by Liz Sinclair

Created on: July 16, 2009

I was standing ankle deep in mud, on the corner of Phan Dinh Phung and Hung Vuong Streets, feeling a poor excuse for an adventure traveller. Five hours in Hue and already I had managed to misplace my tour group; worse, my guidebook was back at the hotel. I was lost and alone in Vietnam where I spoke exactly six words of the language. Considering that two of those words were 'tea' and 'beer,' I stood a very good chance of not going thirsty.

There were nine of us on a cycling tour from Hue (pronounced Way) to Saigon, and the wet season was running late. We were dismayed to learn that our tour leader intended to take us cycling around Hue despite the rain. Mark, a six-foot-something ex-pat Australian with a flat-top military haircut, curtly reminded us that the 'adventure' in adventure travel stood for just that. We piled on our waterproof anoraks, covered them with a local brand of plastic poncho and reluctantly headed out to see what sights a dreary, drab Hue had to offer.

A few hours later, at the tail end of the group, I came speeding out of an alley onto a main road and stopped short. I couldn't see my companions anywhere. I peered intently at the poncho clad figures, looking like plastic-sheeted ghosts, that rode by me in the rain on rasping bicycles, hoping to spot a familiar face, or at least a big nose.

I heard a shout, and turned my head in the direction of the noise. A Vietnamese woman stood behind a steaming soup cart by the side of the road. She pointed to my right. 'That way!' she yelled in English. I careened off down the road, dodging slower moving Vietnamese on bicycles. The people around me became a blur of colored plastic and conical hats. I pumped faster on my bike, splashing heedlessly though puddles. There was no sign of the group.

For the first time that day, I was oblivious to the cold water dripping steadily down my neck, and the rain stinging my eyes. Reaching a crossroads, I stopped and glanced each way. I heard another shout. I looked across the road at an old man standing under a tree, yelling something indistinguishable to me, and pointing on ahead down the main road. He bore a remarkable resemblance to the late Ho Chi Minh, with the same wispy white beard, and long narrow features. His face contorted with the effort of shouting while I stared blankly at him trying to understand. I agonised for precious seconds. The old man suddenly pointed to his head. Of course. My helmet. Westerners are the only ones in Vietnam to wear protective

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