Vietnam is divided into two distinct countries: the North and the South. The northern region is a paradise still deeply connected to lush and spontaneous nature. Ha Giang, Sa Pa, Ha Long Bay, Moc Chau, and Ninh Binh are all wonderful places where tourism is present but not overwhelming.
Tourism often comes from neighboring China, which has always been a part of the history and tradition of this people. In recent years, China has become even more prominent in the country's economic heart, thanks especially to the railway network built by the French in 1902, which, after the challenges of the past century, today serves as an entry point for Chinese tourists and entrepreneurs. Furthermore, communism is more tangible here: the region was the birthplace of the Viet Minh and the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, which later led to the Socialist Republic that now unifies the country.
The southern region, on the other hand, has a solid economic foundation based on tourism, especially in the coastal area, a legacy of the significant American influence that ruled the region from 1955 to 1976. Here, the landscape is more prosaic, damaged by the infamous Agent Orange and the incessant tourist influences, particularly from China and the United States, although it still retains beautiful natural landscapes, such as those in the highlands around Buon Ma Thuot and Pleiku, where nature is immersive and refreshing.
It is pointless to hide it; the Chinese have created, conquered, bought, and are slowly destroying the traditions of these peoples. The ideological colonization during the Maoist regime has evolved into a full-blown invasion, making the Chinese the walking wallets of Southeast Asia. From Vietnam to Indonesia, China has taken control of all the territory, managing to give the populations something that European and American conquerors could not satisfy: the freedom to live in their own way. Chinese governments understood, thanks to the mistakes of others, the power and charisma of these populations, who are indomitable when their culture is repressed by force. They have skillfully gained local trust through cunning, money, and the promise of a richer life in Parliament, to the detriment of the poor local traditions that today, more than ever, are crushed by the rise of modernity. Many of them have now forgotten where they come from, who they once were. Until the last century, the Chinese were renowned for their profound spirituality, especially through the fascinating Confucianism, so dear to the old Eastern traditions that considered merchants the lowest rung of the social pyramid, far behind farmers and artisans, precisely because they were seen as the carriers of the world’s worst parasite: the habits of others. There are those who still profess these values, but this small niche is now struggling due to the blows dealt by money derived from some luxury hotel. Greed is a terrible beast, and when money calls, unfortunately, in no society do traditions and idealisms hold.
Geographically speaking, the last city belonging to Northern Vietnam is Hué, a magnificent imperial town located at the foot of the Truong Son mountains and crossed by the Perfume River, which has only retained the fragrance of its name. However, in autumn, the orchards surrounding its banks offer their flowers to the current, releasing their aromas into the water, which, though pleasant, are insufficient to mask the smell of the polluted waters.
Conversely, the first stop on the southern side of the country is Da Nang, which can be reached from Hué by crossing the winding Hai Van Pass, a picturesque mountain ridge often crowded with tourists who are captivated by the local tour guides and decide to hop on a motorbike to experience the thrill of Vietnamese driving. Literally meaning "Cloudy Mountain Pass," Hai Van offers a spectacular view from its 600-meter-high summit and was of crucial importance during the wars. The old bunkers are still present, no longer inhabited by armed soldiers, but now home to many goats freely grazing in the area. I remember the first time we crossed this pass, awestruck by the magnificent view but also surprised by the number of tourists crowding the area with their rented scooters.
Da Nang is a small Miami in central-southern Vietnam, which has now lost even its traditional inhabitants. Famous for the Ho Chi Minh Bridge, inaugurated in 2017, the city is flooded with tourists and their money. One might think that Vinwonder, the Western-themed amusement parks that are widespread in the area, have two locations in this region, just 20 kilometers apart. Even the magnificent Marble Mountains, one of the most beautiful and spiritually impactful natural attractions in all of Vietnam, have become a playground for vendors and shoppers. Inside these stunning limestone peaks stand some of the oldest and most distinctive pagodas in Southeast Asia, surrounded by neon lights and increasing crowds, day by day. A unique, esoteric place, where, due to modernity, not even the monks want to live anymore. Those who have managed to stay anchored to what should truly be their home, hide and avoid the eyes and the varied tongues of the visitors.
A short distance from Da Nang is Hoi An, a colorful town of colonial origin. Like a painter’s palette at the end of the day, the colors and the mix of cultural influences from its rich port tradition have given it charm and magic. The union of styles and eras is reflected in its picturesque architecture: walking through the old town, one moves from temples to wooden Chinese shophouses, from ancient Japanese bridges to traditional French colonial houses.
Known also as the "City of Lanterns" for its excellent silk productions, in Hoi An every evening one can admire a parade along the Thu Bon River of small canoes lit by these beautiful lanterns, along with the ever-growing number of tourists wearing bright orange life jackets. This procession, which once honored the full moon each month in anticipation of the new moon, is now held daily, given the volume of tourists ready to spend money and the persistent vendors eager to satisfy them.
The charm provided by the architecture of this beautiful town is overshadowed by the insatiable and unrelenting crowd of visitors, captivated by some pretty, colorful shot they saw on Instagram. What a terrible invention mass tourism is! Money, regardless of the archetypes embedded in different parts of the world, is the dominant deity in a world of monotheism. One cannot even blame the locals; fascinated by the dream of a better and richer life, they gladly accept the consequences of the compromises demanded by progress at the expense of local traditions. But unfortunately, we have slipped into a condescending attitude toward tourists, dismantling cultures in order to meet someone else's demands. The world has become a climate-controlled cruise ship, where everything is allowed in the name of money, and Southeast Asia is merely its latest victim. Hoi An, due to its history, has always accepted being a crossroads of cultures and peoples, but has ended up being the first victim of the dismantling of traditions happening throughout Vietnam in the name of progressivism.
Many places in this continent are now non-places, purposefully recreated based on the standard model of an average Western tourist.
It was September 17th, and a seasonal typhoon forced us to spend a few days on the outskirts of Hoi An, just a stone’s throw from the sea. We stayed in a small guesthouse as the only guests, spoiled with morning coffee in our room and our motorbikes washed, which, like us, were also overwhelmed by the suffocating heat.
We were eager to give ourselves the space we needed for freedom, ready to breathe in new air that would fill our lungs with self-knowledge. We had no worries, not even money, as the possibility of working in some hostel didn’t bother us, and the idea behind our trip was to do volunteer work in exchange for food and lodging. A valid and economical way to travel and explore local cultures more deeply.
By then, the route was set: our final stop was Ho Chi Minh, to be reached by the 27th to return the rental bikes and buy new ones, finally officially ours, which would accompany us until the engines wore out or we were caught by local authorities.
Entering Ho Chi Minh was nerve-wracking and disorienting. While Hanoi still retains its traditional and unique Eastern structure, old Saigon is much more like Bangkok. Advertising signs, blinding LED billboards, nightclubs, strip clubs—in one word: chaos.
Mirko and I were determined from the start not to stay in that city, a perfect manifestation of the saying "too much spoils." Just enough time to buy the bikes and leave. Because of this, we were very pragmatic, quick, and reckless in our purchase: for just over four hundred euros each, we bought two Honda CB 150 cc, café racers, stripped-down and modified. They were unreliable bikes, but we quickly grew attached to them. They were our first real bikes in Asia, and with them came a paper certifying their characteristics, known as the "Blue Card." We relied on our seller, who had opened his house to us on a Sunday, the day of his daughter’s birthday, for the transaction, offering us hot tea under the scorching sun of Ho Chi Minh. He was small with little beard, but he had a trustworthy face. He claimed to be a mechanic, but in reality, he worked with a workshop that repaired the bikes, taking a percentage of the resale price. He was direct and to the point, just as we wanted, so we quickly shook hands.
We were ready; nothing was missing. On our new travel companions, we were eager and curious to discover new horizons and meet new people.
In Ho Chi Minh, we also managed to get in touch with the first place where we would do volunteer work. It was a center that taught English in the town of Hong Ngu, near the border with Cambodia, about eighty kilometers from Saigon. We had agreed to start the second week of October, as the center was already full of volunteers. However, we were excited at the thought of being in contact with the young Vietnamese and discovering their customs and ways of life! Once again, the Universe sent us one of its famous Signs: it was eight in the evening, and we were in a park joking about the large number of rats in the area, planning where to go to pass the agonizing wait, when the phone rang. It was Mr. T, the cheerful manager of the "My U Ac" English center in Hong Ngu, where we were supposed to work. With broken English, he asked if we could bring forward our arrival to the next day. Without hesitation, we packed our bags, ate quickly, and went straight to bed. The next day, we would begin a new experience, a new journey—one that was more personal and profound.
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