Talks about me walks....

Photos: Xin Loi Vietnam (Part 2)

jimmyferal — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:25:00 GMT

Photos to go with the story

Photos: Xin Loi Vietnam (Part 1)

jimmyferal — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:17:00 GMT

Photos to go with the story

Xin Loi Vietnam!!! (Part 2)

jimmyferal — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 11:03:00 GMT

Xin Loi Vietnam!!! (Part 2)

I found forums upon forums of people discussing, debating, out right arguing as to whether buying a motorcycle in Vietnam is an idiotic thing to do or not. People preaching their own sensibilities as if they should be part of a constitution that everyone has to follow, don't get me wrong good advice and knowing what your risking is pivotal in most aspects of life let alone travelling. But I wonder where some of the more intense campaigners get their perspectives? I wonder if they have ever been or driven in such developing countries? Better still I wonder if they leave their homes after dark? Of course they would, mummified in reflective tape, a whistle just in case... It’s far from an uncommon practice, only a tiny percentage of the travellers heading to and through Vietnam will do it on their own motorcycle but there are still a significant few.

I won't lie; it’s dangerous, outright insane, the roads can be madness, the road conditions range from smooth immaculate bitumen (rare) to something resembling the remains of shit house that had been brewing methane for quite some time when Mr Hung chose to fire up a doobie on the loo. Then there is the weather, Days upon days can drench you in luscious sunshine, often frying my light Celtic skin and helping mirror the universe in freckles on my body. But come monsoon it’s a different story. And cyclone season, we will get to that later. Then you add the lunacy of many of the drivers, it can get pretty wild. I saw crashes often, ambulances daily and the occasional catastrophe. Its far from controlled chaos, it’s ridiculous. But you treat it as it is, drive with your wits a plenty and your eyes wide open and you are instantly the best driver on the road. I had a number of shaving close calls but sometimes you just have to trust that you have enough goats’ cheese to get out of these mad situations. I mean its all relative, people take just as big risks in the comfort of their own homelands, you hear stories all the time of young little daisy slipping on her roller-skates and now she will never skate again. I mean choosing which stance to take when you have a drunken coked up steroid ridden chav searching for a fight isn't to far removed from choosing which way to dip your bike when a psychopathic bus driver flies around blind bends on the side of a mountain with velvet comfort in mind as his sparkling statue on the dash board 'guarantees' his well being. Fight or Flight? Left or Right? See what I mean.

Its what adventure is all about, freedom, experience, free to fend for yourself, to let those nerve endings fire, to explore places and deal with the good the bad and the ugly as well as the almighty beautiful, there all experiences and just as precious as each other. You can't expect these great moments of your life to be given in bubble wrap, you have to put yourself out there. It’s this exposed element that makes it so frightfully stimulating.

Believe me, i had my trepidation about riding out on these roads, in the beginning anyway. I was very cautious and didn't get on a proper motorbike until a week had past in Vietnam. Dalat, south central highlands, a town dripping in as much French as it did rain, this cool mountain city was sanctuary from the hot sticky lowlands. This is where my legs redundancy began and wheels were to carry me everywhere. I had seen these 'Freerider' dudes about the town; they are motorcycle guides, freelance. I'm guessing that’s why their called freeriders because they cost a small fortune (relatively of course) they often hawked for business and are basically a much cheaper version of the well known 'Easyrider' guides. I wanted my own bike but my hesitations, caution and general nerves about what the roads are like and what bike to trust and all general legalities were far from minute. I have crashed motorcycles many times on dirt and sand. It hurts a lot. But on Bitumen my cherry is yet to be popped, or smashed rather, it will be far less forgiving. I have also been in fatal crashes with motorcyclists and the vulnerability of a rider and the monumental impact the whole incident had on so many people was still fresh in my mind. So I hired a guide of the freerider variety after battling with the price. I have this annoying habit of seeing every currency in the value of its country and straight away the cost of everything is related to a bed for the night or food in my belly, its a nice principle but I get way to carried away with it sometimes, one of my many flaws I’m trying to restrain a bit. I must disclose that a wonderfully mad Israeli girl was highly influential in my decision to go with the guides. Part of the agreement was that the two guides went on one bike and me and my new friend went on the other, it was the perfect means of ploughing my nervous cautions to one side and alleviating my own over cautious sensibilities.

The four of us had a 2 day trip covering about 500kms, leaving Dalat to head into the central highlands, the coffee mountains! Being a coffee fiend I was very excited about this, I’d say comparable to one of those weirdo’s with the sexual fetish for metal that is on the way to a cutlery shop. But mine wasn't sexual of course, simply a culinary enjoyment.

The trip was spectacular! The first day was stunning and the scenery blew me away. Rich, vivid flora smothering the rolling hills and choking the small mountains, blanketing the land in a beautiful green veneer, textured by the millions of broad leaves of the lazy coffee bushes. But combined with the sensation of riding through these mountains, it was like I just discovered a new plane of existence, ok maybe that’s a bit strong, but it was one of the most awesome of perspectives. I was blessed with beautiful company and this unusual passenger perched on the bitch seat also happened to be a physiotherapist. It was like her fingers could melt the muscles in my back, add this to the scene I have already set and it adds up to be quite a venture. The guides were great and we got to eat some truly fantastic local food, hear some very well practiced and duly performed jokes, smoke some terrible joints (made using bush weed and newspaper) and see some very beautiful scenes in what seemed like complete solitude. It was gorgeous. Some particular highlights other than the journey itself were a fairly decent waterfall not far out from Dalat, I thought it was very average until Hung, one of our guides, led the way down to the base of the fall, the sound was gorgeous, a constant roar, we were sheltered by a set of huge rocks but an opening right at the base was like a doorway sized hosepipe, it was to tempting, I couldn't talk for my smile and chuckling but my clothes were coming off and in a went with little or no thought. Standing in the rock doorway being blasted I envisage standing at the gates of heaven asking to come in and all I’m getting back from the bright light is heavens fire brigade clearing away the rubbish from the doorstep. We spent the night in a traditional long house right on Lake Lak. The thick quilted opaque clouds had spent the day riding the monsoon winds and now they were upon us, they filtered the light into a magnificent blue that seemed to be reflected off every surface making the world around us, water, land, sky, faces all flavoured with the same electric colour. All but the ducks gliding through the water, they kept their brilliant white. It was almost spiritual if it wasn't so ghostly. Me and Yaara had to steal some time away from the fellas, take a walk through the tiny village, enjoy the cool vapour mist been squeezed from the swollen clouds. We would have had to be asexual not to have been drawn closer after the beauty of the day, so the anticipation of when the kiss would come was a very fun game. We found a pool hall, full of young lads watching the old dudes duke it out. The old dudes look exactly the same as the young lads, just different heads. Their heads age and suffer the wrath of greying and wrinkles but their bodies seem to be eternally youthful, unless they’re interchangeable? They play an unusual pool game using only a handful of balls, no pockets. You have to hit the black by bouncing a red ball off one of the other balls. Sorry, that’s my knowledge of the game now exhausted. So me and the lady chalk-up, grab a beer Saigon and rack up. It’s on like Donkey Kong and we gather attention as Yaara trash talks me to hell, I’m speechless, the girl can fuel entire crops with the shit that comes out her mouth. She is the sole cause of global warming. I think providence took over my controls and made me actually pot balls to that effect she lost every game. Chivalry has no place with a girl like this anyway. Deflated but not done, the girl keeps up the trash flow, she’s got stamina, and it’s not till we are walking home where she is finally silenced by a kiss, maybe that was her strategy?

However where there is a yin there is of course a yang, the ride back to Dalat was one I won't forget, as if crossing onto the dark side of the moon the heavens opened and god was taking one of those insane pisses you have the morning after you've been having sex the whole night. It rained and rained and rained. It was pitch black, I couldn't see 5 meters in front of me and after 7 hours of this we finally made it back to Dalat.

Mean while Carol, an old friend from Australia had met up with me and was in Dalat heading out for a walk with our new Dutch companion. They were staying in Dalat and waiting for our return. Carol was one of the many people in Broome who was subject to my countless murmurs of 'bike' this and 'Vietnam' that. If you heard my voice you would understand what I mean by murmurs, I sound like a baritone 'Henry' Hoover that changes accent every 2 words but never an accent you can actually pin point, nor understand. Basically I sound ridiculous. Well, she is a one of a kind lady, if her metaphorical balls were transformed into actual testicles, they would be like planetary gonads, she would have to drag them along the floor, their uncomprehendable density drawing the oceans under their ludicrous gravity. This girl definitely dances on the line of mad, and I love her every bit more for it.

Perhaps I should explain what the hell I’m talking about. So, I arrive back into Dalat, me and Yaara pull up into the hotel where we're all staying and I notice a 'Taiwanese Bonus 125cc' (spoken in dramatic energised pitch, always!) motorcycle resting on its stand in the reception. I paid special notice because I just spent the last 2 days constantly riding another 'Taiwanese Bonus 125cc' motorcycle (I sort of fell in love with the thing). But whose is this? Carol and Letteke come into view, I feel it in the air as they enter the room, something had just charged the air, you could rub 1000 balloons on my red beard and the static energy compared to what was going on in that room would be like a potato battery to whatever powers the Death Star. I swear we must have been close to some form of lightning.

As we catch eyes, their grins explode into ultrasonic yeaaaaaahhs and break their faces into two; the jumping and shear excitement that was pouring out of these girls had made it clear as urine in the winter. This was their motorcycle, they had bought one! Before me! I was a melting pot of emotion, shear devastation that they had began my dream before me, but a wash with admiration, I knew she had just gone with it in her insane but beautiful naivety, but that was exactly what I needed to silence all my motorbike inhibitions and the next day I found my partner in crime, Carol the catalyst. Let me put this into context, Carol had very limited riding experience and the most she had ever done was on a little scooter in the quiet wide streets of Broome, she was learning to ride as she goes and she chose to do this on a fairly heavy bike, with a passenger, in Vietnam, kudos my friend, kudos. Now that has its lunacy merits alone but then you have to consider the mental state of another lady of the Dutch variety who knows Carol has never ridden like this but decides to buy a motorbike with her and having no idea how to ride herself, sit as passenger the whole way and entrust the clearly mad driver. It was an awesome spectacle.

So the next day I’m shooting all over Dalat, searching for a bike I like, my stallion, the prospective cloud that was to carry me on my adventure, by the afternoon I found him, He was beautiful, his name was Nimbus, the greatest 'Taiwanese Bonus 125' motorcycle that ever rolled on the face of this earth.

I bought it off a mechanic that was recommended to us by Phuc, yes that is her real name. Phuc was working and the hotel we stayed at and was ultra sweet and wonderfully innocent. So much so she was in awe at the mere thought if the two girls riding through Vietnam, and she wasn't shy in showing them how blown away she was.

So me, Carol and Letteke go for a coffee, Vietnamese style of course. That very chocolate rich taste is unforgettable; the ground coffee is placed in the base of a small metal pot with a perforated base and an extended lip around the bottom. A perforated disk is then dropped into the pot, fitting snug, sandwiching the coffee against the bottom, the little device is then placed over the coffee glass (Vietnamese coffee is almost always in a glass). It’s usually served with a generous pour of very thick sweet condensed milk which sits at the bottom of the glass. Hot water is then poured into the little percolator and the water drips down through the coffee and into your glass, strong and thick but usually very short like an espresso. It makes a dark brown layer on top of the condensed milk looking like a reversed shot of Guinness. I always preferred Cafe Dai (black coffee). This is simply the same minus the condensed milk (it always made my mouth feel lined with afro carpet). And on a hot day, maybe a Cafe Dai Da (iced black coffee) No dramatic change it simply means few ice blocks are thrown in the glass after but it waters down perfectly, and means your shot of coffee lasts a bit longer. The little percolators are brilliant especially when you’re travelling, after 2 years away from the UK these are pretty much the only presents i brought back, I'll take the opportunity to be an ambassador for these simple wonders.

So this wasn't any casual coffee, this was the stage to decide what’s next, who's doing what, "where are you going?" It was never a planned thing for me to do the trip with anyone; it was never a planned thing for the girls to even buy a bike. So it was a moment that needed some thought. I spoke my concerns about them just riding out on their own, especially having little experience riding and no mechanical knowledge. It wasn't the brightest idea. I was a competent rider but I was very much an amateur at motorbike mechanics, the idea was I’d learn along the way. So we decided to head up to the Central Highlands together, the same route I went when I hired a bike. And once Carol had settled in and gotten use to riding then we could part ways. This way we could look out for each other. That was the plan. We packed our bags ready to leave in the morning. The last night was spent going to a small street stall we had frequented a few times in Dalat, the 3-4 dozen mini plastic chairs and tables that flood into the street were always full of revellers seeking something sweet. This stall sold delicious pastries and unusual Vietnamese cakes which went perfect with a hot glass of soy milk, sweet, creamy and delicious, perfect for warming up in the cool mountains. As you could expect, something as innocent as drinking hot milk and nibbling on cakes while sitting on kindergarten furniture had to be followed by some kind of vice, thus the rest of the evening was spent emptying a bag full of beers and Dalat wine, yes, believe it or not Vietnam is a wine producing country, with real grapes and everything.

We awoke with clouds lingering, swelling with their grey plumes throbbing as if threatening to burst. Not exactly what we wanted, a storm was coming in over the central highlands, the lip of a cyclone moving over central Vietnam, literally pissing all over our plan. We packed our bags and loaded our bikes for the first time; I maintained that same wholesome satisfaction every time I did that for the rest of my trip, a warm companionship with this machine, as if its not just carrying my stuff, its both of ours. It’s a good thing Letteke came on the back of my bike at the beginning because the girls bag strapped on the back looked like the remains of a Triad hit on a sumo had been rolled up in a carpet, wrapped in plastic and slung over the back. But credit where credit is due, Phat Bastard took the weight in its stride. So we leave Dalat, our maiden voyage, oh the air of excitement, the neurosis forcing everyone of my senses to elope with paranoia and at the same time that wonderful part of my soul that had been sitting tapping its feet for so long stopped the tapping and raised its eyebrows in attention, Wildness, you can come out now.

We get maybe 70metres down the street and Carol stalls her bike at a busy roundabout in the centre of Dalat. I pull over and watched her; it was like watching a child learning to write for the first time but doing it with a calligraphy set. A mass of vehicles flow in diversions around her bike, horns harrassing and expressionless faces that only make it harder to concentrate. I didn't go and help her, necessity was the teacher here and under the stressing conditions i see carols face grimace but she snaps it in an instant and her cheeky grin stops time and mutes the people and she starts up her bike cool as a cucumber and carry’s on her way. Thrown into the deep end and she just floats on her back like a starfish, she'll b'right.

We hadn't gotten very far out of town when the weather seemed less and less inclined to be nice. Rain started spitting and all I could think about was the 7 hours riding through monsoon coming back from the mountains. If it’s spitting here as soon as we hit the mountains it’s only going to get worse. So using the simple rule of thumb, 'never make a decision on an empty stomach'. We decided to stop for a coffee (Coffee counts as stomach filler). We didn't want to feel like we had bailed on our original route straight away but we had to consider a few things. First trip for the girls, good roads would be preferable, the roads to the central mountains from Dalat look like packman has lost his marbles. The rain is coming in and we knew we were in for a storm, which would have intrigued me if I hadn't frozen my nuts off on a previous day. We had no full waterproofs and we were a little unprepared for the rain and with rain comes very little visibility, would you go and see the Taj Mahal with Vicks vapour rub in your eyes? Through our team talk we decided to take the newly built mountain road East towards the coast, escaping the rain and attempting to avoid a lot of the damage that the rapidly approaching cyclone was expected to cause.

We broke away from the city and as the traffic died down and the scenery was unveiled we started to feel exactly where we wanted to be, The journey from Dalat to the Eastern main highway (A1) was spectacular, the roads were perfect, wide and newly laid. We road meandering up and down the small mountains that span this region, passing through the mist laminate in a sine wave harmony. The air was crisp, sunlight breaking through the clouds and not a drop of rain. It was the ideal second start and we found glory in our decision making; the toast to our next coffee.

Like the road we were riding; what comes up must come down and some 50kms out of Dalat Nimbus is making some funny sounds, coughing and spluttering, I'm feeling his pain as it gives me an equally bad feeling in my stomach. Then he dies. Well not quite, more of a short coma. I ask Letteke to get off but i can't get him started, on the verge of being disgruntled and trying to hold a smile. The Power rangers appear from nowhere out of uniform they must have been off-duty, 6 different Vietnamese dudes on scooters all shapes and sizes come squealing around the mountain side, pull over and within minutes my bike is in pieces, there on their haunches making noises I will never be able to emulate. I'm caught feeling completely out of control and in my predicament I’m best to let these fellas work their magic. In a few minutes Nimbus was roaring again, a bit of sparkplug cleaning and we were a go. But i let Carol carry the weight of Holland and let Nimbus catch his breath.

To be continued. . . . . .

Xin Loi Vietnam!!! (Part 1)

jimmyferal — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 03:00:00 GMT

Xin Loi Vietnam!!! (Part 1)

Fate isn't without a sense of setting as my story of soul delight ignites in Seoul, South Korea, on the doorstep of some insane hypermarket which looked like Tesco’s and IKEA shared a few to many bottles of red one night and had a serious session exhausting the Karma Sutra on the demo kitchen floor and this was the resulting spawn. Anyway we had indulged in some food shopping and it was time to head home, I could get the subway as usual or take up my friends offer and perch on the back of his sports bike. That I did. The usual 45min journey was done in 10, my arse had gone through several anti-rhythmic muscle spasms in sync with my heartbeat and the kilo of frozen strawberries on my lap had super cooled my testicles, an inappropriate time to be at my most fertile. The journey home meandering through traffic, racing a pimped out racer boy BMW left me somewhat violated but utterly exhilarated. I had been exposed to this wonderful flu and from the moment of infection my fever was only just beginning to heat up.

Some time later after leaving South Korea, being not the most legitimate of residents, I found myself hiring the odd moped in India and Indonesia and such but the feeling just wasn't the same, it was fun, but it just didn't have that POW, that, pupils so wide my eyeballs are black, that holy shit do I have super powers?! It was a bit like really drunk sex, good fun but never mind blowing.

My wanderings had taken toll on my wallet and it was once again time to knuckle down into some work, but something new. I applied for my Australian visa in Indonesia and in the shallows of my future i could only envisage Western Australia, the great WA. I went with three things on my agenda, earn some cash, learn to ride a proper motorcycle and see Australia! (Not the international theme park that was parts of the east coast). I wanted something real, something raw.

The Universe was very good to me and my first job pretty much nailed all three of my check list, if I knew the luck I was in for I would have added my Scandinavian mermaid orgy fantasy to the list too.

I was hired as a Jackeroo, and I can imagine the expression you’re pulling just as you read 'Jackeroo', 'What the f&%k is a Jackeroo?' I hear your thoughts, I’m in your head, looming in one of the creases of you’re confusion and the best way I can describe it to you is a mixture between Bob the builder and a cowboy, or maybe mad max and a Sheppard. Which ever sounds cooler? I worked on a station, Australia's version of a ranch, all 365,000 acres of it. Ill follow Albert on this one and use relativity to get us all on the same page, my friends Farm in England is a nice sized English farm, it’s a mere 500 acres. I worked for some truly inspiring people, a family very dear to me, their attitudes were impeccable, their hearts as big as their country. I learnt things from this family that I will forever carry around with me as treasure in my soul.

I spent many hours each day riding not a horse but a dirt bike. 45 degrees gets a bit hot for a horse and water isn’t too much of a luxury out there (we drank rain water stored from the wet season). So the mechanical steed it was. I spent countless hours on those motorbikes, practicing and working, moving thousands of sheep through the rugged bush country and I became quite pleased with myself. I was besotted, that insane rise of euphoria, that wave of joy that just swells and rolls as the engines purr grows into a growl and roar as the revs hit red and she screams all the way until climactic relief is brought with a clunk into next gear and you get to listen and feel the machine do it all over again, all the time watching the world fly by as you blitz through the bush, You feel free as a bird, in fact the birds are looking at me with green eyes and they shed a tear of jealousy at the awesomeness they lay witness to. But their tears evaporate in the open furnace, never splashing on my skin nor quenching the baked land below.

So I finished the shearing season and in 2 months of working and riding as much as I could, I was smitten for these motorcycles and the feeling they could invoke. I can't explain how lovely the feeling is, obviously it’s not for everyone but I think most people would feel the same.

Back to civilisation in a swift social trauma as I go from seeing a max of 7 people in a day to New Years Eve in Sydney, I momentarily suffered from Anthropophobia. It was horrible. No horizon, no space, I felt like I was trapped in a river of people. A hive of voices, the horns and screams, it was like going from sitting with a lone banjo busker outside a lonely roadhouse to having an electro-pop rave in each cochlea with a Russian domestic just behind my eyeballs. I was tripped out, especially after joining my good friend for his usual substance rituals. I will never forget that, well the parts I could remember the next day anyway.

So I spent the next couple months wandering about before settling in the beautiful, and I mean BEAUTIFUL Broome, six glorious months working in a brewery as a barman, lapping up the hedonism and excellence of company that the place offered, amazing friends and an amazing lifestyle. But all good things must come to an end right? Or maybe a more appropriate statement is 'all good things must come to an end before another incredibly badass thing can begin.'

Broome is a different story, so I will leave that for another bedtime, or shit break, whenever you like to read. Since the station I had been harbouring the same motorcycle lust, although money stopped me ever gratifying such desires in Australia, it was always there. I had a plan, a dream, a real dream, one that was tangible, attainable, maim-able, one that was in my reach, I could smell it, taste it, it was so close it could poke me in the eye, and so close to the surface that most people I knew had suffered more than the odd conversation with me about it.

Of course that dream was to buy and travel on a motorcycle in Vietnam. It will be my pleasure to tell you about it.