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Chapter 1

“What are you up to this summer?” An innocuous enough question and one which is generally bandied about or parried four times a day in our office as July approaches. It is not really supposed to elicit any more exciting a response than, “Back to the UK—got to visit the in-laws—duh!” To which one must somberly mumble commiserations followed by a supportive pat on the back. Yes, what you are not supposed to say is, “I am cycling from Vietnam to Thailand,” because there can only be one possible answer, and it comes quick-fire: “What on earth for?” This tended to stop me in my tracks; I simply had no answer beyond a shrug and smile. In truth, I was hoping to find the answer whilst on the road so had to make do with a rather feeble, “It should be a laugh.”

“It should be a laugh when they find you dead in a ditch in Cambodia,” I could hear them thinking.

This thought had a habit of transmitting itself directly through their eyes—they didn’t need to say it. It also sat really comfortably in an evenly sketched think-bubble bobbing directly above their head. It was an unsaid thought with all the gravitas of an approaching thunder cloud. The more these encounters took place, the more it was unsaid and the louder it became till it started to shout. There were other thoughts too which tended to muscle their way in, jostling for position like pesky little MPEGs buzzing round my head.

MPEG1—Robbed and beaten up, groaning in a ditch, mobile phone dead as a dodo.

MPEG2—Horrendous great knee-knack with swelling taking on the contours of a pumpkin.

MPEG3—Front wheel like a Pringles potato chip and miles from the nearest town.

MPEG4—Lost in the boondocks facing sullen stares as the sun goes down, stares covetous of bright blue American bike.

MPEG5—Chain wrapped like a snake round sophisticated derailleur as a local mechanic tries to fix things with a lump-hammer.

The more I thought about it the more the negative images crowded round, I just had to switch to my mantra to keep them at bay, “Holiday with the in-laws.” That always worked.

How do you prepare for such a trip? This is what you do. You pore over maps for weeks on end, you read and re-read descriptions of towns and lodgings and you jot down distances and work out your over-nights. Whilst you are doing this you know full well that things happen and that guide books are just never that accurate. How many times have you laboriously written out detailed trip routings and noted names of hotels for friends? “Oh yes, and look out for Mr Somtam, tell him I sent you, he’ll give you a good discount,” only to be disappointed whilst eagerly quizzing returnees who have not taken up one single tip—their trip just took them in all kinds of other directions on their own personal adventures.

“How did you get on with Mr Somtam?”

“His hostel has been flattened, it’s now a bar.”

“What about Sea Breeze Huts, you know, Panida and her lovely daughter?”

“They were full and anyway, they didn’t know who you were.”

“You liked Ayutthaya though, surely?”

“Oh, we didn’t get there, we stayed so long on Koh Samet that we didn’t get past Bangkok.”

And so on. It is the same with your own pre-planning, it is likely that your finely detailed itinerary will, in the end, become only the broadest of blueprints. Perhaps that is half the fun—the jeopardy of circumstance, (to quote William Least Heat-Moon in “Blue Highways”), will surely will out.

The other thing to do is to get out on the road at weekends so that it is not a total shock to the system. When you are more than forty-ten, it’s likely that you don’t even have a system. If you take the sage advice of serious cyclists you would be out on the road every evening after work and doing huge rides at weekends. You would be increasing distances, measuring times and heart-rates and week by week ticking things off on a big chart in the garage. But I am not a tri-athlete, and I do work for a living so there’s always some excuse… so I do what I can to make sure that tones are not quite jelly and are a bit firmer than blancmange. I am aiming for a midriff that’s not so much a six-pack but more a bag of shopping. From nice shops. What you definitely do not do is listen to anyone working in the medical or leisure sectors who just blather cautionary advice about age, health and fitness regimens. If they start up, you put your fingers in your ears and go “La-la-la-la-la…” in a loud voice.

“Michael, I want you to meet some new folks, just got out to Saigon, they’re staying at the new Manor Condos, you know, on the way to An Phu.”

“Hi-ya, I’m Jean-Marc, I work at the Franco Vietnamese Hospital in District 7.”

“Oh, piss off!”

“What got into him?”

“Ahem, this is Steve, he’s the new manager at the Sedona Gym.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, get lost you plonker.”

The great thing about Ho Chi Minh City is that you are never alone on the road and your fellow cyclists can be found like herds of wildebeest to coax you through the regional road etiquette. If only. Nothing could be further from the truth, the fact of the matter is that 95% of the population upgraded to motorbikes some years ago—the other 5% are still saving up. Okay, not everyone can afford one but that’s what it seems like once you are out on the road. There are over 10 million motorbikes in Vietnam (and 7,000 motorbike deaths a year), the love affair with the Honda is a thing to behold. Honda has even become the proper noun for a motorbike, Honda-Om being a taxi bike—om is to hug/embrace. Nothing can prepare you for the streets of Ho Chi Minh City; the energy just echoes off the asphalt, assaulting your senses the second you step outdoors.

Normally I go to work in a taxi. This is what it’s like: car or motorbike owners practise what might be called “contrived contrary obstreperousness”—all manoeuvres involve cutting up fellow road users. The moves begin by aiming your car/bike at a wave of oncoming motorbike riders until they are forced to part either side of you to continue on their way. “Might is right”, so cars lord it over motorbikes, who in turn, take it out on all manner of three-wheeled things. Pedestrians just sally forth seemingly with their eyes shut whilst all that metal simply melts around them like a scene from “The Matrix”. The trick is to keep going thus signalling your intent so that the oncoming wall of vehicles can map their route around you—if you dither it just sends the wrong signal and confuses the shoal whose lead riders get tangled up rather than tessellate smoothly around their moving target before re-forming on the other side.

I am also well experienced at going round roundabouts in a taxi. This is what it’s like: as my vehicle carves through the jumble of motor cycles the faces drifting by do so remarkably close to the window that I am looking out of. I can count their fillings, they can count my grey hairs. One thing occurs, I am slightly embarrassed at having bludgeoned my way into and out of their existence, me sitting there slouched in the back seat. I therefore wear a smile which might be aptly described as the “simper look”—they on the other hand are performing hundreds of calculations per second involving velocity, mass, trajectory, closing speed and so on. My benign visage is matched by their multi-tasking countenance of utter concentration, the contrast couldn’t be greater—Dopey the Dwarf versus Brainiac 5—a metaphor for our respective beings. What must they say when they get home?

“Guess what, I saw this simpleton in a taxi today. I think he was being taken to State Institute Phuoc Duc 14/Z. He was so well dressed but clearly out of it, drugged to the eyeballs I reckon, soporific smile and a hint of dribble on his chin with just the one bubble. I felt so sorry, I just let them pass.”

“Just the one bubble?”

“Yes, just the one, but a very smart peach coloured shirt. Pierre Cardin I think.”

That’s in a car—as a cyclist you are on surprisingly level terms in Hochers—with motorbike riders at least—most bursts of speed occur between sets of traffic lights so you never really get up to 25 kph and mostly much less. Contrast this with a spin down Sukhumvit in Bangkok—left into Wireless Road—choose your lane carefully as you filter right to Lumpini Park—hair-raising for the simple reason that it’s fast and nobody is expecting a bicycle. Crossing three lanes left to right, whilst looking backwards over your shoulder, is not a pleasant experience. HCMC on the other hand brings mild adrenalin and lots of smiles… motorbikes, of course, accelerate or brake at the twist of a grip or prod of the toe. On a bicycle you have to aim for gaps by pedalling like the clappers or squeezing the brakes hard only to pedal like mad again to get up to speed—not very dignified this.

Roundabouts are an entirely different experience on a bike though which brings with it a super surge of adrenalin—you are even tempted to leer at folks lolling in the back seat of taxis as youdi vong vong, go round and round… Having your wheel clipped is the biggest danger so you learn to ride in the lee of cars and stay in the pack when a wave of motorbikes mounts a blocking move at a side road delivering more contestants to the carousel. Sometimes the near-misses make you giggle, like when you get off the Big One roller-coaster at Blackpool. So, there you are, chuckling to yourself as you breathe in the heady mix of adrenaline and lead at the next set of lights having scythed through an impassable Honda-knot. On a bicycle for God’s sake. You don’t chuckle in Bangers mind you, you email close friends and relatives and double-check your travel insurance.

Hochers, Bangers! If you are a Far-East expatriate, you can talk about Hochers, Honkers, Singers, Bangers and even Saigers. No-one would dare correct you, or raise a quizzical eyebrow, even if it is the first time that they have ever heard the expressions said. I mean, you wouldn’t want to risk showing your ignorance and presenting as an expat-hick, by saying, “Bangers, excuse me?” In fact, you might even nod approvingly and toss one of them casually into your next sentence as you pluck an aperitif from the passing tray in the British Embassy grounds.

“Gloria, we’ve been here a year but this is our first invite to an embassy ‘do’, but I feel so conspicuous, I wish I’d have checked more carefully just what exactly a cummerbund is—these sausages do hold your trousers up rather well though. Are you sure everybody else is wearing them?”

“Look confident, front it out, Jonathan, I’m sure they’ve all got a string of their own under those coloured sash things.”

“Yes, Undersecretary, I was down in Lumpurs only last week…”

A circle of previously fawning, nodding foreheads might now slip into a sideways shake as seven fingers rise together and begin to wag at the chance of ostracizing some social nobody. The consular gangs are merciless. They simply live for social gaffes; they just pray that they will be able to prey at night…

“I say old chap, what on earth is that beneath your jacket? Good heavens, it looks like a pound of Lincolnshire sausages.”

“Cumberland Coil, actually!”

The game might be up. Honkers, Bangers, those city-names sound so expaty but I might have made them all up, how will you ever find out? Well not at the embassy anyway, you only get one go there I’m afraid. Whatever you do, in case you do somehow manage to make it through to a second invite (the Ambassador’s daughter just might be in the same class as yours at school), play safe and wear jeans and a granddad shirt held up by braces. Oh, and wear a bright red hanky for mopping your brow. Everyone else will be in dark suits but the diplo-set won’t have met a Northerner before so you’ll be a smash hit. They’ll crowd round you bent double, roaring as they ask you to say, “Reet gradely, lad” for the seventh time. Some of them will try it themselves, they will not have had so much fun in years.

“Weet…”

“No, no it’s ‘reet’, Toby”

“Wereut.”

“Nearly, well tried Crispin, jolly good try.”

Okay, let’s talk about Vieters, oh stop it, Vietnam! Vietnam does have one variation on the cycling theme: young ladies inao dais (pronounced ‘ow yai’ in the south of the country and ‘ow zai’ in the north—literally, long shirt or blouse) can often be seen sailing by, whether in groups on the way to school or solo, ghosting through the roundabout mayhem. The image is so startlingly eye-catching that it is a constant theme in Vietnamese art, and not just tourist-art. The bikes are those upright Mary Poppins ones which seem to have one speed but are constructed so that your posture is straight-backed, which adds to the elegance.

The teasingao dai has been described as the world’s most alluring traditional dress and it’s easy to see why. It has developed from the Chinesecheongsam but the over-garment is longer. It is tight-fitting to show the wearer to best effect, accentuating the shoulders, bust and waistline, and any young Vietnamese lady is quick to tell you that you most definitely cannot wear it unless you do have a waistline. The long vent at either side goes right to the hips, offering glimpses of knickers through the trousers, especially with the diaphanous materials of choice these days. It suggests a hint of what’s on offer but of course it isn’t on offer at all, hence the tease. If you sat two young ladies next to each other, one in anao dai and one in a bikini, it would be the one in theao dai that would get all the looks, I bet you. Head apparel is usually a beanie-hat or a bonnet which seems to be an after-thought but upon reflection, it is more likely that much thought goes into choosing the colour and shape of the hat—for a schoolgirl in an all-whiteao dai, the hat is very much her own expression.

So, how do you ride a bicycle without getting chain oil on any of the two metres of flowing white silk? You take the bottom left corner in your left hand so that it flows up to your grip on the left handlebar; you billow up the back with your right hand and sit on the fold which loops out behind the saddle. This is done effortlessly but looks like the sort of thing that would feature in the “Generation Game”—much mirth as hapless contestants make a chain-patterned hash of it all.

Whilst we are on the subject, it must be said that Vietnam also has the world’s most un-alluring costume too. The workaday wear to be seen on the street, sweeping up, serving table, fetching the water and taking the kids to school is a tight-fitting pyjama combo which manages to undo all the good work done by theao dai—what are they thinking? It is both loose fitting and tight in all the wrong places and invariably in some awful patterned material which puts you in mind of 1960s curtains. To get the picture, think: loose roll-neck, long sleeves (no sleeves, a saucy variant), leggings which stop at the shin, creased top to bottom but tight round the crotch and saggy at the bum. All of which makes a middle aged wearer look like she’s got a pair of XXL Y-fronts on underneath. In fact, imagine a child’s ninja-turtle outfit in some yucky chintz—you’ve got it. As I say, un-alluring to say the least. It could even be a fashion form-as-function creation designed to fend off amorous Mr Nguyen when he staggers in from the café-bar late at night. Spot on if so.

Where were we? So, having pored over maps and got stamina up to “better than it was before” levels it is time to hit the road. Phnom Penh is about 240 Ks from Saigon, a theoretical 6 hours in a minibus. The last time I covered it, coming in the other direction, the road was unmetalled and this, along with the searing heat, nearly killed me, I still wince when I think about it. With that in mind I intend to set off early and clock up some good miles before the sun comes up or the rain starts or the tarmac runs out or, indeed, before anything… The plan is to get to Svey Rieng via the Parrot’s Beak (the bit of Cambodia that sticks out into Vietnam) by the end of the first day then on to Phnom Penh on day two.

For me, the big question mark will be whether I can sustain serious riding over distance in the heat of July. All practice in Saigon does is prepare you for riding in Saigon and that is not as stupid a statement as it seems—this journey is simply all about something else or several elses. Just what exactly, I shall endeavour to explain in due course. And as for meticulous pre-trip planning, I’m hoping for better luck this time; on that last particular venture my guidebook and maps fell off the back of my bike on the first morning so all those best laid plans of me and Mickey sure didgang aft agley. Destination Thailand, then who knows? Each section completed might embolden another, better get started then!

(End of Chapter 1.)

Michael Deveney

© Michael Deveney. All rights reserved by the author.
ISBN: 978-974-8446-196
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