Into Vietnam

Hey everybody, another update on where I am and what we're up to.

The time we spent in Kep was great! We chilled out at Botanica Bungalows for a few days of rest and relaxation (minus the bugs). This place is lacated quite a few kilometers away from the actual town of Kep but thanks to our bikes it's not much of a problem. Our bungalows were situated in a lush garden of tropical flowers and plants, along with which came an abundance of wild creatures and insects.

While almost the sleepiest town I've ever been to, Kep holds some breath-taking scenery and amazing ocean / sunset views. The most memorable thing about this place however was the food. There is nothing quite like it anywhere else I have been before. The specialty here is the crab, and when coupled with Kampot fresh green pepper I'm not sure there's much that compares.



For $5 US I got 4 crabs, steamed rice and the best dish I've had in a long time. The owner of our bungalows, Stefaan, is a great Belgium dude who makes some killer shots (just ask Luke) and has a deep love and knowledge of Cambodia. It was great to pick his brain for advice and many stories of his time in this amazing country. On the last night here, while on our way to enjoy some stew prepared by one of the most hilarious Hungarian men I've ever met, at the only Hungarian restaurant in Cambodia, my bicycle decided to junk out on me. My derailleur cable housing had worn down and popped through the top tube bracket, leaving me stuck in the toughest 8th gear. Lacking the proper tools and any repair shop, I was stuck with an extra hard workout.

When it came time to leave, Luke had come down with some health issues but fought them off long enough to bid adieu to the last place we'd stay in Cambodia. We had to back track a bit to return to the highway and made the 40ish km ride to our turnoff in somewhat decent time.

As I turned off the main Hwy, I was embarking not only on the last leg of our Cambodia saga, but onto one of the most tiring, stressful and muddy roads I have ever biked on.

I say road because I have seen muddier areas before. The 4x4 destination close to my house lovingly called “The Pits” is such a place. Here, people like to show how hardcore their vehicles as well as themselves are when placed in front of a watery hole filled with mud. It's considered leisure time and is a hell of a lot of fun.

This road however was intended as a way of passage from Cambodia to Viet Nam. Until last year it has been reserved for locals. Assuming, most rightfully so, that no one else in their right mind would/could want to use this border crossing. However for bikers who have a time schedule to keep we were grateful that it had been opened for foreigners as well. The following is my own account of the road.

The Road

Driving along in a vehicle the turnoff would have come and gone without a second glance lest you'd traveled it before. A stone sign with the graceful Khmer language was the only marker to indicate that is cowpath was indeed the way to Viet Nam. One look down the 'road' left you imagining how many of the 28 kilometers to the border would be in this condition before it improved. Surely it couldn't be ALL like this.

As my bike decided to stay in the 8th gear, I was the first to start off. In hindsight the beginning really wasn't that bad, the trademark red Cambodian dirt was bumpy, worn ragged by the recent weather and pock-marked by more than enough pot-holes filled with a redish brown liquid. The going was not so bad, save for the bumps that threatened each time to eject my packs from my rack and leave me frustrated with a muddy mess. As I pedaled on, the road grew increasingly worse with areas of pure water for dozens of meters straight. So thick and murky you hoped you'd chosen the best line to avoid any potential holes which could measure from 1-2 feet deep in places. My legs pushed on as I avoided each ridge and crevasse to lighten the impact on my packs. As the water thinned the road turned to a potters clay, which clung to the wheels like beggars to hesitant tourists. Within seconds my brakes had gunked up and left me wishing for the cleansing mud/waters before. My legs strained under the task of maintaining progress

through this bog of eternal mud. The moto's whose rep it is to fly by with a waning honk were often going the same speed even with their many inches of travel on their suspension. I weaved in and out, around, forward and backward to find the highest, smoothest, driest track. The gear issue with my bicycle left me sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, as I cursed Merida for their shoddy derailleur cable housings. The children which scattered the sides of the road were ceaseless in their calls of 'hello' and 'what's your name?'. Calls which once filled me with glee were now permeating my eardrums with effects worse than an angered swarm of yellow jackets.

I loathed their screaming and shouting but felt terrible for not responding. As if somehow in some way I was being a terrible ambassador for my country and company.

My patience grew so thin with the conditions and noises I found no solace in my MP3 player, it served only to increase the pressure in my head. As the road dried slightly a group of people 15 feet away joined together in their greeting to me, and in my weakness I called back. Upon this recall they let loose the tether on their dog. A putrid animal not 2 feet tall took off after me with an unexpected speed. I kicked out to the creature whose snout housed a set of gleaming white teeth. How its canines could contrast so powerfully against the molten earth while it's owners hung rotten and black, I'll never know. A swift kick caught it haphazardly in the ear but only served to feed it's hunger for me. My evasion was swift as the adrenaline surged through my legs, now even more slender though muscular then before. (My upper body seems to be wasting away though). My escape seemed doomed by the ruts and holes in the ground that forced my packs to choose this instant to pop off my iron rack. The loss of my left pack went unnoticed as I attempted to avoid the jaws of this infernal beast. Though due to the fashion in which I attached my extra pack to the top, my Otlieb hung with me and caused my backpack's strap to tear lose and drag behind me. At this point I had had enough of this flea ridden bastard dog and let fall my bicycle. As I turned, the most basic of instinct within this dog must have alerted to the fact that I was hell-bent on blood. I was seeing only red, my ears the only other sense registering as they delivered to me the sounds of laughter coming from the beasts owners. This act of war only fed my hatred for this four-legged creature. It knew what I was, and what I so earnestly was after. I was going to depart this animal from this earth and I was going to enjoy it. I turned on the animal and drew back my leg which held enough anger and power to send it's scruffy white head 50 yards into the rice paddy. As I did so, his survival skills seemed to send the message to his legs. He turned and high tailed it back to his owners before I could make any attempt at hate-filled revenge. The mud was ceaseless in its venture to slow my progress.



Vietnam couldn't be close enough and Cambodia could keep it's shit roads for all I cared. I wanted the crimson star studded canvas to pierce to too-blue sky. I wanted a grim-faced border guard to stamp my passport as I gratefully marched into the country I had seen more movies about then ever read books. A capitalist country masquerading as socialist country or not, I didn't care. I just wanted paved roads.

After what seemed like an eternity of cussing the earth and rain, the crisscrossing of vehicles and the well intentioned but loathed air horns of passing trucks, two flags dotted the sky. One a red/blue backed Angkor, the other a sheet of scarlet with one awaiting golden star.

Caked with mud, blistered from the sun and tired from the journey I rolled to the front of the border guards building. My trek here seemed enough, though I was not even close yet to the welcomed spray of a shower head, or the well deserved scoop of a soup spoon to my mouth.

The process through the border was a joke. A joke which was delivered with mimed gestures and three words: Passport, Sit, and Down. I believe wholeheartedly that our arrival at the Vietnamese gate was a surprise. That the border control guard had been raised from a deep slumber to come and approve our entrance which would account for his irritated behaviour. After a 40 min wait we were waved through and were, for the first time in our lives, in Vietnam. The road that will someday (not now), be a laughable memory, turned as quickly into hard top as it had to mud.

I should note here that once my mud-bogging debacle was finished my love for Cambodia returned and I no longer hate the childish greetings and red dirt roads.

We biked through the border town the 10 or so km's to Ha Tien, where we would sleep for the night.

After washing our legs and arms and getting the necessary liquids into us, we headed out to a good dinner of fried shrimp and fried rice, where we would toast to the 5th anniversary of Anderson and Liz, take a stroll around the town and then head back to out hotel.

We left the next morning for the pier where we caught a slow local boat across the waters to Phu Quoc Island, where we would enjoy a beach paradise for a few days and plan out the next leg of our trip. As I write this I am sitting in a towel on a beach chair with the ocean air blowing through my hair. The sound of the surf, hard and rough today, bashing into the foreground. The sun is setting and I am content. I have a beer and peace of mind. Tomorrow we will leave this island retreat and head out to our next adventure through the Mekong Delta toward Ho Chi Min City, or Saigon as it is still referred to here. Until next time, keep on keepin' on.