On the map in front of me, I run my finger down a thin red line that dips and curls along Vietnam’s S-shaped coast. From Hanoi it heads almost due south to Thanh Hoa and then to within a hair’s breadth of the pale blue of the Gulf of Tonkin. At a small dot labeled Vinh the line begins an eastward bend, hugging the seaboard as it passes through the towns of Dong Hoi and Dong Ha and on to the ancient imperial capital of Hue, where Vietnam’s pinched waste line is but 50 kilometers across. Next comes Danang, a halfway mark of sorts, then the riverside town of Hoi An, where the line begins a steeper march southward, tracing a gentle arc though Quy Nhon and Nha Trang, before curving away again, and ultimately inland, to its terminus: Ho Chi Minh City.

This line, this route that I am tracing, is Highway 1, Vietnam’s most important roadway: the only paved link between north and south. It runs 1,650 kilometers from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, through verdant plantations or alongside narrow, windswept beaches, sometimes offering distant vistas of the Laotian mountains, or glimpses of the wide South China Sea.

I’ve driven the highway before, shortly after moving to Vietnam in 1996. Then, I followed the road from south to north. I remember potholes and washouts, death-defying (though not always successfully) traffic, and packed buses. But I also remember the deep green hues shading every turn of the road, the bleached white sands lining, the roadside soup stalls and the friendly folk running them and a journey that has remained among my most memorable experiences in Vietnam.

Six years later, I’m keen to tackle Highway 1 again, to see how things have changed along the route. This time, I’ve elected to start from the north, and to spend seven days on the road. With one last look at the map spread across my bed at the Hilton Hanoi Opera Hotel, I’m ready to set out.

We leave Hanoi at midday, rumbling along in a rented Landcruiser through streets already teeming with motorbikes, bicycles and cyclos. I had considered driving myself, but Vietnamese law makes it difficult for foreigners to do this without buying a car and having special license plates fitted. It’s far easier to rent the services of a car and driver. Our driver, Mr. Duc, a 40 year-old Highway 1 ‘veteran’ used to wiles of the road, steams south with a steely intent and little time for wisecracks, to our first stop, Tam Coc.

Tam Coc, a region of bulbous, limestone outcrops connected via subterranean waterways is often compared to Guilin in China, it lies 1 kilometer off Highway 1. “There’s 1,500 boats here,” says 46 year old Mrs. Linh who rows a boat for a living through the narrow tunnels in the near distance. “We can get 6 people in one rowing boat. Well, six Vietnamese, maybe only four tays (foreigners). But we don’t take anyone out after 3pm.” Arriving mid-afternoon means we’re too late for the two-hour boat trip. Visitors get to glide downriver, under the mountains, through a series of three, limestone tunnels. With a steady flow of tourist buses and such a large number of boats, simple arithmetic tells me that on a busy day this place must be heaving. But with another three hours to Vinh, and Mr. Duc purring the Landcruiser impatiently, it’s time to go.

50 kilometers on, pineapples spill onto the highway, December sees the sweet seasonal produce of this northerly province plucked from the trees and sold just a step away from Vietnam’s main artery. We scoot through dusty Thanh Hoa, typical of so many Vietnamese towns peppering Highway 1, the high street is lined with hairdressers, wedding outfitters, café after café, beer stalls and electrical appliance shops. Not that they’re doing much trade today. The red and gold of the national flag dots the high street while the nation sits transfixed by the televised 22nd SEA Games, which began the day before in Hanoi.

We pull into Vinh city as darkness falls. The port city is a convenient stopover, but with an ambitious 460km to cover on the road to Danang tomorrow, there’s little time to enjoy the soviet era architecture of a city the Vietnamese make jokes of about its grim weather.

At 8 in the morning we spot Mr. Duc snuffing out his cigarette in the lobby of the Phuong Dong hotel, dabbing at his watch. Obediently, we load up the Landcruiser and slip south over Vinh River. The Vietnamese weren’t wrong about the weather, a thin drizzle obscures our view of the prodigious rice paddies that surround the city like a green moat. The last time I covered this stretch of road, I needed an elastic spine. Then I bounced skywards as much as I traveled forwards. This time round there’s no bouncing as it becomes clear Highway 1 has improved dramatically in the last 6 years. The road is now paved the length of the country. Traffic laws may still be hazy, but noticeable efforts are being made in the right direction. Now motorbike riders without wing mirrors get pulled over for a chat and a fine. Helmets, or rice cookers as the Vietnamese call them, are a legal requirement on the national highways, but not in the cities. Thus far along our journey they are still conspicuous by their absence.

Mid-morning Mr. Duc pulls over at a corner in the road, lights up a cigarette and points to the shore. We clamber down the roadside to see the sand stretching far southwards in a slow pine tree-lined arc that shields the South China Sea from the Highway. No deckchairs, no parasols and no ice cream vendors. Vung Ang beach isn’t even marked by name on our map. Two children play in the waves, but as far south as I can see the beach is empty.

For lunch, we power on over the spiraling bends of the Hoanh Son mountain range another two hours before descending and dismounting at a huddle of roadside restaurants, 20 meters from another tourist free, tropical spread, Cua Gianh beach.

In a country where refrigerators are a luxury, the closer we are to the coast (so the theory goes) the better chance we have of sampling Vietnam’s finest seafood. And the gargantuan soup before us bursting with steamy beams of temptation more than proves the theory correct. Canh Chua Ca is that most South East Asian of concoctions, a sour fish soup. Fish steaks drown in a sweet aromatic brew of okra, tomatoes, spring onion, pineapple, fish sauce and whole tamarind pods. Sprinkled with chili and mung beansprouts, it’s more piquant pot pourri than soup.

But, we’re only just halfway for the day and Mr. Duc is already pawing over the map fretting over the hours and kilometers ahead. Driving through Dong Hoi the sugar cane harvest is underway and Mia Da (Sugar cane juice over ice) sellers peddle the fresh nectar with a squeeze of half a lemon serving sweet-toothed travelers in need of a sugar boost.

Previously, we had considered stopping at Hue, Vietnam’s ancient imperial capital, but we opt to push on to Danang. We pass the citadels as dusk falls scaling Hai Van Pass, where Highway 1 reaches a height of nearly 500 meters, before plunging into the fluorescence of Danang.

We skirt the port city and aim for The Furama Resort, located 5 kilometers outside Danang. It’s 7pm and the Furama is a welcome sight after a long day on the road. This expansive resort with stylishly, minimal rooms, Baliesque bathrooms and excellent service is just 30 minutes from the ancient town of Hoi An. At a distance, the Furama has something of a fortress look about it, close up this luxury hotel is a swish base from which to explore the local attractions. And it’s Hoi An that is the main draw.

Morning finds us weaving through the narrow streets of the central part of the town. Hoi An is a patchwork of pagodas, tailors, artist studios and snug cafes with dark wooden facades and cluttered interiors. The site was inhabited some 2,200 years ago, but the town we trundle around was built in the late 18th and early 19th centuries after it was destroyed during the Tay Son Rebellion. The central streets were untouched by war, are traffic free and recognized by UNESCO as a World Heritage site, along with Hue, and the nearby Cham ruins of My Son. 2002 saw 440,000 visitors arrive in Hoi An and the Vietnamese tourist authority expects that to increase by between 30 and 40% by 2005. Six years ago, finding a decent room was a problem and even now there are still only four high-end hotels on the periphery of Hoi An. More are set to open in 2004 including The Golden Sand Resort, a 5 star, 212 roomed Swiss-Belhotel International hotel.

It’s along Nguyen Thai Hoc street, formerly know as Cantonese Row, near the central market I meet Kim Lien, a Viet Kieu (or overseas Vietnamese) who originally fled Vietnam for France with her family when she was just five years old. She spent 28 years in Taiwan, where she ran one of the first French restaurants in Taipei, before returning to open up Kimijan restaurant and café in 2002. “I like people to take their time, write a letter or read a book, eat and relax,” says Kim Lien. “If people want to stay for two or three hours, that’s fine.”

Her languorous café is a mishmash of paintings, antiques with a pervasive scent of fresh coffee beans. The house specialty is Banh Xeo or Crispy pancake filled with beansprouts, pork and shrimp, served with 6 different herbs, including a variety of watercress – cai con - found only in Hoi An. But, it’s getting towards dinner time and we’ve been promised something special on the other side of town.

“People from Danang travel 30km to eat here,” says Van Thi Tran, the owner of Quan Nhan, a specialty crab restaurant on the Cua Dai beach road, just outside Hoi An. “There are at least 100 restaurants here now, but, we were the first,” says the 32 year old of her ramshackle roadside restaurant. She refuses to buy farmed crabs, “They are not sweet enough,” she insists, but it’s the sauce – a blend of ginger, lemongrass, sugar, salt and pepper – that has made her name in Hoi An and Danang. Every spiced bite arrests the tastebuds allowing the sea fresh morsels of soft white crab meat to melt through. Justin, the photographer, is (almost) speechless. “If she could vacuum pack this fresh and ship it to Singapore, the States or Hong Kong, she’d make a fortune,” he says, his eyes watering with pleasure.

Back at the Furama, I open the windows of my beachfront room and allow the sound of the South China Sea to lull me to sleep. Tomorrow we continue south.

“Make sure you hit Quy Nhon before sundown,” Paul Stoll, General Manager of the Furama tells me over breakfast. “It’s a good road and a beautiful ride in to the resort near Quy Nhon.” Stoll, who arrived in Vietnam in 1994 with the $40 million Furama resort, is the brains behind the ‘World Heritage Road’ project. The 1500 kilometer section of Highway 1, from Vinh to Dalat in Central Vietnam links the three UNESCO World Heritage sites of Hue, My Son, Hoi An as well as other scenic spots and places of historical interest. It is hoped the road, which has the full backing of the Vietnam tourist authority, will link hotels and tourism businesses in a chain making travel easier to organize. A link to the border with Laos, Cambodia and Thailand connecting World Heritage sites in those countries is also planned.

Halfway between Hoi An and Quy Nhon, in Quang Ngai province, we catch the scent of the sweet potato harvest. Portable, street level braziers bake lunchtime snacks throughout the towns and villages as we head deeper into South-central Vietnam. 6 hours from the Furama we see the Cham ruins of Thap Bin It, atop a hill with sweeping views over much of Binh Dinh province, pointing the way to Quy Nhon.

Quy Nhon is a tourist-free, meandering fishing port, but the resort we’re heading for is 15 kilometers further on. We veer left at the city limit and wend our way through undulating countryside; steep mountains to our right, empty sands to our left, interspersed with electric green rice paddies populated by conical hatted paddy workers reaping the harvest. We arrive at our next stop, the Life Resort which opened in mid-2003, in the late afternoon. The entrance façade has a mock Cham theme and the walkway to my room is all ornamental rocks, palms, bricks and water features. Until now, Quy Nhon has never featured on the tourist trail and the Life Resort hopes to change that. The resort boasts a private bay, protected by rocky outcrops on either side, a deep oval pool built into the beach rock and 63 beach front rooms. A spa and 5 outdoor ‘Bali-style’ bungalows will open in early 2004. They will give spa guests a view over two small, uninhabited islands. “Here, we are right in the heart of Cham culture,” says Margarete Rieger, the Austrian Manager. “This area was the capital of the Champa kingdom between the 10th and 16th centuries and we want to reflect that Cham heritage in our resort,” she adds.

The resort suffers from something of an identity crisis; Conintental European, Cham or Vietnamese, it’s not quite sure what it is and nor am I. After a dinner of Sea Bass steeped in tomato sauce, Justin the photographer enjoys Life’s signature spa treatment - an hour long, six handed, synchronized massage with the sound of the ocean in his ears - I open the beach front windows to my balcony, wrestle with no less than eighteen light switches in my spacious bedroom, and drift off once more to the sound of the ocean.

Leaving the Life Resort behind, we’re back on the road by midday for the 6 hour vertical dip down the map to Nha Trang. Highway 1 cuts through sweeping sand dunes, paddies and pastures. Mr. Duc lets a smile flicker in the rear view mirror, he forgets to look at his watch or wag his finger at us for running late. And with good reason; many tourists to Vietnam miss this part of the road, however it is by far the most attractive part of Highway 1 we see. There’s less traffic and the sea breeze fills the Landcruiser. A wall of glistening green on one side of the road marries a deep shimmering turquoise, sprinkled with shrimp farms and empty bays on the other. Halfway to our next stop, the beach resort of Nha Trang, the road climbs at the border between Phu Yen and Khanh Hoa provinces in a green spiral before descending to the shelter of Dai Lanh beach.

Rolling into Nha Trang 6 years ago, I didn’t have to look when I crossed Tran Phu street, the beachfront boulevard. Today the road bumbles with cars and motorbikes. Nha Trang has always been Vietnam’s favorite beach holiday destination, but since I last passed this way the town has boomed into a neon-Pattaya-wannabe. Hotels, resorts and restaurants pack the beachfront. As an indication of investor faith in Nha Trang and of what is yet to come, the 500 room Vinpearl Resort officially opens at the beginning of 2004. Located on Hon Tre Island, a ten-minute boat ride from Nha Trang, this massive 5 storey hotel will be far Vietnam’s largest resort complex. Club Med hasn’t arrived yet, but give it time.

The Ana Mandara Resort and Six Senses Spa, nestled on the beachfront, is a smaller, attractive bungalow affair. Shielded from the world outside by high bushes, it is by far the liveliest and best serviced resort we find along Highway 1.

In something of a coup, the Ana-Mandara has snagged the services of Nha Trang’s best daytime street hawkers, allowing them to set up shop in the ‘Beach restaurant’ and serve seven exquisite regional dishes including Banh Cuon - wafer thin rice pancakes stuffed with spiced minced pork, Mi Hoanh Thanh – a Vietnamese take on Won ton soup and Bun Bo – a hearty beef and noodle affair originally from the Hue region. All dishes are superb and an authentic introduction to Vietnamese cuisine.

If the Life Resort in Quy Nhon gets itself lost in light fittings, the Ana Mandara, 150km further south, has too much time on its hands. The management team is a veritable literary workhorse. In one night alone, I discover 5 letters in my room. A greeting form the Spa Manager, along with complimentary bath salts, a Taoist poem and rice cake on my bed, a note on the desk from the Executive Chef with complimentary ‘desserts of Nha Trang’ and two welcome letters form the Chinese-German resort Manager TJ Grundl-Hong.

What with all the bedtime reading and the stress of the road I need to unwind. And the Ana-Mandara is nothing if not relaxing. During a detailed consultation at the Six Senses spa with Swedish Spa Manager, Patrik Andersson, I plump for a vigorous Swedish massage. The treatment rooms have subliminal music, lotus flowers and a cascading water feature. My masseuse, Mrs. Hanh, tells me she has worked at the resort for five years, as she pummels her experienced digits into my stiff bones and taut muscles. At this stage along the road a Swedish pounding is exactly what I need to power some life back into road fatigued bones.

The morning finds us heading out of Nha Trang through the grape growing country town of Phan Rang and, two hours later, the prickly cactus strewn town of Ca Na, where the single-track railway of the Reunification Express hugs the road to our left with the mountainous region of Dalat looming through the haze further west. Through Ca Na, just meters away, is a blanket of white sand and the calm of the South China Sea, but there are no resorts or jetskis here. With a plentiful supply of stunning sand, Ca Na is ripe for development, but it’s 140 kilometers further south where tourism is really beginning to make its mark.

Half an hour from the fish sauce making town of Phan Thiet is Mui Ne beach. Mui Ne has exploded over the last 3 years, with resorts, hotels and restaurants because of its 10 kilometer beachfront. Mui Ne is now the destination of choice for weekend revelers from Ho Chi Minh City and further afield. Bronwyn Jesney, General Manager of the Sailing Club, a popular and petite bungalow resort which opened nearly 2 years ago, tells me they are booked solid through to Chinese New Year. “We get a lot of passing trade,” says the Australian who previously managed ‘The Beach’ resort next door. “But around this time of year, we’re fully booked” The light wind along this long cord of sand rarely lets up encouraging the Sailing Club and other resorts to promote Mui Ne as the premier kitesurfing and windsurfing destination in Vietnam.

After breakfast at the quiet, French run Victoria Phan Thiet Resort, we leave the beach behind on the final 4 hour push to the nation’s megalopolis Ho Chi Minh City with its 8 million inhabitants. Prickly umbrella shaped dragonfruit trees jut from the roadside next to rubber tree plantations before the tree line breaks and the sprawling periphery of Ho Chi Minh City begins. Jabbing at his watch, Mr. Duc grabs a glance at us in the mirror and lets out a sigh. Our journey reaches its terminus as we cross the Saigon River. The skyline, pierced with highrises, is like no other in Vietnam as it bursts with modernity. And if the last 6 years of change I witnessed along Highway 1 are anything to go by, the rest of Vietnam, like Mr. Duc, is impatient to catch up.

©2003 Graham Holliday

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This article comes with a 490 word sidebar. Photographer Justin Guariglia of National Geographic Traveler and the New York Times accompanied me on this assignment and can supply images shot on a Holga.