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The Vietnam Bike Ride
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Vietnam and
Cambodia 8th to 23rd November 2003
BackgroundAfter a short stopover in Dubai with Kate, I met the 17
others attempting the challenge of cycling 300 miles in 6 days through the
Vietnamese countryside to raise funds for the Association for Glycogen Storage
Disease (AGSD). Together with most others, I succeeded. The charity will gain at
least £40,000. After bidding farewell to my fellow cyclists, I stayed on for a
further week’s tour of sights with private guides in the Mekong Delta and
Cambodia, returning home via another enjoyable stopover with Kate and her
friends. The CyclingMy biggest fear beforehand had been whether I’d be fit
enough to cycle 300 miles. I’d achieved 50 miles on a couple of my training
days, but the 75 miles expected during the longest day was further than anything
I’d cycled since age 15. The fear reached a peak on the morning we were being
fitted with our bikes. I was intimidated by half of the men in the group being
built like rugby players. This was exacerbated by some very professional looking
helmets, cycling shoes for special clip-in pedals and excessive advice about my
saddle position. Furthermore, the bikes were in a poor condition, which wasn’t
going to help: bottom brackets clunked and gears were stubbornly uncooperative. I found my natural position in the convoy to be about
halfway. The minibus always took the lead carrying Nam, our main Vietnamese
guide, Son and his glamorous but ineffective girlfriend, Perfume (I’ve come
across the practice of Asians adopting memorable and more-pronounceable-to-Westerners names before). Phil, our
Dutch Israeli (!) leader, with his walkie-talkie led the elite 6-or-so cyclists,
the rest of us strung out behind and Brian, the Group Doctor in contact with
Phil, brought up the rear with the day’s stragglers. The convoy was completed
by two busses: one for drop-outs and the other for bikes and the remaining
Vietnamese staff. At busy junctions our staff stood in the road with red
flags, surprisingly invisible at the end of a long day’s riding. Every 15
miles or so, a break was taken at one of the primitive cafes with plastic seats
about the right size for Western children. Cut fruit was set out for us on
temporary tables: finger-sized bananas, pineapple, dragon fruit (white flesh,
specked with little pips) also peanuts, dried bananas, salted biscuits and sweet
biscuits (unfortunately, the last two mixed). Cans of coca-cola were for sale,
or, for a fraction of the price, birds’ nest and white fungus drink, which
tasted as bad as you’d expect. Remembering Phil’s instruction to drink at
least ½ litre of water an hour, this was the opportunity to top-up our
‘camel-backs’. Sit-down lunches were always ready waiting for us and were
taken at a leisurely pace. Phil’s briefings were always very safety conscious:
“When going down a hill, if you think you may be out of control, then you are
out of control”. In the event, the route was well planned: day 1 was fairly
short to introduce us to the conditions and bike, day 2 was long but completely
flat and the fearsome 5,000 ft mountain pass was saved until day 4. Phil was
experienced and expressed confidence in us; he carefully withheld information
about the route except the next 15-or-so mile stage immediately ahead. The
elephant was eaten a bit at a time. When he started referring to us as a fast
group, my confidence grew. I wasn’t suffering from muscle ache as much as
those with thighs made of bricks and I developed a pride in not needing to
trouble the Doctor. I was fairly confident about my ability to keep going in hot and humid conditions. I have run long distances in the Tropics (driven by the thought of ice-cold beer). We had some very hot days but on a bike there’s moving air and a welcome bowl of water poured over the head every 15 miles-or-so. What wasn’t predicted was the typhoon, causing 2 days of
torrential rain. “I’ve never cycled in rain like this anywhere in the
World” said Phil, alarmingly. Again I had the confidence which comes from
having run in wet conditions during British winters (and that’s without the
pleasure of passing through warm muddy water). On wet mornings, there was much
gallows humour at breakfast and Phil only committed us to coping with one stage
at a time. The group got into the habit of bleating like sheep as we set off
together in the worst conditions. Starts were often early, 6 or 7am: not to avoid traffic
(the Vietnamese also start early) but to avoid heat and to ensure we finished
before the sudden dark at 5.30pm. Many soggy pairs of socks and underwear and
AGSD T shirts were abandoned in hotel litter bins on the route. There was
speculation that the locals might think ‘AGSD’ was a fashion label, and a
visitor to these parts next year would find ‘AGSD’ labels on all clothes in
the market. Furthermore they’d all have a fashionable muddy brown streak up
the back. “Lowest gear now and you’ll do the hill!” barked Phil
at the beginning of a day of ever upwards hairpins unwinding ahead. I ground
away slowly up the relentless slopes awash with water. Occasionally the
surrounding clouds parted to reveal the starting village a satisfyingly long
distance below. I was glad of all those training rides up Alderley Edge. At the
end of that day my spirits were lifted by the confirmation of the rumour that
we’d climbed through 5,000 feet. One day the road was flooded. Most of the neighbourhood had turned out to watch the traffic in distress. A reccy party went to test the depth. While waiting, I saw a man under a conical hat dipping a square mesh framed by bamboo into the floodwaters to lift out shrimps. Another man was collecting an arm-full of drowned rats, for later consumption, I feared. Later in the week, I read that 47 people had died in the floods in this, the Central Province. The Group I was looking forward to making friends within a new group of people. I got on well with my room-mate, Tim, the instigator of the trip, Every evening he presented the orange T shirt (no yellow ones left). We were 18 in total, including 2 women: Rosey and Lorry, both of whom had more than average drive and determination. During the week 2 sub-groups emerged: the lads and the more earnest fund-raisers. I hadn’t anticipated such a large participation by the parents of children with GSD. As I got to know some of them I began to appreciate the suffering they had experienced in helplessly watching a child suffer. One night Tim. Kevin, Allan and Roger talked to us after dinner about the disease, prospects for research, and its severity when diagnosed at an early age. There was sorrow in the descriptions of the relentless onslaught of a degenerative disease. I admired their bravery. They made a fuss of me on my birthday! As soon as I sat down for the evening meal, Lorry was kissing me and presenting me with a bouquet of roses. I glowed with pleasure. At the end of the delicious meal, the lights were dimmed, “Happy Birthday” was played and the waitress placed a huge cake in front of me, iced in hideous pink “John Harborne, 12. 11.03”. Overcome, I had to be reminded to blow out the candles. Later, as I thanked Tim, who I suspected had a lot to do with this, Garry presented me with a ridiculous plastic rabbit toy bought for a few dong from a street hawker. The name of the local currency, the dong, fuelled many jokes from Peter the Vet, e.g. “My dongs are soggy”, “I keep my dongs in my cycling shorts” etc, etc The TrafficAs a passenger in a minibus, I had been terrified last year by the driving on the main roads of India. I expected the same problems of poor roads with a variety of traffic all at different speeds, moreover this time I’d be vulnerable on a bike. My fears were confirmed on the first night in Saigon where it was impossible to find a gap to cross the swirling stream of motorbikes. Phil briefed us to “plot a course, stick to it, don’t hesitate and don’t speed up”. I discovered a new power of invulnerability. The stream duly split and flowed either side. At cross roads there was no priority: different speeds mingled and criss-crossed. Roundabouts were swirling vortices. That first night our bus decided to break down in the middle of one. The traffic immediately adapted to the new obstacle. The driver didn’t panic, he knew what to do: he walked down the bus with an iron rod, lifted a hatch in the floor at the back and hit something below. The rest of the journey was completed in second gear. When cycling on the open road there was a different problem due to oncoming overtaking trucks. The truck behind us would be forced onto the verge and could easily take a cyclist with him. Every driver thought the problem could be avoided by continuously sounding their air horns at any cyclist. I’m surprised and pleased my nerves weren’t frayed by the end of the day. Just when my attention was waning, I’d be jolted back by a friendly “Hello, how are you?” from a family alongside all sitting on a motorbike, making it impossible to determine who was driving. They’d stay for as long as their English lasted. Garry took to holding on and accepting tows up the hills. When the group had gone and I was exploring cities on my own, I accepted lifts on the back of motorbikes, convincing myself that an impact at 20mph shouldn't hurt that much. That was almost tested on too many occasions to count. They always refuse to let you pay after the first lift, preferring to hang around, for hours if necessary, to offer you their own guided tour. At my request, Minh in Saigon, took me to a restaurant in Chinatown. I invited him to join me for a drink. To my horror he ordered a beer. Fortunately the effect was to slow him down and he was still capable of the split second judgements necessary in the street. No vehicle is maintained properly, which makes them all more polluting than necessary. Even the boats are dodgy. Towards the end of a trip through the backwaters of the Mekong Delta, my boatman foolishly shortcut through a floating raft of water hyacinth. The engine soon struggled and he had to strip off and dive underneath to cut the propeller free, while we drifted into the path of the oncoming rice barges. The boat limped to the bank and my embarrassed dainty Vietnamese guide and I had to disembark by clambering over moored fishing boats and over a locked gate. The little old ladies on the Saga holiday wouldn’t have been able to cope with that one The Vietnamese Vietnam exceeded expectations in terms of both the scenery and the people. They were curious, open, energetic, eager to please and the children were disarmingly innocent. The children shouted their limited English: “Hello”, “What’s your name?” “Where you from?” “How are you?” and when you replied they thought it was hilarious. Often such a call from the darkness of a hut several fields away from the road revived my spirits towards the end of a long day. The children lined themselves up along the side of the road, jumping up and down with excited big grins. Hands were held up for a game of “High 5’s”. “Slap, slap, slap. slap, slap”: 5 in a row, left behind in fits of giggles. When a hotel receptionist couldn’t provide what you wanted, you could read the disappointment on her face. At any time in the day half of the school population are on the road, walking or cycling, sometimes passing each other in different directions. There are 2 shifts: 7am until 11.30 and noon until 4.30pm. The primary kids wear white shirts and blue trousers, as do the secondary boys but the secondary girls all wear the Vietnamese national dress, the tunic top and matching flared trousers, known as the aogai. We loved the sight of groups of young women pedalling gracefully on their sit-up-and-beg bikes all in their lilac aogais, smiling sweetly and waving. They came in huge flocks like exquisite flamingos. How they avoided oil stains I can’t imagine: I only have to look at a bike to get them on my right sock. One morning we stopped outside a schoolyard. 100’s of smiling faces were pressed against the railings chanting “Hello, hello”. A drum beat signalled time to line up. Then a rhythm drove the morning exercises. The teachers smiled to see the row of Westerners (complete with helmets) mirroring the actions. Mike, a gym-owner and body builder, attracted particular attention from the locals because of his size. At one stop, the crowd, comprising 4 generations, was ecstatic when he sat amongst them for photographs. In situations like this, a digital camera comes into its own. Everyone laughed with glee when Rosey turned her camera to show them their own photo. Even the older shyer women with crumpled toothless faces laughed at the miracle. In one restaurant I was surprised by a drunken local leaning over from the table behind stroking my arm, fascinated by the hairs. They were small and we were giants. “You’re so strong” they would say as we overtook them on their bikes. Roadside seats are child-sized. Often the locals perch on them like birds with their toes curled over the front edge. Toilets have me staring at my kneecaps.
Vietnamese Life “I love cycling in Vietnam, I’m never bored, it’s like being in a film set” said the well-travelled Phil, as we passed ducks all lined up on the edge of the pavement patiently awaiting their fate. With 80 million people, there was some activity in every direction. Pavements were impassable because of stalls and parked motorbikes. The coastal plain was a patchwork of emerald green paddy fields. In certain areas 3 crops were grown each year. No part of any agricultural product was wasted. In the Mekong Delta the rice husks were fed to the furnaces of the kilns in the brick works, the stalks were used as straw and mushroom compost and flocks of ducks were set free across the harvested fields to pick up the loose grain. Water buffalos patiently pulled ploughs through the rice fields, the calf plodding along in front, not restrained, just learning the ropes. Pigs had been pushed into cylindrical baskets only just big enough, the ends tied off on the poor animal’s tail. By our standards, their treatment of animals was often cruel. Every dog looked as if it was used to being beaten. Most restaurants had a cage with a lone depressed monkey inside. In the mountains, horses were tethered in the middle of nowhere clearly distressed with the rain. Small boys dispensed gratuitous kicks in the ribs of the wandering horse from the safety of their bike. I thought the pig lying on its back across the motorbike with trussed legs was dead at first but I was wrong. Exotic liquors were displayed, the small bottle supplemented with a scorpion, the larger bottle a pickled gecko and the largest a cobra. I hope the UK Customs Officers don’t let those through. Markets were hives of activity. The passages between the
stalls were hardly passable. Exotic fruits and vegetables were piled high. Live
fish flicked about in bowls of water. Crabs ran around in deep buckets. Fish
were despatched with a blow from a wooden stick and then filleted on the spot.
Some of the smells made it necessary to only breathe through the mouth. Our meals were healthy and usually delicious: chicken in
ginger, duck, spinach, prawns spring rolls, always soup (but never at the
beginning of the meal) and a little bowl of fluffy rice, seasoned with soy and
fish sauce. I became quite proficient with a pair of chopsticks, which is just
as well because I’d have starved otherwise. The food was even more remarkable
when you saw the tiny primitive kitchen it had been prepared in and the tiny
stone sink piled high with dirty crocks. Surprisingly few of us went down with a
stomach upset. David Beckham smiles from roadside posters advertising
Castrol. Amazingly some Vietnamese avidly follow the English Premiership. I met
a Newcastle United fan. “I like to support the underdog” he explained. He
hadn’t heard of Stockport County. Encouraged by the news that the Doctor had ventured in, I succumbed one evening to the massage service available at every hotel. I paid all of £4 to the man in reception. I turned aside to hind the contents of my money belt while I extracted the notes, but the hovering girls walked round so as not to be denied the view. I was shown into a bare room with a bed and my masseuse threw herself onto the small of my back. As she pummelled and stretched in a fairly amateur fashion, our language difference began to appear unbridgeable. I think we established each other’s names and then we developed a mutual fascination in comparing the size of our body parts. Her palm pressed against mine was only half the size. Mutual giggles. Her forearm pressed against mine was only half the length. The culmination of this procedure, which disabled both of us with mirth, was when we arranged ourselves to press soles of feet together. Disturbed by the hilarity, the manager banged on the door and my lady jumped to the floor and uttered her first successful word of English :”money”. I didn’t feel she’d earned a generous tip but what I offered shouldn’t have been an insult. I was wrong. She barred the door and demanded more. Things had taken a turn towards the aggressive. Confident in my physical advantage, I placed a hand round each side of her waist, picked her up and put her on the far side of the room and made my escape. I was lucky, later that night, Phil reported that, in a similar situation, he had been chased back to his room by 4 girls. Talking about it afterwards, we agreed that they might have been relying on the tips as their only income. Recent History
There was no hint of resentment from anyone about the
“American” War. Partly this is typical of the Asian psyche of “let’s
forget about the past and move on” and partly it’s because 60% of the
population has been born since then. When you see the bustling commerce taking
part on every pavement, it’s incredible that this natural spirit was
suppressed for 10 years under communism. In this part of the country, the former
South, everyone appreciates being wealthier now than ever before and is relieved
that the more dour Northerners are relaxing their grip. Change is so fast,
it’s surprising the Vietnamese aren’t sitting around totally dazed. Motor
bikes have only replaced push bikes in the last 5 years. Young couples started
having sex before marriage just 3 years ago. My guide in the Mekong Delta, Khau, spoke of “loosing”
the War. His father had been wealthy, owning coffee factories and many
properties in and around Saigon. He was a pilot in the war, flying US-supplied
bombers but lost everything to the Communists in 1975. In the years since the
war the US Government has been admitting Vietnamese immigrants and Khau’s
father had been given priority because of his military service. Fearing for her
only son at age 18 Khau’s mother had organised his evasion of military
conscription fearing he would perish in the then war with Cambodia. This has
cost Khau dearly, because, still, at age 31, he has no identity papers and
he’s always having to grease palms in order to get work, relocate, even stay
in a hotel. His compensation is a regular flow of US Dollars from his mother,
encouraged by Khau seriously understating his income from tourist guiding! He
resents that the only war memorials are to the Vietcong. He is delighted with
the ‘Open Door’ and privatisation policy, which commenced in 1986.
Unfortunately the proof of his father’s ownership of properties had been lost
forever. Cambodians have suffered war more recently. Here one of my guides the intelligent but scruffy, Long, said he’d lost 2 of his brothers. Literally. They’d been forced to go to war and nothing has been heard of them since. Parts of the country are still blighted by land mines. I saw plenty of maimed victims begging in the streets. There are few elephants left; elephants and mines don’t mix. There was a suggestion they’d been used to sweep mines. Angkor
Long was full of stories of corruption. All 10 hotels,
currently under construction in the boomtown of Siem Reap, next to the
magnificent Angkor temples, are owned by a certain cabinet minister. Angkor
itself has been rented to a Company owned by another cabinet minister who
pockets the considerable profits from 20 US Dollar per day tourist passes.
Somehow, UNESCO have stemmed the flow of stolen antiquities and preserved the
surrounding majestic 200-year old gum trees, which provide a stunning backdrop
humming with cicadas. I hope they resist the archaeologists who want to tidy up
those picturesque temples where the trees haven’t been felled and their roots
entwine doorways and staircases. The plan is for 2 million, i.e. 4 times more visitors by
2006. The ruins are impressive enough to interest them. Angkor Wat itself is set
within a moat 2km square. In the Bayon, one of the 30-or-so temples, 54 towers
20 feet high, have the face on each side of the Buddhist deity, Lokesvara. On
inspection they differ, reflecting, in turn, kindness, compassion, sympathy and
equanimity, We clambered up crumbling steps with a 70 degree incline, designed
to prostrate the pilgrims approaching the God-king. Nowadays they exhaust the
larger tourists. The more energetic dashed through the same doorway that
Angelina Jolie had used in ‘Tomb Raider’. My viewing programme on the flight
from Dubai had prepared me well. One evening Long and I climbed a high hill to a temple to watch the setting sun. 100’s of other tourists had the same idea and swarmed behind us like ants. We waited in this United Nations of babbling tongues: Japanese, Koreans, Aussies, Brits, French, German, Chinese but precious few Americans. I noticed that the Japanese, in contrast to the Vietnamese, are catching Western habits: some were obese and many were distinguishing themselves through hair colouring and styles. The Koreans were huge: the largest Asians I’ve ever seen: white giants. You could easily fit 2 or 3 Vietnamese into any one of them. Final Thoughts
Vietnam exceeded expectations. The vitality of everyday
life and the friendly people were delightful. There could have been no more
rewarding way to travel than by bike with a cheerful group. Cambodians, on the other hand, are inhibited and
frightened: they have less hope. The only reason to go to Cambodia is to see the
fantastic Angkor religious site. John Harborne 2 December 2003 |