My Son by Motorbike

The next morning, we headed out early, picked up at our hotel by Johnny, who completely fit the part of jet set wheeler and dealer and not at all a local tour guide. He showed up with his brother and two motorbikes to carry us the 50km up into the mountains to My Son.
If our first motorbike trip was a refreshing little jaunt, this was a bugs-in-teeth, tail bone bruising, wonderful experience. Somehow the countryside looks more beautiful in the open air. Adam nonchalantly climbed aboard Johnny’s bike, and, like the locals, used one hand to brace himself on the rear handle. Katie, on the other hand, quickly became close friends with Johnny’s brother, who spoke no English, but smiled as she broke the local custom of holding onto the driver, clinging to him for what she thought was dear life. Despite the language barrier, he knew every time he took a corner too tight or was going to fast by the increased clamping of Katie’s grip.

The way to My Son meanders through rice patties, timber forests, along bumpy-but-more-or-less-well-paved roads, and up into the cooler, quiet mountains. Upon leaving Hoi An, most of the traffic was students, in their white shirts and red handkerchiefs, on bicycles. One notable exception, on the outskirts of the modern town of My Son was a caravan of motorbikes, strapped with cages packed with pigs.

My Son is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and like Angkor Wat was a holy city with temples dedicated to the Hindu Gods. Unlike Angkor, it belonged to the Champa Empire, and dates to the 4th Century AD. The Champa maintained close ties with the Hindu empires of Indonesia, and were constantly at war with their Khmer, Viet, and Chinese neighbors. The 71 temples constructed in the valley at My Son were often erected to celebrate victories in their many wars of expansion, before succumbing finally to Viet domination.

Of the 71 temples, only three remain standing after 1000 years, but most acutely after US bombs leveled the valley to force out the Vietcong, who used it as a refuge. Again, we cannot describe the architecture, as we would not do it justice. Nor can we put into words the serene, almost mystical atmosphere of the surrounding natural beauty. As with places like Stone Henge or Tikal, you can understand why Hindu priests of millennia past would place their holiest of sites there. Apparently the ancient Indochinese Hindu kingdoms were divided along sectarian, as well as ethnic lines. The Cham who built My Son, worshiped Shiva as the pre-eminent God, the Khmer of Angkor Brahma, and the Indonesians Ganesha. Tributes to Shiva were scattered among the remaining stellae, altars, and carved frescoes among the crumbling buildings. The other, most important, symbol seen all over the complex, was the linga and yoni, representing male and female, respectively, as an augur of fertility (and to each the male and female incarnations of Shiva).

After our licensed guide had finished his cursory one hour tour, we were left alone to take photos. Sadly, unlike the Imperial City in Hue, My Son was crawling with tourists, who arrived in droves on tour buses. Indeed, being a UNESCO World Heritage Site means that you can no longer fly under the radar of fanny-pack-wearing Germans or photo-snapping Japanese.
When we had seen all we needed to, we picked up Johnny and his brother, who had been catching crickets to feed his pet bird, and had a couple beers at the site’s restaurant. We chatted about Johnny’s business ventures, Vietnam, the US, and topics across the full spectrum, as new friends will. Johnny’s brother sat silently, eyeing his crickets. Katie mentioned to Johnny that she had hoped to have snails in Hue, but had missed every opportunity to do so. Johnny suggested that we have a late lunch back just outside Hoi An at a great spot he knew that specialized in snails and grilled fresh fish. We also happened to see our friend from Hue, who had come to My Son with a couple clients of Hue Riders. We exchanged pleasantries, and he wished us continued safe and happy travels.

On the way back to Hoi An, Katie, feeling more adventuresome, was getting the knack of being a motorbike passenger, and only clung to her driver when she saw bumps approaching. About midway on the journey, Johnny got a flat…somewhat miraculously in the middle of a town, and more miraculously, directly in front of a motorbike repair shop (we wondered if they had tacked the road). After a quick, nonchalant and seemingly-routine patch job, we were back on track.

On the outskirts of Hoi An, we veered off on a side road that travelled along the river, past rice patties and, very surprisingly, a cruise ship beached in the mud, now serving as a floating restaurant and conference center. We hoped this would not be our lunch destination… thankfully, it wasn’t. Another mile down the road, we pulled into an unmarked, deserted, open air restaurant whose deck butted up to the water. Johnny ordered in Vietnamese as we walked to our table, and the owner and her daughters brought out local LaRue beer (mineral water for the drivers) and a pot of snails. The snails were huge, almost as big as Katie’s fist, and a little more chewy than expected. But they were steamed in chiles, garlic and broth, and served over fresh mint and young banana and cucumber slices. Delicious.

Next, the owner brought out a hot plate and a steamer with the lid on, hiding the contents and set it in the middle of the table. Johnny explained that this was the food that foreigners can’t get because they don’t know how to ask for it, and what the locals truly love. He was right. When the valve on the steamer began to puff, he raised the lid, and we saw (and smelled) a whole fish in saffron broth, banana leaves, chiles, garlic, and who knows what other delights. The fish was served over thin noodles, in its own broth. It simply knocked our socks off. This, without question, has been our favorite meal in Vietnam, thus far, and frankly will be hard to beat. The food alone would inspire this sentiment, but experiencing this with our new Vietnamese friends, in a restaurant off the beaten path made it all the more memorable. If we could tell you how to get there, we would. But sadly, this recommendation is not easily replicated.

On the way to Em Ma’s shop (the termination of our tour, and where we hoped to be fitted in our new clothes), Adam was involved in his first motorbike accident. Reentering the city, on busy streets only two blocks from Em Ma’s shop, Johnny following his brother, looked to pass a truck that was stopped to make a lefthand turn. Seeing the coast was clear, he veered right around the truck, just as a woman (on a motorbike, of course) sped across the intersection without looking from the other side of the truck. Johnny managed to swerve and keep his bike upright, as she clipped his front end, and slid into the middle of the street. For a brief moment, a sight rarely seen happened: all the traffic on a Vietnamese street stopped dead to inspect the scene. Amazingly, and mercifully, the girl got up uninjured. Everyone dusted themselves off, and the break-neck pace of traffic resumed.

Unfortunately, our garments weren’t ready, so we took advantage of the afternoon with a few more hours on the beach. Having booked for five nights, after our two extensions, we were given a complimentary dinner at the hotel restaurant. Not the best meal, but how do you turn down free food? Plus, finally, the tide cooperated, allowing for the hotel to deploy its floating lanterns. The beautiful red and green paper glowed with each lick of flame, and was perfectly soothing after the fast (though exceptionally fun) pace of the day.