Vietnam Mafia

An essential part of the tourist trail in Vietnam is escaping said tourist trail on the back of an Easy Rider's motorcycle in Dalat. These blue-garbed guides have gained such popularity throughout the years that they are now plagued with imitators, and as such have a vested interest in getting to the tourists first. After a five hour bus ride chugging up a twisty, windy mountain road, through acres of vegetable fields and stands of pine trees, we were greeted at our arrival point by two Easy Riders offering their services. We thanked them kindly, accepted their card, and headed off in the direction they indicated for our hotel. "Goodbye!" they waved cheerfully.

At the next intersection 20 feet down the road, we paused briefly to get our bearings, and heard a voice over our shoulder directing us to the left. We turned, and there was the short elfin guide, grinning under his helmet. "Goodbye!" he said, and zoomed off. Around the next corner we found the tall mustachioed guide waiting, pointing us across the road before gunning his bike and disappearing. It was like wandering through Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, with helpful little oompa loompas popping up at every turn. Sure enough, there they were in front of the hotel, and sure enough, they were still there when we came down from our siesta. We brushed them off to find food, having not eaten since a bowl of pho at 6:30 that morning, and were only moderately surprised to see the tall one pacing the pavement when we finished.

The persistent fellow's name was Sinh and we finally took up his offer of a day trip on the back of a bike to see the local sights. Once we had agreed he disappeared for good, at least until 8:30 this morning. Exiting our hotel we found Sinh and his diminuitive sidekick Hiu smoking on the sidewalk, awaiting our emergence. Helmets were adjusted, Mother's last-minutes jitters were brushed aside, and off we went.

Our journey covered at least 60 km, past pagodas and vegetable fields, through scorching sun and pelting rain (sometimes simultaneously), on dirt tracks and winding paved roads. Mother's favorite part was the silk factory, where we were shown the process from worm to finished fabric. The warehouse was hot and noisy from the rows of clattering machinery and vats of steaming water. From stacks of flat bamboo baskets the white silkworm cocoons were then boiled in water to loosen the fibers. Young women in aprons and rubber boots somehow connected the cocoons to a spinning machine that drew the thread apart from the cocoon, and then wound it together with other gossamer fibers to form thread. The next machine wound the thread onto large rounds, and from there it was further transferred to thick spools. The spools were then placed in huge weaving machines, with automated shuttles flying back and forth, and the pattern delineated by hole-punched cards cycling through near the ceiling. Seeing the whole mess in action was even more bewildering than the muddle I've just written.

Mother survived not only our two-wheeled flight around the countryside, but a slippery scramble down to a waterfall past a poisonous snake, a drenching downpour, and a wander through a certifiable crazy house (the bizarre architecture gave me vertigo just trying to navigate the stairways). Our adventures are somehow drawing to a close, with one more night in Dalat and then another in Saigon before she braves another marathon plane journey.