I think two days ago I mentioned routine bike maintenance, and how I believe one should not fiddle with things too much. I said that years of owning an old Land Rover had taught me this. I then went on to fix the leaky fuel tap that had been slowly dripping gasoline on my foot all day long.
Since then, the occasional drip has progressively turned to a steady one, and so at six o’clock in the morning, armed with basic tools and a coffee, I dismantle the tap with a view to fixing it once and for all. During reassembly, the spring washer snapped, and the tap is now looser than ever. Not only is it now losing more fuel mix, but also every few minutes during operation it vibrates around to the off position, and my engine dies, starved of fuel. I jam it open with a piece of card, and continue.
Today is our most ambitious day yet. We begin the northern part of our loop, and though we are not entirely sure where we are going, because our three maps all give different town names in different positions, we hope to cover two hundred kilometres. Given our record of accomplishment, it isn’t too likely.
On this leg, the traffic is light, and the road is exceptionally good. It snakes its way through the mountains and forest clad hills, with long straights and sweeping corners. It lends itself to a high-speed dash, and we both eat up the kilometres in a hardcore two-hour non-stop session. That is, until we come across a remote village with much activity along the roadside. Large groups of Montagnard women were assembled, and we guessed some kind of local festival was in full swing, so we pulled up for a look.
As we approached the crowd, we realised we had it very wrong; it was a funeral. We cautiously backed off, not wishing to interfere, but were quickly apprehended. Everyone had friendly faces and they wanted us to stay. Personally, this was one of the most intense moments of this trip. Before me was just the sort of thing you only ever see on TV travel documentaries, and I was now here in the middle of it. In a small clearing, perhaps twenty-five women wearing their traditional black & purple dress were mourning over the body. Nearby, two men provided sombre music with a drum and a flute-like instrument made from bamboo. In the foreground, a beast was killed with a machete blow to the neck and butchered for a feast. Smoke rose from a fire, and rays of sunlight played across it through gaps in the foliage. I could have been anywhere but 2006.
I found it curious that while the women mourned in what we would regard as the normal way, the men remained quite separate, and occupied themselves by joking, smoking, and inspecting our bikes. We kept a respectable distance to avoid drawing too much attention, and tried to keep as quiet as possible. We learned that the deceased was a very old woman, and very well respected in the community. It was one of those events where I would really have liked to stay, but there was a long way to go. We figured there would soon be a feast to follow, and if we got involved with that, who knows what might happen, so we reluctantly kicked the Minsk’s into life, and said our goodbyes. I spent the rest of the day wondering if the fire is used to cook the feast or cremate the body.
Having found an elastic headband, I am now able to secure my music-player earphones in the right spot and get full volume. Until now, they keep falling out and I have had several near fatal crashes with one hand stuck in my helmet trying to sort them out. So with the eighties mix pumping, the ride continued with beautiful bends and lush views. We split up, pushing on at our own pace and occasionally catching up with one another. One such time, we followed a dirt track that led us to a river, where we intended to stop and eat from our supplies. Nearby, a floating dredger was at work, so we wondered down for a closer look.
Now this is what I love about Asia. A frail old man, wispy grey beard and trousers rolled up to the knees, stopped the machine and motioned for us to board. At home, workers would at best give you a dirty look and tell you to mind your own business. We scrambled over a heap of gravel and stepped onto the floating machine, ducked under a conveyer still dripping with water, and entered the dark interior from where all the noise was coming.
Inside were the old man and two young men, and they already had a fresh brew of bitter tea on the go. We sat down, shared a drink and puffed on their bamboo pipe, while the machine continued its digging. It was like something out of Mad Max; the machinery and living area were enclosed by a makeshift bamboo structure, covered by thatch. A smoky old truck engine provided power, via belts and chains, to the rusty bucket conveyer that dug into the riverbed. The entire barge shook and vibrated as the buckets dug in, and water dripped and splashed as each was conveyed upwards to the cleaner. As the bucket passed the uppermost position, it tipped its load of water and gravel down the chute onto the pile, to continue its next sweep to the riverbed. The whole thing was operated by a series of ropes connected to one mans feet and hands, for whenever the machine hit something hard he had to back it off quickly. The other guy would occasionally go to a winch, connected by wire ropes to shore, and pull the barge along into fresh gravel. The old man, as far as I could see, provided logistical support, brewed tea and smoked his pipe. There was not a word of common language between us, we just sat and marvelled at the machine, shook hands, and left.
Along this leg, the distance markers have all but dried up, and the ones I do see have no names that my map does. Nevertheless, it does not matter, for the Minsk is gliding along and I am having the time of my life. This has to be the correct road – for it is the only road. I pulled up in a tiny settlement to find refreshment and wait for Dan to pass, and was quickly invited into the cool interior of a family home. We went through the usual conversation I am well accustomed to, and I showed them photos from home. I usually carry a few; me working (a rare thing I know), my family etc. The mother of the family was beside herself with excitement, and desperately wanted to keep them. So now, in some village I don’t even know the name of, are displayed pictures of me with a freshly shot deer, Rosie from Herm whom she thinks is my wife, niece and nephew Sophie and Malachi whom she possibly thinks are my own children, and the rest of my immediate family. Good job I have some spares. Dan never did pass, so I, unconcerned, continued on my way until I reached a town that surely must be on the map.
We had been aiming for Thong Pho, though at this time of day, anywhere with a bed will do. I did a quick recce along the single road that passed the small collection of buildings, and asked around. Nobody seemed to know where we were or what the town was called. Standing out like two shining beacons, a couple of tall blond Dutch girls were walking, and I stopped to chat. They were not too sure either – they had paid for a bus ride from Sapa, but the driver had deposited them here, short of their destination. It was actually almost irrelevant; we have done enough today. More to the point, I have not a clue where the Yank has got to, and the road splits two ways here, so I wait at the confluence and spy the road from where he should appear at any moment.
While I waited, I discovered the women who owned the chair I had commandeered happened to sell Bia Hoi. The cold one-litre bottles went for just 4000 Dong and contained the best beer I have ever tasted. Dan eventually turned up, to my astonishment, from the wrong direction. He had been in town all along, and had already checked us into the only hotel in town. He must have passed me earlier on while I was giving my photos away inside that house.
We estimate that we have indeed achieved our 200km distance today, or somewhere close to. The reason we have done this, is to get into a good position for tomorrow, our final full day of riding – according to our information, the two thousand metre pass on the route to Sapa is the most stunning part of this journey. We are now in a good position to savour that ride at our usual slow pace.
At night, after dinner with the Dutch girls at our hotel, which brought service to an astoundingly new low level, we somehow got ourselves invited to a wedding bash. On a day where we had also witnessed a funeral, it could not have been more in keeping with this trip.
Though Dan and I could never really be said to blend in, there was no chance of a subtle entrance with two blond girls, each at least 6ft tall. The crowd descended upon us, and we were quickly split up and dragged away to tables to toast with rice wine. I have found a taste for this local tipple, and I joined in with gusto.
There were possibly sixty people crammed into the shed with a dirt floor. Loud Vietnamese dance music (not good) blared from the boom box, and we had little choice but to dance. The great thing is, bad dancing was the order of the day, my area of expertise – I was quite at home.
We never truly established who the groom was, and the fiancé was not even there, but it did not matter. It was possibly what we would regard as a Buck’s Party at home, with women too.
It has been long but interesting day. I am keyed up for tomorrow’s ride – but a little sad that we are nearing our destination already. |
