Perhaps the most ubiquitous moment of cultural dislocation for the new arrival in south-east Asia is that first encounter with a busy street. The chaotic, writhing mass of traffic; the substitution of deafening horn blasts for indicator lights; the thick smell of exhaust fumes on turgid, tropical air. One thing’s for certain: the green cross code won’t help you here.
I was in Hoi An, Vietnam, at the start of my third week in the region. Of necessity, I was now perfectly blasé about launching headlong into a sea of mopeds every time I crossed the street. Now though, it was time to ride one. My next stop was Hue, and in between lay the legendary Hai Van Pass. Described by the ever-diffident Jeremy Clarkson as one of the best coastal roads in the world, riding it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.
In a side-street hire shop, I was kitted out with helmet, pads and the ignition key for my shiny black and red scooter. I had never ridden one before, so the Hoi An morning rush hour turned out to be a swerving, screeching, white-knuckle baptism of fire. I saw riders sprouting from side alleys, riders running red lights and riders nonchalantly cruising down the wrong side of the road. Still though, it could have been worse. I could have been learning in Hanoi. Or India.
The open road
After the anarchy of the city centre, it was a relief to leave the cramped streets behind and hit the coast road. The breeze was a welcome antidote to the humidity, as I gunned the engine and began to relax. Fields, trees and locals in conical hats whipped past in flashing succession, like the carousel slides of an old imperial newsreel.
We passed into Da Nang and made our first stop of the day at the Marble Mountains. These limestone peaks are peppered with soaring pagodas and hidden grottoes. On a less sultry day, I might have been tempted to linger, but then, in Vietnam, sultriness is par for the course. Ahead the fertile green slopes rose to mark the start of the pass, and I was keen to get back in the saddle.
As our wheels hit the climb, the din of the city fell away, leaving us alone with a gorgeous stretch of tarmac, winding in voluptuous curves up to the mountains beyond. Already the air tasted cleaner and, as if on cue, the sun burst through the wispy clouds. We glided round the bends with choreographed precision, brushing every apex with the lightest kiss, lost in the rhythms of the road.
The inevitable tourist shack selling coca cola stands at the summit. We wandered down a slope at the rear to drink in the views down to the coast. The panorama was undoubtedly compelling, but it was approaching the hottest part of the day, and I soon yearned for the blissful breeze of the open road. We descended the weaving succession of hairpins on the other side, scarcely needing the throttle, luxuriating in the joy of a rollercoaster ride where you choose the tracks.
Beside the seaside
Down from the glittering mountain realm, we arrived at the long, golden expanse of Lang Co beach. We dismounted and entered a restaurant built on wooden stilts above the sand. Depositing helmets and shoes at one of the tables, we ran barefoot down a set of stairs towards the sea. Our years fell away with each step, and we waded heedlessly into the waves, made children again by this blissful beach on the far side of the world.
Our first rush of enthusiasm spent, we returned to our table, drawn by the enticing smell of grilling fresh seafood. There were chunks of firm, white fish falling smoothly from the bone, dressed oysters, a fiery, aromatic broth, and, best of all, a mountain of juicy, shell-on prawns with ripe sliced lemons. We all agreed it was our best meal so far in a country where that accolade is not lightly bestowed.
To Hue
On we rode, to finish at last in the former imperial capital of Hue, where we reluctantly dismounted and handed over our keys. At a hostel in town, we were reunited with the main body of our group, who had taken the train up from Da Nang. They spoke enthusiastically of stunning vistas along the coast, but we three riders exchanged coy glances, and remembered the glorious, sweeping hairpin bends, and knew in our hearts that we had won the jackpot that day.
Morning. I was back astride a scooter in rush hour traffic. There were more of us this time, all eager for the promise of wind on our faces and enchanting countryside unfurling before our eyes. We tried to enter a national park, but some angry wardens ran out from a camouflaged hut to tell us that bikers weren’t permitted. Where to go instead, the newbies asked us. We shrugged. Why not return to the Hai Van Pass?
Second pass
So it was that I found myself winding up the very same roads I had wound down the day before. Growing in confidence and keen to test my limits, I sought to navigate the fine line between the merely bold and the outright reckless.
Leaning into every corner, feeling my body at one with the humming weight of the bike, I was having the time of my life. Then, I rounded a bend and ended up stuck behind the world’s slowest truck. For a couple of minutes, I loitered impatiently behind him, weaving restlessly in search an opening. Finally, a clear stretch opened up, save for a small hidden pocket, where the road curved in and out along a cleft in the mountainside. Safety and rashness warred within over whether I should chance the overtake. Rashness won.
Pride cometh before a fall
I gunned the engine with a flourish and steered into the oncoming lane. My bike pulled level with the back wheels of my antagonist, then began to accelerate past. I was on the brink of starting my re-entry when a huge truck emerged from the blind pocket, running full tilt downhill towards me. Time stretched as I took in the cliff to my left, churning tyres to my right, and the wide-eyed driver of the ten-tonne tower of death straight ahead.
On instinct, I wrenched the handlebars to the right and slammed on the brakes. I felt the back wheel slide out under me, and then I was down, skidding along the tarmac. Ahead, the truck driver gave a futile blast of his horn and screamed to a halt a few metres shy of my front wheel. A stunned silence settled over the scene. My right arm and leg were dripping blood in dark splashes on the tarmac, but adrenaline masked the pain. My bike was scratched, and the side mirror awkwardly bent, but she was still roadworthy. All in all, a damn sight luckier than I deserved.
One of my companions helped me to my feet, and I limped off shaking to the side of the road. Appetite for the pass seemed to have evaporated, and we agreed to head back down. At sea level temperatures had soared to nearly 40 Celsius, and one of our crew sprang a slow leak from his fuel tank. He conked out on the side of the road, his engine choking and sputtering. A couple of us made the sweltering detour to a gas station. Mercifully, we managed to persuade the doubtful attendant to support our vehicle recovery service, consisting of a plastic water bottle filled with petrol.
Coda
I presented a rather different picture to the day before when I finally rolled up, sweat soaked and blood stained, in Hue that evening. As the sun went down and I licked my wounds at the train station bound for Hanoi, I searched for a moral in the events of the past two days. In the end, I settled on this: contrary to the old saying, when it comes to overtaking on blind corners, you should quit while you’re behind.
Want to read more about my time in south-east Asia? Check out this post about my encounter with fire ants in a Thai monastery here. Or, if you want to indulge some Top Gear nostalgia, watch the trio ride the Hai Van Pass here.