Vietnam's Wild West. Tumbleweeds.
Lumpy roads and snack stands.
Ramshackle houses settled in valleys and along hills, the endless hills of burnt golden grasses and all those Fall shades, rolling here, in Spring, off damn far into the distance, giving a person at least the inkling to follow 'em up every lost, sad little offshoot road, hopin' to find treasure or mystery or whatever strange story gleaned my eye each time I gazed into one, at whatever eye-bleating speed I was going.
This is where Vietnam's fake moon landing should have been filmed. Martian villagers and all, looking sidelong, only half-interested.
It's been a while now since the last real rest-stop and this dirty, old bike is givin' cause for concern. How long will she last? Will I bury her, roadside, in some solemn ceremony, hitch into the next forgotten hamlet, hit the bottle, then find a bus to the nearest skeezy beach town?
These thoughts roam through my head as I gun another 6 hours, predictably being run off the road by truckers and not caring so much anymore. The skies have been dark and foreboding for a while. Keeping my hand on the throttle; I don't need anymore drenched journeys.
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