We rode south from Saigon with one goal: to reach Phu Quoc island. We had a vision of pristine, quiet bliss. A hope, a fantasy, and one we hadn’t tried to verify and wanted to realise only through direct experience. It was like Pacific Playland in Zombieland.
Still reeling from the poisoned fish supped several days ago, it was a 320 kilometre ride to Ha Tien, the port close to the southern border of Cambodia from where we knew there ran a ferry to Phu Quoc (pronounced Poo Cock). No longer with a scenic option like the Ho Chi Minh trail, it was main highways and traffic through the Mekong Delta. Hot tarmac and fumes.
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| Mystery pig, Chau Doc |
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Four lane highways frequently and without any warning merged to two
before a narrow bridge crossing the countless rivers that make up the
brown and silty delta. Not a problem, that is unless you are caught on a
narrow shoulder between a truck and a railing, or overtaking on an
outside lane that suddenly disappears.
The sun was brutal and
the temperature lingered around 38. We stopped frequently for drinks as
we sweated and I cramped, the combined effects of total purging and
dehydration beginning to become evident. In the face of relentless
traffic, several near-crashes and my continued physical unease, we
decided we would not make it all the way to Ha Tien, and aimed more
modestly for some coastline to the south, hoping for a late afternoon
dip to wash away the sunscreen and accumulated road dirt.
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| Calf flex, Phu Quoc |
An
arrow straight road to Rach Gia that Google maps suggested might be an
efficient highway route turned out to involve both a ferry passage and a
two-lane road crawling with school kids on wobbly bikes and motorbike
and car traffic through which powered minivans, horns ablaze. It was
terrible riding. Aaron traded Marlboros for a guide to the nearest
hotel and we settled in.
Tofu, vegemite and avocado rolls for
dinner washed down with Revive. A quick bit of research revealed ferries
leaving from Ha Tien at 8am and 1pm. We wanted to catch the 8am, and
with 100km of riding to go, set the alarm for 4.30am.
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| Delta life |
With an
abruptly muffled ‘B-gawk!’ and a cloud of feathers the carcass of a
chicken lay prone and amorphous in my wake. In the pre-dawn semi-light
the grey-blue sky and grey-black tarmac blended into one, the blurred
ether punctuated by explosions of bugs. Few vehicles moved along the
roads yet, the odd over-burdened motorbike dragging the means for the
day’s labour and intermittently placed vendors setting up shop. We were
on the outskirts of Rach Gia and seeking to make good time on the empty
roads. Having set out in the murky dark of 5am, our malfunctioning
electrics felt authentically Vietnamese amongst the equally hamstrung
and unilluminated early morning traffic.
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| Snorkeling destination |
The victim had been
pecking in the middle of the road, taking advantage of the still nascent
day. As Aaron thundered past he could sense it. On countless roads we
had passed livestock or animals lingering on the lanes. Always we would
exercise caution, slowing and attempting to give as wide of a berth as
possible. On a motorbike, a minor collision can see you skidding
face-first across the ground. Not fun. Usually the animals maintain a
constant bearing, or slowly saunter in a direction once they identify a
potential threat. Not this chicken.
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| Delta |
As Aaron peered over his
shoulder the chicken remained in the middle of the road, pecking. Thirty
metres and closing. It looked up. Twenty metres and closing. I think we
locked eyes, the chicken and I. In a split second gluttonous grazing
was supplanted by panic. Ten metres and closing. With its neck extended
flat and parallel to the earth it set off, breaking laterally to the
right and in the direction of the oncoming traffic.
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| Tube |
When you
motorbike and a situation arises requiring quick reaction, unlike in a
car where brakes are reflexively slammed on, you pause for a second to
consider the options. Slamming on the brakes on a motorbike will see it
fish-tail, something which results in a loss of control and a potential
crash. Instead, a moment to evaluate and contemplate evasive maneuvers
is required. In this moment I realized the chicken’s life was in its own
claws. If I attempted to brake it would be supremely dangerous. If I
attempted to swerve I would need to anticipate the chicken’s trajectory
and the potential collision on an angled wheel would again see me
unlikely to remain seated. So I maintained a steady bearing.
Two
wheels later the chicken was a crumpled mess and Aaron the avowed
vegetarian was cackling. A vendor stared after me as I drove on by,
pausing only to look back at the heap of feathers. All I could think was
what a stupid animal.
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| Traffic, Phu Quoc |
We made it comfortably to Ha Tien in time
for the ferry and a banh mi. Only once we arrived in Phu Quoc did we
learn that ferries also run from Rach Gia.
The dock gave way to a
dirt road almost immediately, and picking the direction of most of the
tourist traffic we rode blithely to where we hoped might be hotel. Two
kilometres of riding on a flat back tire, an instant noodle lunch, and a
mechanic who refused to charge Aaron for a tightened chain and
chain-grease, we found ourselves eventually at the Duong Dong beach with
all of its hotels and burgeoning tourist infrastructure.
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| Ohp |
Thus
ensued three days of sloth and indolence and wonderfully quiet beaches
with lushly warm water. We did a snorkeling tour around islands and
beaches that looked straight out of a promotional video for tropical
paradise and which also included Asian couples in matching outfits
taking endless glamour shots on the boat deck and beaches. One proud
father in a shirt emblazoned, ‘Strokin’ the snake six days a week’.
Days
ended with sunburned backs and coconut ice-cream anointed with sweetened
condensed milk and crushed nuts from our dear friend and beard
enthusiast, Ohp.
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| Mekong Delta life |
Another day idled away in fish-net hammocks
on a beach otherwise only populated by those running the shack which supplied
moderately chilled beer and soft drinks. When the power dies on Phu
Quoc it dies for most of the day. Motorbike rides, beer and pool.
We
left this quiet haven early one morn in an attempt to catch the
Superdong back to the mainland. Only, it was booked out. Scampering to
the next wharf, we found a slightly less Superdong that had space for
us, and lo we were back and on the final leg of our journey, back to Ho
Chi Minh city through the Mekong Delta.
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| Clean vegetables |
First stop, Chau Doc.
Ostensibly on the tourist radar, but clearly not that of the Western
tourist, everyone here unfailingly shouted “Hello!” as we passed, with
people frequently spotting us as we entered the street and making a
b-line towards my shoulder for the customary measuring. On the ride
there when we stopped for lunch and some sunscreen reapplication. One of
the women working at the restaurant tried to convince Aaron to part
ways with his precious protection. He was having none of it.
Chau
Doc spreads out around a central mountain, the ring road literally
encircling it. Motorbike taxis offer constantly to take you up, offers
Aaron and I answered by jingling our keys. We attempted it ourselves and
found the gradient formidable. The tortured whine of my bike in first
and the clunk of gear-skipping stalls. The ferocious roar of a bike
suddenly in neutral.
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| Beach life |
For some reason we could not identify there
were whole roast pigs being carried around the city and placed in a
votive manner in front of smoke screens of incense in temples.
Slavering, I followed every pig to its destination and tried to mime my
eating it. Something was lost in translation. Maybe they feared the
deranged look in my eyes.
The last port of call was Sa Dec. On
the way we stopped for a hearty Bun Rieu, replete with mysterious
gristle chunks and tubes. In the city itself there was little to do
except wander through the Mekong adjacent market and sample the endless
variety of street food. It was one of my favourite stops.
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| HCM smoking balcony |
We
rode fast and hard to Saigon, fearing the same congestion, heat and
horror of our journey south. This time the roads were relatively empty
and we made excellent time, stopping for one last road side hammock and
coffee. In Saigon we sold our bikes to Mr. Danh and basked in the gentle
pleasure of a completed 3000km+ journey.
Over a decadent five
dish dinner and beers and green apple slushies spiked with vodka on Bui
Vien street we reminisced and talked shit.
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| End of the road |
The dream was over, but we had awoken at the perfect time.
