81 - Shit Ton Of Fun (Ha Giang Province, Vietnam)

 

“Three hundred kilometers on a 125cc bike is a recipe for permanent ass injury. Best relief for pooper pain? Treat yourself to a near-death experience. Might makes right, larger vehicles retain the authority to disregard your existence…”

by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac

 

 
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MY IRISH COMPADRE ARRIVED IN THE ‘NAM, I fetched her from the airport, we retired to our hotel. She was tuckered from the trip and needed downtime to mitigate fatigue. I spent a week laying the groundwork for our fandango hoping against hope it would be as seamless as could be (making reservations, inspecting rooms, etc.). Um, no. Upon return, the manager approached me in the lobby and requested we switch rooms… to a different hotel (same owner).

 
 
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Shit happens, eh? No big deal. Thing is, this was the second time. The day before, a young woman at the desk informed me of a “booking error.”  In the spirit of accommodation, I acquiesced without incident. So, here I was again, this time being “asked” by the manager. Yes, “asked” is in quotes because I wasn’t being asked at all. She was issuing orders, not polite encouragement. In other words? Get out, gringo. Nice. 

Why? Another booking error. Large group, misplaced e-mail, you say? Not bloody likely and not a happy camper was I. Had I been solo? Ruckus. Definite ruckus. But Michelle was pooped, and I didn’t think slinging shit right off the bat was a great way to endear myself. Dragon Lady (stereotype fulfilled) laid a guilt trip on me. If I refused to relocate, a young female employee (on display at her side) would be fired for the mix-up. Uh-huh. Wow, go right for the jugular, eh? The asshole within wanted to call her bluff just for farts and giggles, but this wasn’t a battle worth fighting… probably. Screaming, “Are you fucking serious,” though palliative, would’ve been a waste of ATP. My theory is this: As mentioned in the last post (Insert link), hotels can be aggressive in their approach to booking follow-on tours. I had my own agenda. Also, I was surely on the low end of their affluent tourist hierarchy. They punished me for insolence and insignificance.

 

 
 

 

Ms. Magnanimous granted us a few hours to move. Oh, how gracious thee art, Highness. I chose a hotel and a room with specific parameters in mind. Five days of recon down the crapper. Buh bye. Travel time was short as our new room was next door, but I couldn’t curtail my resentment. Inauspicious beginning, no? We spent that night and another day making preparations before heading north to Ha Giang City in the province of the same name.  A quick 290 kilometers, and we'd be there… gulp.

I’d devoted a few days to navigating Hanoi via motorbike in failed efforts to acclimatize. Not sure you can ever get used to it, nor should you. Given my two-wheeled experiences in Indonesia and Sri Lanka, I was unreasonably confident. Killing myself was one thing, now I bore responsibility for another. As if to test my fortitude, outbound traffic was stupid-silly, even by Hanoi standards. Why? Rush hour. Locals advised me not to leave between 7:30 and 8:30 am. My watch read 8 am. Atta boy… dipshit. Slipped my mind, and then… an adventure so nice, I did it twice. All hotels require you to hand over your passport upon arrival. Regulations? Extortion? Regulated Extortion? Take your pick. I’d left mine in the safe, forcing a return trip… double dipshit. On the bright side, I can verify traffic is much lighter (though still nuts) outside of rush hour.

 
 

Three hundred kilometers on a 125cc bike is a recipe for permanent ass injury. Best relief for pooper pain? Treat yourself to a near-death experience. Might makes right, larger vehicles retain the authority to disregard your existence. A freight truck passed another around a corner nearly making us its hood ornament. I veered off and paused for an underpants check. Somehow, we both remained streakless. I suppose fear wasn’t an issue, we would’ve been pancakes long before our amygdalas kicked into high gear. Dance with the devil in the pale morning light, ya heard.  Zebras don’t get ulcers. Why should we?

I’d like to tell you the farther north we went, the friendlier the people. I’d like to tell you that. We stopped at a café for a bite and to soothe our aching asses. Annoying relatives, anyone? Had we been the in-laws dropping in for a surprise visit, I doubt the reception would’ve differed. They didn’t want to be rude, but they couldn’t quite dispel their distaste for our unexpected arrival.  Normally, I thrive on the novelty of being a novelty. Language barrier. Cultural disconnect. Meet the locals. Struggle through the awkwardness. This becomes exponentially more challenging when there’s zero reciprocation. I’m certain if we’d changed our minds and retreated, a collective sigh of relief would’ve followed. 

We persevered… sort of, caught between that embarrassing no man’s land of social discomfort and fear of causing offense. We sat and ordered food. Out of the question. Coffee, then? Sure, if syrup laced with cocaine counts. I love strong brew (the Vietnamese blend was no exception) but it’s not the best remedy for runaway cortisol levels resulting from near-death and cultural ambiguity. 

Comparison? Walk into an empty, family-run café, fart uncontrollably, sit and sip coffee in silence under the mom and pop’s watchful, mildly disdainful eye. Try not to laugh. That’s about what we experienced. 

Using the washroom seemed like a bridge too far, but it was unavoidable. There was a half-naked Vietnamese woman painted on the wall in sharp relief. This was the only bathroom which might explain why asking for the toilet felt like asking to see their bedroom. I couldn’t help wondering what the discussion was between spouses preceding this artistic flourish. 

We were wired. We were hungry. Our asses were laminated. But we pressed on, arriving in Ha Giang late afternoon. Upon entering the hotel, we received what was becoming the signature greeting: begrudging tolerance. We were assigned lodging, but the staff seethed antipathy. Maybe it was my hair?

We dropped our gear and planned our next move. Driving further north required a permit from the local immigration office. Why? I was never sure but believe it had something to do with the proximity to China. Was this for China’s benefit or Vietnam’s? Who knows? I’m thinking foreign spies would have a hell of time blending, so I’m uncertain of the regulation’s aim.  

The Lonely Planet suggests asking the hotel for permit assistance. Good idea. A woman was kind enough to draw a useless map to the immigration office. We were told it was open until 8 pm. After driving in circles of futility, we returned in defeat. (This wouldn’t be our only map snafu. Stay tuned.)

A male employee became so exasperated, he decided to hop on the bike and point out the location. Super. Immigration was a solid two minutes from our hotel. It looked closed. No lights. No activity. My new friend’s sole purpose was navigation. We went back without going inside. Dumb. I looked up the word for “closed” in my handy dandy guidebook and inquired again. He insisted the office was open, writing 20:00 to be crystal clear. Same, same back again. Closed. Our fantasy of securing permits and heading out early on the morrow was kaput.

Time for dinner. We entered a restaurant selling pho ga (Vietnamese chicken noodle soup). More unbridled exuberance. Again, they served us but not without palpable resentment. I could’ve eaten three bowls but settled for one as reordering was a crime against hospitality. We patronized a market for supplemental junk food and water. Same reception. Maybe it’s my nose?

The next morning I inquired about breakfast. A semi-scornful shake of the head and finger point down the road was my reply. Awesome. To immigration. They were open and every bit as friendly as you might glean from my narrative. We were pleased to discover not only did we need a permit, we also must hire a guide to accompany us. More awesome. The motorbike rental agency said this was not so, backed up by the Lonely Planet. Ms. Happy Fun Pants (immigration staffer) was adamant it was otherwise. And she had just the guide in mind. Yay!

The language barrier hurted my head hard. I phoned Mr. Hung (rental agency) in Hanoi for backup and passed the phone for translation. Yep, we needed a guide—a fail-safe in case we became sick or injured. Fair enough. My cynical nature led me to believe this was a convenient way to drum up tourist business, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. We retreated to discuss options. What choice did we have? None. We returned to immigration and five minutes later a Mr. Hai presented himself. We followed him to his office and made it official. The staff there was friendlier but not overwhelmingly so. While waiting for our permits we had breakfast in the small restaurant in the back. More Vietnamese tar and meat (described as veal) that was mostly fat and skin. Yumsters.

We set out at noon. Persistence rewarded us. The scenery is magnificent, like no mountain backdrop I’d ever seen, filled with countless rounded irregular peaks jutting skyward in a series of malformed bony knuckles shrouded in fog. It’s worth a gander. Many are covered with black, flaky rocks with sparse vegetation, giving the landscape an otherworldly if not slightly sinister aura. (Or was that recent experience tainting my description?) For your own safety. I couldn’t shake the comparison of these formations to weathered gravestones. All that sensory input made focus challenging in the extreme.

The roads are subject to heavy rains (especially during the monsoon season), often succumb to landslides, and are in a perpetual state of disrepair or being repaired. Not such big a deal but a small bike over rough landscape will punish your back and asshole area. This is when a larger model would’ve proved felicitous. Mr. Hai didn’t seem concerned about leaving us behind, remaining a kilometer ahead throughout. I found this to be a might queer considering all the safety hub-bub. Was he scouting for truculent locals or potential hazards? Dunno.

We passed many work crews improving the road. In Vietnam’s north, this means laying a foundation of golf ball sized limestone rocks and chucking dirt over it. Upon approaching a female highway crew, a woman startled me by throwing a substantial pile right in my path. Had I been going faster, she might’ve hit the front tire. Her indifference (or was that hostility) made us giggle. Maybe it’s my eyes?

Given the terrain, the Vietnamese transportation overlords saw fit to decorate the landscape with road signs labelled with the slope gradient. Ten percent was the most common, but we did see a few sixes (6%), eights (8%), and nines (9%). Some were absurdly accurate—6.05%, 9.05%, and 8.87%. I guess rounding up to 9% would be dangerously imprecise. If only I’d had time to conduct an errant survey here or there. Was I being misled? I’ll never know.

We arrived in Dong Van by early evening. The backdrop is as beautiful as the town isn’t. A simple meal, a bizarre café, a decent night’s rest, and we were off to Meo Vac, twenty-two kilometers south of Dong Van. This is, without a doubt, the most spectacular scenery of the drive north. A winding mountain road carved out of a rocky cliffside. You want some.

We encountered local children playing soccer in a rice field along our route, forcing us to pause and appreciate. Shortly thereafter, we thanked Mr. Hai and bid him a fond farewell. He offered to lead us to our next destination (Ba Be Lakes) but with a map and shitload of false confidence, we declined. Dumb. Super dumb. We accepted a hand-written note with some useful phrases in Vietnamese should we become disoriented. We became disoriented.

 

 
 

 
 

*Drone footage courtesy of Vietnam Motorbike Tour Asia.

 
 

*Drone footage courtesy of We Ride Vietnam.