Vietnam (2)
Karst, Coffee, and the Long Road
North
1,205
Kilometres - 21 Days5
October – 25 October 2016
Prologue
The road into Vietnam opened under a soft veil of rain, mountains rising like old storytellers along the border. I entered the country slowly, on two wheels, letting incense smoke, coffee steam, and the echo of old wars fold themselves into the rhythm of my ride.
Travel asks only this—to surrender to what appears, to the kindness of strangers, to the rain that soaks you, to the stories waiting in the quiet between hills.
Cycling through history, hospitality, and the quiet strangeness of everyday life
Crossing Into the Green Silence - Ban Dong, Laos → Dong Ha, Vietnam
A short twenty-kilometre ride from my Laos guesthouse brought me to the border, where immigration went surprisingly smoothly. Vietnam greeted me with a detour into Lao Bao—just long enough to withdraw a generous three million Dong and pick up a local SIM card before the road tilted upward into the mountains.
The climb revealed sweeping vistas, the kind that hush the mind. Descending again, I passed turnoffs to war-scarred sites, including the Rockpile—a jagged karst outcrop once used as an American observation post. Its silhouette lingered like a bruise on the landscape.
Yet the region felt as rural and gentle as Laos. Women smoked long, slender pipes while selling banana hearts; people carried goods in woven baskets strapped to their backs. Their laughter drifted across the road like a soft breeze. I followed the hilly ribbon of asphalt all the way to Dong Ha, a hundred-odd kilometres down the drag.
Rain Over the DMZ
I woke to drizzle tapping at the window, torn between staying cocooned in my room or surrendering to the wet world outside. Restlessness won. I pedalled into the grey morning, the drizzle thickening into a steady rain.
Crossing the DMZ felt surreal—this land once carved by conflict now lay peaceful, quilted with rice paddies and grazing buffalo. In the constant rain, my focus wavered, and I missed the turnoff to the tunnels. I refused to backtrack. The downpour dulled the day, kept my camera tucked away, and left me sighing at the missed photographs. Still, there’s a strange refreshment in cycling through warm rain, a cleansing of sorts.
I arrived in Dong Hoi after another 100-ish kilometres. The town quickly taught me about prices and the art of not being duped. Vendors laughed when I challenged them, refunding me with good humour. I learned to order only from menus with printed prices; shops without them left me feeling like a fish out of water.
I stayed an extra day, wandering a city still bearing the scars of the 1965 B52 bombings. Only fragments remain—water tower, city gate, a Catholic church, a lone palm tree. I cycled between them, drinking cup after cup of aromatic Vietnamese coffee, sheltering from the rain, swapping stories with travellers, and sampling the local cuisine.
One thing struck me: the absence of stray dogs. Instead, motorbikes carried wire cages filled with dogs destined for the dinner table. Dog meat, eaten with rice wine, is considered a delicacy. Though unsettling, I reminded myself that cultural practices often sit in uncomfortable grey zones.
Funeral Smoke and Karst Mountains
After a hearty breakfast, I set off toward Phong Nha National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where some of Asia’s oldest karst mountains rise like ancient sentinels. The landscape unfolded in dramatic sweeps—towering peaks, lush valleys, the rhythmic hum of my wheels.
Halfway there, a funeral procession caught my eye. A man in a brown robe chanted while mourners in white gathered around offerings of food and incense. They urged me to take photos, then stuffed my handlebar bag with fruit and snacks until it bulged comically. I performed an exaggerated puja in thanks, palms pressed together, bowing repeatedly, laughing at my own theatrics.
In Son Trach, I found a guesthouse and headed straight for Phong Nha Cave. A boat ferried me up the Son Trach River to its yawning entrance. Inside, the world transformed—stalactites and stalagmites rising like frozen cathedrals, each formation more magical than the last.
The Hidden Cathedral Beneath the Earth - Son Trach and Paradise Cave
Packed and ready to leave, I felt a tug—an intuition that I wasn’t done here. I stayed another day.
The road to Paradise Cave wound through rice paddies and karst peaks, leading to a modest entrance that concealed one of the longest caves on Earth—thirtyone kilometres of hidden splendour discovered only in 2005. A wooden staircase carried me into its vastness. Even with a tour group nearby, the cave swallowed sound and space, leaving me in quiet awe. Words fail; even my photos feel inadequate.
Along the Old Ho Chi Minh Trail
Dark Cave tempted me, but the cost of the adventure tour nudged me back to practicality. Instead, I savoured my included breakfast—Vietnamese omelette, baguette, iced coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
“Where you go?” they asked as I packed. “China,” I replied. Blank stares. The concept seemed distant, abstract.
The road north carried me through quintessential Vietnamese countryside—rice fields, buffalo, karst silhouettes. Farmers ploughed with oxen; fishermen cast nets from slender boats. I followed an old Ho Chi Minh trail, its history heavy with sacrifice. Old graves dotted the landscape like quiet reminders.
A sugar cane juice vendor offered sweet relief. A missed turn pushed me onto the main road, but it became a blessing—women collecting recyclables, men tending buffalo, two women herding geese and ducks with effortless grace. I ended the day after biking 125km when I spotted the Yang Hotel, grateful for the nearby restaurant.
Buffalo Rivers and Strange Conversations
My morning began with drama: an Australian woman demanded I delete a photo of dogs being transported by bike, threatening to make me “friendless.” As if that would stop the Vietnamese from eating dog meat. I wondered which of my Facebook friends might receive odd messages from her.
Later, a man insisted cycling was easier for women because we are “stronger,” while men struggled—this from someone riding a motorised bicycle. His logic escaped me, but at least someone shouted a cheerful “Welcome to Vietnam.”
The AH1 highway made a dull, busy, 110km ride to Dien Chau. The day’s highlight was watching a herd of buffalo swim across a wide river—graceful, powerful, unexpected.
Laughter in the Face of Collision
The following day unfolded like a comedy of errors. Rounding a parked truck, I nearly collided with a woman riding against traffic. She dropped her bike; I rode straight over it. She burst into laughter—Vietnamese humour at its finest.
Locals approached me to practise foreign languages—English, German, French. My repeated “I don’t understand” did nothing to deter them. One man greeted me with “Salaam alaikum,” and I responded with the only Arabic phrase I knew. I must have looked wildly out of place, but it made us both laugh.
Closer to Hanoi, the road grew chaotic—trucks, buses, produce drying on the tarmac. Mining scars marred the landscape, but farmers harvesting rice and women cycling with heavy loads brought beauty back into the frame. I ended the day's ride at Thanh Hoa.
The Limestone Kingdom of Tam Coc
A short 60-kilometre ride led me toward one of Vietnam’s most iconic landscapes. Tam Coc buzzed with tourists, but its beauty was undeniable—boats gliding between limestone cliffs rising from emerald paddies, a land reminiscent of Ha Long Bay.
Rain threatened, and I debated whether a boat trip would be worth it. The sky held the answer.
Into Hanoi’s Warm, Rain‑Soaked Embrace
The drizzle persisted, nudging me toward Hanoi rather than upriver. After breakfast and a strong coffee, I surrendered to the city’s pull.
The route wound through rural settlements where women balanced wicker baskets on shoulder poles. A surprise stop at ancient Hoa Lu—Vietnam’s former capital—offered moss-covered walls, old temples, and narrow alleys steeped in history.
Eventually, the AH1 swallowed me again, narrowing into a potholed single lane. The final stretch into Hanoi was a heart-pounding dance with chaotic traffic. Arriving soaked and exhausted, I found refuge in a cheap guesthouse tucked into the old quarter’s maze.
The days that followed became a tapestry of street food, coffee, laughter, and nights out with Bret, Hayley, and their friends. Rumours of a typhoon kept me lingering. Each morning, the weatherman declared, “Today’s the day,” and each day I booked another night.
Following the Duong River’s Quiet Pulse
Nothning much came of the storm and I packed up. Leaving Hanoi felt like peeling myself away from a warm embrace. I drifted through settlements along the Duong River—matchbox houses, rice paddies, red-roofed homes that reminded me strangely of Eastern Europe.
My GPS, set to “walking” by accident, guided me through markets, cobblestone alleys, temples, and residential lanes. Buffalo wandered freely; chickens and pigs added their soundtrack. Farmers tended vegetable plots by hand. Villagers dried rice on the tarmac, turning it with quiet precision.
I hesitated to take photos, but couldn’t resist capturing a man carrying not just fishing gear on his shoulder pole, but an entire boat. I pedalled on for about 115 kilometres before calling it a day at a roadside Hotel.
Halong’s Haze and a Forgotten Passport
A blissfully short ride carried me into Halong City, framed by karst formations rising like ancient guardians. Yet the city itself felt like a construction site—development booming under Vietnam’s free trade agreements.
Then came the realisation: my passport was still in Hanoi. The hotel receptionist sprang into action, calling her brother, a minivan driver, who retrieved it and delivered it to my hotel in Halong City!. Kindness, once again, saving the day.
A Day Devoured by Fog and Food - Halong City
The weather turned foul—pollution, haze, fog. A boat trip was out of the question. Instead, I surrendered to the pleasures of food and drink, letting the city feed me in its own way.
Rice Fields, Ruins, and Rice Wine Invitations
Northern Vietnam is a paradox—achingly beautiful yet suffocated by pollution. As I moved inland, the haze lifted, revealing rolling hills and ripening rice fields glowing gold.
Old houses crumbled gracefully beside the fields. Locals at roadside stands offered food and drink; kiosk owners beckoned me to join them for rice wine. I declined with gratitude.
I reached Dam Ha after 120 kilometres and found a guesthouse beside a simple restaurant serving one dish and Bia Ha Noi on tap. Pointing was enough to order. The meal—rice, tofu, sausage, greens—was enormous and unexpectedly delicious.
The Curious Eyes of Mong Cai
A short 60-kilometre scenic ride brought me to Mong Cai, a bustling border city alive with markets and cross-border trade. I stood out immediately—foreigners rarely pass through here. People peered into my shopping bags, watched me eat, and hovered with curiosity. Two women sat beside me and stared until I packed up and left to get takeaway elsewhere.
Adventure comes in many forms!
Into China, Under a Sky of New Possibilities Mong Cai, Vietnam → Qinzhou, China
Crossing into China felt like stepping into a quirky indie film. Crowds gathered around me, inspecting my handlebar bag, my solar panel, my jewellery. Their curiosity was intense, almost overwhelming.
Immigration officers examined my passport with puzzled fascination—perhaps they’d never seen someone from “Nanfei.” Eventually, they waved me through.
In Dongxing, I withdrew 4,000 yuan and hunted for a SIM card. The first shop couldn’t help, but a kind woman led me to the main office. By 11 a.m., I was ready to ride.
The road to Qinzhou was a delight—quiet, scenic, refreshing. Urban sprawl appeared intimidating at first, but Chinese cities proved surprisingly easy to navigate.
Evening fell early with the time change. I splurged on a luxurious hotel—double my usual budget, but worth every yuan. After dinner, I attempted laundry in a tiny basin, grateful for the drying rack beneath the air conditioner.
A new country, a new rhythm, a new chapter unfolding.
Epilogue
By the time I reached Mong Cai,
Vietnam had settled into me—
its rain, its laughter, its open‑handed generosity.
Crossing into China felt like stepping from one dream into another,
the road ahead wide and waiting.
I pedalled forward knowing that every border crossed
is simply the beginning of the next story.
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