As I motored along the rural roads toward Lao Cai province, children chased after me shouting joyous hellos. I love the freedom of solo travel, but after a few days alone, nothing makes the endorphins kick in like a chorus of little kids cheering you on. At a roadside store, the shopkeeper smiled at me and pointed to a stool made from a tree stump. We sat down for green tea and tobacco from his bamboo water pipe. A single hit left me reeling. As I woozily regarded the man, I pondered our countries’ shared history. Was he doing the same? He poured more tea. The world glistened on the switchbacks up to Bac Ha. Lush farms, blanketed in clouds, appeared beyond the guardrail. I had to share the road with water buffalo and chickens.
When I arrived in late afternoon, I called the owner of Sa House, the no-frills home stay I’d booked for the night. He arrived, smiling, on his own motorbike and led me up a winding road. The cool, wet air wrapped around me like a cloak. Early the next morning, I found Bac Ha’s market. Men in puffy jackets and women in the colorful dresses of the Flower Hmong ethnic group hawked vegetables, meat, coffee, textiles, plastics, electronics, and livestock. Shoppers carried bags with squirming creatures inside. I bought a pair of leather gloves before embarking on the most difficult leg of my trip.
The early part of my day’s journey had hairpin turns and the occasional wayward water buffalo, but at least it had fresh asphalt. Then, at a sign for Ha Giang province, the road turned to dirt and I fell off the bike. I’d gotten my wish— I was covered with mud. I was elated to emerge, several hours later, onto areal road again. A few days earlier, at a museumin Hanoi, I’d snapped a photo of a photo of Ho Chi Minh and set it as my phone’s wallpaper image. When I was checking in to Nha Nghi Hoan Nuong, a hotel in the rural town of Na Hang, the owner noticed it and pointed to an older man sitting on a couch.
He in turn directed my attention to a picture of himself on the lobby wall, taken when he was much younger and dressed in uniform. He laughed and held up an imaginary machine gun, then said, “Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.” It was a quiet Sunday night. There were several restaurants on the main drag, but only one with people inside. With its plastic tables and chairs it felt like it could have been anywhere in the world. As I waited for my beef pho, a young man dropped an elbow on my table, wanting to arm wrestle. I shook my head, but he insisted. We locked hands. His friends were drunk on rice wine, and soon they all wanted a turn, too. They urged me to take shots. I ordered a beer instead.
The next day, I pulled my helmet over my aching head and plunged into Na Hang, which looked like a mountain version of Vietnam’s iconic Halong Bay. Sheer peaks reached toward the sky, as if subterranean giants had poked their fingers through the surface of the earth. I was so distracted by the terrain that I almost ran out of gas. At the last possible moment, I bought half a gallon from a young woman in a roadside shack. Within a few hours I had coasted all the way down into the verdant valley of BaBe National Park. In Ba Be Lake, I saw reflections of the same mountains I’d ridden through that morning. The narrow road curved past waterfalls and caves beneath a canopy of trees.
I could have spent an entire day there watching the monkeys, bears, and butterflies, but the highway beckoned. Near the town of Tuy en Quang, I stopped at My Lam Hot Springs to soak my battered bones. Inside an unassuming blue building surrounded by gentle hills and lush trees, I began my path to rejuvenation. I lay in a porcelain bathtub filled with lukewarm mineral water, appreciating the stillness after four bumpy days on the road. The next morning, I planned to sleep late, then ride back into Hanoi, straight into the Old Quarter for another fragrant plate of bun cha.
