The Buck starts here…

Get your motor runnin’
Head out on the highway
Lookin’ for adventure
And whatever comes our way

Its difficult not to have this song in your head at least part of a long distance motorbike trip. I hummed it from time to time, whistled it on occasion, and burst into full vocal glory a good few times. Always while stationary at traffic lights.

We were heading south to Tam Coc. It was the first time I had left Hanoi since I arrived here some 6 weeks ago. The air smelt fresh. The ground felt firm. People actually wore helmets whilst riding. All was bisto.

We were five. Federica, Daniele, and Cristina – a trio of Italian ladies; Breda – a teacher from County Kerry; And me – a sausage fan from GB. We paid our entrance fee, and found ourselves in a strange Disney-esque natural wonder. Small boats ferried tourists along the winding river that bisected the massive limestone cliffs, and though caves so low that you could feel the roof with your fingers. And then while they had you captive in the little boat, they tried to flog you t-shirts and various embroidered stuff. So of course I bought a tablecloth. Unfortunately I had no camera with me, but below is a picture that somebody else took. Thankyou somebody else, and Google Image search. Together, you have brought satisfaction & contentment to this blogger.

We spent the night in Tam Coc, seemingly the only tourists in town. Teenagers gathered to watch us play pool. We played abysmally. Hitting the 8-ball in a goldfish bowl is no picnic I can tell you. The following morning we awoke early, eager to drive through some back roads and villages before the Highway could whisk us back to metropolis. Following a road between 2 rice paddies, we came across a pagoda at the top of a giant freestanding limestone cliff. A staircase had been cut into the rock. We climbed. The view was sensational.

Moving on, we passed through several villages before we came to Hoa Lu, a former capital of Vietnam. Now it comprises a strange combination of seemingly empty government buildings, and ancient pagodas and monuments. Oh, and a giant hammer & sickle etched high in a limestone cliff. We entered one temple/cave combo and were shown around by an old wise man dressed in pyjamas and a fur coat. He spoke some French and looked about 100. Or cent I suppose.

The time had come to head back to Hanoi. After a quick lunch of rice and lemonade, we mounted our bikes and revved with reverence. North. It was numbingly cold. Absolutely-drop-dead-Siberian-winter-freeze-your-knackers-off-chilly. So we bought gloves. And then a while later we stopped for a cuppa. Which is where we came face to face with a practical joke. And the twats who pulled it.

We had pulled in by a cafe at the side of the highway. We asked if they sold hot drinks. They did not. They pointed us to the place next door. We left our bikes outside the first joint, and huddled in the second. I had some tea. It was warm & delicious. After 10 minutes or so we decided to get moving again. We returned to find a few youths sitting near our bikes. Nothing unusual there – we have white skin and are thus fair game to be stared/laughed/gestured at. We headed off. We had gone maybe a minute or so before 3 of us started having trouble. My bike wouldn’t accelerate, and indeed was slowing. I pulled over to the side, and noticed Daniele doing similarly 20 feet or so behind me. I checked the bike over, and found that the juveniles back outside the cafe had turned a switch which controls the fuel injection. Something like that anyway. Twats. If any of us had been overtaking someobody when our bikes started faltering, their little joke could have turned into a little accident. With a little light bleeding perhaps. Anyway, it turns out that this is a fairly common practical joke to play in this part of the world, made all the easier by the fact that so many people drive motorbikes.

But I did sing about how I was looking for whatever comes our way… Maybe next time I’ll stick to Motorhead’s Ace of Spades.

The day had begun in darkness. A combination of the building site next door callously nicking all our natural, glorious sunlight; and a neigbourhood-wide power cut saw to that. So it was standing in the shadows that I held the telephone & accepted the 1st of 3 job offers which would transform me from a man of leisure to a teacher of 6 year olds, university students, and those fortunate enough to learn english in a dedicated language centre.

I scootered off on my reluctantly slow starting Honda Wave to meet the director of the university & deal with a few formalities. These involved him shaking my hand, and me blagging my tits off about my educationalist qualities, which are still largely untested. In the bag. Jackpot.

I returned to my house with visons of a cooling shower and a celebratory Bruce Willis movie. Power was still down. No cigar.

The afternoon drifted by slowly in a haze of sleep, book, and bettery assisted tunes. When I awoke, the power grid appeared to have taken pity on us and restored light to the upstairs, and juice to the T.V, but cruelly denied us the opportunity to locate food items in our near pitch-black kitchen. I discovered that my mobile phone has a built in torch. How much more useful is THAT than a Wapbrowsersimulatedcameraconeferncecallmp3player?? I found bread. I found butter. I found happiness. I found Bruce to be as thrilling as ever.

Refreshed and revitalised, I caught a xe om (motorbike taxi) to the Backpacker district in the north of the city, to meet my pal Penne – and her fella Alf. Curry was suggested and approved. Cheese was declared to be tofu, and disproved. Karaoke was located, and sung. And as is so often the case on these occasions, the Beatles and Jon Bon Jovi were prominent.

We emerged in the wee hours into the autumn rain. I loacted a xe om and waited while the driver ducked into his house to find his sturdy raincape. My sole protection from the elements lay in my helmet, and its attached storm trooper style visor. Into the night we roared, the khaki and the kat – driving down empty roads in a city that seems to sleep significantly more than New York. We neared the corner of my street. The driver slipped the bike back into 3rd gear, and leaned into the bend as he applied the brakes. The torque was too much. The bike slid out from under us as we both slid into the black road. I got to my feet, and uttered a few choice profanities. A group of men drinking beer on the corner sat and stared. There were no injuries. The bike was undamaged. Even dark days have a little light.

How I love to dance. Disco & ballroom, line & square, Russian & polka. Granted, I'm crap at most of them, but the point is to have fun. Now I have found a new type of dance. ... [Continue reading this entry]