When I returned to Hanoi, Christmas preparations were underway, but it was only the beginning of December, still far too early to be heading toward the high passes of Central Asia (which don’t open till May). 

With time on my hands, I decided to head north into China and made enquiries about a visa. I pictured myself camping among Yaks on the wild Tibetan plateau, turning prayer wheels in the hope of favourable winds through the Taklamakan, guided by the promise of Kashgar and the odd roadside camel.

Then I googled “CYCLING CHINA IN WINTER” and remembered I am a giant whimp for cold weather. 

“It’s definitely possible” – said someone (who clearly hadn’t done it). Those that had talked of frozen roads, frozen water bottles and frozen toes. And then of frozen breath which melts on your jacket and sleeping bag, soaking everything through. 

As appealing as all this sounded, it turned out (as I wasn’t in my home country) I could only get a Chinese visa for 30 days so had no chance of making the epic crossing to the ‘Stans. Crushed (*relieved*) I handed in my passport at the visa office and settled for a month’s detour. I would enter Yunnan through North Vietnam and make as much progress as possible before horseshoeing my way back down to Laos and continuing west. It would be Chinese winter cycling ‘lite’.

I paid my dollars and was asked to come back in ten days.  

Whilst waiting, I met a bunch of cyclists I’d been in touch with through What’s App: a Hungarian couple touring with a toddler on the back; a Frenchman, Clem, proud of an emergency jungle tire repair *still good after  10,000km*; an Austrian couple, a French couple and an English couple (Chris and Gabs) who’d clocked up 67 countries by bike in 7 years. A pretty good forum for me to glean some advice for my route.

I made the pilgrimage to Decathlon to sort out some winter gear (even my brief foray into the south of China would be quite cold). 

Then set about trying all manner of Hanoi coffee (traditional, egg, coconut… maybe even a cherry one at one point!). 

All in all, Hanoi was a great place to wait around in. The faded colonial architecture providing a veneer of calm to the mortally dangerous streets of the old quarter.

I had durian with tofu ginger ice cream a couple of times at the dessert place below (Thé Ngon 93), which involved a waiter marching out across a busy intersection (tray in hand) to reach the diners on the steps opposite. Though I saw several collisions and the odd set of feet being run over, nobody seemed to take it personally. 

At the weekends this relaxed / frenetic atmosphere reached a crescendo on the wide boulevards of Hoan Kiem Lake which are closed to create a kind of ‘just because’ public fun space for tango dancing, giant games of Jenga, kids in Barbie cars and the local variation on footbag – or whatever else you feel like doing. 

More solemnly I took an early morning trip one day to the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum. Kind of creepy I suppose, but the myth of Uncle Ho is strong, even today in the aggressively capitalist ‘Socialist Republic’ of 2019 and I wanted to see how his cult is performed and maintained. Below is a small section of the queue.

Famously – he never wanted to be embalmed, but instead cremated with his ashes sent to all corners of the country as a symbol of unity.

For the authorities in the 70s though, he was more use under glass, and with a 24 hour armed watch, he doesn’t get much peace these days.

After an hour or so’s queue we were respectfully rushed through, then left to reflect on our encounter beneath the comforting shadow of a giant national flag which billows outside the complex. 

With my fingers crossed and Ho’s spirit now on side, I took a motorbike taxi to the Chinese Visa Centre where thankfully my application had been approved. 

Hanoi was great but after 10 days in Myanmar with Dad and another 10 or so waiting for the visa, it was finally time to get riding again!