Escaping Tet in Tay Giang

— A Slow Ride Through the Mountains, the Cold, and the Unexpected Warmth of Strangers —

Rolling into an Empty Town

After eight grueling hours in the saddle—climbing slope after slope at a brutal 10–15% grade, crossing mountain after mountain—our ragtag group of cyclists finally rolled into Tay Giang town. We were dreaming of a hot meal, maybe even a beer.

What we found instead was… silence.

A wide road with rows of big, proud government buildings flying red flags. And across from them? An entire block of shuttered pubs, noodle joints, pho stalls, convenience stores—every door locked tight. Not a soul in sight. The whole place looked like it had hit pause for Tet and forgotten to press play again.

We were tired. We were starving. If push came to shove, some of us would’ve had to sleep roadside with a belly full of nothing but willpower. In fact, we were eyeing a nearby Co Tu Guol house like it was a five-star resort.

Earlier that morning, we had rolled through P’rao, another town completely dead for the holidays. Good thing I had packed two massive bánh chưng and a giant roll of giò lụa. That stash became lunch for the entire group. Gone in sixty seconds.

A Lifeline Called Plênh

Before the trip, I’d been lucky to chat with Ashley Carruthers, an Aussie anthropologist who’s fallen head-over-heels for Tay Giang. He said, “If you get stuck, call Mr. Tuấn.”

Turns out, Mr. Tuấn was off celebrating Tet in Hà Lam, but he passed me the number of a local guy named Pơloong Plênh.

I had pictured someone weathered and shy, maybe barely fluent in Vietnamese. Wrong. Plênh turned out to be tall, good-looking, better dressed than me, and speaking Vietnamese smoother than most city folk. He welcomed us like old friends and said, “My house is in Pơr’Ning, 6 kilometers away. Come on!”

Six kilometers? After 115 km of brutal climbing and 2,300 meters of elevation gain? My knees screamed. But off we went. I trailed behind, which wasn’t all bad—I had time to hand out red lucky money envelopes to curious village kids and wish them good grades (though honestly, I wasn’t sure half of them were even in school yet).

Hidden Hospitality

As we rolled into Pơr’Ning, I braced myself for the worst—maybe a hard floor, a few dusty blankets. But no. Plênh’s homestay setup was brilliant.

His main house sat next to a clean, cozy stilt house for guests, complete with a proper toilet and a washing area. No frills, but it was perfect. The man runs a small tourism business, but there was no sales pitch, no flashy signs. Just genuine warmth and a sense that we were family, not customers.

Girls’ Football and Village Vibes

After tea and a magical homemade herbal cocktail (I still don’t know what was in it, but I slept like a log), Plênh took us on a tour of the village.

Every house was built in the new Co Tu style—wooden, uniform, and neat. There was a central square with a Guol house, a volleyball net, a football pitch… and a full-blown girls’ football match going on.

Local Co Tu girls, in a mix of traditional skirts and modern tops, were tearing across the pitch, chasing the ball like pros. I couldn’t even tell who was on which team. The goalkeeper, wearing a lovely ethnic dress, kept sneaking glances at our cameras—almost letting in a goal while trying to pose.

Men lounged nearby smoking and chatting in Co Tu. Kids gathered around me, unsure what to make of this old man with a camera and a pocketful of red envelopes. Some knew about lucky money. Others just stared at the envelopes like they were alien artifacts.

Tet Night, Co Tu Style

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, I wandered back to the edge of the village. Most shops were still shut. A lone pool hall glowed in the dusk, filled with laughing teenagers. One bold kid ran up, held out his hand, and said, “Lucky money?” How could I say no?

Dinner back at Plênh’s house was rustic and wonderful: rice, cassava sticky rice, smoked pork and squirrel, spicy chili salt, bamboo shoot soup, and a heap of wild mountain greens. We toasted with home-brewed ba kích and đẳng sâm wine. It tasted of the forest—strong, earthy, and guaranteed to knock out any city dweller.

Stories flowed around the fire. Someone planned to stay up late chatting. Not me. I curled up by the hearth and passed out, dreams swirling with squirrel meat and mountain mist.

The Fire That Keeps You Warm—and Bug-Free

Co Tu homes are cleverly built: the smoke rises through the roof gaps, and the fire below keeps meat drying above and mosquitoes far away. I had brought bug spray but didn’t need it. “Drink enough ba kích, sleep by the fire, and they won’t touch you,” Plênh said. He wasn’t wrong.

It was freezing that night—Đà Lạt-level cold. Khánh Huỳnh, half-asleep next to me, started muttering something about a plane coming to rescue us. I just chuckled and pulled the blanket tighter.

Before Dawn

I woke at 3:00 a.m., threw another log on the fire, and posted on Facebook:

“It’s 3:20 a.m. Rain on the thatched roof. Bone-deep cold. A long, lonely mountain road ahead. Thank you, Pơloong Plênh. Without you, we might’ve been lost tonight.”

By 4:00, Plênh was already boiling sticky rice and eggs for our breakfast and packed some for the road—rice wrapped in banana leaves with chili salt and smoky squirrel jerky.

One Last Look Back

We said goodbye in the misty dawn, thanked Plênh’s family again and again. I promised I’d return someday—maybe not on a bike, maybe just to visit the schools or to watch the sunrise from Đỉnh Quế.

As we pedaled through the fog, another day of climbs and descents began. In Ba Commune, I sat by the roadside, unwrapped my banana leaf parcel, dipped the rice into chili salt, and chewed on squirrel meat that still smelled of last night’s fire.

Thank you, Pơloong Plênh and family. Thank you, my cycling brothers and sisters. And a special thanks to Hùng, who gave this old man a mighty push with his Iron Palm when I thought I couldn’t climb anymore.

This Tet, I didn’t just escape the city. I escaped expectations—and found something better.

Mr. Old Man, Vietnamese Lunar New Year 2017