Around 1,400 kilometres lay between ourselves and Hanoi, with a limited number of days to cover them. Starting early, we had our packs strapped on and were on the road headed north by 10:00. By 'road', I refer to Highway 1, a two-lane stretch (more like 1.5 lanes) not unlike Pacific Coast Highway 1 running along the California coast. Actually, much of Vietnam is oddly familiar to the point of déjà vu in that it bears much geographical and even cultural similarity to The Golden State. An elongated north to south expanse; the coast dotted with laid-back beach/port/resort towns, mountains not unlike the Sierra Nevadas, fertile agricultural valleys, and easy attitudes.

We immediately faced coastal mountain roads, getting some first tastes of the hazards to come. No road rules, the only algorithm managing the flow of traffic is survival of the fittest and domination of the largest. It was cat and mouse with the sociopathic public bus drivers and large decrepit soviet and chinese trucks swerving erratically without provocation. Herds of oxen and cattle lumbering into traffic and construction work every five kilometres or so. We had been told the road all the way to Hue was "Cambodia-bad," but apart from insufficient width, it was mostly in decent shape. There was active work to upgrade it, resulting in many sections of rough riding.

The winding road along the mountainside gave way to postcard villages facing green lumpy islands and beaches along the entirety. Random roadside noodle-shops, usually consisting of somebody's home with a few plastic chairs put out, made for convenient breaks, requests for vegetarian fare met with varying degrees of success. "Phó" seems to be the most popular meal item in vietnam, a steaming bowl of soupy noodles with a little meat sprinkled on top. Most places would scrounge up some Ramen-esque noodles with some fresh vegetables - enough to sustain our six to eight hours of riding.

Following the coast, large black granite rock formations reached up into the clouds, low lying fog roiling around them spectacularly. Eventually turning inland, the road opened into vast expanses of river floodplain, with brilliantly verdant horizon-to-horizon rows of rice paddies. Ruined and abandoned stone towers from the ancient Cham civilization sat atop large hills while below them along the road concrete towers sat ruined and abandoned from the American war. Every thirty minutes or so we would pass another communist war monument, predominately consisting of heroic soldiers, rifles thrust defiantly towards the sun ostensibly saying "And stay out!" Other monuments were cylindrical concrete towers with triangular base supports, abstracted representations of the technological heroes - chinese and soviet made SAMs that shot down many of the enemy's aircraft.

About 20 kilometres from our first day's destination, we were returned to the coast and pulled over to appreciate the indescribable view. Seeing so much amazing undeveloped coast is uncommon, and as vietnam develops will become increasingly rare. It was here our first minor crisis occurred when I noticed that my key was no longer in it's appropriate location, it's key-home, or as you might say, lock. The modern design innovation that prevents keys being removed while a vehicle is on was obviously overlooked by the Taiwanese engineers. It had been twenty kilometres or so since our last stop, and going back to look for it would have been like, well, it would have been like looking for a key on a twenty kilometre stretch of road (just under 13 miles for the metric-impaired. 1.6K=1M). Although it would have been a major security problem, I could kill the engine by popping the clutch in a high gear and would have to continue on as such with hopes of finding a locksmith. It was the only workable solution, and just as I had resigned myself to accepting it, as we prepared to speed off, three shirtless sweaty angels descended from heaven and blessed us. Though that is a loose interpretation of what happened, it's not far from the truth. One of the lumbering trucks slowly crawling up the road passed us, and as they did so one of the men leaned out and threw from the door the missing key. How they found it on the road I will never know, they must have seen it fall from the bike. Had we not stopped long enough to dwell on our fate the truck would have never caught up with us.

Several kilometres later we paused on a small rise overlooking our day's destination of Qui Non. Taking in the view, a woman pulled up by our bikes back on the road. When we approached, she tried engaging us in conversation, though communicating what we could with sign language and gestures didn't get us very far. Until we saw what she had strapped to her moto. But first some context.

Since our arrival in south vietnam, the number and frequency of sexual propositions we received was astounding. Everywhere we went, everyone in vietnam wanted us to enjoy the pleasures of their women. Stopping to ask for directions, eating, sitting on a bench, taking a smoke break, buying a cup of coffee. Almost every time we engaged in public discourse we had to rebuff requests for private intercourse. A change of venue, if you will. Women offered themselves openly to us, while the men shamelessly suggested that we should have sex with their friends, sisters, or daughters. "You want make boom-boom?" queried the young women. "I haf' yung gir' fo you...VER' YUNG" informed the SVA cyclo-rickshaw drivers. "You wan' fuqz my sistuh?" young men would inquire. "My daughter very beautiful! Make good girlfriend for YOU!" older men advised us. Old women would point to us, then point to a nearby girl, nodding her head and smiling. Playing naïve or pretending "not to get it" only worsened the situation(s), what minimal subtlety dropped in increasingly graphic communicative efforts. "YOU! HER!" the old women cried, slapping the palms of her hands together in a biological rhythm, "Make Babyson!"

Sound like deluded exposition in egotistical fantasy? It isn't. It wasn't. The already undeserved reputation of bangkok is family-hour compared to the gratuitous advances that characterized our vietnamese experience. It's not like we have not witnessed the sex industry in every country we've gone to, but this was ridiculous. In town was bad enough, but on the road that first day, every stop we made led to the same conversation. We wouldn't have made it very far and would have required some of Pfizer's Potent blue pills had we accepted the offers we received. And let us teach you a vietnamese word: KARAOKE = WHOREHOUSE. Although I was aware that some do serve as fronts for that purpose, the sheer number of these establishments was comical. If we had legitimately wanted to sing along to the music of Tom Jones or Gloria Gaynor or Bono, we would have been hard-pressed to find an actual karaoke joint to do so. At one noodle break along the road, thinking my "Kheong...Cam Un..." (no...thank you) could only mean I didn't understand the nature of the request, a young man led me into an inside room and pointed to the television and attached microphone. Answer his expectant look, "Yes...Karaoke...I understood you the first time..." It seemed we could not enjoy a moment of just 'hanging out' without being hounded and hassled to engage a local in The Nasty. Apart from our road weariness, we grew exhausted from all the vociferous protesting required throughout the day.

So back to the woman who stopped along the busy highway, interrupting our moment of quiet appreciation. Strapped to the back of her moto was a 19" television, and in the front basket, a soundboard and microphone. Just when we thought we had seen it all, just when we thought we had found a moment of peace, this woman and her portable karaoke rig had tracked us down. Scrambling back onto our bikes, we raced down the mountain towards town with her in hot pursuit. The portable Karaoke woman chased after us, bleating her horn and waving her arms. With tears of quiet despair streaming down our cheeks, we pegged our throttles and managed to put some distance between us. Nowhere was safe so we dodged down some back alleys to lay low until she broke off the hunt.

Unfortunately the town we found ourselves in was no better. In fact it was the nadir of our sordid tour of the sleazy south. Port-town and provincial capital, Qui Non was seeping with such sleaziness. The dilapidated revolutionary park in the center of town swarmed with mosquitoes. Between the starburst firework lights, the strange animal statues, and the PA system issuing inaudibly distorted government propaganda, it felt like a carnival that should have shut down a long time ago. Though we've been in much dodgier places it was the first time I felt genuine concern over possible robbery or worse. Even the children had something of a wild dangerous aspect to them. Though some hotels we've stayed at do have 'massage service' or 'karaoke parlor' on the side, our place in Qui Non seemed more like a brothel operating as a hotel on the side. They were surprised to have somebody take a room for more then an hour or two. As it was off the tourist route (no Sinh buses stopped here) and subsequently few westerners came here, the touts and rickshaw drivers did not know what to do with us, so we were mostly left alone.

Did we do this? Although i'm sure the prostitution industry is indigenous in origin (as everywhere) but did we elevate or change the relevancy/role/significance? The acceptance or importance? Was this the lesson in capitalism taught to the South by american occupation forces? Did we demonstrate it as the most viable means of escaping poverty? Is it a lazy expression of capitalism? Not to say that it is either bad or good. Sex as a commodity is nothing new and arguably a natural phenomenon. Is less cultural shame over something inherently natural a bad thing? Should an entire segment of women trying to better there family's situations feel shame? Don't all relationships involve an exchange of various things, is prostitution not just a less subtle extension of this? We would like not to think so, but that doesn't mean it's not true.

making our move around one of the jurassic trucks

a roadside graveyard for buddhists, catholics, and judging from the swastikas, german war fugitives.

the village of quon tho or quen diu, situated between the ocean and coastal mountains. "...god damned dink names all sound the same..."

our first village noodle stop, the youngest on the right made a big display of dry-humping her chair

though we could never be classified as corporate shills (somebody would have to be willing to pay us first) we must give high marks to Eagle Creek's line of pack gear. From respectable piece of luggage to backpack (with detachable "captain's yacht" daybag) the built-in straps secured them perfectly to our bikes with no additional hardware required. adam's 2001 model even includes an integrated deployable rain-shield (though not useful for more then light to moderate precipitation)

smoke and map break. we were making good time that first day but still had a lot of ground to cover.

didn't prevent us from stopping to absorb the sights at our own pace.

one of the bikes was the 'executive' model with wood grain fuel tank decal

lush

heading inland. there are innumerable rivers in this country, the river floodplains such as perfect for rice growing

paddies to the left

and to the right. vietnam is the second largest exporter of rice behind thailand. until the start of "doi moi" (economic liberalization like perestroika) policies of 1989, little rice was exported. little extra was grown as there was no incentive to farmers - the state operated farms sold what they could with the central government keeping all the money. with the profit motive, every arable square meter is now used for rice production.

a concrete american emplacement from the war.

this old SVA Air Force vet (they all say they were in the Air Force) was very proud of his gold RayBan sunglasses bequethed unto him by an american former comrade in arms recently visited him.

mamasan, or i should say madamesan with the victory salute was the "make babyson” propositioner. the recipient of my babyson is purple in the back, shying away from her would-be-pimp

corky the viet-tard delighted in the obscene treatment and attention she received. “You wan’ fuqz huhr?!!”Let’s see...she’s trying to make some lunch and looks painfully resigned to her reality...I am in the middle of an all day ride taking a break to fiend on nicotine and msg. Sure, let’s rumble.

Lot’s of hallmark fishing villages, we had to stop for some Kodak Moments &tm; of the fishing nets drying in the sun over the blue-green waters

ditto

in search of no excitement, moments later the day’s climactic karoake pursuit began

The starburst firework lights above the People’s Revolution Park in Qui Non. This place was splendidly creepy. Several competing PA systems put out distorted post-modern abstractions of spoken-word propaganda, entirely incomprehensible even to a native speaker.

apart from the war monuments, the eastern-bloc style murals were the other common visual elements we associate with communism

not sure about the photo-quality gravestones, a dual-axis plotter scratching out images of the recently deceased as they appeared at one time in their lives. often they use photos of them as children, though they may have died at 80. it’s all very strange. cognitive dissonance.

guess what these guys wanted to sell us?

Day One completed to the tune of 255 km