December 13, 2016
Crossing the water: Nga Son to Sam Son
THERE are two things to do when confronted by a foreigner. The first is to sling half a brick at him. The second is to say the same thing over and over but louder and more insistently. With violent and contradictory signals.
The three women coming slowly towards us on old Chinese bikes looked too sweet to heave bricks. They were riding slowly on a mud path with bags swinging from their handlebars and from racks behind their saddles.
The path through the trees was wide enough for them or for us but not for both. So we waited. They stopped when they reached us. For a moment they talked among themselves, probably about the absence of bricks, and then they started on us. Lively and with enthusiasm.
The most voluble began signalling us to go back the way we had come, then to turn left and left again. She looked kind but worn by life, maybe in her 40s but lined and weary. And then she produced a phone and mimed a call.
This was as concerning as it was puzzling. So far as we knew - but there had been no signs to say so - this tiny trail through the woods of trees and snuffling pink pigs led to a ferry. Seeing the women coming the other way encouraged us. We were on the right track. Now this woman appeared to suggest returning to the cracked concrete road that we'd left. She was telling us to ride back above the waterways and half-drained rice fields and then on a good distance to the next town and its busy road across a bridge.
"Good here?" we asked. We pointed the way they'd come, the way we wanted to go. I tried putting up a thumb and miming a boat. They didn't understand. A raised thumb is a western gesture. And now we were all talking together, playing meaningless charades. It got us nowhere.
The woman pointed down the path, then back the way we'd come. She was insistent.
In the end, they rode on, and so did we. And, sure enough, there was a ferry, a shallow barge with an exposed engine and a man in a shanty cabin doing something with diesel fuel and rags and signalling us to wait.
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The women's concerns then made sense. A hand-painted wooden sign gave a phone number. Call it and the ferry would appear. And that's what they were gesturing with the phone, telling us they would call to save us a long ride round through the town. We, of course, had got the opposite idea.
Unadvertised ferries down mud paths are a feature of Vietnam. We took one yesterday, you'll remember.
We waited by the water's edge, moving our bikes as far as we could without sliding on the wet earth. The dickering with motor and oil continued, the man's back bent, perhaps a perplexed look on his face. In time he puttered over to us, the engine unsilenced and puffing blue smoke. He carried on the bikes, placed them against the low wall, and we stood on the scattered planks of the floor and moved across the water.
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Everywhere here is flooded. Or if not flooded, then wet. We are coming into the rainy season of the midlands and we are also in rice country. The roads have varied from tar to concrete to earth. Places on our route have had small houses on tiny plots often filled by vegetables. The soil is prosperous and not to be wasted.
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There's evidence of tractors in fields but we've seen nothing but wheelmarks and their shedded mud clods. There have been buffalo now and then, and crouching women in old clothes and conical hats. Again, we have been struck by the number and extent of rural graveyards.
Tonight we are in an out-of-season holiday town, in an enormous hotel with six people in it, and rooms of a size and quality we could never have afforded at home. The reception area has a big Christmas tree streaked with white paint and surrounded by parcels. The notion of Christmas must be catching on here, certainly as a way to bring in tourists, but pine trees and snow must be a mystery in the tropics.
Times must be hard. The receptionist wants us to stay until Christmas.
"We'll have a party," she said, dressed in her neat, blue suit.
"We'll be near Saigon by then," we apologised, without adding that we weren't strong on Christmas anyway.
"Do you have any friend near here who would be interested?"
"None, sorry."
She looked crestfallen.
We're having a day off tomorrow. The bumpy roads have hurt Steph's wrist and a full day of rest will do it no harm. But at least we have been out and cycling again, a day of lovely experiences, and there's no better cure than happiness.
Today's ride: 55 km (34 miles)
Total: 502 km (312 miles)
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