When I set off six months and 27 days earlier, this was supposed to be the finish line. End game.
I’d decided to carry on riding a long time earlier though, quite lucky really, as I’d find out Vietnam wasn’t half as great as I’d anticipated.
Two o’clock in the afternoon on Christmas Eve 2015, I pushed a knackered, orange, fully-loaded bike out into Lao Cai, got my hands on some Vietnamese Dong (then I exchanged some money), and walked past the most happily celebrated funeral parade I’ve ever set my eyes on, towards the train station.
A couple of minutes later, after being collared by a bus driver, I was on the party bus to Hanoi.
So, somehow I’d managed to get to Hanoi late on Christmas Eve, and after pushing a knackered bike for two hours through the chaotic streets to get to the centre from the bus station, I set about trying to find some digs.
Problem. No room at the inn.
It took me three hours to find a slightly over-budget hotel and by that point I just counted myself lucky to find one at all.
Hanoi then. Busy, isn’t it? It took me about half an hour to figure out how to cross the endless stream of motorbikes that filled the roads. The trick is, if you’re wondering, to walk directly in front of the traffic and cross without hesitation, a bit like walking on hot coals. A baptism of fire, if you will.
Christmas day consisted of taking The Tangerine Dream to The Hanoi Bicycle Collective to sort out a new wheel. After that I divided my time between eating, drinking and Skyping family.
Cycling through Asia I’d become used to being stared at. Hanoi was the first time in months I’d seen a large amount of Westerners wandering about. I became the starer and not the staree. Listening to conversations that I could fully understand was incredible, even if they were mostly young traveller’s tales of excess, or in one particular case; a bloke in a clearly westernised bar catering for tourists, talking to the barmaid about how he loved travelling but hated tourists and only wanted to talk to locals. The contrived tosser.
Anyway, after a few days of indulgence the bike shop got in touch, and after a quick chat with the inept mechanics (these lads even managed to put some brake pads on backwards – they had arrows on), I had a new wheel which would hopefully last me to Bangkok, where I was going to fly out to Melbourne to catch a friend’s wedding.
Back on the road.
Riding south out of Hanoi was predictably shit. If you hit the main road, like I did, you’re going to get a lot of traffic, with the majority being two-wheeled (the engined variety). At least with the amount of bikes on the road you kind of feel safe in the knowledge the motorists are aware of you. Maybe that was misguided trust.
I spent New Year’s Eve in Tam Coc, famous for it’s caves, karst towers and boat rides where the locals row you about using their feet for no apparent reason. There was also a very handy bamboo bar that handed out nigh-on half pints of homemade rum for about 50p. When in Rome.
I managed about two full days of biking on the new rear wheel before I noticed spokes snapping. The first couple weren’t on the drive side, so I could whip spare spokes in on the roadside. After that I wasn’t so lucky and just managed to roll into Tranh Hoa at dusk to find a mechanic who could help me remove my cassette and replace the snapped spokes.
About three hours ride into the next day, a whole different bunch of spokes had snapped, come loose or bent. This wheel was awful and the spokes were about as strong as uncooked spaghetti. I had to flag down a bus to Vinh.
As an Englishman, I don’t like to complain. I’ll put myself through fair whack of suffering before I let anyone know just how shit they or whatever they’re hawking has been. Guim at The Hanoi Bicycle Collective got it both barrels. This wheel was shockingly bad; poor componentry and laced together with a similar level of mastery as a toddler tying his first pair of shoes.
If there’s one positive from THBC, the owner gave me the name and address of a mechanic who might be able to help me out; Mr Linh, residing in a street just past some truly shocking animal cruelty in the form of hundreds of dogs squished into tiny cages waiting their impending doom. Lovely.
Mr Linh swiftly took my wheel, laughed, dismantled it into pieces and rebuilt it entirely within an hour with some nice black spokes that I hoped were a damn sight stronger than the previous ones.
It’s very rare you find such a competent mechanic on the road, and I was expecting to pay the price, which amounted to a trouser shredding £3.50. Best case scenario, right there.
You’d expect the Vietnamese locals to be pretty used to seeing westerners knocking about. On the main tourist trails people react in a normal manner, but as soon as you find yourself in smaller towns it’s like you’re a walking sideshow freak. Vinh was the worst example of this; people would shout and point in the street, huddle together and quietly talk whilst obviously glaring at your actions out the corner of their eyes. In a supermarket as I was stocking up I ended up with around 15 people following me around, not just kids either, all ages. They’d laugh, point, look at what I was buying, take covert photos and even touch me. In the end I wound up telling people in no uncertain terms to piss right off. They obviously had no idea what I was saying but I hope they picked up on the tone, took themselves home and had a long look in the mirror.
After Vinh it was time to go west up some hills towards the Laos border, most of the time escorted by kids bombing around on scooters shouting ‘Hello!’ at me.
On the way I met Tiphaine and her brother, she’d cycled a similar route to me from France and was another ‘Silk Road Class of 2015’ graduate, albeit on a much more relaxed schedule. Here’s a link to her site if you’re handy with French lingo.
I’d not seen any other cycle tourers for months, and then two came at once. I met Alex and his missus the next morning on their way up to the border to renew their visas. They’d been riding around South East Asia for nine months and were just about to start the long way back to Spain. They asked me if there were mountains in China. I couldn’t lie, so I just grinned as I replied ‘Yes’. Here’s a link to their blog, if you fancy practising your Spanish.
We rode for a few hours up the switchbacks before I broke off as I wanted I make some ground into Laos before dusk.
As far as border control goes, Laos instantly hits you as a pretty relaxed affair, and after filling out a pretty simple form they wrote down how much Dong they wanted. At this point I had a bout of dyslexia and gasped ‘Nine million?!’. They almost dropped to the floor laughing before pointing out the number of zeros. I handed over the cash and giggled myself out the cabin.
It’s funny how a border, effectively a line in the sand, changes the entire feeling of a place. I instantly preferred Laos over Vietnam, it just seemed so much more relaxed and less chaotic, plus there wasn’t as much shit strewn everywhere.
Unfortunately I was only there for a few days, but luckily I was on a route called the Thakhek loop. I’d looked up this beforehand and it seemed a decent way to go; plenty of hills, dirt track, lakes and stuff to see. Funnily enough the guide I read online said you wouldn’t see any other tourists on this route, perfect for pompous tourists who hate to see other tourists. Within the first two hours I’d seen six sets of westerners bombing around on motorbikes so obviously this local spot had been rumbled by westerners.
After a few relaxing days ride I got to Thakhek, and after a short ride up the river dividing Laos and Thailand it was time to cross the nicely named ‘Friendship Bridge II’. Aww.
No bikes allowed though. I’ve become pretty good at chucking my bike on buses.