We met a smiling Mr Chinh the next morning. He showed us the three motorbikes that would be our transport for the next two days without any pesky questions about licences, previous experience on motorbikes (or any other motorised vehicles for that matter) and certainly no irritating health and safety warnings. We clambered aboard and after a shaky start we were all cruising through the streets of Hoi An, some clinging on with whiter knuckles than others. Chinny led us smoothly towards our first stop with everyone still moderately safe until the brake lights of the bikes in front of us went unnoticed until a scream of ‘Tim!’ was followed swiftly by a collision with Andy’s bike which caused him to fling himself forward onto the grass. Now that all the bikes had successfully halted Tim stuck to his story that he had been admiring the beautiful scenery and had failed to notice that party had stopped in front of him. It was definitely not because he was seeing how he looked in his new sunglasses in the wing mirror. Definitely not.
Everyone now a little more shaken up we headed off again, all pretending not to notice that Mr Chinh’s rear light was now at a strange limp angle. Our first stop was on the outskirts of the town at a village where families earn money by making pottery. We were led through to the back of the huts where an elderly woman was shaping an elaborate pot with ease while a younger woman turned the wheel with her foot. We were soon encouraged to take a turn at the wheel and Chris, Tim and Laura were able to make passable copies with the help of old Vietnamese hands. After our play amongst the clay we were treated to the expectant sale of pottery goods. Arming ourselves with the cheapest and thus ugliest things on sale we managed to skirt past the insistant woman who appeared from nowhere offering us a paid tour of the village in an angry voice. Fearful that we would spend the next couple of days being taken from one sales opportunity to the next we set off once more. We arrived without incident, our confidence growing, we were pleased that the rest of our stops were simply so that we could see traditional way of life in the countryside and the ways in which the people manage to make a living, from making exquisite religious offerings made from copper of quality that only the rich from Siagon can afford them to the silk weavers still using the old machines in a wooden hut.
After a quick ferry trip on a wooden raft captained by an old woman, bikes and all, our third stop seemed to be just someone’s home. We were ushered inside and Laura and I were informed that it was time for women’s work. Swallowing protests I watched as the smiling woman showed us the technique of making rice flour pancakes. A tight drum of black linen had been stretched over the steam and smoke of burning rice husks. The thick liquid of rice flour was ladled on to the drum and spread out quickly before a lid was placed to steam the pancake. A second layer was added and then a piece of carpet on a stick was used to roll it off. Laura and I both put our X chromosome to work and successfully produced food worthy of our expectant men folk. Thankfully we wouldn’t be beaten for another day. Unfortunately the enjoyment of making the pancakes wasn’t transferred into the eating. As the name suggests there is little in a rice pancake other than rice which once rolled into a fat, slightly slimey, tube isn’t the most pleasant of snacks. Thankfully we are polite Westerners and managed to put away most of it without a grimace. We left with smiles after feeding some pigs and doves, with the knowledge that the couple had welcomed us into their home and showed us their way of life, expecting nothing in return, merely in the spirit of hospitality.
We left the villages and zoomed towards My Son, the ruined temples of the Champa civilisation. We arrived around noon and left our bikes with the Chinster while we explored the sight. Only a few of the temples are left standing after it was bombed extensively by the Americans during the war, showing that indeed nothing is sacred. We had the place mostly to ourselves as few people find the experience that pleasurable under the intensity of the midday sun and we found that our need to fully explore that sight dimmed as we found ourselves in the hottest place any of us had ever been. We walked amongst the shade listening to the strange electronic screams of beetles, wandering if this was a mind-numbing hallucination as dehydration kicked in.
After lunch of rice noodle soup and a warm drink we set off on the longest stretch of riding so far to join the Ho Chi Minh Trail, with just a brief stop for fresh pineapple, to get used to the bikes before we hit the mountains.
Sticky and sweaty we turned off the road and drove down a dirt track. Following a scampering, laughing Mr Chinh we climbed over rocks and treeroots until we all stood on a large outcrop looking at the tumbling water fall into a glistening pool promising to wash the sweat away. After jumping in to the surprisingly warm water we were soon joined by a gaggle of Vietnamese boys whose youthful bravado shone through the language barrier as they climbed up the rocky face of the waterfall to jump of flowing streams of testosterone.
Soon enough we were back on the bikes and heading into the mountains on the Ho Chi Minh road which delivered the spectacular views promised. We charged along the weaving road which took us up and down amongst the mountains over rocky patches, dodging pot-holes and bumping over the debris of road works as we navigated the twists and turns at speed. We made two more stops before dinner to visit the ethnic minorities that live amongst the mountains of the Central Highlands. Immigrants from the surrounding asian countries that have settled into a peaceful community driven life in countryside, away from the Western influences affecting the larger towns. We stopped at a small collection of huts at the bottom of a particularly twisting downhill section that Mr Chinh took at quite a speed, where two families lived a simple life with astounding views out over the mountains of Viet Nam. After giving sweets to the younger ones who stared at us with obvious interest we were invited into the hut of the elders. When asked how old he was the old man of the tribe laughed at the ridiculous question as his people didn’t count the years nor were they aware of what day it was. Hazarding a guess I would say he was well into his 80’s but we all agreed that he could take all of us in a fight, even given the element of surprise. As we were leaving the younger girls of the tribe asked how old Tim was, presumably impressed by his previous attempts at Vietnamese and judging his suitability as a husband, despite accidentally calling the old man Grandma.
Our second stop was at the community hall of a much larger village where the younger children stared at us with happy curiousity whilst the older teenage boys dressed in Western branded clothing held a look of contempt in their eyes. Young or old though they obviously recognised the respectability of Tim and I as the youngsters formed an orderly queue for our sweets while the bags were ripped from Chris and Laura’s hands. After a slightly uncomfortable time of mutual staring we left, waving to those we left and those we met as they shouted greetings at the Westerners speeding through their settlements.
After a quick stop for dinner, watching night draw in we got back on the bikes to embark on some night driving to find our hotel. Swallowed up by the mountains once more we were all surprised at the sudden drop in temperature and shivered as we followed each other’s weaving lights hoping to miss the holes and to avoid any sudden drops. The lights managed to illuminate sections of the road and the barrier at the edge but no light infiltrated the thick black curtain that hung over the rest of the world. Twenty minutes after I wished we were there we arrived at the town, close to the Laos border, whose halo we had been following along the path and found our hotel, which as we were on a guided motorbike tour and not donkeys did indeed have room at the inn. Chinh informed us that tourists weren’t usually allowed to stay in the village as it was designated for the teaching of ethnic minorities but as his brother was one of the teachers he was allowed to make reservations. After dinner and some beers during which Chinny and Tim formed the burgeoning bonds of friendship we called it a night. We shut the door against the slow, attacking beetles and prepared ourselves for another day.
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