The Long Way South

Born in 1955 in the misty highlands of Cao Bang, Nguyen Minh grew up in a humble farming family. His father repaired bicycles and small engines; his mother grew vegetables and raised poultry at home. From childhood, Minh had developed a fascination with machines and the idea of travel. Every morning before school, he rode his worn-out bicycle across muddy trails to deliver ducks and chickens to the local market for his mother. The trip was always long and treacherous; however, that never stopped Minh from completing his mission to help his family.

Sometimes, when resting under the banyan tree, he dreamed of seeing the outside world — something he had only heard about in stories.

The family owned a Minsk 125, which was bought by Minh’s father during better times. It’s kept clean and oiled, almost a member of the household. With a registered licence plate of CB-2104, the “CB” (meaning Cao Bang), a proud mark of its northern roots, it was the family’s most prized possession.

To young Minh, the motorcycle was more than just metal; it was a tangible piece of the wider world he yearned to see. He would watch his father tune the engine, the scent of oil and gasoline mixing with the highland air, listening to the stories the old mechanic would tell. His father would often pat the silver tank and say, “Someday this bike will ride the whole country”, a phrase that planted a seed in Minh’s imagination. The Minsk wasn’t just a vehicle waiting in the corner under a tarp; in Minh’s mind, it was the promise of a future he couldn’t yet see, “freedom we couldn’t yet afford”.

Growing up, Minh’s world rarely extended beyond the same patchwork of rice paddies and dirt paths. Yet even in that small circle, he noticed change — the rumble of passing military trucks, the whispers of war in the markets, the slow disappearance of neighbours’ sons into the south. When his chores were done, Minh would sneak back into the shed and sit astride the old Minsk. He was too small for his feet to touch the ground, so he just sat there, hands gripping the cool metal handlebars, pretending to race through valleys he’d only ever seen in photographs. His father would sometimes catch him and shake his head with a smile. “Engines are honest, Minh,” he’d say. “They’ll never go where you don’t guide them.”

It became their quiet bond — father and son keeping the machine alive even when the world outside seemed to decay. Together, they replaced bolts with ones scavenged from broken radios, polished the fuel tank until it shone silver against the mud walls. To anyone else, it was an old motorcycle. To Minh, it was proof that something enduring still existed — something he could rely on.

By the early 1970s, the air in Cao Bang grew heavy with change. More soldiers on the roads, more strangers speaking of politics, fewer smiles at the market. Minh was going to be eighteen anytime soon — lanky, sharp-eyed, and restless. He listened to the shortwave broadcasts at night, hearing names of cities that felt like distant stars: Ha Noi, Thua Thien, Quang Tri, Sai Gon.

Every crackle of the radio was a reminder that the country was moving while he stayed still. Minh looked at the Minsk and made a silent promise to himself: Someday, that machine will take him south — not to escape, but to understand.

On Minh’s 18th birthday, after celebrating lightly with some eggs and meat and light chats with the family, they were all tuning to the radio, just to hear: “The United States will begin withdrawing troops from Vietnam.”

For the first time in years, the country feels a sliver of hope, and so does Minh.