How do you see a place when it is so completely camouflaged by banana and coconut trees, where everything but transportation to and from the market takes place along narrow waterways not visible from the road? A bicycle ride. But, planning such a trip from the States proved too difficult .  Eventually, I hired Adventure South New Zealand to organize our bicycle trip through the Mekong Delta.

Our local guide, Nam, was 24-years old and quite a character.  For starters, he insisted on shielding every inch of his skin from the sun. Not a blemish, hair or fingernail was overlooked. The desire to have fair skin is not unusual in S.E. Asia, but Nam took it a step further than most. He donned a thick navy blue towel that cascaded from under his baseball cap covering his neck and the sides of his face. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He wore thin flesh-colored gloves with a satin sheen that reached passed his elbows to the end of his short-sleeved shirt, topped with a pair of black bicycle gloves. Thankfully, he laughed along with us chuckling,“Your friends will see photos and think I’m the ‘Bin Laden’ guide.”

Nam announced early in our trip, “I don’t like to read.” Even if it’s true, when does a tour guide admit such a thing? Indeed, he didn’t seem to have much interest in or knowledge of Vietnam’s history, religion, geography, and current affairs. The only bit of local news that clearly fascinated Nam was information about Vietnam’s “sapensen” bridges. According to Nam, the “Can Tho Bridge,” which was designed by a Japanese architecture firm, collapsed. “Do you want to take pictures of the collapsed bridge?” he asked many times over. “Soon we will be crossing the newest ‘sapensen’ bridge, ‘My Thuan.’ It was designed by an Australian architect firm and completed in 2000. Do you want to take pictures? It has 128 blue cables and is 1.5 kilometers long.” He quizzed Ellie the next day to see if she remembered the total number of blue cables swinging above the bridge.

At first, Nam reminded me of my son’s teenage friends – too self-absorbed to have much curiosity about the rest of the world. Yet, there was more to Nam. He might be a self-professed “non-reader,” but I believe he nevertheless likes to learn, snapping up pictures and tidbits of information along the way as if the tourist. Further, Ellie noticed “Nam put up with all our little annoying requests, such as when he went with me to the supermarket in Long Xuyen to help read shampoo bottles so I knew whether they were for normal, oily or dry hair.” He also supported spontaneous itinerary changes with a smile. He hung around at the end of the day to play cards. And he made sure Ellie had all the rice and watermelon she could eat. In the end, he was attentive to our quirky requests every bit as much as his grooming rituals and, more importantly, he was fun and self-deprecating. If he tired of us it never showed – the essence of a really good guide.

One quick word about Thanh, our driver — AAA+.

Our bicycle trip began in Rach Ghia, where Nam and Thanh picked us up from the Super Dong Ferry at 11:00 a.m. (Yes, I believe that is the correct name for the ferry.) We were packed in the hole of the fast boat like sardines. Motorbikes were strapped along outside railings and decks, blocking any hopes of seeing out of our lair. We were surrounded by Vietnamese whose stomachs are notorious for their squeamishness on such boat rides. But this boat did push even the sturdiest of stomachs close to the retching point, and so vomit bags were passed around as soon as the motor started humming. We were sandwiched into five seats on either side of the aisle and the vomiting kept coming up — in front, behind and on either side of us. I was never so glad to be off a boat.

We planned to arrive in Can Tho later in the day after biking 78 kilometers. This seemed ambitious. But, even in my wildest dreams, I could not have pictured the chaos of Vietnamese roads, dashing any hopes of clocking such a distance in one day. The few paved roads that exist carry bicycles, motorbikes, cars, buses, and buffaloes all jumbled together. There are no traffic signals and no centerline to keep oncoming traffic safely tucked on one side of the pavement. Every few hundred yards, a monkey bridge spans narrow waterways alongside the road, leading to homes, fields, ducks, chickens, children and dirt paths where more bikes roam. The canals (we mostly followed the Xa No Canal system on the first day) also serve as roadways, carrying long boats with “shrimp-tail” motors through the channels. Children bathe and play, animals wash and defecate, fish are caught, and food and other wares are bought and sold on the muddy water. These fanning canals and the mighty Mekong River create and nurture practically all life in South Vietnam. It is a wonder to see it in action. One kilometer of travel would have been overwhelming enough. We fell exhausted into the support van after 23 kilometers.

The following morning a boat took us to Can Tho’s famous floating market, Cai Rang, where we watched the floating warehouses in action on the Mekong River. Boats advertise the fruits and vegetables for sale by skewering examples on long poles jetting up to the sky. By noon the haggling is accomplished and the floating businesses turn back into homes, with children splashing over the sides, laundry hanging out to dry, and hammocks offering afternoon siestas.

After lunch we ferried (there are many ferries in South Vietnam) to Cai Von and set up our bikes just outside of town. After a quick squat over the porcelain hole in the back of the petrol station, we were off, settling into a very gentle pace of about 10 kilometer/hour. A day wiser, we didn’t even try to keep pace with roadway traffic, meandered peacefully down the road while the rest of Vietnam was in motion. Why is this so different from biking on any road in the United States? There is the matter of no traffic signals or centerline, buffaloes crowding the lanes, and the distraction of people bathing and washing clothes along the canals. But, there is more.

Every moving object, whether bicycle, motorbike, car, or vendor has some kind of a horn, bell, or whistle always blaring, beeping, or singing. Even delicate school girls with wide rim hats and long flowing white school uniforms, pictures of serenity, sit tall on their bikes and never stop ringing their annoying bells. This is not road rage; the noise is simply a way to let everyone know something is approaching. The trick is not to become so unnerved that you lose your balance and fall off the road.

The constant “chuga chuga chug” of motor boats riding along the waterways adds to the cacophony of horns and whistles. In addition, every twenty yards or so, the rhythm of the bike ride is punctuated by shouts of “hello,” coming from under a tree, out of a canal, or behind a house. We are seen before we arrive. In this way, biking becomes a very engaging and interactive mode of travel in South Vietnam. By day two, I had given into this rhythm, fully enthralled by all the activity. We biked 31.63 kilometers (proudly clocked by Ellie).

On our second night we stayed on bedded down cots. A small boat ferried us by the light of the moon (most boats don’t have lights), from Vinh Long across the Co Chien River to An Binh Island. Not surprisingly, our hosts lived down a narrow dirt path following a small canal about 50 yards from the boat landing. Ellie keenly observed, “The Mekong Delta reminds me of Venice, Italy.” An apt comparison, I thought. In Venice, just beyond the obvious motion on the river and canals, narrow passageways between towering stonewalls disorient travelers and hide destinations from view. The same is true along the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the Mekong Delta’s smaller waterways; thick foliage hovers over narrow canals, concealing the life within and the stars above until all sense of direction is lost.

Arriving after dark to our homestay was probably not such a good idea. Day or night, homestays force an abrupt change of reality. Even if only for a night, it is where you lay your head, no longer just passing by. Ellie and I had done this before, but it still isn’t easy. The night was black, the stars were lost through the coconut and banana leaves, and there was a minimal amount of electricity. A little late, Nam asked, “Did you remember to bring flashlights?”

This homestay was actually a bit more luxurious than we were accustomed to, with plumbing, including hot showers tucked behind the house where the animals congregate. (In retrospect, I can’t imagine Nam staying any place without a hot shower.) I had just convinced Ellie that it looked quite nice, bouncing on the cots to show that with a little imagination they had some spring. “But the walls have holes in them and the windows are simple cut outs, some with sheer curtains, some without. The door doesn’t really shut and the thatched ceiling is crawling with critters,” she exclaimed. “How could you think this is nice?” We had just moved beyond Ellie’s tearful glares when a young Fulbright scholar on break from teaching English in Hong Kong arrived with her visiting boyfriend from rural Pennsylvania, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. (This homestay looked like it had four separate rooms, accommodating roughly eight to ten people.)

They were completely unprepared, mistakenly relying on the Lonely Planet’s guide to S.E. Asia for accurate travel advice. They arrived by passenger ferry to the island and hitched a ride on the back of motorbikes down dirt paths in complete and utter darkness. I said “hi,” trying to calm her nerves a bit with my Midwestern Americana drawl. “I think I saw a crocodile farm just over the burn. I’m not sure if they were really pinned in though,” she whispered in a panic, having completely lost all connection to rational thought. Her boyfriend tried to comfort, but having relied entirely on his girlfriend for directions until this point it was useless. They were a wreck!

After finding their airy accommodations, they sheepishly walked back to the main (and only real room) of the house. They wanted our guide to help with some translation. “Sure,” I said, “What are your questions? I’ll go find him.”

“Do you know how to get off the island?” she asked. “We’re leaving tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. on a private transfer to the mainland. Would you like to join us?” I offered. Blood drained back into her face. “Oh, thank you,” she said almost prayerfully.

The next morning a short detour took us to a terracotta factory. Our boat “captain” it seems was a guide trying to drum up some business. He spoke rather good English and apparently assumed the scholar and boyfriend were potential customers. I was thinking the same thing. The night before the boyfriend had told me they were headed to some ruin in Cambodia – wasn’t quite sure where, but his girlfriend knew. “Perhaps Angkor Wat in Siem Reap?” I suggested. “Sounds right,” he replied, clearly being a traveler for the sake of love and not because of a burning desire to see the eighth wonder of the world. After disembarking, Ellie and I made a quick bathroom stop, no more than five minutes as these are restrooms that do not encourage lingering, and in that time, unbelievably, our Fulbright scholar and boyfriend had fully paid the boat driver to serve as their English-speaking guide for the remainder of their travels, foregoing the ruins in Cambodia. Homestays can be a destabilizing experience, catching even the brightest by surprise.

We biked to Long Xuyen on day three, with a late afternoon excursion to a natural stork farm. And day four we abandoned the itinerary in search of that perfect secondary road experience. As Nam said, “Let’s have an adventure.” And, perfect it was. We followed a larger canal and peddled through more villages than on previous days, passing vendors selling dried and putrified fish, sweetened rice wrapped in banana leaves, and other delicacies. Of particular intrigue was a rather long stop at a Cao Dai Temple, in Can Dang of An Giang Province. This is a curious religion. According to the guidebook in our hotel, it was founded in the 1920s and combines the secular and religious philosophies of the East and West, based on séance messages revealed to the group’s founder, Ngo Minh Chiea. The temple is distinguishable from other places of worship by a huge, colorful eye painted brightly on a flag hanging over the front entrance. Inside, I indeed found influences from all parts of the world, including illustrations of what looked like Jesus Christ, Islamic preachings, and Buddhist shrines.

As we approached our last lap enroute to Chau Doc the landscape began to open up, with expansive vistas of rice fields and meandering canals. The vegetation is not as thick, dotted with sugar palm trees instead of coconut and banana trees, a sign that Cambodia is near. In Chau Doc, we climbed Sam Mountain, where I released two small birds for the price of 10,000 Dong and asked for a small blessing in return. The plateau at the top of the mountain was crowded with the apparent incongruity of two arcade games, three caged monkeys clamoring for food from visitors, a couple of food vendors, and an alter that was attracting most of the attention.

It turns out we had arrived on a festival day – Le Hoi Via Ba Chua Xu. The alter marked the spot where a statue of Ba Chua Xu (Lady Xu) used to stand many hundreds of years ago. According to legend, nine virgins carried her down the mountain to where she now sits inside a large miue, or temple, carrying her name. She is the object of worship on this festival day. I asked Nam to make a detour into town so we could see this lady and more of her worshipers. Ellie was able to inch her way through to the front of the mob, but I couldn’t make it past all the burning incense, offerings and people asking for blessings. If I hadn’t known we were in a temple, I might have thought it was a circus. The Lady Xu was fat, a likeness to Buddha, and dressed in every primary color plus a lot of pink. She had a halo flashing neon lights over her head. Tables upon tables of offerings were spread out around the temple complex, including fruit and vegetable, whole pigs with knives stabbing at their hearts (carving utensils for Lady Xu?), and paper money and clothes burning in a huge cauldron at the entrance. She must have been some lady.

After four days of peddling in the Mekong Delta area of South Vietnam, I finally appreciated an oft-repeated phrase in this part of the world. “The Vietnamese plant rice, the Khmers stand there and watch, and the Laotians listen to it grow.” Indeed, the hammocks strung up along roadside cafes in Vietnam are nearly always empty – they are a mirage, an illusion of repose and serenity. This is a workhorse of a country.

Beth Van Hoeven

With pains of regret, my ten-year old daughter Ellie and I left the comfort of La Veranda Grand Mercure Resort on Phu Quoc Island at 6:15 a.m. We had been backpacking through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia for nearly two months and needed this resort respite. So, after eight days of lounging by the pool, walking on the long undeveloped sandy beach, delighting in mixed green salads seasoned delicately with the perfect blend of oil and vinegar, lingering over dinners on the second floor veranda by the light of the moon as if this romantic setting was intended for us, relaxing to the soothing rhythm of massaging hands at the spa, and drinking tap water (a priceless gift!), La Veranda, the perfect blend of charm, comfort, amenities, and pampering without an ounce of stuffiness was not an easy place to leave. An hour or more later the bus dropped us off at the harbor in Vietnam’s southern most village of An Tho, where we boarded the Super Dong to Rach Ghia.

The day before there had been some confusion over our transport to the main island. We had purchased tickets through the hotel’s front office clerk, Miss Vi, on a fast boat to the mainland. Now, it appeared that the motor on our boat was in a state of disrepair. Miss Vi and her associate, Mr. Hao, reported that there were no more available seats on any boats leaving the island. “Very difficult situation,” they said. “You are on standby.”

I became a little suspicious with this news because Mr. Hao then whispered so that only I heard, “If you had bought the tickets through me and not Miss Vi you would not have had this problem.” I was struggling to understand how games might be played for what amounted to just over $1.00/ticket in commission — probably just my paranoia. The plan was to meet Mr. Hao at the harbor at 6:15 a.m. the next morning, when he would “try to negotiate” our way onto the only other 8:15 a.m. fast boat (no doubt at a higher price for both tickets and commission).

With the news, I quickly considered my options. I had to leave Phu Quoc (even though the lure to stay another day at La Veranda was tempting). We had arranged for a van with bicycles, guides, and a tight itinerary, which included 78 kilometers of biking after disembarking at Rach Ghia. There was always the slow boat. From what I had read it would take about 8 hours and drop us off approximately 90 kilometers from our intended meet-up location. I thought, “That would do,” and chuckled to myself as I realized that Mr. Hao had met his match (if in fact there was something suspicious going on). Then with a most determined appeal and so both heard, I explained to Mr. Hao and Miss Vi, “If I cannot secure two tickets on another fast boat today, I will take the slow boat. I will need to know by 4:00 p.m. so that I can make the necessary arrangements for the slow boat (which I repeated with emphasis).” I held back a smile as a look of panic crossed their faces. Mr. Hao said, “I think not so good for Ellie. Too hard.” I thought, “If they only knew what I’ve put Ellie through.” But Ellie, with her blond locks and fair skin has been my ace in the hole more than once on this trip.

Later in the day and much before 4:00 p.m., Ms. Vi found us poolside and said, “You are very, very lucky. You have tickets on the Super Dong tomorrow.” We exchanged smiles and I expressed my utmost gratitude.

Beth Van Hoeven