176 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND TO VIETNAM

Pedalling the Monsoon

 From Thailand to Hanoi Through Southeast Asia’s Changing Landscapes

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VOICEOVER

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

 

  

Prelude

It began, as many questionable decisions do, with confidence entirely out of proportion to the circumstances. I locked my door in Jomtien, loaded the bicycle, and set off east with the quiet conviction that all would be well. Within a kilometre, it started raining. Not theatrically at first—just enough to suggest that this would be the sort of journey in which the weather would have strong opinions and no regard whatsoever for my itinerary.

The route ahead would carry me from Thailand’s coast to the Cambodian border, through Cambodia’s slower, dustier unpredictability, and then north through Vietnam, where canals, ferries, mountain passes, heat, history, and bureaucracy would all take turns shaping the road. By the end, I would reach Hanoi with a head full of landscapes, a body mildly offended by the experience, and the familiar sense that long journeys are never really about arrival. They are about the accumulation of improbable moments in between.

 

PART 1 - THAILAND

Pattaya to the Cambodian Border

 

 

Rolling East

There’s a particular kind of optimism required to set off on a cycling journey in Thailand at the start of the rainy season. It’s the sort of optimism that convinces you the rain will hold off just long enough—and then watches, mildly betrayed, as it begins within the first kilometre.

That was how this six-day, 379-kilometre ride from Jomtien to the Cambodian border began: under low skies, steady drizzle, and a quiet determination to keep pedalling regardless.

 

Rain, Roads, and Routine Comforts

I began the day with unusual decisiveness: I would leave. This was a bold commitment, especially once I had locked the door—an activity so rare in my life that I then had to spend several minutes searching for the key, like a person who had unexpectedly broken into their own home.

Barely one kilometre into my grand departure, the sky took notice and began raining. At first gently, then persistently, and eventually with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for dramatic film finales. It continued, with admirable consistency, for most of the day.

At one point, it became so enthusiastic that I sought shelter in a bus stop, where I shared the space with a plastic bench, a suspicious puddle, and what I believe was a mosquito of unusual confidence.

Cycling in warm rain is not entirely unpleasant—so long as you surrender entirely to the fact that you are going to be wet. I declined to wear my raincoat, which would have turned me into something resembling a boiled dumpling. Besides, I am not made of sugar, so there was little risk of dissolving.

Seventy kilometres later, I rolled into Rayong, marginally waterlogged but intact, and headed straight to my favourite bargain accommodation. For THB300, one gets air-conditioning, a washing machine, filtered water, and—most importantly—the ability to bring one’s bicycle indoors like a beloved family member. Add a nearby night market, and the decision to stop became not only sensible but inevitable.

 

Quiet Roads and Forgotten Towns

I slept with such enthusiasm that I didn’t wake until 8 a.m., which felt both decadent and faintly suspicious, as though I had missed an important meeting with myself.

The rain had temporarily lost interest, so I set off along the coast, which was suspiciously beautiful—lush greenery, sweeping curves of road, and just enough sea breeze to feel cinematic without being irritating.

At some point I veered inland toward Klaeng, a town with a quiet, reflective air, as if it had once been lively but was now content to take things easy. The wooden buildings stood patiently, the old police station looked dignified despite having no apparent crimes to address, and the whole place had the charm of a location that no one has rushed in to modernise unnecessarily.

I briefly toyed with the romantic notion of staying in one of the historic wooden buildings, but ended up in a modern hotel room large enough to host indoor sports. Naturally, I celebrated this excess space by going to the supermarket and buying enough food to see me through a minor siege.

 

Into Chanthaburi: Generosity on the Road

Time, I’ve noticed, has begun to behave irresponsibly. Somehow it was already June, and I had spent part of the night awake at 3 a.m. watching crime documentaries, which left me feeling as though I might personally be called upon to solve a case.

Setting off in a slightly dazed state, I discovered that my camera lens had fogged up, producing photographs that looked like they had been taken from inside a kettle. Fortunately, this cleared, revealing temples, rivers swollen from rain, and fields so vividly green they seemed almost overconfident.

One of the great pleasures of cycling in Thailand is the generosity of strangers. Throughout the day, I was handed water, bananas, and ice, as though I were a slightly underprepared professional athlete. Passing motorists offered thumbs-up and waves, confirming that, at the very least, I looked like someone engaged in purposeful activity.

I arrived in Chanthaburi tired but content and checked into a modest hotel offering cold showers, tiled walls, and—crucially—a window that opens. In 33°C heat, I would choose ventilation over hot water every time.

 

Storms, Setbacks, and Slow Days

The night brought a storm of biblical ambition. Thunder crashed with such enthusiasm that I briefly considered updating my will, and lightning illuminated the room with interrogation-room intensity. The building itself seemed to participate in the drama, shaking slightly for effect.

Morning arrived looking suspiciously calm. I set off to immigration to arrange a re-entry permit, only to find the office firmly closed. It was, of course, a public holiday.

Freed from the burden of productivity, I embraced a relaxed day: breakfast at a vegan restaurant so cheap it felt like an accounting error, followed by laundry and an ultimately unsuccessful search for a decent water bottle. My current one appears to have been designed as a warning to others.

As the day progressed, I entertained the idea of abandoning my grand journey temporarily and taking a bus back to Jomtien—to handle the sort of domestic responsibilities (like paying the electricity bill) that quietly threaten to undermine even the most adventurous lifestyle.

 

A Brief Intermission

The minivan journey back to Jomtien proved surprisingly efficient—one of those experiences that restores your faith in transport systems. I arrived home to find everything exactly as I’d left it, which felt oddly reassuring.

After depositing money for the electricity bill (an act of quiet heroism), I ran into friends and was promptly persuaded into having a beer—purely for social cohesion, of course.

The following morning, I attempted to deal with immigration again, only to encounter a queue of discouraging proportions. Realising that Chanthaburi would likely be quieter, I performed a swift and strategic retreat, stopped to buy a proper water bottle (a significant upgrade to my daily experience), and returned by minivan.

True to expectation, immigration in Chanthaburi was blissfully empty, and the whole process took no time at all—a triumph of strategic laziness.

 

Back on the Road

After a night of gentle rain, I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in, only leaving at 11 a.m., which felt both indulgent and entirely justified.

Setting off late, I attempted to follow quieter backroads but was eventually funnelled onto the main route, which, thankfully, was pleasant enough. The weather behaved itself, the traffic was cooperative, and the ride was thoroughly agreeable.

In Trat, I found a delightful guesthouse with colourful bungalows and, most importantly, room for my bike indoors. At this point, I’ve come to measure accommodation quality almost entirely by how well it accommodates a bicycle.

 

Crossing into Cambodia

The morning began with a half-hearted drizzle that seemed unsure whether to commit, but I set off regardless. This stretch of road is familiar territory—wedged between mountains and sea, with just enough hills to remind you that you are not, in fact, invincible.

Despite knowing the route well, the climbs felt unexpectedly challenging. This, I suspect, has less to do with geography and more to do with the undeniable realities of age and recent inactivity—two factors I prefer to ignore until they become unavoidable.

At the border, I was charged THB1500 for a visa that should have cost THB1000. After a polite but pointed inquiry, I was refunded THB300, leaving us all slightly dissatisfied but willing to move on.

Crossing into Cambodia was immediately noticeable—not just in the change of driving direction but in the enthusiastic presence of potholes and dust. Trucks generated clouds so dense they could have qualified as weather systems, and the road required constant attention to avoid unexpected aquatic features masquerading as puddles.

After 103 kilometres, I arrived—decisively—in the first Cambodian town and secured a room for $11, which provided two essential luxuries: a shower and a horizontal surface.

That evening, I ran into a fellow traveller from the border, and soon another joined us, forming the sort of spontaneous gathering that makes travel endlessly rewarding. Stories were exchanged, experiences compared, and before long, I found myself navigating the local currency system—an intriguing blend of Cambodian riel and US dollars that requires just enough mental arithmetic to feel adventurous.

 

The Rhythm of the Ride

Cycling eastern Thailand offers a balance of challenge and reward: changing weather, varied terrain, and the unpredictability of travel, offset by striking landscapes and exceptional local generosity.

It’s not a journey defined by dramatic milestones, but by smaller, cumulative moments—rain-soaked mornings, roadside kindness, quiet towns, and the steady rhythm of turning pedals.

And ultimately, that’s its greatest appeal.

 

 

PART 2 - CAMBODIA

A Slow Journey to the Vietnam Border

 

 

Cambodia: Where Plans Go to Be Politely Ignored

Crossing into Cambodia is a bit like stepping into a parallel universe—familiar enough to function, yet different enough to keep you slightly off balance at all times.

The roads are rougher, the distances feel more theoretical than measurable, and the general pace of life seems to have quietly agreed not to hurry for anyone.

 

 

Skipping the Familiar: Koh Kong to Phnom Penh

After arriving in Koh Kong, I considered my next move like a woman who has just cycled several thousand kilometres and would quite like a small break—preferably one involving sitting down.

Having already ridden the route to Phnom Penh more times than I care to admit, I made the bold and deeply strategic decision to take a bus. This, I told myself, was not laziness, but efficiency.

The bus, somewhat annoyingly, was excellent. For a very small amount of money, it whisked me 300 kilometres in comfort, which made me question my entire commitment to cycling for the past 18 years.

Phnom Penh, when it arrived, did so all at once: traffic, noise, movement, and the general impression that nothing was entirely under control, yet everything somehow worked anyway.

 

Administrative Surprises and Culinary Challenges

No sooner had I checked into my hotel than I discovered that obtaining a Vietnamese visa—once involving a physical office and basic paperwork—had evolved into a fully online process!

This would have been useful to know earlier, but travel has a way of teaching you things exactly when they're too late to be useful.

While waiting for the visa (and trying not to refresh my email every seven seconds), I explored the riverfront—lively, colourful, and full of food stalls offering an impressive variety of dishes, all of which appeared determined not to be vegetarian.

Undeterred, I located a cold beer and joined the evening crowd, which is often the most efficient way to solve any travel-related disappointment. The next evening, I met up with my friend Mat for a meal at our favourite Ethiopian restaurant.

 

Leaving the City (Eventually)

I like Phnom Penh, so it took several days and a surprising amount of motivational effort to leave. At one point, I even managed to wake up early, felt energetic, and then… didn't go anywhere.

Eventually, however, the bike was loaded, and I set off—navigating traffic that operates on principles not immediately obvious to the untrained observer.

The further I rode, the calmer things became. Villages replaced vehicles, roadside stalls appeared selling everything from fuel in recycled soda bottles to snacks of uncertain composition, and life slowed to a more manageable pace.

There was even a stall selling what I can only describe as “things that shouldn’t logically be food,” including what appeared to be ant larvae—proof that curiosity and hunger do not always align.

 

Wind, Rain, and Character Building

The ride to Kampot was, in technical terms, unpleasant.

Wind howled. Rain arrived in repeated, inconvenient bursts. Progress slowed to a pace that made walking seem ambitious.

At various intervals, I sought refuge—in a café (pleasant), in an abandoned shelter (less so), and finally in the hopeful proximity of my destination (at which point I gave up avoiding the rain entirely).

By the time I reached Kampot, I was wet, hungry, and feeling as though I had aged noticeably during the day.

 

An Unexpected Pause

Kampot turned out to be more than just a rest stop—it became a waiting room.

My Vietnamese visa, when approved, arrived with the bureaucratic precision of specifying exactly when I could enter the country, leaving me with several unintended days to fill.

This is how travel teaches patience: not through gentle encouragement, but by removing your ability to do anything else.

Fortunately, Kampot is well suited to waiting. There are riverside walks, local markets, and nearby attractions ranging from ancient caves to mist-covered hilltops dotted with relics of colonial ambition.

It was all very pleasant—right up until my body decided it had other ideas.

 

Coastal Detour: Kampot to Kep - The Bit Where Everything Stops Completely

Somewhere along the line, I picked up a chest infection, which quickly escalated into something far less sociable: a fever, a complete lack of energy, and eventually a diagnosis of COVID.

This was not part of the itinerary.

For several days, the journey came to a complete standstill. The bike remained untouched, leaning quietly against a wall like an abandoned project.

There is a particular frustration in being forced to stop—not because you want to, but because you have absolutely no choice.

Recovery was slow, but steady. Medication helped, rest became mandatory, and eventually, after several days of doing very little very thoroughly, I began to feel human again.

 

Final Stretch: Kep to Ha Tien, Vietnam

Back in Motion (With Slightly Reduced Enthusiasm)

The short ride to the Vietnamese border didn’t feel like a triumphant restart so much as a cautious return to normal life.

Crossing the border, however, was wonderfully familiar—a process I could likely complete half-asleep after doing it so many times.

And just like that, Cambodia was behind me.

 

Looking Back

Cambodia has a way of reshaping a journey.

It interrupts plans, slows progress, and occasionally brings everything to a complete halt. But in doing so, it reveals a different kind of travel—one less about covering distance and more about dealing with whatever happens next.

You arrive expecting movement; you leave understanding the value of stopping.

 

 

PART 3 - VIETNAM

From the Mekong Delta to Hanoi

 

 

Water, Wonder—and Mild Confusion

Arriving in Vietnam from Cambodia felt less like crossing a border and more like quietly slipping into a completely different rhythm of life—one that hums, flows, honks, and occasionally splashes.

My journey north unfolded across 2,200 kilometres of contrasts—lush delta landscapes, chaotic cities, coastal highways, mountain passes, and layers of history that surfaced at every turn.

 

 

The Mekong Delta: Where Roads Become Suggestions

The first few days in Vietnam unfold alongside water—endless, reflective, quietly industrious water.

For nearly 90 kilometres, I followed a canal that twisted through the delta like it had somewhere important to be but wasn’t in a hurry to get there. On either side, rice fields rippled in the breeze, impossibly green and faintly smug about it.

This is where the Mekong River, having travelled over 4,000 kilometres from Tibet, finally gives up and disperses into the sea. After such an epic journey, you might expect some drama, but instead it simply meanders politely through farmland while people get on with growing rice and living their lives.

Cycling here felt less like travel and more like drifting.

Villages appear quietly. Children materialise from nowhere. Every stop—for water, for food, for curiosity—turned into a small community event. Names were exchanged, origins were attempted in several languages, and my explanation that I’m from South Africa regularly produced a look that suggested I’d misunderstood the question entirely.

“But… you are white,” they say, helpfully.

This was followed by a brief, friendly moment of international confusion before everyone agreed it didn’t matter and handed me a coconut anyway.

Upon reaching Chau Doc, beautifully nestled alongside the Bassac River, spotting accommodation was a breeze given the town’s popularity as a river crossing between Vietnam and Cambodia. This vibrant town is also home to Tuc Dup Hill, a place that carries the weight of history, earning the nickname Two Million Dollar Hill due to the costly American bombing campaign in 1963. The stories that linger here are as rich as the land itself!

 

 

The Day the Road Gave Up Entirely

The following day began well—too well, in fact, which should have been a warning.

Determined to avoid the main road and its various interpretations of traffic law, I took a smaller route through charming countryside where everything seemed calm, organised, and entirely under control.

Until the road stopped.

Not gradually, or with warning. It simply ceased to exist, leaving me in what can only be described as a mud-filled clay pit, specifically designed to punish optimism.

Maps, I’ve discovered, are often enthusiastic but not always truthful.

Still, the detour had its rewards. Villages along the way sold everything from bananas to coffee to flowers, often from homes that seemed to consist of little more than a curtain and an entrepreneurial spirit. It was commerce in its most efficient form.

Then, in a moment of unexpected drama, the wind arrived.

And not just politely—it arrived with the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for natural disasters. Loose objects took flight. Pieces of corrugated iron soared past with unnerving ambition. A tree branch attempted, briefly, to end my journey entirely.

I adopted what felt like a very sensible strategy: turning onto an even smaller road and hoping the storm would lose interest.

It mostly did.

 

Cai Be: The Case of the Missing Floating Market

By the time I reached Cai Be, I was expecting to encounter its famous floating market—a bustling spectacle of boats trading goods in lively chaos.

Instead, I found… nothing.

It turned out that floating markets, like many things in life, operate on their own schedule. By the time I arrived, they had already completed whatever business they had, leaving me to admire an entirely ordinary river and question my timing.

 

My Tho and Strategic Avoidance of Saigon

The short ride to My Tho passed quickly—surprisingly so, to the extent that I briefly wondered if I had missed something important along the way.

The town serves as a gateway to the Mekong Delta and, more importantly, to Saigon.

Avoiding Saigon traffic quickly became my primary objective.

Some travellers seek out big cities for their energy. I prefer to admire them from a comfortable distance, ideally one that does not involve navigating them by bicycle.

This required a plan.

Or at least something resembling one.

 

Vam Lang: A Port, a Puzzle, and a Translation App

Vam Lang, it turned out, is not the sort of place where information presents itself clearly.

The harbour was a lively chaos of boats, seafood, and people who clearly understood what was happening but saw no urgent need to explain it. After wandering around aimlessly for a while, I retreated to a hotel, where—through the combined efforts of a translation app and mutual optimism—I learned that a boat to Vung Tau did indeed exist.

Possibly.

It might leave at around 9 a.m.

From somewhere on the opposite side of the river.

This felt sufficiently definite to proceed.

 

Vam Lang to Vung Tau - The Boat (A Test of Faith)

The next morning, I located what appeared to be the correct boat, though this was based largely on instinct and a willingness to commit.

It was not, strictly speaking, a ferry.

It was a fishing vessel that had agreed, at least temporarily, to transport people. It required crossing a narrow plank, which prompted immediate reflection on balance, timing, and mortality. Once aboard, the situation improved only slightly. Movement inside the boat was achieved by crawling, seating was theoretical, and conversation was limited to curious glances—no one spoke English, and I spoke nothing useful in return.

The toilet arrangement involved two planks and a curtain, which seemed to rely heavily on confidence and very little else.

Three hours later, and with a slightly sore backside, we arrived in Vung Tau.

Back on Land (and Grateful for It)

Stepping back onto solid ground felt like a significant achievement.

Vung Tau was calm, structured, and reassuringly stable. Buildings remained where they were placed. Chairs existed. The general absence of crawling was particularly welcome.

After the fluid unpredictability of the delta, it felt like a return to something resembling order.

 

Traffic, Noise, and New Rules (Or Lack Thereof)

Leaving Vung Tau introduced me fully to Vietnamese traffic, which operates according to principles that are not immediately obvious.

The safest interpretation appears to be this: keep moving, keep looking forward, and avoid hitting anything.

Horn use is constant and serves a variety of purposes, including but not limited to: “I am here,” “I am going faster,” “I am about to do something unexpected,” and occasionally, “please reconsider your current position in the road.”

Surprisingly, it works.

 

Mui Ne: Then and Now

The ride along the coast was pleasant. Villages spilt onto the road in colourful, chaotic energy, with vendors selling everything imaginable while motorbikes and trucks threaded through the scene with confident disregard for order.

A detour through Phan Thiet introduced me to the local fish sauce industry, which turned out to be far more complex than one might expect from something usually encountered in small bottles.

There is, it seems, an entire process involving fermentation, careful selection of anchovies, and months—if not years—of ageing to achieve the perfect balance of flavour.

It is reassuring to know that even something as simple as sauce involves an extraordinary amount of effort.

Further along the coast, Mui Ne appeared—not as the quiet fishing village I remembered from years before, but as a fully formed tourist destination.

Where once there had been space and simplicity, there were now guesthouses, homestays, and a steady flow of travellers. The transformation was impressive, if slightly disorienting—like returning to find your childhood home replaced by a resort.

 

Mue Ne -A Place to Pause

By the time I reached Mui Ne, the day had settled into something calm and manageable.

I found a room near the beach—a place where the sound of the waves softened the edges of the journey—and briefly considered staying put.

Travel, however, has a way of continuing.

 

Mui Ne to Ga Ca

I awoke to the soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore, and was reluctant to leave the comfort of my room. Eventually, I clambered out of bed, loaded up my bike, and pedalled away from picturesque Mui Ne. The coastal road was alive with the hustle and bustle of morning traffic, a chaotic dance of motorbikes zigzagging between lanes.

Soon, I veered off onto what seemed like a serene coastal path, only to find myself jostling along a dirt road that gradually surrendered to sand. With each turn of the pedals, the path beneath me turned softer, and I worried that I’d have to turn back. But after what felt like an eternity, I finally emerged on the main road. Just as I thought my adventure would stabilise, a small coastal path caught my eye (again), and I couldn’t resist the urge to explore once more. This time, luck was on my side; the road was paved, though still bumpy, and the charming villages that dotted the landscape made every jolt worth it.

The southern stretches of Vietnam revealed a stark contrast to the north, showcasing an almost surreal mixture of barren beauty: expansive sand dunes and rugged rocky outcrops. The terrain was undulating, while majestic mountains loomed ahead, but the road cleverly snaked around them, hugging the windswept coast.

After 100 kilometres, I stumbled upon a hotel directly on the beach, and realised I hadn’t eaten all day. Unfortunately, the power was out, and just as I began to lose hope, the lights flickered back to life around 7 p.m. My stomach growled in agreement, but I found the adjacent restaurant primarily offered meat and fish, neither of which appealed to me. So, I retreated to my room to enjoy a pack of instant noodles, my humble yet comforting dinner for the night.

I knew my ride the next day would be short; instant noodles just didn’t pack the energy I needed. But I would be sure to keep my eyes peeled for a roadside restaurant.

 

Ga Ca to Cam Nghia – Land of the Cham people

As the first rays of sunlight pierced my window, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude—the wild wind from the previous night had calmed, revealing a breathtaking ocean view that felt like a postcard scene. Outside, holidaymakers were already up and about, dressed in vibrant outfits, eagerly capturing the beauty of their surroundings through their camera lenses.

I ventured out into what could only be described as a classic Vietnamese morning. The air was thick with the smell of burning trash, mingling with the aroma of freshly prepared breakfast at the nearby Banh Mi and Pho stalls. My stomach grumbled—after a day without proper nourishment—and I stopped at a nearby roadside stand for my daily baguette with egg. Tiny, colourful plastic tables and chairs lined the street, where chickens pecked at the dirt and curious dogs watched with longing eyes.

Most of the morning, I stuck to the main road, a route that seemed endless with no diversions in sight. It was clear that this area was notoriously windy; towering wind turbines dotted the landscape. A road sign caught my eye, announcing that 1,400 kilometres remained to Hanoi. I doubted I would make it, especially with only 12 days left on my visa. I would eventually need to figure out my next steps—crossing the border or maybe attempting to extend my stay in Da Nang.

As I pedalled north, the scenery transformed into a picturesque representation of Vietnam: lush rice fields stretched out before me, framed by distant mountains. Cheerful encounters with the locals reminded me why I embraced cycle touring in the first place. The midday sun beat down fiercely, forcing me to stop frequently to refill my bottles of “nuoc” (water). At one of these stops, the kind owner offered me an ice lolly, on the house—just what I needed to cool off! I must have looked a bit worn out under the blazing sun.

Then, to my delight, I stumbled upon the Tháp Hòa Lai, an ancient Champa temple complex featuring two beautiful towers. I couldn’t help but feel awed by their historic significance and architectural beauty.

While Vietnam’s rich ancestry can be traced back to southern China, I learned that the Kinh Vietnamese—the largest ethnic group—descended from a blend of indigenous groups and migrants from southern China, particularly the Austroasiatic peoples. Over thousands of years, these migrations led to a diverse culture, with some roots extending back to early rice farmers from southern China.

The Cham people, who have inhabited Vietnam since at least the second century CE, are believed to have links to the ancient Sa Huỳnh culture, dating back to around 1000 BCE.

Continuing my ride, I soon encountered the turn-off to Nha Trang, still 40 kilometres away. With the clock ticking past 3 p.m., I decided to treat myself to a stay at the charming Magnolia Hotel, priced at 300,000 dong per night. My room was a haven—clean, spacious, and equipped with a decent bathroom and air conditioning. Add an elevator, and it felt like pure luxury! As I settled in, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the luxury of a desk and chair, hence the long journal entry on this day.

 

Nha Trang: Culture, Coffee, and Controlled Chaos

It begins, as most good days in Vietnam do, with coffee.

Not just any coffee, but the kind strong enough to make decisions on your behalf. Paired with a crusty baguette, it creates the illusion that you are not about to step into a day of tropical heat and questionable traffic decisions.

Nha Trang itself is a curious place—part beach resort, part historical exhibit, part obstacle course. You move between serene pagodas and chaotic intersections with very little transition time.

The city’s monuments each come with their own identity crisis. One tower, originally intended to resemble fragrant agarwood, has instead been universally recognised as a lotus. No one appears particularly bothered by this, which felt very Vietnamese—if something looks like a lotus, it may as well be one.

Getting around the city was less about navigation and more about commitment. Pedestrian crossings exist, but they function as decorative suggestions. The correct technique, I discover, is to step into the traffic with steady confidence and hope that physics still applies.

 

A Taxi Ride and a Life Review

At a certain point, defeated by the heat and traffic, I made what felt like a sensible decision: I got on the back of a motorbike taxi.

This immediately turned into an exercise in trust.

We launch into traffic with the reckless confidence of someone who has already made peace with the outcome. Lanes become optional, gaps appear imaginary, and I find myself gripping the seat, quietly reflecting on my life choices.

It is, oddly enough, one of the most efficient ways to travel.

 

Northbound: Where the Landscape Develops Personality

Leaving Nha Trang, Hills appear. Then mountains. Then more hills, just to ensure the point is understood.

At one particularly inconvenient moment, I discover that cyclists are not permitted through a tunnel. The alternative is a longer route involving climbing. This seems unfair until, by sheer luck, I meet a man who offers me a lift through the tunnel.

Within minutes, my bicycle was loaded onto a truck, and I was sitting there wondering if I had inadvertently joined a different kind of journey.

An hour later, I was deposited on the other side, remarkably ahead of schedule and deeply appreciative of the universe’s occasional kindness.

 

Heat: A New Form of Endurance

If the hills challenge the legs, the heat challenges everything else.

Progress was no longer measured in kilometres, but in cold drinks.

Every roadside stop was a survival strategy: water, coconut juice, anything liquid and vaguely chilled. Shade is no longer optional—it is a goal.

The ride to Quy Nhơn introduces a pattern: climb a hill, enjoy the view, spot another hill.

Repeat.

It became clear that Vietnam has an endless supply of mountains, each slightly more optimistic than the last about your ability to reach the top.

Yet the reward is always there—sweeping views of coastline, fishing villages, and rice fields stretching into the distance. It is just enough to convince you that cycling uphill was, in fact, your idea.

 

Deadlines and Questionable Planning

Somewhere along this coastal stretch, a new pressure emerges: time.

My visa was quietly counting down in the background, an administrative ticking clock that was increasingly difficult to ignore.

This leads to a moment of realisation—I have applied for a visa that is far too short for the distance to the Chinese border. What was I thinking?

Naturally, the solution involves cycling harder.

 

Scorching heat and a  Roadside hotel with a cold shower

As incredible as the ride was, the scorching heat made it difficult to fully enjoy. I wasn't alone in battling the sun; cyclists of all ages were out there, pedalling in the relentless heat. It’s fascinating to see elderly folks hustling through physical labour—yet, the minute I take a breather, I’m hit with the usual question, “How old are you?”

With temperatures soaring between 38 and 39 degrees Celsius (the app said it felt like 47!), I stopped frequently to hydrate, but it felt like I was cycling in an oven. I kept wishing for a cloud to roll in to offer some little relief, but my hopes were dashed. By 3 p.m., I spotted a roadside hotel and decided it was time to call it a day. Trust me, there’s no joy in cycling when the heat is that intense!

The room was only 250,000 dong—less than $10! Finding it fitted with icy cold air conditioning felt like hitting the jackpot. I stripped off my sweaty clothes and stood under the cold shower, savouring the cool water for what felt like an eternity. What a relief!

 

Da Nang: Chaos, Efficiency, and Bureaucracy

I was up and out of the room before the clock struck eight, kicking off an early ride. The sun was only just up, but I knew the day would be scorching, and I had around 120 kilometres ahead of me to reach Da Nang. The main goal? A stop at the visa office to sort out my visa run trip to Laos.

I passed by the My Lai massacre site, a location where the mass murder of unarmed civilians occurred in Sơn Mỹ village during the Vietnam War. It is estimated that at least 347 and possibly up to 504 civilians, nearly all women, children, and elderly men, were killed by U.S. Army soldiers. Some of the women were gang-raped, and their bodies mutilated. Additionally, some soldiers sexually assaulted and mutilated children as young as 12. This incident represents the largest massacre of civilians by U.S. forces in the 20th century that we are aware of.

The killing began while the troops were searching the village for soldiers and continued even after they realised that no soldiers seemed to be present. Villagers were gathered together, held in the open, and then murdered with automatic weapons, bayonets, and hand grenades. They then burned down homes and killed livestock.

In November 1969, two American soldiers disclosed the details of the massacre to the American public, prompting global outrage.

 

Arriving in Da Nang felt like stepping into a more organised form of chaos.

Traffic surges, but with purpose. Buildings rise. Everything moves quickly, including, thankfully, the visa office.

There is a particular joy in finding a hotel room that exceeds expectations—especially one with air conditioning, a balcony, and a view. In that moment, it is less a hotel room and more a personal recovery centre.

The next challenge: the visa run.

 

The Great Visa Expedition

A visa run is the least glamorous adventure imaginable, which of course makes it unforgettable.

It involves a long bus journey to the Laos border, followed by a sequence of official procedures that feel oddly anticlimactic. You leave one country, briefly stand in another, and return as though nothing significant has happened—except that everything is now legally acceptable again.

The return journey brings a different kind of reward: conversation.

On a bus full of travellers, you realise that everyone has their own version of this story—different routes, different reasons, but the same quiet persistence.

 

The next morning, I set out for the enchanting Ba Na Hills, drawn by the allure of the famed Golden Bridge. I have to admit, I was a bit sceptical and had my doubts about this excursion. But as I made my way up the mountain, I found that just getting there was a thrill, thanks to a breathtaking cable car ride offering panoramic views of the ocean and lush forests below, followed by an exhilarating funicular ride that heightened my anticipation.

Upon reaching the summit, the main attraction, the Golden Bridge, awaited. This stunning footbridge, cradled by two gigantic hands, is undeniably captivating. If it were a real bridge stretching across a river or ravine, I would have been completely mesmerised. However, it's important to note that this structure serves primarily as a tourist attraction—not a crossing for daily commuters. The area surrounding the bridge features ancient European castles that feel more like a Disneyland attraction than a Vietnamese setting.

 

Hue: Beauty, Hunger, and Concrete Beds

Arriving in Hue after a long ride felt like an achievement worth celebrating.

Unfortunately, my choice of accommodation felt less celebratory and more geological—the bed has the structural integrity of a rock formation.

Still, Hue itself redeems everything.

The old Imperial City carries a quiet grandeur, even in its partial restoration. You walk through its gates with the sense that time has folded slightly—past and present layered over each other in a way that invites reflection rather than explanation.

 

Moments of Ease (At Last)

After days of heat and hills, the ride out of Hue offered unexpected relief.

Cloud cover arrived, the temperatures dropped slightly, and cycling became enjoyable again, rather than a controlled form of suffering.

There are days like this where everything aligns: the weather, the road, the body. You stop less, think less, and simply ride.

These are the days that quietly justify all the others.

 

Looking Back (So Far)

By this point, Vietnam has made its character very clear.

It is vast, varied, occasionally exhausting, and endlessly engaging. It demands attention—whether through its traffic, its terrain, or its past.

But it also rewards persistence.

Because just when you begin to wonder whether the heat, the hills, and the organisation of everything might defeat you, the road levels out, a cool drink appears, or someone offers help without hesitation.

And you carry on.

 

Hue to Dong Ha, easy riding.

Today’s ride was nothing short of a joy! The remnants of the typhoon that made landfall further north gifted me with a refreshing cloud cover that kept the heat at bay. Or, maybe it was the rest day that fuelled me with energy; either way, I hardly made any stops! My only pauses were to refill my water bottle about 10 kilometres outside Hue and then again around 20 kilometres from Dong Ha.

As I approached Dong Ha, I took a quick detour into town, hoping to find something interesting. Unfortunately, it was a bit of a bust—nothing caught my eye. So, with a quick U-turn, I headed back to the main road where a treasure trove of eateries and hotels awaited.

I popped into the first hotel I found and, to my delight, they quoted me a rate of 300,000 dong and welcomed me to bring my bicycle right into the room! I was so pleased with this arrangement that I didn’t even bother to look for another option.

It must have been my lucky day! The bed was incredibly comfy, there was a mobile phone store just across the street for topping up my internet, and a delightful street food vendor was right next door! Honestly, it doesn’t get much better than this.

Happy days indeed!

 

The Vinh Moc Tunnels

Soon after departing, I found myself enveloped in the enchanting landscape of Vietnam, where lush rice paddies painted a vivid green, only to be interrupted by the solemn presence of graves scattered throughout the countryside. It was a striking juxtaposition, a reminder of history woven seamlessly into daily life. I set my sights on revisiting the Vinh Moc tunnels, a site that had captivated me on my previous journey.

These tunnels, carved painstakingly during the American War, stand as monumental testaments to resilience and ingenuity. They were not merely tunnels; they were lifelines—safe havens for families and strategic strongholds in the heart of combat. As I roamed through the labyrinth of passages, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of history around me. Informative boards vividly recounted tales of how these tunnels were instrumental in outmanoeuvring the Americans, ultimately paving the way for the reunification of the Vietnamese people.

Spanning 1.7 kilometres with 13 discreet entrances, the tunnels descend through three levels, plunging to depths of 8–10 meters, 12–15 meters, and a remarkable 20–23 meters. Along their damp, earthen walls, small nooks served as makeshift living quarters, snugly fitting two to four individuals. I marvelled at the gathering hall, which could accommodate 50 to 60 people, a maternity ward, wells, toilets, hospital areas, and even a kitchen—all crafted under the ground, far away from the chaos above. It was hard to fathom the lives that once thrived in these dark confines, battling despair and uncertainty as they forged their paths to survival.

 

Dong Hoi: History, Coffee, and the DMZ

Dong Hoi is the sort of place where the past lingers just beneath the surface, occasionally rising to remind you that the road you’re pedalling has seen far more serious business than touring cyclists.

As I strolled along the riverbank, I couldn’t shake the sombre echoes of the past that lingered in the air. Dong Hoi, once caught in the crossfire of the Vietnam War, was tragically positioned near the DMZ—the notorious Demilitarised Zone where much of the brutal fighting took place. On that fateful day, 11 February 1965, American B-52s unleashed their fury, reducing the city to rubble. All that stood in defiance of the devastation were remnants: a solitary water tower, fragments of the city gate, the shell of a Catholic Church, and a lone palm tree.

As I sauntered through the streets of Dong Hoi, I also discovered the imposing remnants of the city wall and citadel. Constructed in 1631, it stood as a mighty sentinel between the northern Trinh forces and the southern Nguyen dynasty. This impressive structure was a key component of a larger fortification system designed to defend against invasions.

Naturally, I reflected on all of this over a strong Vietnamese coffee and a baguette, which seems to be my preferred method of processing history.

 

Into the Green: Phong Nha and the Underground World

Leaving the coast behind, the ride toward Phong Nha felt like entering a different country altogether.

The road winds inland through lush countryside so green it almost felt exaggerated, as though someone had turned the saturation up too high. Cycling became easier, the air fresher, and the scenery increasingly dramatic.

Phong Nha itself is less a town and more a gateway to caves, mountains, and the sort of landscape that makes you briefly consider giving up structured travel altogether.

The caves, in particular, are something else entirely.

You arrive by boat, glide into the darkness, and suddenly find yourself in a vast underground world where ceilings stretch upwards, and shadows do most of the storytelling. It’s cool, quiet, and faintly surreal—an environment that makes you forget, for a moment, that outside it’s probably still extremely hot.

 

Navigating Vietnam (Or Not) The Road to Đồng Lê

Leaving Phong Nha, the route became less certain.

Small roads led to smaller roads, which occasionally led to nothing at all. Maps remain optimistic, but reality tends to negotiate.

At one point, a helpful local waved me over, asked where I was going, and—without fully confirming whether I knew where I was going—gestured for me to follow him. This resulted in a brief but scenic detour across bridges and through landscapes that, while beautiful, are not remotely aligned with my intended direction.

Eventually, I regain control of the situation by making an executive decision—turning left and hoping for the best.

This, I’ve found, is the core principle of my cycle touring.

 

The Mountain That Wasn’t Optional

Not all roads in Vietnam are peaceful. Some, it turned out, are shared with large trucks, narrow enough to make passing an act of mutual faith, and coated in just enough dust to make breathing optional.

One such stretch led inevitably uphill.

After a brief period of optimism, I abandoned cycling altogether. I pushed the bike to the top, accompanied by the comforting roar of engines and the growing suspicion that this was not one of my better route choices.

Still, it ended—as all climbs do—with relief, a small town, and a hotel that felt disproportionately luxurious after such an ordeal.

 

Horong Khe to Vinh

My transition from the previous day’s busy road to the serene charm of a winding country lane was pure joy. It felt liberating to bike through expansive farmlands and quaint, remote villages. I quickly realised that I wasn’t exactly blending in; villagers greeted my presence with a mix of curiosity and caution. One kid, mid-skip, spotted me, hovered in the air for a second or so and bolted home—now that’s not something you see every day! I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

Just when I thought I was making good progress towards Vinh, the wind decided to make its presence known, turning my ride into a challenge. It felt like I was wrestling the elements to stay on course! Eventually, I opted to stop for the night in Vinh, compelled not only by the fierce wind but also by tales of an ancient citadel that once stood there.

I found a hotel, the White Hotel, slightly more luxurious than my usual digs, but its location was perfect—right where the map hinted at the remnants of the citadel. Yet, when I arrived, I was met with a surprising realisation: all that remained were two sturdy entrance gates and a moat, the rest now replaced by an imposing stadium. Ironically, that stadium appeared older than the ruins themselves! It was a surreal blend of history with modernity, leaving me both amused and a little wistful for what once was.

 

Small Victories and Minor Disasters

Travel, particularly on a bicycle, tends to amplify small problems. A broken bike stand grew into a crisis. A missing ATM turned into a personal insult. Roads that deteriorate into chaos felt like deliberate acts.

On one particularly difficult morning, my bicycle refused to stand upright, the ATM network appeared to be conspiring against me, and every road led directly into traffic I had hoped to avoid.

It was, in short, a terrible day. Naturally, it improves almost immediately after I find a large, air-conditioned room and decide to stop cycling.

 

The Northbound Push and bike shop.

Wow, time truly flies when you're having fun! I could hardly believe it was August already! This morning started with a clear destination in mind—Hoa Lu in Ninh Binh. However, just before reaching Thanh Hoa, my curiosity led me to make a short detour to the Voi Palace.

To this day, the exact origins of Voi Palace remain a mystery, though its location at the foot of the Voi Mountain—a rocky outcrop with a sacred vibe—adds to it’s intrigue. The mountain is adorned with vibrant flags and serene shrines, creating an atmosphere that's both mystical and inspiring.

Thanks to a recommendation from my social media buddy, Marco Peccatori, I decided to swing by the Cycling Thanh Hoa bike shop to get a much-needed new stand fitted to my bicycle. The shop exceeded my expectations! So, I ended up treating my bike to a full service. With that sorted, I set off in search of accommodation to spend the night.

While there's undoubtedly plenty to explore in the area, I found myself indulging in the local cuisine instead! And honestly, who could blame me? Vegetarian restaurants abound, and the flavours are simply irresistible!

 

Hoa Lư amd the Ba Trieu Temple

I was eager to get going, and at eight o'clock sharp, I arrived at the bike shop. The bike looked as good as new, so I cycled back to the hotel to collect my panniers.

I was bitterly disappointed to discover that there were no rural roads leading to Loa Lu. Vietnam was developing far too quickly for my liking. With no other option, I followed the main road, which felt monotonous.

I only stopped at the Ba Trieu Temple, a significant historical site dedicated to the legendary heroine Lady Trieu, who bravely led a rebellion against foreign invaders in the third century. The Ba Trieu Temple has a history that dates back to the sixth century, when King Ly Nam De built it to honour Lady Trieu. According to legend, the king prayed at the temple for Lady Trieu’s protection before embarking on a military campaign against invaders at the southern border.

Vietnam’s history is filled with extraordinary women who have defied societal norms and left their mark. Throughout the country’s history, women have actively participated in wars and struggles for independence.

Currently, the literacy rate among Vietnamese women is 97%, matching that of men. Vietnamese women also account for over 50% of the country’s workforce and are present in all sectors of the economy, from agricultural work to senior management positions.

 

Ninh Binh and surrounding area

Ninh Binh provides a welcome pause—and a reminder that not all travel needs to involve cycling.

Joining a guided tour felt, at first, like a betrayal of the independent spirit. But it quickly turned out to be a relief. Someone else is in charge. Decisions are made. Transport appears without effort.

The landscape is extraordinary—limestone cliffs rising from flat plains, rivers winding through caves, temples tucked into improbable locations.

At one point, I climb 500 stone steps in oppressive heat to reach a viewpoint. By the time I reached the top, drenched in sweat and questioning my choices, the view spread out below made it all immediately worthwhile.

This seems to happen a lot.

 

Into Hanoi

The last stretch into Hanoi felt like an appropriate conclusion—beautiful, chaotic, and slightly overwhelming.

For most of the day, I managed to follow quiet, rural roads. Farmers worked in the fields, life moved at a human pace, and everything felt, briefly, calm.

Then the city approached.

Traffic thickened. Lanes dissolved. Motorbikes multiplied. What was a peaceful ride became more of a strategic exercise in survival.

By the time I reached the Old Quarter, I was exhausted, soaked in sweat, and quietly pleased with myself.

 

Hanoi: Endings and New Beginnings

Hanoi, as always, is alive.

The streets buzz with movement, food, conversation, and the constant sense that something interesting is happening just out of sight. It’s a fitting place to end a journey—and to begin thinking about the next one.

There are reunions, meals, wandering evenings, and the familiar sense that travel rarely stops where you expect it to.

Even bureaucracy makes an appearance—this time in the form of a Chinese visa process so complicated that it ultimately convinces me to leave the country entirely, and I realise I have no tolerance for it.  This, too, felt like part of the experience.

 

In the end, the journey didn't conclude with a dramatic finish or a carefully planned finale.

It ended, as many long journeys do, with a decision.

Instead of continuing north into China, I booked a flight. For now, the road is replaced by a plane. Vietnam gave way, once again, to the Caucasus—and beyond that, the promise of something entirely new.

 

Looking Back

Cycling through Vietnam is not a single experience, but many.

It is heat and hills, chaos and calm, frustration and generosity. It is moments of doubt followed quickly by reasons to continue.

And perhaps that’s the point.

You don’t cycle a country like Vietnam to complete it. You do it to experience it—one uncertain road, one unexpected turn, one small victory at a time.