Prior to leaving Vietnam i wanted to deliver my motorbike to my uncle down in Saigon. I had talked about an epic north to south road trip, but i decided to take my dad’s advice that it was too dangerous, especially alone. So instead, i decided to take a train down and bring the bike on as luggage. I’d heard first hand that it could be done and thought obviously, it’s Vietnam, of course it can be done. So off i went to the Ga Hà Nội to get my ticket, for me and the bike. I was impressed the train station had one of those ticket systems where you pick your service, get a number, take a seat and wait for it to be called. None of that jostling up to a window, only to be beaten back by a tiny shrivelled old lady appearing out of your armpit as if you were some inanimate obstruction, who couldn’t give a hoot that you had your most incredulous yet admiring her strength face on, which looks something like this:

So anyway, the ticketing system was great, had my number called, people still lingered around my window trying their luck, but i had that golden ticket which trumped their strong pointy elbows in this case. i asked for the ticket for myself, only hard sleepers left, no problem, done, i asked for a ticket for my motorbike, and she says “we don’t do them here, go to the office outside next to the lotteria” (oiliest burgers i ever been near). I enter the office say my awkward Vietnamese greeting, followed with “i want to get my bike down to Hue, i already have a ticket for myself.” He says, “i understand, it will take ten days.” I, putting on a similar face to the above one, say, “but i arrive there on an overnight train, how can it take 10 days?” he says, “to Hue 8-10 days, Saigon 3 days.” I putting on a similar face to the above one, say, “but Saigon is the other end of the country, Hue is only halfway.” He says something i don’t really grasp, but i assume the offloading in Hue is not possible within the time the train stops there. I leave the station dejected and confused.

With my dejected and confused face on, a lady on the street corner pounces on me and says, “do you need a train ticket?” i say “no, but i need one for my bike.” She whistles over to some guy standing in the middle of the road looking like he’s just made a crack deal. He comes over in his baseball cap, gold chains glistening and tells me to follow him up the road. We enter a small shopfront that looks as though it hasn’t sold anything since the French were ousted, where my man asks me what i’m after, i explain, and he assures me it can be done. He even writes me a note:

I hand over the money (350k dong) thinking, “i’m such a sucker.” He tells me to come back the day before i leave, i assume to collect my ticket for the bike and load it on. I return like i’m supposed to, to find my man hanging about on the corner sipping some tea. He, looking friendlier and familiar towards me now hails me over, and gestures for me to join him on a tiny stool. He says, “i’ll need another 100k, to get your bike down.” I thinking “i’m such a sucker” agree to this and we both get on our bikes to load my motorbike. I expected him to take me across the road to the main station, but no, we’re heading south to Giap Bat station, where the freight trains are. It’s completely dark at this point, when we roll into some railworks, he looks around, no sign of people, at this point i think he’s waiting for his accomplice to mug me, beat me, bag me and run off with my fancy sneakers. But no, he was just looking for his freight train buddies who were having hot pot in the office, we join them, they tell us to sit down, eat and drink. My man says, no we just need to sort this bike out. A little bit of negotiation takes place, a few handshakes, a signature on some scrawled up paper, an exchange of numbers and all is done. I am thinking the whole time, “i may never see this bike again, all i have is a handwritten note from some guy whose name i’m probably mispronouncing.”

Later that evening, i get a call saying my bike has been loaded and will arrive in Hue just before i arrive there and i get the number of the guy in Hue, who will unload it for me. I’m starting to think this might work out. The next day i get on my train, it’s a hard sleeper, so there are 6 of us in there. We get talking to the other gentlemen in the cabin, one happens to work on the railways, he learns that i’m bringing my bike down on a train, at which point i show him the above handwritten “ticket”. He puts on that incredulous look from above, and asks whether he can call the guy for me. I say “of course”, hoping that this guy will provide me with more assurance. He calls and confirms with my man that my bike is on its way as planned. Relief is starting to envelop me and i’m able to get some sleep on the train. In the morning i’m awoken by a call from the Hue guy who has unloaded my bike, although having just woken up, i couldn’t understand anything he was saying, i simply reply with ok, not knowing what i’ve agreed to. My fellow cabin mate has taken it upon himself to sort it all out for me, he calls the Hue guy and arranges for the bike to be driven to the station, apparently it was unloaded 10km out of Hue. I get off the train, follow my cabin mate through some VIP exit and find my bike sitting out the front, with more petrol in it than when it started the journey. The Hue guy calls me, comes out and gives me the key, he sees my cabin mate, and they laugh and shake hands, of course they know eachother.

This story sums it up pretty well for me about how things get done in Vietnam. You got to know people, paper contracts mean diddly squat. My man is obviously in the train business, that’s why he hangs around the station in Hanoi, he knows the freight train guys, and knows that their handshake and their word that it would get done holds a lot of meaning, i.e it means we all get paid, and next time, we’ll do business again, failure to carry out the agreement would have been serious loss of face. All my fretting was unnecessary, i should’ve known after all this time, stuff works out here, it’s just not in the usual “Sir, here is your printed ticket” manner with which i’m used to.

Lesson two, is that people are nosy, but that’s neither a good or bad thing, it’s just what people do, they are nosy because they like gossip, but it also means you’ll have folks like my cabin mate taking it upon himself to sort out my motorbike woes, which is better than someone you share a cabin with for 12 hours who refuses to make eye contact and pretends there is no one there. We (as in western folks) love our privacy and the not staring at eachother, but there’s a lot to be gained from making your business everyones else’s business and vice versa, as Geroge Costanza said “You know, we’re living in a society!”

Last weekend was spent in the province of Ninh Binh, visiting the home of an Akubra wearing Vietnamese man. It was rice harvesting time (which conincides with kite flying), which happens twice a year. Having consumed rice almost every day for my entire life to sustain my “fine” physique, it was probably about time i found out where it came from (not a rice cooker on your kitchen bench it turns out).

Families are designated plots of land around their commune based on the number of family members registered, i.e more family more land i believe. For Mr Akubra wearer’s family, one harvest should cover enough for 8 months of rice, so two harvests should result in a surplus, given decent weather and no attack from crop circle loving aliens or creatively inclined people attached to ride on mowers looking to kill time.

When the rice crop turns yellowish and when people who know what they are talking about say it’s time to harvest, it’s time to harvest. This involves using a little scythe, it probably has a real name but to me it was a little scythe, in vietnamese it could possibly be called a liểm (i am no authority on this subject it seems). I had never understood the point of such a curved blade until harvesting. Having the curved blade allows one to simply pull through the crop in a single stroke inflicting pressure upon the stem without having to use a sawing motion, amazing.

So a cutting we went, barefoot in the mud, wearing shorts and t-shirt was probably not the best attire for such a venture. Lucky the straw hat made up for it somewhat. To my disappointment there were no harvesting songs sung, i’m sure it happens in the movies, but spending most of your time bent over and twisting probably isn’t conducive to singing i guess. So after the rice is cut about three quarters of the way down and left in piles, the men then get to work.

Traditionally it’s the women that cut the rice while the men bale it, poke the bales with a stick of bamboo sharpened at both ends (is there anything bamboo can not do?) and carry it off. We managed to partake in both activities, breaking down the traditional gender boundaries allowing men and women to bale and wield hand held scythes as they please, a momentous day indeed.

After a couple of hours of work from us, and several more hours work from the others one field was cut and baled and a well earned drink from the kettle was had. Some other beverages may also have been consumed resulting in a very relaxed state.

All the bales are then taken to the local village machine which separates the grains of rice from the grass, which is then left to dry in the family courtyard. When it rains, which it did, you have to rake it all up and move it indoors, or just cover it in plastic as we did.


After posing proudly with the harvest (which is not a mandatory step), the now sufficiently dried grains get husked at the local husking machine, and then you simply add water, heat and you have the backbone of an entire diet, hooray for rice.

(why does rice get thrown at weddings? it seems a waste, and this practice should be stopped given food shortage crises, i say.)

So, thought i should mention that in 1991 i was the world table tennis champion, on account of my strong neck muscles.

Chúc Mừng Năm Mới!

Yes, new year happens twice when you follow both the gregorian and lunar calendars, that means a second opportunity to celebrate big like an afro on an inflated head that’s about to burst. And oh, was Lunar new years big, about as big as a cumquat tree on the back of a motorcycle that may also be about to burst. Big for other people that is, i spent it going home before the fireworks, driving 50km to a pretty town called Son Tay, playing frisbee on a small hill, being served tea and corn candy by an old gentleman in the oldest village in Vietnam, clearing sinuses, sitting cross legged and trying to find warm socks.

It’s cold here, and cloudy, haven’t seen the sun for about 3 weeks, haven’t been to karaoke for even longer, actually that’s a lie, it just feels that way.

(Thanks to Cathy and Fraser whoever they may be for the cumquat picture, saves me from having to feel like a tourist).