaster ride of terror and exhilaration in the dark. To avoid the other traffic, we rode slowly along the side of the road but soon realised this wasn’t going to get us to Hue in time. Our lights weren’t powerful enough for us to see the many potholes and obstacles on the shoulder of the road and the scores of bugs colliding with our eyeballs further hindered our vision.
We paused to review our strategy and agreed it was time to turn hindrance to helper. Instead of dodging the buses, we’d tuck in behind them and tail them. After all, the bus drivers knew where the potholes were and how to make good time on the roads. What’s more, the big machine cleared the bugs from our path. It worked brilliantly and the bus drivers, it transpired, were happy to collaborate. One even stopped, flagged us down and pointed out that we’d missed our turn-off.
We arrived at Hue at 1am, wired from the ride, and strutted into the hostel, where we were delighted to find the Dutch goddesses still awake. We agreed that they’d get a bottle of whiskey while we checked-in to our room where we’d meet to celebrate our successful journey. In the room, we dropped our bags and flopped on the beds, discussing how we’d quickly take a shower.
We woke up the next morning. A bottle of vodka sat on the bedside table. I logged on to FaceBook.
“Hey, guys :),” said the message, “pretty lame of you to go bed so early. Lol. We are leaving this morning to go to Hoi An. Maybe we will see you there? The Dutch Girls X.”
I looked at Curt. Curt looked at me. We packed our bags. Destination Hoi An. — ©