Today was the day. The day that we were to hit the open roads of Vietnam. On motorbikes. The soundtrack 'born to be wild' was running through my head as we checked out of the hotel and stood waiting out the front for the 'Easy Riders' to come and pick us up. At the same time I just couldn't get rid of that little sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. The kind you get through nervousness. Usually nervousness that your going to do something stupid and embarrass yourself. As I did the previous night with Papa Hanh. I'm sure Aimee had the same feeling, although hers was probably more through worry that I would do something to embarrass her.

My thoughts were brought to a halt though as two bikes came to a stop in front of us. The riders were both locals, the first was smallish and young looking. The second I recognised as Papa Hanh. They gestured to us to get on the back as they needed to take us to the office. We would be leaving from there. After hesitating for a moment, we eventually climbed onto the back of the bikes - whilst still wearing our huge rucksacks - and praying to god that we didn't fall off the back. Thankfully it was a short ride and we made it unscathed. I fought the urge to grip the drivers waist for support and kept my hands on my knee's. As a man should.

At the office we staggered from the bikes before being introduced to our guides for the trip. First up was Dau. Dau was about my height, 29 years old, slightly built and a very 'in your face' kind of character. My first thought when I saw him was: "Definitely one of them, definitely a bandit, that one". He had a camp air about him, from his tone of voice, to the way he flicked his hair back out of his face - Wella style - to the denim jacket he seemed to like and persisted in wearing against all reasonable logic. I later found out however that he was in fact married with a child which was even more shocking. He was also set to be my driver.

Next up was Bob. That's right, Bob. He was Vietnamese and his name was Bob. Anyway, Bob was shorter than me, 22 years old, generally very quiet and reserved and a big fan of a good love song, as Aimee was to discover. He also couldn't sit still for more than 5 minutes and had a weakness for rice wine. He was Aimee's driver.

Finally, as far as our guides go, came Bon. With a name like that he had to be Bobs brother and as sure as eggs are eggs, he was. Bon was about the same height as Bob, a year or two older and more heavily built. He was much more outspoken as well. He was driving for the other female on the tour who we eventually ended up travelling onwards with, Becca.

The final person on the tour was Becca's friend, Ash, who was driving himself after being given a ten minute crash course on riding a manual motorbike by Papa Hanh the previous day.

After meeting everybody and having our bags secured to the backs of the respective bikes we saddled up ready for departure. I burnt my leg on the exhaust as I sat waiting. The omens were not looking good. Dau then presented me with my helmet in what was a small ceremony, in the way that you would pass over a crown to a newly appointed king, just without the red pillow. It was identical to his own, black with red stripes down the middle and a full, tinted visor. I was informed that whilst we were a team we would wear these matching helmets. We touched knuckles in a manly display of kinship.

That marriage of his was definitely a cover up job.

As I sat on the back of Dau's beloved bike, I looked back to see Aimee saddled up behind Bob and ready to go. She had one of those helmets that doesn't have a visor and looks particularly girly. She later told me that the wind kept getting in the back of it and pulling her head backwards as she clung on.

One by one we moved out to the road and set off. The bags were strapped in behind us on the bikes and were acting as a back rest and were surprisingly comfortable. I quickly realised that Dau liked to be at the front of the group. He would wait for everyone to pass us, one by one, and then pull the throttle back as we hurtled forward in a blur of traffic, and past each one of them back to the front.

"Rrrummmmmmmm!" He shouted over his shoulder to me, smiling.
"Like Tiger!".

I tried desperately to smile back, but just kept thinking about what the generally accepted maximum speed was with which you could crash and still have a reasonable chance of survival. Also, should I 'jump and roll', as they do in the films, if we did come off? Frankly, I had no idea.

One of the tours main selling points was the opportunity it presented to view the 'real Vietnam', as they called it. The rural backbone of the country. The side of Vietnam that the majority of people that stick to the main routes on the buses and trains don't get the chance to see. In line with this theme our first stop for the day was at a local fishing village just outside of Nha Trang. It absolutely stunk. I'm not sure why I was so surprised by this, what with there understandably being a fair amount of fish there but, the fact was - I was, and it did. Following this was the brick factory. What can I say? There were lots of bricks. One thing we did notice here though was the fact that the entire place was run, 100%, by women. Not a man in sight regardless of the fact that it was back breaking work. I queried this with Dau as we left and he stated that the men's job was to look after the land. In the mornings. The afternoons were their rest time. The brick factory meanwhile ran for what we in the west would consider a 'normal' 9 hour day. No afternoon rest time for the women. The men in this particular village definitely had the better end of the deal.

Now, id just like to pause here for a moment to point out that It was also seriously warm. There was not a cloud in the pale blue sky and not a single leaf was trembling thanks to the complete lack of breeze. It was easily the hottest day we had experienced since arriving in Asia. It was the kind of day where you find yourself looking for shade from the shade. We were set to be in the sun all day as well. So with that in mind, whilst others covered up in protection, what did I choose to wear? That's right. A vest. With no sun cream. Not a solitary squirt. By the time we arrived at the small, local run café for lunch, my milky, sensitive Anglo-Saxon skin was thoroughly scorched. I was sporting third degree burns and walking as if I had a coat hanger stuck down my back. Any slight movement hurt and my neck and shoulders were a deep kind of reddish-purple, a bit like Ribena. Did I mention that they bloody hurt? I wore a coat for the rest of the time on that bike.

Thankfully however, the lunch that we had was really good. As I mentioned, we had stopped at a small café on the side of the dusty road. There were no foreigners eating there, only more locals. They all stopped what they were doing and stared at us as we walked in. The place itself was pretty much a hollow concrete room with red plastic garden chairs and tables arranged within it and a drinks fridge at the back. The chairs were obviously designed for small children. They were tiny. If you got up too quickly the seat stuck to your backside. The toilet was basically a hole in the floor out the back, just past the chickens that were roaming freely. This was the kind of place id wanted to be eating at. The kind of place were locals eat so if you wanted to truly experience the Vietnamese way of life, that you also ate at, rather than the relatively expensive and often bland tourist-orientated places.

As we sat down Dau took it upon himself to order for all of us - which he did throughout most of the trip - and when it arrived we were not disappointed. It was chicken fried rice. Now, I know it doesn't sound all that impressive, but it was. You just have to trust me on this one. The chicken was so juicy and tender that you almost wanted to sit and look at it rather than eat it. Until you caught a smell of it at least. It was served with a fresh lime juice and salt/pepper mix that complimented the chicken perfectly. It also cost us a little over a pound for both of our meals combined.

In total on that first day we had travelled around 220km in reaching our destination for the night. My arse was telling me that it was much much further than that.

We were staying at a bungalow resort at the edge of the jungle, beside a swollen and fast flowing river. After peeling ourselves from the back of the bikes and allowing a few minutes for the life to flood back into our rear ends, we were shown to our room, which was basic but comfortable, and then left to relax for a while.

"Dinner is at 7, in the restaurant". Dau offered as we walked away.

After showering we headed over to the restaurant, a little before 7 so as not to be the last to arrive. The restaurant was an outdoor decking area situated at the back of the resort, overlooking the river running through the valley below. The whole area was swarming with insects. Every kind of crawling or flying insect you could imagine. It was horrible. The kind of image that haunts your sleep and has you waking up in a cold sweat. At one point I flung the menu across the room after some kind of moth thing attempted to land on it. I honestly and truly believe with every fibre of my being that anything with more than four legs should be eradicated from this planet.

As we arrived at the restaurant there were a hand full of people seated already. Dau, Bob and Bon were among them, seated on a table at one end. They had obviously had a few judging by their rowdy, bloodshot expressions. No sooner had we sat down than Bon was pouring us all shots from his little vase of 'happy juice'. He wouldn't let us get a drink in first. Not until we had first drank the retched liquid. Apparently it was Vietnamese tradition. Anyway, once we were all seated with shot in hand, seemingly from nowhere and making us all jump, Dau, Bob and Bon let out a piercing wail of:

"Mo!…Hai!…Ba!…DZO!!!!"

Which, for the record, is the Vietnamese toast. Effectively meaning, one, two, three, go.

They usually rounded this off, following downing whatever they had in their hand at the time, with the classy catchphrase: "Up your bum, don't tell your grand mum". This later evolved and became: "Up your bum, make your finger stick", which they found hilariously funny. Something was lost in translation there though, I think.

That first toast was a monumental moment as well as it was to set a precedent for the remainder of the trip. We didn't know that yet of course, but it did.

Now, any European, or anyone from anywhere in the world with the exception of Vietnam, will tell you that, if your out having a few drinks, be that with dinner or just for the social aspect, then you do just that. You drink. Your all adults. You can tie your own shoes by now and everything. You don't need anyone to tell you when you can drink. If and when you feel the urge to take a swig of a drink that you purchased with your own hard earnt money, then you just go right ahead and take that swig. This is all obvious stuff, right?

Wrong.

As that first night progressed I, unaware of the frowns of disapproval I was having aimed at me, merrily consumed my beverage, as and when I saw fit. I did eventually catch a glimpse of Dau and Bob looking at me as I once again lifted the bottle to my lips. The look they shot at me, as they mumbled to each other through gritted teeth, could only be described as disgust. The kind of look you give if you accidentally step in dog poo. I also heard them mutter "V.I.P", as they frowned across the table at me.

"V.I.P"? I thought to myself. I was confused.

It was only a little later, after they could no longer sit back and watch, that they finally informed us that we were going against all Vietnamese tradition by simply drinking our drinks. Drinking them alone at least. We were told that in Vietnam, if you are out with friends, that you all drink together, as one. If you want a drink, you raise a toast. As they had done at the start of the night, and then everyone drinks together. As a group. The term 'V.I.P' that they had muttered whilst watching me drinking - alone - was an abbreviation of 'very impolite person'.

Now, you can only applaud the morals behind this tradition. Its attempt to keep the group together and everyone involved. The sense of camaraderie and atmosphere that it attempts to inspire. However, putting all the wishy-washiness of it aside for a moment, the simple fact was that practically speaking, it was a royal pain in the arse.

If you wanted a drink you had to sit patiently and wait for a toast to be raised. If people were talking then you sat there, parched and gazing longingly at the ice cold beverage mere inches away and begging to be consumed, and waited. I eventually took to just covertly clicking glasses with whoever happened to be nearest to me, muttering "cheers", under my breath and carrying on my merry way. I'm reasonably certain I was still cheating but frankly I didn't care.

On the whole though, with Bon around there was no need to worry as every 90 seconds or so he would suddenly look around the table, with his big eyes and smiling shiny face, piercing your concentration, and let out a cry of:

"Everyboooody heeeeere!!?"

Of which obviously led quite nicely into the now customary Vietnamese toast and a further swallow of your beverage of choice.

It was also on this first night that our good friend Bon bequeathed Aimee with her new and rather catchy nickname of 'Bom Nhau", which, roughly translated means, 'Piss head'. As far as the three of our guides were concerned, this was now Aimee's name for the remainder of the trip.

During the course of the tour you couldn't help but grow to like all three of our guides. They were all up for a laugh (and a beer), fun to be around and in Dau's case, just a few bricks short of a house. On the more serious side, one thing you noticed almost immediately was that all three of them were fiercely passionate about their country. They took a pride in showing you it and pointing things out. About telling you some of the history. Of the American war and the fight for independence. They clearly didn't like America. The only thing worse than America was France. They hated France. Dau described to me on that first night how one of his dreams was to visit Europe and its major countries. He listed England, Scotland, Spain and Italy amongst his wish list.

"Would you not visit France?" I asked.
A scowl filled his face to demonstrate his disgust purely at the mention of the nation.
"Not even to see the Eiffel tower?" I pressed.
"No. Its just a load of scrap metal".

I couldn't help wondering how they reacted when an American, or indeed a Frenchman, came on one of these tours.

We woke relatively early the following morning and following the single greasiest omelette ever produced (we actually mopped it down with tissue paper - twice), we tied our belongings to the backs of the bikes and snaked back out of the resort and onto the road once more for the short ride to the area of national park nearby.

We pulled up beside a small dirt track that wound off into the dense bush that surrounded us and, leaving Dau and Bon to look after the bikes we, led by our small but fearless leader Bob, made our way down the crude pathway through a patch of jungle before reaching a large rope bridge that was situated in front of a wide, tall waterfall that was in full flow following the recent storms. It was an amazing sight. After admiring the view for a few minutes we continued along before arriving at the very foot of the waterfall and from this vantage point it looked even more menacingly impressive. It also gave off a refreshing spray of water that was a welcome relief from what was another stiflingly hot day.

So you know, Bob - our guide, bless him - also abandoned us halfway through the jungle here after deciding he was too hot. God bless Vietnam.

After continuing a few minutes further along the road but still contained within the perimeter of the national park, we stopped again. Apparently somewhere nearby was a nice little spot for a swim. This was good news as we were all feeling the effects of the blistering heat.

Once again we were led into the bush by a still hot and increasingly flustered looking Bob. He had obviously drawn the short straw. The walk took us down a number of crudely carved steps as we made our way down what was effectively a cliff face covered in dense vegetation. Towards the bottom we arrived at a clearing as a stream flowed down from above and cut across our path. Bob had already crossed the stream and made his way under a fallen tree trunk that happened to be swarming with angry looking red ants, and down the stream itself towards the tranquil lagoon at the bottom. It was steep and incredibly slippery as you concentrated to keep your footing on slimy wet, moss covered rocks. As Aimee slowly made her way down I realised that the nervous feeling at the pit of my stomach was back. I found myself recalling childhood memories of gorge walking with primary school in Wales. It was not a happy memory. I was the first and only one to slip and fall into the freezing cold river that particular day in a rain soaked Wales as I attempted to make my way down a stream, as I was now, around 15 years later. I was not relishing this.

This time, thankfully, I did make it down, if a little awkwardly, to join Aimee, Ash, Becca and Bob at the side of the lagoon at the bottom. The walk, although more than a little dodgy, was most definitely worth it as we found ourselves standing at the edge of a pool fed by the number of rushing waterfalls that ran down the hillside. The water was a perfect turquoise colour. For a moment, just at that point, you almost felt as if you knew what heaven looked like. It was stunning.

For the next half an hour or so we lazed in the cool tropical pool before finally scaling the treacherous climb back up the stream to the top of the hill and the patiently waiting Dau and Bon. Is it just me or does up hill always seems to be easier for some reason.

As we again departed on our hogs, Dau looked over his shoulder and asked if I was hungry. My weak and pathetic croak of a 'yes' told him all he needed to know.

Our venue of choice was once again a locally ran establishment just off the side of the road. Once again it was full of locals. Once again they stared as we entered. Once again the food was top drawer and once again it cost about a pound. Dau was doing alright with his choices. Lunch was 'roll your own' spring rolls. That's another thing to check on our list of 'things to do in Asia'.

As we sat in the restaurant waiting to tuck in, Aimee was nowhere to be seen. If I wasn't so hungry I would have been worried. After 15 minutes she skidded to a halt outside looking a little dishevelled. Apparently, whilst cruising along and taking in the sights, their bike began making 'strange sounds'. They were out of fuel. Bob then, before heading off to the nearest filling station, dropped Aimee off. On the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere. With a herd of buffalo. I'm told that the white girl with the funny helmet hanging off the back of her head and designer sunglasses standing amongst a herd of buffalo received more than the occasional curious glance from passers-by.

The majority of the remainder of the day was spent travelling besides a few brief stops to look at rubber, pepper and coffee plantations.

As we continued along towards our destination for the night, which was a resort along the banks of Lak Lake, Dau began trying to slap the rears of a herd of buffalo making its way along the side of the road, in turn finding himself facing a barrage of abuse from the owner of whom he obviously hadn't seen. Dau found this hilariously funny. I suddenly remembered that there was a small child dependant on him, for whom Dau is a role model. Poor poor child. This was also not a one off. He did this kind of thing a lot. If it wasn't buffalo he was slapping, he was attempting to run over small chickens. If there were no farm animals within reasonable range then he took solace in giving the throttle a little twist (purely for effect) and shouting at any females that unfortunately happened to be within earshot. Strangely not one of them ever smiled in return. That denim jacked was doing him no favours.

A little before dusk we arrived at Lak Lake resort and following a couple of hours to relax in our lake front bungalow we headed down to the restaurant to meet for dinner. Much like the previous night there was much toasting, even more bums and nobody was telling their grand mum. After a couple of hours Ash and Becca had called it a night and we found ourselves alone in the company of Dau, Bob and Bon.

Bob had spent much of the night telling me about his family and about the time he mistook happy juice for water and almost died. It was significant in the fact that he had barely uttered a word to me up to this point. I felt honoured. He had obviously grown to like me. Well either that or he had in fact consumed a litre of rice wine before we turned up. Which indeed turned out to be the case. Bob was trolleyed.

As the restaurant started closing Dau asked us if we fancied visiting the local karaoke bar with them.

"Yea, why not". We agreed.

Before you could say 'Bom Nhau' we were sat on the back of their bikes, being driven out of the resort gates, under the guidance of two Vietnamese tour guides with a couple of litres of happy juice inside them. And one god-awful denim jacket. As we sat on the back - minus the helmets - wondering what the hell we were doing we suddenly stopped. About 20 yards from the resort gates. I could practically spit to our room. Why then, they felt the need to drive up here I still have no idea.

We stayed for about 15 minutes and watched a very drunken Bob try his luck with one of the girls from the resort. Unsuccessfully I might add, before taking the gruelling 30 second walk home. They offered to drive us back. We politely declined.

We had originally planned to leave the Easy Rider tour on the third day once arriving in Dalat. After enjoying the experience so much up to this point however we decided to extend our trip by another day and night, staying with the group for the night in Dalat and then continuing on to the tranquil coastal town of Mui Ne in the far south.

The third day began by heading further inland and deeper into the Vietnamese countryside. The environment seemed to grow continually more rural before, as we passed through a huge area of rice paddies, I glanced to my left and found myself having a double-take. There was an elephant basking in one of the rice paddies just at the side of the road. It was wearing a big red, throne-like saddle. At the village that we duly stopped at a little further, there were in fact a number of them that you were able to ride (for a fee, obviously) if you wished. They were obviously used to human contact and were not flustered in any way by us approaching them. We wondered through the village, passing what we were informed was a celebration in honour of a recently deceased local man. Two men banged on drums in a fast rhythm at the entrance to the traditional wooden 'long house' that sits off the ground on stilts. Others sat in the smoky incense filled room chanting and looking out as we passed. I don't think I was alone in finding it a little eerie.

A couple of hours later we arrived in Dalat. It was early afternoon and we had passed along some of the worst roads, without doubt, in the world. We had also been told to f**k off, in Vietnamese, by two young chaps on a scooter and I found myself losing a brief but brutal skirmish - with a plant. Since when did plants come with spikes!? In case you were wondering, the Vietnamese phrase mentioned above is: 'Sao lao'.

Anyway, after stopping briefly to explore one of the local temples on the outskirts of the city (of which contained a giant white laughing Buddha), as well as a local silk factory, we arrived in the centre of Dalat, or 'the garden city', as it is known.

Our guesthouse was just around the corner from the main tourist area. I immediately noticed that there was a number of karaoke bars scattered along the same street. Following a truly appalling attempt at seafood hotpot - and it truly was appalling, I kid you not, we indeed found ourselves entering one of the small, private booths that masquerade as karaoke bars here in Vietnam. Whether by chance or design these places also feel decidedly seedy. Full of neon signs and vacant, shabby looking men who could do with a good hosing down, of whom stand behind plain unmarked desks as you enter and assign you a room number, of which turns out to be on the sixth floor of the run down and greasy looking apartment block that you somehow find yourself in.

We did however, have a special guest with us this evening. None other than Titi. Our very own Bob and Bons elder brother. Titi was joined by 'the other one', of whom I believe had no name (or at least we never got around to asking). Also joining us in our seedy sing-song was 1 x crate of Saigon beer. Red label. Vietnams finest, according to Dau.

Strangely, as the beer flowed the singing improved dramatically. Beyond recognition. We were obviously pretty damn good anyway, but by the end of the night it was impossible to tell if people were singing or we were listening to the tracks themselves. I talked Dau into performing 'you'll never walk alone', with Ash and myself. It was heart warming. 'The other one' then indulged in a spot of break dancing in our claustrophobic booth. It was madness. The Vietnamese loved it. Really loved it. After what seemed like an eternity, we called it a night and left Dau and Ash performing a Beatles number…

As we sat in reception waiting to set off on our final day, we couldn't help feeling a little sad at the thought of leaving the guides, that had become our friends, behind. Back in Nha Trang, when we were being sold the tour by Papa Hanh, the Aussie of whom I spoke on the phone told me that the guides made the tour what it was. That they weren't just guides. They felt more like mates. At the time I thought it was just the usual pitch that every other salesman will throw at you. As we found ourselves at the end of the tour I recalled that phone call and realised that he was 100% right. This trip was easily one of the best things we have done on our travels and I would say to anyone thinking about doing one of these tours: Just do it. You wont regret it.

Anyway, the final day was short in comparison with the others with us eventually arriving on the coast of Mui Ne at around 3:00. Firstly though, before departing Dalat we visited the famous 'Crazy House', which is, well, a house. And its pretty crazy. The best way I can think of describing it is that It looks like something out of a fairytale. We also ran into the elderly women who had spent so many years designing and building it. She had obviously had lots of plastic surgery. The most strenuous thing she was going to be doing with the rest of her days was trying to force a smile out of that plastic coated head of hers. Her cheeks were pulled so tight they looked like they could snap at any moment. We chased her for a photo. She ran away.

So that was it. As quickly as it began our tour came to an end. Dau, Bob and Bon dropped us at our guesthouse in Mui Ne and, following an emotional farewell they were gone. Off into the fading light of the late afternoon.

A few days of R&R on the beach were planned for us in our bid to recover from 4 days of Dau…