Biking the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Vietnam

Joel recalls the party hotspots, potholes and picture-postcard views on his 1,750km motorcycle trip down Vietnam’s Ho Chi Minh Trail.

“IS THAT IT?” my friend Elliott exclaimed in disbelief as we looked upon the chunky contraption I planned to get us from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh in one piece.

We were facing the famous Minsk motorbike, or the Minka as the Vietnamese like to call it.

And he was right to be concerned. Many of the Minsks available today in Vietnam have seen better days, handed down from traveller to traveller with little respite between arduous journeys up and down the mountains of the Ho Chi Minh Trail (HCMT).

Despite their reputation as unreliable machines, the Minsk has achieved relative celebrity by starring in the British television series Top Gear, in which three petrolhead enthusiasts pit themselves and three different motorbikes on a 700-mile-plus journey from the southern capital of Ho Chi Minh to Hanoi in the north.

This has ensured somewhat of a cult status for the Minsk and has led to many travellers seeking to imitate the trip.

Add to that the low price tag ($300-400), and enough character to make you feel like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, and we were ready to hit the road. There was just one problem: Elliott had never ridden a motorbike.

As many tourists will testify, just crossing the road in one of Vietnam’s cities can be a daunting experience, but learning to drive in Hanoi poses a challenge like no other.

Fortunately, Elliott took to riding admirably, and so after three days of hair-raising practice and with our fingers crossed, we were ready to set off.

However, having said our farewells, I pulled off only to look back and see Elliott popping a huge wheelie before crashing back down to the street and getting himself caught under the bike in a tangle of machine, limbs and bags.

With Elliott’s confidence in tatters and the bike sporting a bent front suspension, we were resigned to spending yet another day in Hanoi, and went back to the hostel with tails between legs to ask for our room back.

The first (eventual) stop on the trip was Ninh Binh, a city being elevated onto the tourist trail by both the Government and guidebooks, and an achievable distance from Hanoi on our first day.

The only thing that stood between us and our destination was the infamous highway 1A, a road acting as the main artery of transport through Vietnam which is frequented by lorries and buses with, we had been told, little regard for life or death.

After being forced off the road and sent careering into the ditches on the side of the road with alarming regularity by overtaking lorries, we arrived in Ninh Binh exhausted but not defeated.

If you speak to most backpackers in Vietnam, they’ll tell you they’ve thought about doing a bike trip. So when I heard a voice exclaiming, “Fancy seeing you here!” from over my shoulder, I was unsurprised to turn around and see James and Alec, a pair of English backpackers we had previously met in Hanoi.

As they had embarked upon the same trip and we were all going in the same direction, it seemed obvious that we should fulfil our destiny and start a new motorcycle gang. We had the bikes, we had the muscle, now all that was lacking was a name. And so it was, although don’t ask me why, that the “The Misfits” were born. Yeah Hells Angels, you’d better watch out.

Un-Kool and the Gang

Cua Lo, a small beach town to the North of Vinh, was the first stop for our mean motorcycle crew, but disaster struck just eight kilometers away when Alec’s bike spluttered to a stop, rudely shattering our new image.

After only two minutes of standing by the bike looking confused, we were surrounded by smiling locals, obviously very amused that four foreigners had chosen their street upon which to break down.

We wrestled our tools back off a couple of young men, determined to prove themselves as mechanics by stripping the bike down and putting it back together again, then sheepishly got the tow rope out and went into town in the search of a mechanic specialising in 20-year-old Belarusian motorbikes.

As this search wore unsuccessfully on we decided to leave Alec in the town centre, only to discover upon our return that he was standing next to his happily purring bike.

“I’ve fixed it!” he announced excitedly, “all I had to do was reconnect a loose wire!” This was our first lesson as Minsk owners: check the simple things first.

After the 1A we were all keen to get off the beaten track and sample the beautiful scenery we had heard about on the Ho Ch Minh Trail.

And the first day didn’t disappoint: sweeping valleys and rolling green hills provided the backdrop to a snapshot of the Vietnamese way of life in the countryside.

Men and women struggled along the roadside carrying fantastic loads on their backs, while the more fortunate sauntered idly along on carts pulled by buffalo.

Women worked in the fields, stooped over turning the soil by hand or knee-deep in the mud of the rice paddies, while children swarmed the roadside playing happily.

The road surface was in excellent condition, and in the absence of any traffic, one could be forgiven for wondering if this was the same road that had been the backbone of the Vietcong war effort during the conflict with America.

The local people were helpful as we stopped to ask directions and fill up with petrol, while the children swarmed around the bikes to gawp at us, obviously in some cases never having seen a Caucasian face (or a sunburnt one, for that matter).

Next stop: Dong Hoi, where we decided to have our bikes serviced to avoid more mechanical problems. After four days of drinking rocket fuel-like coffee and relaxing with a local mechanic and his family, we set off on the next leg of the journey that would take us inland once again near to the Laos border.

Only this time the “The Misfits” had two new members. “Noh problem maan, I take you to Hue,” was all that the mechanic’s nephew Ahn had said before jumping on his pink scooter with his girlfriend to accompany us on the journey, apparently to check that the bikes would make it there after the service.

With our newly-acquired mechanic/Vietnamese guide, we set out confidently, a confidence which soon evaporated as this time Elliott’s bike suffered its first breakdown.

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts by Ahn to fix the problem, and with darkness drawing in, I drew the short straw and had to tow Elliott back to Dong Hoi in the pitch black on a traffic-clogged road. Meanwhile James and Alec helped push the bike up the hills, providing protection on either side in case Elliott was swept into oblivion by an overtaking vehicle.

We reached Dong Hoi exhausted, though what followed was one of the most authentic and enjoyable nights we had on the whole trip. Ahn’s uncle laid on a special meal and drinks for us, which in true Vietnamese style, was celebrated with vigour.

Man versus Mother Nature

The next day, when our group eventually set off again (late starts had become somewhat of a norm), we were confronted by the first mountains on the journey.

We overcame the first but with all the bikes running well, slowly up to the misty summit, misfortune struck once again, though this time due to human rather than mechanical error.

After racing each other at breakneck speed down the steep descents of the second mountain with the engines off in a bid to see who was the most aerodynamic, James looked behind us at the bottom.

“Where’s Elliott?” he asked, as we collectively shrugged our shoulders.

He was indeed nowhere to be seen. Ahn shot off once more up the steep ascents, only to find that Elliott had left his bike on the other side of the mountain, affixed with a Post-It note saying he’d gone for petrol and would be back in 20 minutes (a clear sign of the age of the Minsk is the absence of a fuel gauge, which means a rider must check his tank regularly to avoid running out – a page in the Minsk manual that Elliott had clearly forgotten to read).

“What an idiot,” muttered the group in unison, although Elliott would desperately try later to convince us it wasn’t his fault.

Having wasted two hours, we were yet again relying on the dim front light of the Minsk to traverse steep mountain roads in the dark.

Mother Nature also seemed to have taken offence at the all the smoke being kicked out by our two-stroke engines, and decided at that moment to lay a deep mist over the roads, which was only relieved by a lightning storm illuminating the mountains intermittently in the background.

“It’s like we’re in a horror movie,” I shouted to the others above the roar of the engines.

Soaked and shivering uncontrollably, we arrived in Lao Bao having completed our most challenging day’s riding.

The Adventure Continues

We all got up early to make sure we could get to Hue in good time, but there was a problem: Ahn was nowhere to be found. Even his girlfriend didn’t know where he was, or if she did, her limited English made sure it remained a mystery.

Soon enough though, he popped up in his typical Bruce Lee-like fashion heaving a box filled with oil for our bikes,

“Here, now you need no more oil before Saigon” he announced with pride.

A nice gesture, but now we had to find a way of fitting four litres of oil to our already overburdened bikes.

Whilst lapping up a traditional café sua da (or iced coffee with milk) for breakfast, Ahn disappeared once more, only to return this time with another Minsk, which he said he had just bought for $200 and planned to sell.

Looking rusty and knackered, it would have been generous to even call it a motorbike. Ahn seemed pleased with himself however, and insisted it would be a great runner.

So having plopped his girlfriend onto his pink scooter for the final leg of the journey, we set off.

After initially being told by Ahn that we would make Hue from Dong Hoi in one day, it came as a surprise when we were told by another local with very good English that we were still six hours away.

“Ahn, how far did you say it was to Hue?” I asked. “Noh worry man, two hours”.

For the next two hours the road snaked along in a valley by a river, which was a great opportunity to test the handling of the bikes as we leant into the corners with knees akimbo, while overtaking one another.

Immediately though, we all noticed that Ahns girlfriend was a mental driver as she hurtled round the corners on the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing oncoming traffic.

“Ahn, how far away are we now?” I asked again, trying to sound casual. “Noh worry man, two hours”.

Ahn’s perception of both time and distance seemed to vary massively from ours, and as we embarked upon the next mountainous section of the road, with blind corners and steep drops either side, it was evident we were in for another long ride.

Amazingly, despite not having a front break and only a very weak rear break, Ahn managed to keep up with us the whole way, a true testament to the mans riding ability.

As the sun was setting on another day in Hue, we toasted our arrival in style with some local 333 beer: Cheers, or “mot, hai, ba, dzo” as the locals would say.

Hue, Hoi An and Nha Trang are all popular stop-offs for dreadlocked, bracelet-laden backpackers on the way from Hanoi to Saigon, and they don’t disappoint. Hue, as the historic capital of Vietnam, offers attractions including the citadel and a range of pagodas and palaces, designated UNESCO World Heritage Sites, while the colonial old world feel of Hoi An with its abundance of cheap tailors makes it a firm favourite. Add to that the turquoise sea and diving opportunities at Nha Trang, and there’s enough to keep any hardened Lonely Planeter on their toes. A worthy, if less- visited attraction along the coast, just to the North of Danang, is Elephant Springs: a natural set of water pools carved into the river bed, accompanied by bars and restaurants, it’s an ideal place for swimming and provides a perfect resting place for half a day.

After spending a couple of days soaking up the sights of Hue, including a jaunt around the walled in Forbidden City, we were ready to jog onto Hoi An, albeit without Ahn who was forced to say his farewells and go back to Dong Hoi to resume work.

As one of the prettiest Vietnamese cities, Hoi An is regularly besieged by waves of tourists who want to experience some colonial architecture, sample some of the highly regarded restaurants, and be within a stones throw of a long sandy beach all at the same time.

And while filling in the time with these attractions you can wait for your suit to be made in one of the towns many famous tailors.

Next stop: Nha Trang, another important R and R location on the way down the coast. Offering a rapidly developing tourist infrastructure, we did well to limit our time in the city to one week.

In-between supping cocktails on the beach, going on boat tours to snorkel or dive, and visiting the private island of Vin Pearl to have a fun day out at the water park, we were hard pushed to fit in anything else.

From Nha Trang, we had been advised to take the new road to Dalat, a city sitting high up in the mountains and a summer retreat for wealthy French families in colonial days, and now the Saigonese elite.

When you’re told about a new road, you could be forgiven for thinking it must be good condition. Not this one, as we discovered while swerving between piles of soil and diggers.

Yet soon we were climbing up the mountains’ high passes once more, looking out for miles at the undulating landscape and rivers snaking off to the horizon.

Unfortunately the steep roads also gave way to yet more problems with James’ bike, which pootled along ominously. Fortunately, all bikes and riders made it, and as the darkness drew in we were welcomed into Dalat by the glowing lights of the flower greenhouses that constitute the bulk of the city’s local produce.

In the city, James looked to finally solve a piston problem that had been hampering his bike’s performance. “It’s fine, it’ll only take a day” he assured us.

Three days later, we set off on the penultimate leg of the journey to Mui Ne, located just five hours from Saigon on the coast – a voyage characterised by a spectacular (and quite possibly karma-induced) fall by James, who hit a pothole whilst swerving round a corner at high speed.

After trying to signal a warning to slow down to the rest of us and misjudging his own approach, we witnessed him being flung like a ragdoll over the handlebars and landing on his back. “He’s definitely dead,” we all thought.

But after getting up and letting rip his contagious laugh, we all knew he was okay. Even the bike had escaped any damage.

Crashes aside, all four bikes made it to Mui Ne without a breakdown, an incredible feat which had only been achieved on a handful of days during the six-week trip. Arriving in the fishing village of Mui Ne, we were greeted by seven kilometres of beachfront packed with bars and restaurants.

We rested our helmets at the Windchamp/Wax resort, affordable at $10 for an A/C bungalow, with a pool, restaurant and a nightclub. Predicting we’d stay for two days, we were still partying hard there after two weeks.

The reason we’d stayed longer was apparent. Before the trip, only two of us had known each other, but throughout the numerous hardships we had faced on the long way down and our teamwork to overcome them, a strong bond between us had been cemented.

We knew that this was the last hurrah of the “The Misfits”, a final celebration of everything we had seen and encountered over the previous six weeks.

Upon arriving in Ho Chi Minh I was planning to stay and work, Elliott was going back to England, while James and Alec hoped to continue their motorcycle diaries around South East Asia, albeit after acquiring two more reliable bikes.

Four men that had met by chance with few expectations would once again go their separate ways. We all wanted to delay arriving at that finish line in Saigon.

As the last day of the trip beckoned, all we wanted was make it to Saigon without breaking down: we’d had our fill of sitting helplessly on the side of roads.

However, just 10 minutes into the journey, I knew all was not well with my bike: the accelerator cable was broken and I was devastated. “It’s all right” said Elliott, “We’ll just use the spare.”

Goodnight, Vietnam

“Oh, we don’t have one”, he said after examining all the bags. At that moment I wanted to push the bike in a ditch and catch the bus the rest of the way, but instead we turned around to see four smiling mechanics standing outside small shack behind us.

Thirty minutes later, and with my faith in the world restored, we were on our way once more. Even arriving on the outskirts of Saigon at rush hour couldn’t stop us as we dodged buses, overtook lorries, and mounted the pavement to get ahead of the pack (well, when in Rome…).

The sheer volume of traffic on the road was mind-boggling, a far cry from what we’d seen in Hanoi.

After getting lost countless times in the throng of vehicles and people, we once again received an unexpected gift of generosity, as a local man led us to the backpacker district on his motorbike before disappearing into the crowd without giving us a chance to even thank him.

And so it was that the bright lights and bustle of the backpacker district awaited us. That night would prove both a celebration and a goodbye to the “The Misfits”, as we contemplated whether to take a baseball bat to our Minsks or pass them on to the next set of chancers.

We decided on the latter – having agreed a reasonable price, of course…