Pedalling the Monsoon
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From Thailand to Hanoi Through Southeast Asia’s Changing Landscapes
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.
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