Day 7 Goodbye, Hanoi Chaos. Hello, Different Chaos.

It’s 6:30 in the morning, and I’m all packed for the airport. But before I leave Hanoi for my next stop, Da Nang (a destination my brain still insists is a typo), it would be a crime not to say a few words about the week I’ve had here.

On the one hand, Hanoi has millions of scooter pilots who appear to have a death wish—specifically, yours. And yet, in a week of watching this physics-defying ballet, I haven’t seen a single accident. I’ve seen bus drivers who treat pedestrians less like people and more like stubborn, slow-moving pigeons. I’ve learned that it’s somehow safer to be a passenger on one of these scooters than a person walking among them, which is a perfectly sensible paradox. It’s beautifully organized chaos that makes no sense and works flawlessly.

But beyond the traffic, this place is immaculate. For a city whose primary mode of transport is “barely-controlled chaos,” it is shockingly clean. The hotels are pristine, the food is so cheap it feels like you’re getting away with something, and the cultural heritage isn’t just displayed in museums; it feels lived-in, baked into the city’s very bones.

Many would say the worst thing to happen to this country was the American War. But from my brief observation, it feels like that terrible time was the making of modern Vietnam. There’s a profound sense of respect everywhere you look. The city’s design is deeply influenced by Buddhism, with temples on every other corner, and some of the lakes are even a legacy of the war, left behind by bombings.

I’ve been here a whole week and have yet to witness a single argument or even a politely returned dish. For a Brit, this near-total absence of complaining is both unnerving and deeply impressive. It’s so relaxed that I fear if I stayed another month, I’d slip into a zen coma and have to be shipped back to the UK like a particularly placid piece of cargo, utterly unwilling to engage in anything that might generate bad karma.

The people are just wonderful. The same drivers who nearly clipped your shoulder two minutes ago will, upon seeing your hopelessly lost expression, gather in droves to help you find your way—not with their hands out, but just because. You need to get here. It is so, so nice.

Right, I’m off for breakfast. And to prepare for my three o’clock motorcycle tour to get acquainted with Da Nang. Yes, after a week of decrying the scooter-pocalypse, I’ve decided the only logical thing to do is hop on the back of one. I’ll report back—assuming I survive.

Well, an update on the whole “survival” thing. My trip here from Hanoi went off without a hitch, if by “without a hitch” you mean I was nearly arrested at the airport. Apparently, leaving a battery pack in my checked suitcase is a significant fracas-causing event. I had to go back to the check-in desk, unpack everything in front of a mildly interested audience, find the damn thing, put it in my carry-on, and go through security all over again.

Then came the flight. As a frequent flyer for many years, I can say with some authority that I have never felt anything like the turbulence we hit. The plane dropped a distance I can only describe as “biblical.” Everyone on board made that little “well, we’re crashing” noise in unison. I tried to stay cool and calm for those around me, but inside I was bricking it just like everyone else.

Anyway, I got here. I checked into the hotel. I saw my laundry off. And then it was time for the motorcycle tour. “How many cc’s has this thing got?” I asked the guide, eyeing his ancient-looking machine. “125,” he said. “We’ll never make it up that mountain, will we?” I muttered. He assured me we would.

And we did. We passed absolutely breathtaking scenery, saw some monkeys, and went over the Dragon Bridge, which was being dismantled after the previous day’s Unification Day celebration. This meant navigating miles of cable strewn all over the road, while the local kamikaze pilots weaved through it all without a care in the world.

Da Nang is still Vietnam, but the streets are different. They’re wider. They accommodate normal human beings of my size (5’10” and a respectable 11 or 12 stone). In Hanoi, the chairs felt like they were designed for garden gnomes. Here, there’s room to breathe. Maybe that’s why I felt so comfortable drinking copious amounts of gin and tonic last night. I was a bit of a naughty boy and got to bed quite late, but I’ve woken up feeling grand. No hangover or anything. And now, I’m off to ride up a mountain to the Hai Van Pass. I’ll check in again when I’ve finished not dying today.