December. It has a way of stealing
warmth. A strange thief, one who, instead of taking, feeds dreams of
spring.
In Saigon, it’s over thirty degrees, but I don’t have time to enjoy the atmosphere. Jet lag and a temporary sense of world-shift, this isn’t the food, these aren’t the hours, this isn’t the pace. Still, I feel like I’ve met more people in the first week here than I did all year in Europe.
 |
Foto IG @intuitive_venture_photo
|
Some things change, some things stay the same like uncertainty. In the heart of the first district, in the lobby of one of the hundreds of hotels camouflaged in side alleys, I run into Naud again. The Dutchman’s been here for a year. He makes a living with remote translations and unleashes ADHD monologues in his interactions with real people. He’s swollen from local beers and is already mumbling something in Vietnamese. On the main promenade for drunk tourists, a woman grabs me by the arm. She offers something off the grill. Does she recognize me? I’m starting to recognize the locals. Women pushing sunglasses on tourists, kids selling chewing gum. In the evenings, I struggle to recognize their homes. During the day, they’re street food stalls, tobacco shops, which will turn into restaurants, bars, street party venues by night. The toilets where their children bathe will become public restrooms. I drink beer in sidewalk bars, then march through someone’s living room to take a piss, while they, as if nothing were happening, surrender to the hypnosis of Indian TV shows. One’s lying down, the other’s washing something, these are eating. The public life theater of the locals is wide open for the entertainment of bystanders, but it’s the first ones who occupy the seats in the boxes. Through open doors, they can endlessly watch the street show starring the second ones.After a week, worn out by my own weakness against the energy levels here, I'm done with this place. The pace of making connections, traffic jams, the heat. On Wednesday, I have a meeting at the embassy in Hanoi. On the way to the capital, I meet Daria with her child at the airport. She’s setting up horses, and her husband is dealing with difficult teens. Their little hysteric daughter is writhing and screaming. They still haven’t set her up. We discuss this and that, but in almost every matter, we disagree. Too many educators in our trio.
- And what about ethics?! - Daria calls out to me as I pass her on the plane.
For half a dollar and two buses, it takes me more than an hour to get to the center of Hanoi. I pay five dollars for a bed in an eight-person barn. With a diode light in the wall, it’s cozy enough.
In the morning, I meet for coffee, then go to see motorcycles. Life in un-air-conditioned Hanoi costs a bit less than in Saigon.
Another morning. December 21st. About 12 degrees. I buy a motorbike and head to the embassy. On the day of departure for the north, the temperature suddenly spikes, and the gray gives way to blues. I leave the traffic jam zone. Breaking free from the agglomeration, from the spider web of satellite towns, takes several hours. Finally, the villages begin. There, my motorbike breaks down. Someone stops next to me a moment later and sends someone else for help.
After two days, with an overnight stop in Yên Bái, I reach Sapa. The coolness and a lot of tourists, and as a reward, a clear mountain sunset. In the morning, I descend to Lào Cai, one of the three border crossings to China. From there, I go further north, uphill. Now, the real wilderness begins. A narrow, bumpy road stretches along spectacular valleys. At the bottom of the valleys, or perhaps along the ridges of the opposite mountains, the Chinese border runs. Clouds flood the valleys, and I navigate above them at the intersection with the color of the sky. It’s hard to imagine that these areas were one of the three main theaters of the 1979 Sino-Vietnamese War, known by the Chinese as the Chinese Border Defense War against Vietnam. About 40,000 people died in less than a month. The conflict ended without resolution.
From time to time, I stop in the villages. The H'mong tribespeople don't seem to speak Vietnamese very often. Far from the urban centers, they nurture their own strong culture. There are about one and a half million of them in Vietnam. Twice as many live on the other side of the Vietnam-China border. They seem neither Vietnamese nor Chinese...
On the third day, I pass through a small town. It’s Christmas Eve. I spend it in a bar, with a bowl of soup and my phone in hand. Aside from me, there are only two mountain women. They smile shyly and return to their affairs.  |
| Christmas Eve |
I make my way back to Hanoi in torrential rain. The temperature drops to 10 degrees, and I stuff a newspaper under my thin jacket. To protect myself from the cold, I put on a plastic poncho. After a whole day of riding in the cold rain, I roll into Hanoi stiff and sore.
The next day, I spend searching for a road map of Vietnam. There are some toy-like ones, but nothing detailed. I also exchanged the motorbike. The one that took me north and back cost me a million and a half dong in repairs. How do you explain to a mechanic what’s wrong? I have electrical issues, but he’s replacing the carburetor. Another one is digging into the gearbox, yet another is tearing the engine apart.
I leave Hanoi around eight. My journey through the northern mountain regions feels like a pioneer experience. Children shout melodic greetings. Young people smile and wave, while adults greet me as if I were a church dignitary, and I respond with a papal gesture, raising my left hand to signal peaceful intentions.
On the second day, the road winds through rice fields. Fewer and fewer motorcycles, but more and more people carrying heavy loads on their backs. Women wear colorful clothes, and they weave their hair into buns.
In these mountain passes, in the valleys, life moves slower. Buses and trucks don’t care about cyclists, buffaloes, cows, pigs, roosters, or herds of children trudging from school. The silence is broken only by the blaring of horns. Only the rice quietly and indifferently turns green. As I travel alone through this country, far from my known life paths, among people who mostly just watch me, whom I don’t understand, for whom I mean nothing, and from whom I don’t want anything, I stop believing in attachment, friendship, love. It’s an incredible feeling. Along with it, indifference, hostility, hatred evaporate.
My moods change. In my clunker, something breaks every now and then. Now, oil is leaking from the engine. Riding in the morning chill doesn’t exactly boost serotonin levels. The only white person I meet after riding 450 kilometers is my own reflection in hotel mirrors.
Điện Biên Phủ is to Vietnam what Waterloo was to Europe – a symbol of victory over political arrogance. It was under Điện Biên Phủ, in March 1954, that the unified forces of the Việt Minh, led ideologically by Hồ Chí Minh, finally defeated the French colonial army, contributing to the end of the First Indochina War. Two years later, the last French troops withdrew from Indochina, ending over a hundred years of French rule in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.
Though Điện Biên Phủ is the capital of a province bordering Laos, it’s only a third-class town with about one hundred thousand residents.
The short mountain stretch to the border at Tây Trang takes me several hours. I arrive at the border around 3 p.m.
- Yes, foreigners can cross into Laos here, but only by bus, - a border guard informs me.
If I want to cross by motorbike, I’ll need to go south, about 500 kilometers south. I try to talk my way out of it by speaking to him in Vietnamese. It works. The guy at the window points me to another officer. I need to make a deal with him. The guy immediately asks for 25 dollars. - And another 25 for my colleague - he adds as I pull out a bundle of notes.
At 4 p.m., for 50 dollars, I approach the Laotian passport control.
After 30 kilometers, I reach the first town. I stop for the night. The whole next day is spent winding through the serpentine roads torn into the endless mountain greenery and ancient silence, focusing most of my attention on avoiding collisions with trucks. Northern Laos is mountains covered in jungle! I pass villages where it’s impossible to eat soup, fix a motorbike, or find a place to sleep in case of need. Gas stations are rare. Fearing I’ll run out of fuel before the next one, I fill up at every opportunity. On the roads, I don’t see any motorcycles. My earlier ideas about traveling through Laos have to be revised. So, I decide to stick to main roads, large cities, and get the hell out of here back to Vietnam as fast as possible.
After less than 300 kilometers, I arrive at the first town. Luang Prabang!This low-rise settlement was the capital of the Kingdom of a Million Elephants and the White Parasol – the former name of Laos – and is a true treasure trove of religious monuments related to Theravada Buddhism. In 1359, the royal court in Muang Seua, as Luang Prabang was once called, received a Buddha statue from the king of Angkor. This event marked the beginning of Theravada’s leading role in Laos. Today, Luang Prabang boasts dozens of Buddhist temples, some over 500 years old! I settle in a hostel recommended by Lonely Planet. There are twelve people in the room. Three Irish foodies, an Argentinean guy gaunt as a dry twig, two hefty, blonde Finnish women who looke like twins, a German anorexic teen with a much older man, and a hard-to-remember group. No one talks to anyone. Just a few brief “hi” and “bye” exchanges. But John eagerly strikes up a conversation. Smiling, polished like the motorcycle he rode in on. I parked next to his Honda in front of the hotel. It shines, polished as if it just rolled out of the car wash. Not like my old battered bike. The fender’s screwed on with a piece of wire, the kickstand is held on with rubber bands. Although John talks like an American from the northern states, he doesn’t remind me of them at all. He’s calm, understanding, and restrained, behaving unpretentiously and quietly. Nothing like some of his southern counterparts – victims of systemic megalomania. We dive into the topic of motorbikes. I learn a lot about my Honda. John has much more experience applying gentleness to everything he touches, even motorbikes.
Luang Prabang is the first metropolis I’ve come across. I confidently say this after 500 kilometers of mountain roads. They sell tractors, trucks, motorcycles here. Groups of tourists wander the streets, offered bike rentals and local food tastings. You can choose: grilled pig intestines or rice pudding for dessert. At night, it rains, in the morning it’s cloudy, and by the afternoon, it’s scorching hot. The necklaces, carpets, and jugs sold here catch my eye. The taste for lace-like intricacies has evolved here in Laos. Affordable prices. Sizes unsuitable for motorbikers. Taking advantage of the situation, I try to fix my junker. It’s the ignition – screws in the starter’s centrifuge loosened, so the bike jerks. The carburetor, I don’t know how, fills with water and rusty debris.
The next day I spent with John. By the waterfalls, throngs of tourists splash in the only available muddy pool – cool, blue-lime water. I’m not in the mood for a swim. Laos, seemingly distant from civilization’s main centers and tourist routes, is occupied by hordes of Western visitors. Tourists arrive by plane from Bangkok, buses from Hanoi and Vientiane. Here, they can finally eat Nutella pancakes, drink Belgian beer, and take a picture with the Buddha. There are few motorbikers here.
John wants to get to Saigon as soon as possible. He’s been on the road for two months. Since arriving in Indonesia, he’s been battling diarrhea. But at least his motorbike doesn’t break down. We all have our own ordeals. For comfort and economy, we decide to continue the travel together.
The road south starts through the mountains, then across plains with huge half-egg-shaped hills poking up. As we pass through Vang Vieng, we look at the sky dotted with balloons. You can fly in them and watch the half-egg-shaped hills decorating the landscape, whose boundaries are marked by the much wider
horizon line visible from up there.
Riding a Honda Win offers the essence of adventure and mobility. Traveling through an unknown world in direct contact with it and the ease of moving from one place to another when desired. Even these constant workshop visits have their charm. On the other hand, it’s slow riding, often monotonous, especially when you need to cover a long distance quickly. After crossing the mountains, the plains suddenly begin. Towns and cars start to appear, but the landscape no longer surprises. The motorbike had long stopped surprising me, as the engine kept jerking. We stop every now and then to get it ready for the next leg. In the places I’ve visited so far, it would have been hard for me not to get by without a translator. In Iran or here, it would surely be all gestures. During routine repairs, my companion patiently watches as I squirm, trying to explain to the Laotian mechanic what the problem is.
I have my handlebars straighten in a workshop on the outskirts of town. I arrive at the hotel where John’s already settled. I'm battered, scratched, and bruised. My bike looks like i stole it from a scrapyard.
We spend the next day in the city. I lick my wounds, and John explores the area.
On the way south, in the mountains, we’re caught in rain alternating with misty rides. We wait out the downpour in a roadside bar. Jhai Coffee House – The World’s First Philanthropic Coffee Roastery! The bartender speaks good English. I take this opportunity to record some samples of the local language. In the afternoon, in the mountains near the border, carburetor problems force us to stop again. A Vietnamese mechanic familiar with Honda Wins quickly figures out what’s wrong. There’s no gasket in the carburetor, causing water and debris to get in. He also does an electrical check. We wait in a shed while he works. After three hours of kneeling by the bike in oily grime, he charges 20,000 kil, about 2 dollars... The engine problems vanish as if by magic.
Right by the border with Vietnam, the vegetation changes. The clearing sky and the surrounding silence intensify the joy of riding and the thrill that the journey’s end is now within reach.
On the Vietnamese side, after 1,200 kilometers traveled together, our paths part. I want to go to Pleiku. John needs to get to Saigon for a medical checkup.
The quiet Laos has turned into a turbulent Vietnam. Buses roar their angry song. Motorbikes cut across the road from every direction. In Pleiku, I drink coffee at a place with soft armchairs and a view of the plains stretching at the foot of the city.
The road south leads closer and closer to the Cambodian border. I plan to cover about 150 kilometers there. I pass rubber plantations and coffee farms. Villages stretch for 70 kilometers along the paved road, and the heat pours from the sky. The land here is the color of overripe oranges, dry and powdery. In its red dust, pigs roll around, often wandering in search of garbage to eat.
Just past the lake near the dam, the road veers right and immediately turns into dusty potholes alternating with a wide concrete slab, just wide enough for one car. Jungle stretches along the border with a narrow clearing. No dwellings, no reception. Now it’s a rocky, sandy path with deep ruts and slopes that i have to take in first gear. During one of two river crossings, the motorbike wheels completely disappear under the water. The engine alternates between revving and almost stalling. Something constantly rattles inside. On the left side of the road, a uniformed officer has hidden in the shade. He waves for me to stop. Beyond here, it’s Cambodia. The road becomes extraterritorial for a kilometer or two. Then, gently, like a needle into a vein, it reenters the bloodline of Vietnam’s roads. We chat. I try to figure out if I really have to go back 40 kilometers. I do. Saigon is less than a day’s drive away. A man of his own captivity, a slave to his own mastery... I will definitely want to return to these places!
Komentarze
Prześlij komentarz