Life on the motorbike just seems to make complete sense. There’s that inner balance that the ancient scholars bragged about, be it somewhere in China or in the proximity of Athens. It’s all about the way, the balance, the 0 state or whatever one may call it. While on two wheels one seems to reach that exact balance, or be the closest one ought to get anyway, since the nature of it is sporadic for the vast majority of the average mortals.
The ying and yang appeared to be in alignment and the devil and the angel sitting on each shoulder seemed to have forgotten their differences and enjoy the view together while having a cup of tea. That was the state of that one day I was driving outside Huế in the heat of the day, aiming to be in Đà Nẵng before darkness.
I took a little detour just to be back on the coast side. The road was like a cleared-out river and every motorbike passing by was a fish going with the flow. Everything was gleaming because there was nothing but sun.
Many people in that country had told me that the central part of Vietnam was notorious for being extremely rainy. Some even told me that it rained every 5 minutes. From others that had lived there before I heard that they were forced to take days off from work because in places like Da Nang the incessant rain would flood everything that could be flooded. But, for some reason, none of that was the case when me and my green engine were working our way down South. Not a single freaking drop. It was as if mother nature was displaying a brief sense of preference and was like: “Let this one guy and his green motorbike go. This one has to stay dry. He’s a man with an errand. A man with a mission.” Either that or I was just stupid lucky.
I went through a series of villages and one of them, An Bang I reckon, displayed at some point a gigantic cemetery. And that cemetery was the exact opposite of what I’d seen in Europe concerning the designated rest in peace spots. If in Europe, the tombs were small, simple, dark and modest in display, the ones from that particular Viet village were all like grand edifices. Those funeral stones were like temple miniatures, embroidered in different color pallets, with columns and tiled rooftops, all well maintained. It was as if those people underneath didn’t really die, but simply joined an underground realm where an undisturbed solitary life would go on indefinitely. Nobody would ever know what would go on underneath and that would probably offer satisfaction on both sides of the living spectrum.
That whole array of fancy tombs was so extended and exquisite that it even had a name: “The City of the dead”. The place looked better than a lot of the things made for the living I saw along the way. The arrangement overall was so pleasant to look at that if I would ever decide to defy nature and die on my own terms and conditions by my own hand, I would drive straight to that place and crash on purpose with the first truck I’d see, just to join the city of the dead with a matching tombstone in pink, orange and turquoise. And the epitaph of that grave would simply say: “I just felt like dying here. Sorry about the mess.” I mean, the place was so aesthetically appealing that it was almost asking for it. I couldn’t resist but fantasize over the profits of funeral services if that would become the graveyard standard worldwide.
Either the people who inhabited the village of the dead had been some high status people or that society simply respected the dead more than the living. Every country has some degree of superstition and I knew enough to know that the Vietnamese in particular had a tendency of practicing ancestral worshipping. And part of that worship was expressed through occasional burnings of different items on the streets, creating the spectacle of an urban campfire. The will of the ancestors was never questioned, for nobody wanted to risk summoning their wrath.
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Anyway, back to the road part. After several villages other villages with less visually spectacular graveyards, but with equally spectacular displays of nature, I soon found myself approaching one of Vietnam’s most flamboyant treats for any motorbike enthusiast. That was none other than the Hai Van pass. The mountain gate to Đà Nẵng. The crossing that made everyone’s jaw drop at least once. If you go through the whole thing and dare blink even once, you’re already missing out. This is how exciting it is to drive through it. If I would make all that trip and miss that particular driving spot, I’d simply cuss myself for the rest of my days. And when I would reincarnate into someone else, a ghost would probably show up and tell me how in the previous life I had missed that chance and what a hell of a chance it had been, just so I could cuss again throughout a whole new life.
So, there I was, on the road that led me exactly to that epic pass. I adjusted my GoPro on the helmet to get a clear shot of every inch of driving through it. Once that had been set, I revved up the engine and didn’t stop until I was on the other side. And oh boy, that road was smooth like butter. A whole lot of turns and serpentines going up and down, splitting the mountain in half, creating the perfect atmosphere for any rider out there.
Some would stop for pictures. It was sunset. The lights were magnificent. I didn’t stop though. Everything was recorded anyway. I kept on driving as fast as I could. The adrenaline was hyped. The serotonin was boosted. The dopamine was peaking. Stopping meant pausing all that and starting all over. So, the wheels had to roll continuously all the way. It felt better than any erotic act I’d ever witnessed and I reckoned there would be no such future act to outweigh that sensation.
I reached the peak where people stopped for a drink and sat down while enjoying the view. But it was a static view. And I was a man who paid tribute to the view in motion.
Once the pass started its descent, I could see Đà Nẵngcity stretched out in the distance, with all the vast ocean fronting it. The whole experience turned into a slide that would carry me all the way down to the heart of that city. I got carried away and lost sense of speed for a little while, almost crashing at some turns. But even in those close sudden death calls I still had the kicks. Was I reckless? Probably. But one can’t help it sometimes. I knew that in this world I was nothing but a mere visitor. And I wanted to do the best I could to make this visit at least a tiny bit interesting. And one way to do that was crossing Vietnam with a motorbike.
Once I was through with the pass and reached the edges of Đà Nẵng, I felt as if I had just completed another level or mission from one of my beloved childhood games. I was none other than Mario, erecting another flag after the conquest of another castle. I might as well be the renowned Carl Johnson after completing another mission which revolved around gang violence or plain theft. Anything that would follow during that day would be just a bonus. I got the Hai Van pass on tape. Mission successful. Respect+. Mana. Potions. All the upgrades kicking in. The Sun went down. My hunger went up.
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What better way to make contact with a big city than during rush hour? Facing this situation, I did the most rational thing there was to do. I stopped at the first park I noticed and had lunch on a bench, with the traffic hazard singing its symphony on the background. I had 2 bánh mì sandwiches stashed in my backpack before leaving Huế. There was nowhere else I’d come across that bánh mì type in particular.
After the park dinner I went where everyone goes when coming to Đà Nẵng for the first time. At the beach. On my way I crossed the Dragon bridge, one of the city’s landmarks. It’s like any other modern bridge but it’s shaped as a dragon, displaying the creature’s head on both ends. One of them even spits fire every night at 9pm sharp. And everyone loved that. They loved it so much that the flow of cars would sometimes come to a halt. Because it’s a dragon we’re talking about. That’s why it’s called the Dragon bridge. Because it’s a bridge. And it looks like a dragon. I hope that clarifies it.
Once I was through with the marvelous Dragon bridge experience, the beach showed up and I drove along with it, which was proved to be quite difficult, since it was that time of the day when most families that were on holiday were crossing that road to reach the hotels from the other side. And those crossings occurred pretty much anywhere on the road. In Vietnam the concept of a zebra crossing was completely useless. It was just a cosplay to show that the country was in trend with the rest of the world. That being said, I had to dodge all these people, which included tiny kids that were set loose. The parents of those respective children had never heard that leashes for kids were a thing. Unfortunately, since that was the real life and not GTA, I couldn’t do with the motorbike what I’d normally do in GTA. The temptation remained, though.
I stopped at one of the small beach joints to enjoy my 3595724878th mango smoothie I ordered in that country. I still remember that spot in particular, because of their way of making mango smoothies. Besides the mango part, there was some vanilla ice cream mixed in and a whole bunch of whip cream on top. I had 2 of them. The 3rd one would’ve given me diabetes for sure.
In between the mango smoothies, through of the power of internet channeled through my pocket, I made a booking to the cheapest hostel from the beach area. 80,000VND per night, which at the time meant roughly 3$.
Once at the hostel, I was delighted to see that it was the exact opposite to the one I stayed in Huế. The whole place was minimalistic, having the tiniest reception and just a few tables outside where people were coexisting together at reasonable volumes. Some of them had guitars in their hands. Others had joints. Others had beers and cigarettes. And almost all of them spoke Russian. On one side of the hostel there was a supermarket and on the other side there was a hippie bar where oldies were played every night. And the beach was 200 meters away. What more could one ask for? That being said, I might stick to this one for a while.
Part IV: https://andyvansen.com/2024/08/motorbike-notes-part-iv-a-long-long-break/