“It’s me, Lisa!”
A huge smile, a very high-pitched voice. Matthieu looks at her, completely lost.
“But it’s me, Lisa! We talked!”
We look at each other. Still nothing.
“Yes! On WhatsApp! I’m the one you messaged about the booking. Lisa!”
And that is when Matthieu finally understands what is happening. What Lisa does not know is that before arriving in Ha Giang, Matthieu had contacted an absurd number of agencies to compare routes, prices and tour options. After messaging so many people on WhatsApp, he could no longer remember who he had actually spoken to. The messages, yes. The names, much less. We finally chose Mr Hung Loop Tour because the agency had excellent reviews and, above all, was known for small groups, usually around seven to ten people, twelve at most. Exactly what we wanted. We simply had not imagined just how small ours would be.
It is a little after 7 a.m. We are finishing breakfast at the homestay where we slept after our late arrival in Ha Giang. The idea behind the Ha Giang Loop is simple: for several days, you travel by motorbike through the mountains of Vietnam’s far north, very close to the Chinese border. You can drive yourself, or, like us, choose the Easy Rider option and spend four days riding behind an experienced driver. Meals and accommodation are arranged along the way.
Before we leave, Lisa hands us two white agency t-shirts, printed with a motorbike and a design that has very clearly been generated by AI. Luckily, they are free. We are always happy to collect t-shirts for working out while travelling, but these are so hard on the eyes that we almost hesitate to wear them. The marketer in Sébastien is already suffering so much from the visual that he is seriously considering redesigning one for them for free. They could have such cooler t-shirts.
Then we look at the table. Next to our two place settings, there are only two more. Two American travellers. That is it.
We look at each other.
“Wait… did we book a private tour?”
No.
And that was absolutely not what we wanted. After more than 100 days travelling as a couple, we were obviously there for the landscapes, but also to meet people. To speak to someone other than each other once in a while, and avoid murdering each other before the end of the trip.
Helmets fastened, knee and elbow pads on, bags wrapped in plastic, we each climb onto the back of our driver’s bike. One speaks English and also acts as the guide. The other, Sébastien’s driver, barely speaks any. We still manage to learn that he is a dad and that he is one year younger than Sébastien. From that moment on, he becomes “Papa”.
We leave Ha Giang under light rain. At first, it is pretty. Then the road climbs, the limestone mountains close in, and the bends start stacking up. Bac Sum, Quan Ba, Tham Ma: a few hours later, we understand exactly why we came.
The first evening looks exactly like the Ha Giang Loop we had imagined. A lovely homestay, an excellent meal, our two Americans, the drivers, our guide, and the first glasses of happy water.
“Một, hai, ba, dô!”
We toast. Then again. Karaoke starts. They are Taylor Swift fans, we bring out our usual classics, and the glasses keep coming until an hour we only vaguely remember.
The next morning, though, our two travelling companions continue on their three-day route. We are doing four. A new guide takes over, and at first the connection is much less warm. And suddenly, we are almost alone.
The road continues towards Lo Lo Chai, very close to the Chinese border, then to Lung Cu and its tower standing above the mountains. The border, let’s be honest, remains a border. The climb to Lung Cu is already far more interesting. Under a grey sky, we gain height and the mountains stretch all the way into China.
Then we reach Dong Van. Our accommodation is huge, built to host a crowd of travellers. We walk in. Almost no one.
“Wait… are we sure we didn’t book a private tour?”
Thankfully, as the kilometres pass, our guide starts to open up. His real name is Tuan, although everyone calls him Tony with foreign travellers. Before riding through Ha Giang by motorbike, he worked in a factory repairing faulty Apple earphones before they were repackaged in batches. After a year, he had had enough and changed his life.
And on the third day, we mostly discover just how much you have to trust your driver.
The bikes leave the main road and turn onto a small, completely battered track climbing towards a café higher up. A few metres before the climb, Papa stops his motorbike. In his very approximate English, he explains to Sébastien what is coming: for the next part, he will have to hold very tightly around his waist and stay completely pressed against him.
Sébastien obeys.
The bike starts again.
A few metres later, Papa stops once more, this time right beside Matthieu and Tuan. Matthieu turns his head and sees Sébastien with both arms firmly wrapped around his driver’s waist.
“I’m properly attached to my Papa!”
Matthieu looks at him, slightly surprised.
Tuan then explains that he will have to do exactly the same thing.
A few seconds later, both bikes set off again, each of us firmly attached to his driver, ready to tackle this little track which, seen from below, already no longer looked much like a road.
This third day is also the day when the landscapes take over completely. The planned hour-and-a-half trek around Ma Pi Leng cannot happen as announced for logistical reasons. We insist, and an alternative is found. Our guide, who openly embraces his “lazy” side, prefers to stay near the bikes.
So we continue on our own.
The drone takes off. Below us, the karst mountains form a succession of green and grey peaks, valleys plunge between them, and the roads become tiny lines clinging to their sides.
We leave, stop, take the drone out again, then continue all the way to Du Gia.
That evening, our final homestay is beautiful, set in the middle of rice fields. And this time, miracle: another couple is there. Two very friendly Dutch travellers with whom we click immediately.
Finally!
Except their guide does not want our two groups to eat together. Why? No idea. So each group has dinner separately. Once their guide leaves, we still end up meeting for a few drinks.
The next morning, the rain finally arrives. Since the beginning of the Loop, we have been carrying our rain gear without ever needing to take it out. This time, there is no escape. A few minutes later, we are wrapped from head to toe in large waterproof suits that make us look like walking bin bags. Watching locals ride past on scooters dressed exactly the same way, we quickly understand that this is basically the official rainy-day outfit of northern Vietnam.
We get back on the road towards Ha Giang. Despite the rain, the narrow roads and the bends, we never feel unsafe. After four days behind them, our trust in our drivers is total. The mountains sometimes disappear behind the clouds, and eventually Ha Giang comes back into view.
Four days earlier, we wanted landscapes, encounters and a small-group adventure. The landscapes, we got. The encounters, much less than expected.
So, did we book a private tour?
No.
But at times, it really felt like one.
We would have loved big shared tables and more travellers. That is probably our only real disappointment.
And yet, when we look back, that is not what we remember first.
We think of Lisa and her high-pitched voice, of the t-shirt Sébastien the marketer still dreams of redesigning, of a karaoke night with far too much happy water, of Tuan going from an earphone factory to mountain roads, and of Papa, with whom Sébastien could barely speak but to whom he trusted his safety for four days.
Most of all, we think of those tiny roads lost between mountains that seem to go on forever.
The Ha Giang Loop was not exactly the adventure we had imagined.
The landscapes, however, went far beyond what we had come looking for.