Shelter and Sisterhood in Vietnam

This is the first in a series of posts dedicated to the amazing people I meet while traveling, people who provide me with much more than assistance. These are people who open their hearts to me and whom I will always think of as family. These are my angels of the road.

The following flashback is from my time cycling through Vietnam.

I was hungry after having only fruit for breakfast, so I stopped at the first place I saw. It was on the opposite side of the highway, though, which is something I try to avoid as this is no country road but the busiest highway in Vietnam. From my perch atop Bowie (the name of my bicycle), I could see the place served banh mi. Perfect. Since I had a jar of chunky, Vietnam-made peanut butter in my pack, all I needed was a little baguette (ridiculously cheap too—usually costing about $0.08) for the perfect, tasty lunch.

A young, slight girl who spoke some English approached me as I tried (awkwardly) to balance my bike and unload my small pack from atop the larger one. I walked with her and explained what I wanted, adding, “An chay” to make my bizarre choice of plain bread more understandable. Her father waved me over to sit at the table with him and his wife and daughters. I happily did, but, as he spoke no English, wondered what we would find to “talk” about for the duration of my lunch. We pantomimed about basic things, I showed them my map, and the daughter provided translations for the slightly more complex ideas.

Soon they were bringing out food and treats for me to partake in—candied ginger (a traditional Tet, or Vietnamese New Year treat), fresh papaya, watermelon seeds (damned difficult to open), a sugary puffed rice treat which was crispy and filled with ginger and crystallized sugar.

Then they started outright giving me things! The father packed up the container of candied ginger for me to take and added to it banh in—some kind of special Tet treat that was all white and sugary and rectangular. Then the daughter, An, brought out a heart-shaped gift box. I shyly opened it. Inside was a soft pink wide wristband. She indicated it was a scrunchy for my hair. How perfect! My pink sparkly hairband was in truly awful shape—dirty and stretched out and always catching and ripping on my tangled hair.

I was delighted, but also ashamed. What could I give to them? What did I have? Not for the first time I wished I was carrying a supply of gifts. Then I thought of my books. The Little Prince! It was filled with delightful pictures and the story was simple and maybe someday she would be able to read and understand it. So I fished through my backpack and gave it to her, trying to indicate through hand gestures just how treasured it was to me. “My favorite book,” I repeated.

I don't know exactly how it happened, but when we went back to the table to sit and I began rifling through my smaller pack in preparation to leave, An mentioned she wished I were part of her family. Then she said something to her father in Vietnamese, smiled and turned to me, saying that they would like it if I would be part of their family for that afternoon and night, that I should stay with them. I'm sorry to say that I hesitated. I really shouldn't have; it was an extraordinary offer. But in my defense, I was simply a bit concerned about time. So I got out my map again to see how far I had to go until Mui Ne, the next big town. Could I do the remaining distance in one day? Yes, it seemed completely plausible. So I smilingly agreed.

An was immediately jubilant. She jumped up from the table, lightly grabbed my arm and steered me toward a room in the back which had an altar and old photographs of the family's deceased relatives. She lit a long stick of incense then handed it to me, indicating that I should place the incense above the altar. I wondered, is this a ritual just for family members?

Then she led me into her room which she shared with two younger sisters, one fifteen and one twelve. She herself, despite looking much younger to my eyes, was only nineteen years old. She said I should feel at home and asked if she could call me Sister Sarah. I agreed, tickled by the ecclesiastical undertones, calling her Sister An in return. She invited me to bathe, which was a welcome invitation after a few hours cycling in the hot sun. I bathed quickly in the outhouse, splashing myself with water and washing my hair as best I could. Around An and her sisters, all of whom dressed neatly and meticulously, I had been acutely aware of my sweat-stained outer shirt and tangled, messy hair.

After a light lunch, the girls showed me a video of An singing beautifully at some kind of celebration. She had a lovely voice and did some very sweet dance moves, all while wearing a cowgirl-inspired outfit which might have been ridiculous on someone else, but she was such a cute little thing, I think she could have worn anything. Then we did some karaoke, and after a little persuasion I too decided to sing. I started with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” because it was the only English song, then I passed the microphone to the sisters. The eldest two had simply stunning singing voices and moved with such grace and ease. 

 

The sisters told me I was beautiful, even before I had bathed my fatigued, sweaty body. And they loved my hair. But I didn't see how they could truly think I was beautiful. Oh, that's not self-deprecation. It's just that I violate so many Asian standards of beauty, especially now. I have dark, tanned skin. Really. My legs are the color of a roasted turkey at Thanksgiving. I have freckles and I am too tall and too big and too clumsy. In many ways, I am the antithesis of the standard of beauty here, in which being graceful and pale, with as white skin as possible, is seen as beautiful. I think the only way to reconcile this paradox is to agree that the sisters were holding me to entirely different standards of beauty. So while they may find me beautiful, they would never want my dark tan or my freckled skin.

 

That afternoon, though it was clear that the normal activity would have been to sleep a bit, we all piled onto the family's motorbike. The girls took great care in preparing for the trip. They wore face masks and long gloves, as well as hoodies with long sleeves and the hoods pulled over their heads and tied tightly under their chins. In contrast, I wore my cut-off jean shorts and a short sleeve shirt. I was already as dark as I'd ever been and, while cycling ten hours a day, I simply found it useless to fight the tan. So the four of us squeezed on and rode into the nearby town of Vinh Hao, famous for its mineral water, to take the type of photobooth kitschy photos that are so popular in Japan. You know the ones—you can edit them afterwards, adding bows and hearts and writing to the foreground and a snowy background or a background populated by Hello Kitties. We drank sugar cane juice with ice and a bit of orange juice mixed in, which Sister An insisted on treating me to.

The sisters took a little nap and bathed before dinner, and as she was changing her clothes, An asked me a question I never expected to hear. “Do you think I'm thin?” she asked, her face tight and worried. My goodness! “Of course you are thin!” I answered immediately, knowing the crushing effect of hesitance. This girl was tiny, tiny, tiny. She was pocket-sized—as slim and slight as a child. Why on earth would she worry about a thing like that? But I understand. Girl, do I ever understand. Beauty standards infiltrate and insecurity abounds in everyone; the skinny and the symmetrical are no exception.

I felt like an oaf in comparison to her and in the past few months I had gained weight and no longer recognized my own body. But I was beginning again to feel comfortable in my skin. Especially once I started cycling—on that first day, with no preparation or past experience, I cycled 75 km—I really began to see what my body was capable of and it made me grateful. Grateful for strong legs and strong lungs. Grateful for a constitution which, after cycling for ten hours can still be vibrant and full of energy, propelling me out of my hotel room and exploring whatever town I'm passing through.

I met some of the extended family at dinner—aunts and uncles. We conversed through smiles and laughter and soon An translated her uncle's complimentary comment on how tall I was. They were all impressed with my stately height. Well! At 5’4” or 153 cm, this was certainly a new experience! But he was right. I was a bit taller than him and a few good inches taller than everyone else in the family.

After dinner we lay and watched TV on a woven mat on the floor. An's middle sister brought out pillows and blankets, and so, instead of using the girl's bedroom, we fell asleep there on the floor. All the women in the family—An's mother and her sisters and now me—slept in the open air of the front balcony of their house/roadside restaurant. Though An's mother joined us on the floor, I was aware that she got up several times during the night to serve hungry customers. Their restaurant was located on the busiest highway in Vietnam, after all.

I awoke with the light, as did the entire family. I efficiently gathered my things; weeks of experience had made packing up a well-worn routine, and I was soon saying goodbye to the lovely family that had taken me in and embraced me.  I hugged and kissed them all in turn, saving the biggest hug for Sister An. I saw myself in her—someone endlessly curious about people and the world. I saw in her what I wanted to be—someone open, caring, courageously sharing herself with strangers.

I couldn’t linger; I had a long way until my next stop, Mui Ne. But as I cycled off, I wished I could shelter Sister An somehow, shelter her from the pain that comes with such openness, shelter her from the insecurity of caring what other people think. But who am I to lend her strength, I who know the pain of bending under the weight of my own insecurity? Maybe we can shelter each other, maybe we provide each other with support, with—what is the word? oh yes—sisterhood.

Tales from Vietnam. Cycling over Mountains and in the Dark

The following is a flashback from my time cycling in Vietnam. It recounts the time I was nearly stranded on top of a unpopulated mountain at dusk with no tent, no water, no warm clothes, little food, no sleeping bag, and no flashlight.

So I pressed on, thinking, if necessary, I could flag down a bus. Almost immediately the road began to climb. And climb. I optimistically expected the road to reach the peak around every corner. No such luck. I don't know if there is any way to impart the experience that afternoon. The uphill seemed endless, and in fact, it continued uphill, often steeply, for 20 km and those 20 km took me at least 4 hours to complete. When the grade was too steep (it was quite often 10%) or when my legs were simply jello-like and sore, I got off and pushed the bike until my arms were jello-like and sore; then I either took a break or switched again to riding.

It was the hottest part of the day and the sun was merciless. I can say, on the bright side, that the scenery—the surrounding mountain view—was stunning. Cliché! My breath was taken away from the climb and then again from the view! ;)

Despite the view, though, I was exhausted and when I looked at my cell phone to check the time after noticing the air around me was chill, I saw it was getting on to 3:30 p.m. and the mountain, the uphill, had no end in sight. "Give it some time," I thought. "I can always flag down a bus in a half hour or so."

So I continued up and up and up. Soon it was 4:20 p.m. and the road ahead had a sign declaring a 10% uphill grade. So I flagged down a bus that was going to Da Nang. But they wanted 20,000 VND which struck me and still strikes me as exorbitant. So I waved goodbye to them, wondering if I'd regret it later. (Spoiler alert: The answer is yes. And no.)

So I continued on—nothing to do but move forward. And lo! What's this? A downhill! Yes!

I cruised down the hill, thinking, "This is it! The crest of the mountain." Exuberantly, I used my newly defined phrase: "It's all downhill from here!"

I passed through a tiny village and three boys lined up and held out their hands to high five me as I rode by. I felt joyous, unconquerable. I passed two policemen; they tried to say something to me. Wary, I smiled and waved and kept going. I passed a waterfall, right in the nook, the armpit of the road's curve.

And then I turned the corner. "Motherfucker!" I thought, along with other obscenities. Another uphill sign!

This sign indicated only 150 m, but I knew all too well that those 150 m could drag on for kilometers. I felt completely dejected. I ate a tangerine. Now I had no water and only two tangerines. It was late, past the time when most minibuses ran and it was cold. I waited, hoping to flag down a minibus, but none passed. I had no tent, no sleeping bag, no sweater, no flashlight, no water. The situation was feeling a wee bit desperate.

I gave myself until the end of the tangerine, then when no minibus had passed or could be seen approaching, I had nothing left to do but keep moving. The white and red stone kilometer markers on the side of the road indicated a town 9 km away. Even if it was uphill the whole way, surely I could make it around dusk and find a home to sleep in! So I trudged up the hill. And it was, blessedly, the last!

It really was downhill from that point on, which was lucky because I soon found out that the "town" the kilometer markers were counting down to was not a town at all. It was a waterfall.

So I kept going. The going was easy now—all downhill. Not to mention, there was absurdly beautiful scenery at every turn. It seemed once I had reached the crest of the mountain, the climate suddenly and very noticeably changed. On the way up, the mountains had been arid, often with exposed patches of red dirt and patches of dry, brownish grass. Once on the other side of the pass, the air became absurdly thick with moisture. Every breath I took was like drowning in warm water and the mountains had no dry patches, no exposed dirt. Instead they were filled to bursting with ferns and palms and vines and greenery of every sort. I could hardly believe the lushness. At every turn there was a waterfall.

I stopped often to take pictures but soon realized I had no time to dawdle. I saw a kilometer marker for Kham Duc—my original destination—for about 25 km away. It was already dusk, but I was making great downhill time, so I decided I would try to make it. I might have to cycle a bit in the dark, but so what?

So I pushed on, as fast as my legs and the hill would take me. And the kilometers quickly ticked by. It was just that time of evening when the bugs are out in full force. This fact, coupled with the extreme humidity, soon meant my face was speckled with little black bugs.

With 10 km to go, darkness fell completely. I cycled on, using the weak flashlight mode on my cell phone and holding the phone in my left hand so I could try to make out the road in front of me. The traffic was not too thick, but I still feared some crazy driver (of which there were plenty) would swerve into me in an inattentive moment. But luck was on my side and a little after 8:00 p.m. I finally made it into Kham Duc and though I entered the town slowly and with little fanfare, I felt as if I were in a one-woman parade. I felt like celebrating.

Power Snacking in Vietnam and Cambodia

I often tell people that Southeast Asia, especially Vietnam, is tailor-made for cycling. All right, so the roads aren’t always great (see this post as proof), but the drivers are accustomed to cyclists, the hotels are cheap, the scenery is phenomenal, and the food is amazing and very suitable for vegans. The snacks especially are plentiful and healthy, providing the perfect source of long-lasting energy.

In Cambodia, if you see a roadside grill like this, pull over. Immediately.

At first I was too shy to buy any of these little packets as I wasn’t sure what was inside them. But soon I realized that at about $0.12 each, I could afford to take a gamble and open one up, hoping for a vegan filling! There’s something remotely Christmas-like about peeling away the charred layers of banana leaf to reveal the treat inside.

This particular variety (called something like An Som or Anksom) are popular near Kratie. The most common type is as pictured above—sweet sticky rice boiled with coconut milk and a hint of salt wrapped around a banana and then grilled. The rice becomes chewy and a bit crunchy while the banana practically melts and caramelizes. Beautiful. I also found these stuffed with taro and (my very favorite) shredded jackfruit.

Here’s a snack I was only able to find once in Vietnam, though I searched for it many times as it was truly the perfect cycling boost.

I’ve searched for more information in vain, but here’s what I can tell you about it. It was a chewy confection made from black sticky rice, black beans, fresh ginger, a bit of sugar, and topped with white sesame seeds. It filled me with energy and protein without weighing me down and the fresh ginger was an unexpected and invigorating touch.

Another one of my favorite cycling snacks in Camboda is krolan—sticky rice with coconut cream and black beans stuffed in a bamboo tube and cooked for hours over low heat. It’s labor-intensive work, as the tubes must be constantly monitored and turned to prevent burning. But the result is unique and delicious, and as with the above snacks as well, the packaging is sustainable and biodegradable—perfect for when you’re on the bike!

‘The Robin Hood of Boom Boom’

The following is an excerpt from my journal which details a conversation with an unusually frank expat whom I met in Vietnam. Excerpt is the appropriate word here. Keep in mind these are just a few of my thoughts on the sex industry in Southeast Asia. I welcome any comments, perspectives, anecdotes.

“Later that night, I headed back to the shop and after a time, R and I got to talking. He was already a bit drunk—possibly more than a bit. He complained of the term ‘sex tourism’, revealing quite readily that he saw prostitutes. He railed against the feminists back in his Western home country who would hate what he was doing, defended simultaneously himself and his choices, called anyone who judged him harshly ‘fucking hypocrites’ and said they should travel before they judged him. As he spoke, he touched and jiggled his large, obese belly and said with a mix of humor and pathos, ‘Who wants to have sex with this?’

“But the thing that stood out the most was when he called himself ‘The Robin Hood of boom boom’. He elaborated, ‘I take money from the rich tourists [who patronize his shop] and distribute it among poor women and their families’.

“I was intrigued by his candor, and so took the opportunity to pepper him with questions. He actually generally saw the same women instead of spreading his, er, wealth amongst all the prostitutes in the area. He was quite unabashed about his choice and I found myself agreeing in part with what he said. We cannot outright condemn prostitution or outlaw it without giving these girls and boys other options to make good money and support their families. But I still cannot in conscience agree with his enthusiastic glorification of the profession. Nor do I fully understand those men who prefer to pay for sex, even if they can get laid on their own, with willing women.

“But maybe that’s just my ego speaking. I would like to believe that sex with a turned-on and enthusiastic woman would be better than sex with a prostitute, no matter how talented or how compliant she may be.”

Durian Mooncakes. Sau Rieng Banh Pia Chay

I’ve mentioned before that Vietnam was one of my favorite countries to eat in. Not only was vegan food easy to find, but it was also cheap, healthy, and popular with locals. And though I loved pho, banh xeo, bun cha gio, banh bao, bun hue, cao lau, and sua dau nanh, my very favorite food in all of Vietnam was undoubtedly sau rieng banh pia chay, or vegan durian-filled mooncakes.

Food in Vietnam, like most non-Western countries, is stubbornly regional. This means that a dish that is a specialty of one city in Vietnam will likely only be found in that city, and so it is with sau rieng banh pia. These mooncakes are local to Soc Trang in southern Vietnam, the Mekong Delta region. They are so stubbornly regional, that I struggled to find them again even in any other city in the Mekong Delta. The first time I encountered them was in a VVR (Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant) in Soc Trang after an acquaintance pointed them out as a local specialty. It only took one bite for me to become hooked.

I already knew of my undying love for durian, but fresh durian is a different beast from preserved, so I wasn’t sure what to expect with these banh pia. The pastry outside is flaky and mild-tasting so it doesn’t compete with the flavorful filling. Its role seems to be to provide a pleasant and light texture. The filling is a dense paste of green beans (yes, that’s the translation. I suspect they are just the inner peas themselves that have been cooked and mashed. Remember, in this part of the world, beans are just as often used in desserts as in savory dishes.) mixed with durian and sugar. The green peas themselves are not noticeable; they provide a subtle backdrop for the more intense flavor of the sweet and creamy durian.

How much do I love sau rieng banh pia chay? Enough that when I find myself in or near Vietnam, I will certainly be making a special trip to the Mekong Delta just for these mooncakes.

Waxing Poetical About Durian

How can I even begin to give durian its propers? Let me just say this: If I were to die tomorrow I would want nothing but the sweet, custardy flesh of a durian as my last meal in this body. No equivocation. No ifs, ands, or buts. Durian would be my death-row meal.

With a baby durian at a fruit orchard in southern Vietnam.

Okay, boring stuff first. Yes, it has a pungent odor. Yes, it is banned from many hotels and public transport. I, however, love the smell. The stronger the better.

I always tell people who are trying durian for the first time to not think of it as a fruit. It is too rich, too intensely flavored. Think of it as a sweet, almond- and garlic-flavored custard. But every durian is different, has a different flavor profile, so just as one can be a connoisseur of wine, so is it possible to be a durian connoisseur. But I have heard that durian doesn't ship well (though the Thai are developing a variety of durian which can stand up to long-distance transport, but naturally this results in a less delicate, less flavorful fruit), so it is only really possible to be a connoisseur in the appropriate climate.

I remember very clearly a moment in Battambang, Cambodia during the hottest months of the year when I suddenly realized, when it really struck me, I hadn't been dry in weeks. Weeks. Every time I showered, I began to sweat before the fresh water even had a chance to dry. For weeks. Only two things made the heat (and no chance of an air-conditioned refuge) somewhat bearable: the mango tree in the backyard and the fact that it was durian season. Ah, durian season! Durians were plentiful, extra-special delicious, and cheap! During the off season, durians ran about 8000 riel ($2.00) per kilo, but in season, I was finding them regularly for 3000 riel ($0.75) per kilo, sometimes less. Because we had a few durian haters living the in house, I never brought my spoils inside, instead splitting them open (an easy task once you know the trick) and eating them on the table outside. There were many days when all I ate for dinner was the creamy flesh of a ripe durian.

I've heard from Thai and Malaysian friends that the preference for durian varies in each country. The Thai tend to prefer their durian firmer, less ripe, and less pungent, while Malaysians like a very soft and ripe durian. I fall into the latter camp, which, counter intuitively, makes Thailand the perfect place to buy durian as the riper, stinkier fruits sell for less because they are less popular.

Durian is known in southeast Asia as the king of fruit, and mangosteen as the queen. Both fruits come into season at the same time, during the hottest months of April and May, and both are prized for their tastiness (understatement!). Another reason they are considered the king and queen is because durian is known to be a heating food, one that you should not eat too much of lest you aggravate your pitta (I'm taking some liberties here of course, because pitta is a dosha from the ayurvedic tradition and durian is considered heating according to Chinese medicinal tradition), while mangosteen is considered cooling and has the opposite effect. Therefore, you will suffer no negative consequences if you eat durian and mangosteen together.

The VVR (Vietnamese Vegetarian Restaurant)

Besides asking “Why on earth?”, the first thing people ask me about my veganism is “But isn’t that difficult?” The answer is, in some places more than others. Eastern Europe for instance, especially outside the major cities, is difficult to be vegan and healthy in without access to a kitchen.  But Vietnam, ah Vietnam! For ease, health, and deliciousness, Vietnam has been one of my favorite countries to eat in. This is due mainly to what I term as the VVR—Vietnamese Vegetarian Restaurant.

Mock pork, mock fish, stir fried green beans, and a sweet and sour pineapple, tofu, and veggie dish.

The Vietnamese practice Mahayana, a different type of Buddhism than their neighbors in Thailand and Cambodia. Mahayana Buddhism recommends eating a vegetarian diet for all followers, and requires it of monks. For four days each month, including the new and full moon, a vegetarian diet is practiced by many pious followers of Mahayana Buddhism. Consequently, the concept of eating no animal products is well known and often even respected as a sign of great piety. Another consequence of these four days is that every major and some minor towns tend to have at least one VVR which caters to the religious all month and is naturally more popular on one of the recommended vegetarian days.

Silken tofu soup, stir fried green beans, spring rolls, and a dipping sauce.

Vietnamese is written in a modified Latin script, which makes reading signs faster and easier, so even while I was cycling down the road, I could scan the signs for those magic words:  Com Chay (Vegetarian Food).

Because the VVRs cater to the general population, their prices are low, very low. All meals I ate across the country cost less than 20,000 VND, with most costing just 10,000 VND. Most have no English menus at all, no English spoken, no tourists. In fact, I can only remember one time when I went into a VVR and saw another Westerner eating there.

So how did I know what to order? In general, you have two options at a VVR. The first option is to choose from a short list of made-to-order noodle soups. Each VVR tends to offer different soups based on the region and the restaurant’s specialty, but some common choices are pho, bun, and mien. (See my previous post to learn more about these noodle soups.)

Noodle soups with a glass of fresh soy milk. Photo courtesy of Nathan Edgerton.

The second option is to order a plate of rice which comes with a selection from the “buffet”. The buffet is a daily range of dishes which you can peek at and sometimes select yourself, but which the proprietor will arrange and serve atop your pile of rice. The daily dishes usually cover quite a range—from a brothy vegetable soup to saucy mock meats to rainbows of stir fried veggies to fresh spring rolls. Some restaurants even serve further specialties like hot pot, banh xeo (filled savory crepes), banh mi (baguette sandwich), freshly made soy milk, and banh bao (steam buns).

Sauteed greens, steamed pumpkin, lemongrass “chicken” (which used a stalk of lemongrass to replicate the bone), and a brothy green-filled soup.

Food Rhapsody: Dessert Soup (Che)

I realize that this picture may not inspire appetites or get anyone salivating, but behind that speckled glass window, in those metal mixing bowls lies my favorite dessert in all of southeast Asia--dessert soup. Known in Vietnam as Che, dessert soup involves any number of ingredients served with a simple syrup, ice, and often coconut milk.

A few standard options include stewed bananas, stewed pumpkin, sticky rice, black beans, tapioca, yellow mung beans, black eyed peas, jackfruit and sticky rice, pandan leaf noodles, and various colored jellies.

The standard Western palate is unused to eating legumes in a sweet dish, but I hope that won't stop anyone from trying this dessert. It is the perfect mix of sweet, salty, creamy, and refreshingly cold. When ordering, you point at the metal bowl of your preference and the proprietor will scoop your choice into a small

bowl, followed by a ladle of clear syrup, a ladle of coconut cream, then a spoonful of crushed ice.

A standard offering of cooked black-eyed peas and white sticky rice with syrup and coconut cream.

My favorite che of all is this one, known in Cambodia as Boua Loy. It is composed of glutinous rice balls (similar in texture to the Japanese mochi) filled with yellow mung bean paste. The balls are served in a ginger syrup with fresh coconut cream and a topping of crushed white sesame seeds.

Vietnamese Noodle Soups

One of the delights of traveling anywhere in the world is sampling the cuisine. As a vegan, this delight occasionally turns into a challenge, albeit a delicious and surmountable one. Vietnam, with its tradition of vegetarian cuisine, was one of my favorite countries to eat in, and nothing got me geared up (snicker!) for a day of cycling like a bowl of noodle soup for breakfast.

Observe:

Pho in Quy Nhon. Pho is the classic Vietnamese noodle soup. It's made from thick flat rice noodles, beef (or mock beef in my case), and is served with a heaping side plate of herbs, including basil, mint, lettuce, fish mint, and lime wedges.

Mien is made from clear cassava vermicelli noodles.

Bun from Quang Ngai. Bun is a rice vermicelli soup in an acidic, light broth. As you can see, it, like Pho, is served with a side plate of herbs which are then added to the hot soup. Some people only add a few leaves, but I preferred to scoop the whole plateful into my soup.

An exceptionally citrusy and refreshing bowl of Bun Hue from Hoi An. I first sampled noodle soups outside the tourist center of Hoi An in a small Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant which had more in common with a garage than a Western restaurant. For 10,000 VND, or about $0.50 USD, noodle soups made the perfect energizing brekkie for a long day of cycling.

The Hoi An specialty, Cao Lau. Features rustic, square wheat noodles and water from a specific well in Hoi An. The noodles are pleasingly toothsome and the soup is topped with crispy fried noodles as well as the usual (though always vendor-selected) range of fresh herbs.

My first bowl of Pho Bo! A perfectly balanced revelation. The broth is made hours ahead of time then kept on low heat the whole day, while the noodles are cooked to order. This makes the assembly truly fast, as flash-cooked noodles are carefully topped with a ladleful of broth, bits of meat (or faux meat), bean sprouts, and fresh herbs. Condiments like sugar, hot peppers in vinegar, crushed peppers, and sometimes MSG are placed on each table so every customer can customize and create his perfect bowl.

The adventure begins

Oh Lordy, could I be any cheesier?

Here's the story, told some six weeks later. I've polished it up a bit after multiple tellings and retellings. After the aforementioned punch in the gut, I wandered the streets of Phnom Penh. Should I go to Vietnam or Laos? The question pestered me. If limes can be trusted, the answer was Laos. But limes might be fickle and Justin has good aim. Let me back up even further. "Laos or Vietnam?" I asked my friend, the imperturbable Justin. "Let's solve this in the only suitable manner," he replied (or, possibly, I'm fabricating this entire speech). "See those two pots hanging on the wall?" I did. "The left one is Vietnam; the right one is Laos. Whichever pot this lime hits," he picked up a lime from the lime basket on the table, "is the country you'll go to."

"Well, this sounds entirely reasonable," I responded.

"Thump," went the lime as it hit Laos.

Laos it was.

But days later, the question still nipped at me. And so I wandered the streets, unable to make even the most mundane decisions. I needed to flip a coin to decide where to eat lunch. Then, in one moment, everything changed. I walked past The Vicious Cycle, a bicycle shop near the riverside, and I thought (God, it's fucking tempting to add, completely unnecessarily and against all rules of style, "to myself" after those two words), Why not? I don't want to take the bus, but hitchhiking hasn't been working out. Why not cycle?

Once I made the choice, everything fell into place. It seemed the universe was smiling on my decision. For as I walked to the Russian Market the next day, dodging street sellers, refuse, and the near-constant chorus of "Moto madam?" and "Tuk tuk miss?", I passed a hole-in-the-wall bike repair shop with four used mountain bikes for sale. The owner, a former resident of Atlanta, Georgia, quoted me a reasonable price for the shiny white beauty with big front and rear shocks I was eying and he agreed to show me some basic repairs.

The next few days passed quickly, as I ducked around the city in a haphazard manner, collecting the gear I would need for my trip.

I decided I would cycle through northeastern Cambodia before crossing into Vietnam, but beyond that outline, my route was hazy, and I preferred it this way. No sense in making plans that would be changed anyways.

So, four days after purchasing my bicycle, I crossed the Mekong River and rolled out of Phnom Penh.