Vietnam via planes, trains, cars… and a few surprises

If a Harley Davidson is said to pulse in sync with a human heartbeat, then the deep growl of a classic Russian Ural bike must surely resemble the feeling of a heart attack.

This thought crossed my mind as I bumped along the congested streets of Hanoi’s Old Quarter, squeezed into the sidecar of a vintage Russian Ural from the 1950s.

Maybe it’s the shape of Vietnam itself – a winding, serpentine land stretching over 1,000 miles down the eastern edge of Indochina – that sparks such fascination with unique forms of transport in the country.

I had begun my adventure in a far more relaxed manner – taking a seaplane to the magical Halong Bay, followed by several days sailing through its mysterious islands aboard a traditional Vietnamese junk.

Back in Hanoi, I was quickly falling in love with the lively Old Quarter.

Cuong Phung, a local guide who’s escorted adventurers like Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman on motorbike tours across Vietnam, had spent the morning showing me his captivating city from the open-air perspective of a classic American military Jeep.

Now, he was revving up his trusty Ural motorbike, heading toward Hanoi’s train station (still marked as Ga Hà Nội from the French era), with my kitbag wedged between my knees in the sidecar.

I had over 1,000 miles to cover, traveling from the historic northern capital to the vibrant metropolis of Ho Chi Minh City, eagerly anticipating the first leg of my 14-hour train journey to Hoi An aboard the legendary Reunification Express.

It’s one of the most iconic rail trips in the world, but don’t expect luxury – the accommodations are basic, and the infamous shared washrooms often deter all but the most die-hard rail enthusiasts from making the journey.

I spent the night rocking gently in the top bunk and was relieved when the first rays of sunlight revealed the sparkling South China Sea and the promise of a refreshing surf session at Danang’s China Beach.

‘That’s not a boat, that’s a basket!’

Danang was once a major U.S. military hub and a ‘rest and recuperation’ center for soldiers, including a group of Californians who introduced surfing to the area.

While the waves may not match the pristine swells of California, the opportunity to catch a few cruisy China Beach breakers was too tempting to pass up.

“Charlie don’t surf!” Robert Duvall famously shouts in Francis Ford Coppola’s classic film, “Apocalypse Now.”

In reality, Vietnamese fishermen have been riding these waves long before the area was ever known as China Beach.

What’s even more fascinating is that they surf these waves in simple, circular boats called 'trung,' which, lacking a bow or stern, could be the most minimalist rowing boats in the world.

As I battled my way out to sea, crouching inside one of these boats, I quickly realized that steering a trung required a level of expertise far beyond what it takes to manage a Californian Malibu board.

Often seen as an ancient predecessor to the medieval coracle, the Vietnamese trung was actually a clever workaround to avoid a French tax on boats: ‘That’s not a boat,’ they’d argue, ‘it’s a basket!’

With over 2,000 miles of coastline, it’s no surprise that Vietnam boasts a wide array of boats. By sunset, I found myself drifting down the Thu Bon River in the historic city of Hoi An (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), surrounded by a fleet of sharp-eyed sampans.

The people of Hoi An believe that the eyes painted on the bows of their boats help avoid collisions, but the impressive skill of the old woman puffing on her cigar and guiding the oars was just as important in maneuvering through the busy, golden water as night descended on the ancient town.

With its creaky cycle rickshaws and narrow alleys adorned with Chinese lanterns, Hoi An might just be the most charming destination in all of Indochina.

From the coastal paradise to the heart of the rice fields

Traveling through Vietnam often means experiencing stark contrasts, and the following morning, I found myself hauling my kitbag from a trishaw to a long-distance sleeper bus, where I slid into one of several molded cubbyholes designed to let passengers stretch out almost horizontally.

We gazed out of the low windows or dozed, packed in like sleeping astronauts, for much of the 10-hour ride to Cam Ranh Bay.

Cam Ranh is a burgeoning luxury resort area that prides itself on being the Vietnamese version of the Riviera. A pristine stretch of white sand is quickly becoming home to some of the country’s finest luxury hotels.

The Anam is one of the best, with vast lawns that lead straight to the sparkling sands, and suites adorned with original artwork by local artists. While the area itself offers little in terms of cultural attractions, the peaceful tranquility of The Anam was the perfect retreat as I geared up for the sensory onslaught of Ho Chi Minh City.

Though I’ve reached the southern part of Vietnam, my journey is far from over. The vast expanse of the Mekong Delta beckons, with dreams of leisurely afternoons cycling along riverbanks and more water-based adventures in the 15,666 square miles of this waterlogged region, known as the rice basket of Vietnam.

It’s only when I check out of the charming Ma Maison Boutique Hotel (656/52 Cach Mang Thang 8 Street, Ward 11, District 3; (84-8) 3846 0263) in old Ho Chi Minh City that I encounter what might be the most whimsically named form of transport in all of Vietnam as I prepare for my Mekong adventure.

The moped taxis that had whisked me through half a dozen cities along the country’s length are locally called Honda Om.

In Vietnamese, ‘Om’ translates to ‘hug,’ reflecting the way passengers cling to the back of the rider, navigating the chaotic streets with the precision of a fighter pilot.

Vietnam may be one of Asia's most varied countries, but to me, the simple ‘Honda hug’ felt like a symbol that united the nation in its modern spirit.