Leaving Fear on the Trail
Golden hour beamed beyond mountains on a spontaneous stop to take in the view, or a necessary one to fix a breakdown…I can’t recall which.
It takes a certain kind of crazy…
…to drive a motorbike down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, something I didn’t think I had in me.
On my first trip to Vietnam, heeding warnings from my friends and even my doctor, I figured I wasn’t up for the adventure. I figured my nerves would get the best of me and I’d overthink every windy turn or patch of gravel. I figured I’d never feel secure. But on my last night in Saigon, listening to stories of newfound friends who had completed the journey, a much stronger fear gripped me: the fear of missing out. So, a year later, I found myself back at the top of the country, ready to create some stories of my own.
Buying a bike and learning how to drive it in a city like Hanoi were daunting tasks. I cautiously maneuvered through the mass of disorganized traffic, teaching myself how to change gears as other drivers cut me off and horns beeped incessantly. My rational mind was telling me this road trip was a bad idea. But with each terrifying drive through the narrow, crowded streets of the Old Quarter and along equally crowded tree-lined boulevards, my confidence increased. When I met two fellow backpackers who were departing on the same route south the next day, I knew the time had come. We would eventually become a group of eight, finding new members for our crew in hostels along the way.
Our first drive to Ninh Binh was not the liberating, breathtaking experience I had envisioned. The three-turned-six-hour journey was all highway and, just as night fell, rain came pouring down. It was an inconvenient time to discover that our headlights didn’t work and our hostel was in the middle of a rice field with no discernible road. As lightning flashed, revealing the vastness of the field and the black silhouettes of massive cliffs in the distance, I navigated my bike through the mud with one hand on the accelerator and the other holding up my phone as a makeshift headlight.
The breakdowns were plenty and the long days left us exhausted when we finally reached our destinations well after dark. Still, we knew one thing was certain: we would receive a warm, enthusiastic welcome. After a particularly grueling day, a group of (supposed) high-ranking Vietnamese, Thai and Laotian government officials invited us to join them for dinner. Treated to a traditional family-style meal, complete with Bún bò Huế (a soup with congealed pig’s blood) and lots of Rượu đế (rice wine), by the end of the night we were joining in their singalongs. In another town, a group of rowdy teenagers invited us home to play video games and drink snake-infused whisky.
Vietnam never failed us: the long, winding drives through mountains overlooking lush canopies of green; the coastal roads grazing white sand beaches and dotted with bright magenta flowers; even the most trying of situations had a tendency to work out.
One day we set our route knowing there would be no mechanics or cell service for 90km. The rest of our crew was ahead of us when my driving buddy’s bike broke down. Stranded on a cliff, we stared over misty treetops that provided a beautiful view but reinforced our hopelessness. Just then, things fell into place. The first two men to drive by pulled their motorbike over to help us. One man’s head was bleeding but the needs of two helpless foreigners came first.
Prepared for such an incident, they tied a rope to Jack’s bike and towed him down the mountain laced with switchbacks to the next roadside town. I followed, laughing as Jack lit a cigarette and sat back to enjoy the ride. Hours later, after an engine replacement and a hot meal prepared by the mechanic’s wife, we were ready to take off. We couldn’t see the road ahead, but the sky was lit up by millions of stars gazing down at us. I didn’t care if I made it out alive—this was living.
Whatever I’d imagined driving the Trail would be like, I never expected what I found: a magical sense of freedom.