Hue, January 27-29
Hue is famous for its tombs of 19th century emperors, which are located far and wide in the rice fields that surround the town. Instead of taking a tour or hiring a driver, I decided to rent a small motorbike and explore the countryside on my own. The motorbike I got from the hotel was a fairly powerful four-speed model that cost me all of $5 a day. I haven’t ridden in years and my first forays on the quiet street around the hotel were a little rough, but I soon grew more confident.

Before I go further, I need to explain a little about how incredibly chaotic and confusing Vietnamese traffic is - and how potentially stupid my decision to drive in it could have been.

First of all, I have never seen as many motorbikes in my life. They are the main form of transportation and the darting little devils are everywhere. Something I read might help explain this. It said: "The Americans drive in the right side of the road, the British the left but the Vietnamese drive on both sides." This is exactly true: several times I have been on the back of a motorbike taxi going down the wrong side of the street in Vietnam. The only thing this failed to mention is that they also drive on the sidewalk.

The first afternoon I decided to visit some tombs north of Hue. This created the problem of getting across the river. The main bridge, which I had already negotiated on foot, was a solid stream of handcarts, bicycles and motorbikes with the honking motorbike’s zipping recklessly around the slower traffic. At the far end there was a traffic light that slowed the flow a bit as vehicles wove around each other turning left or right. I had two distinct disadvantages: I wasn’t completely in command of my motorbike and, more importantly, I didn’t understand the underlying traffic rules - if there were any.

I made it across the bridge by driving slowly and then headed west out of town. Quickly I was in the countryside where the traffic let up and I could relax and enjoy the view. On one side was the Perfume River and on the other small villages, cultivated fields and occasionally a tomb.

The tombs were usually set in small-enclosed compounds. The carved stone they were made of were covered with lichen and moss, which made them look much older than they are - and was a testimonial to how damp it was there.

After visiting a couple of tombs I stopped in a small village to take some pictures. I walked into an open-fronted shed where a bare-chested young man was shaving another fellow. I talked to a couple of kids on bicycles and then watched a couple of men run a small saw mill. Then I headed back to town, across the scary bridge and finally to the safety of my hotel.

The next morning, I took a rather long trip south to visit the tomb of Gai Long. Outside town I passed bright-green rice fields, ponds with wallowing water buffalo and small villages where kids waved at me. Finally, I drove down a very bumpy road next to the Perfume River.

Near the end of the road I found I had to cross the river on a tiny ferryboat - really it was more of a motorized canoe. This involved driving my motorbike down a very steep bank and stopping before I ran into the river. I knew my riding skills weren’t up to that task. I stood looking down the sandy bank for a while and then headed back to the nearest little village to think about what I was going to do.

I found a little stand and bought a warm bottle of Sprite. I stood around watching three young men playing pool under an open-sided shed. Fortified with sugar I decided not to give up - I had come too far to go back in defeat.

Back at the bank I enlisted the aid of a young fellow who was standing there. Using sign language I got him to drive the bike down the slope. I watched from the top as he slid down to the bottom - I was glad it wasn’t me driving. At the landing some other folks help me load the bike on the boat. The bike was actually longer than the boat was wide. Then we slowly motored across the river. On the other side I managed to drive up the bank unaided, as it was much less steep.

After a few more stops for directions I eventually found the tomb I was looking for. While it was pretty run down, it sat on a shady hill in front of a small lake with misty mountains in the background. I walked around a bit before I found a pleasant spot to sit, while enjoying the view.

On the way back I was feeling more confident and decided I could handle the motorbike myself. I got it down to the boat and even on board by myself. On the other side I decided to walk the bike up the hill, driving it in 1st gear as I had see the locals do.

I was doing great until I got to the top where the bike sped up and got away from me. We both tumbled over and ended up on the ground. Luckily there was no damage done. The locals, who came running to my aid, had a good laugh and only my pride was bruised.

But it wasn’t the last time it ended up on the ground. On the way back to town I stopped to take photos of incense sticks drying along the road and somehow didn’t get the kickstand in place. Over it tumbled again: glad I was able to offer so much humor for the locals.

But one last near mishap convinced me that I shouldn’t be driving at all. Back in town, near the scary bridge, two ladies abruptly stepped off the sidewalk directly in front of me. I stomped the foot break and squeezed the hand break as hard as I could. The ladies looked up and screamed. I stopped just short of hitting them. I was lucky I didn’t fall off the bike in my panic to stop.

With that fresh in my mind I headed back to the hotel and turned the motorbike in to the desk clerk. "I got to the tomb and back in one piece," I told him, "I figure I better quit while I’m ahead." From then on I let someone else do the driving.

 

Da Nang, January 30-31
Da Nang is Vietnam’s third largest city. While it has lovely beaches, lively markets and colorful temples tourist seldom visit. It was that last fact that drew me to it. In the two days I spent there walking the peaceful riverfront and the lively neighborhoods I seldom saw other westerners.

One morning I was walking north of my hotel when I happened upon a schoolyard where teens were doing military exercises. They were dressed in blue and white exercise-suits and were gathered into small groups. Some were marching in place, others doing left-face/right-face maneuvers, while others were learning how to crawl while carrying a rifle. Some of these students had wooden practice rifles while others were simply carrying a length of plastic pipe.

The exercises were taking place on a paved area between the school and the street. I stood just outside the perimeter fence peering in for a while but felt a little odd, like I was spying on them, so I moved to the main gate. I stood there hoping I would be noticed and maybe invited in so I could take some photos.

It wasn’t long before I was noticed: a young man in a military uniform - he was maybe 25 years old - came over. "Where you from?" he demanded in excellent English. Next, he asked, "What you do here?" He was very cool and distant with stiff military bearing like someone used to being in command. We chatted for a few minutes but I was unable to get even the smallest smile from him. Finally, he tired of the conversation and started back to the little podium he had been manning in front of the exercising student.

I had been holding my camera in my hand behind me the whole time and as he left I brought it around front. I also lifted it to re-adjust it in my hand. Just as I did that he turned around. He immediately came back and held out his hand. "You took a picture," he declared. "No, I did not," I confidently replied and proceeded to show him the mornings digital photos - luckily there weren’t that many to go through.

Still he wasn’t satisfied. "You took a picture of me," he again declared and asked to see my camera. I held it out with the strap still wrapped tightly around my wrist. I showed him how to view the photos and he stepped through them again probably thinking, "Why is this stupid tourist taking these dumb pictures." I kept a big smile on my face but I was thinking, "You little prick, you."

Finally, he was satisfied I hadn’t taken his photo. He pointed toward the street and simply declared, "You go." Then he turned around and left. I decided to push my luck just a bit and shouted after him," Well, it sure was nice talking to you." I waved goodbye, but he didn’t look back.

Luckily, I had paid attention to my guidebooks: they all warn that the Vietnamese military are very sensitive about photos and advise not to shoot airports, bridges, military vehicles and the like. I was clean - I had resisted the temptation to sneak a photo of the exercising students. Of course, I’m still a little curious as to what the little prick could have done it I have actually taken some photos he didn't like. Well, I guess it's best not to know.

Ann Arbor, Michigan
March 2005

Part Two: Hoi An & Saigon
Part Three: Travel Details

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