I am standing ankle-deep in mud on the corner of Duong Phan Phung and Douon Hung Vuong Streets, feeling like a sorry excuse for an adventure traveller.Five hours in Hue and already I’ve managed to misplace my tour group; worse, my guidebook is back at the hotel. I am lost and alone in Vietnam where I speak exactly six words of the language. Considering that two of those words are ‘tea’ and ‘beer,’ I stand a very good chance of not going thirsty.There were nine of us on a cycling tour from Hue (pronounced ‘way’) to Saigon and the wet season was running late. We were dismayed to learn that our tour leader intended to take us cycling around Hue despite the rain. Mark, a six-foot-something Australian, curtly reminded us that the ‘adventure’ in ‘adventure travel’ stood for just that. We groaned, shrugged into our waterproof parkas, covered them with a local brand of plastic poncho and reluctantly headed out to see what sights a dreary, drab Hue had to offer.A few hours later, at the tail end of the group, I came speeding out of an alley onto a main road and stopped short. I couldn’t see my fellow-bicyclists anywhere. I peered intently at the poncho-clad figures, looking like plastic-sheeted ghosts, that rode by me in the rain on rasping, rusty bicycles, hoping to spot a familiar face, or at least a big nose.I heard a short and turned my head in the direction of the cry. A Vietnamese woman stood behind a steaming soup cart by the side of the road. She was spooning broth into a ceramic bowl, but used her head to nod to the right. ‘That way!’ she yelled.I careened off down the muddy road, dodging the slower-moving Vietnamese on bicycles and deepening puddles. There was no sign of my group. For the first time that day, I was oblivious to the cold water dripping steadily down my neck and the rain stinging my eyes. Reaching a crossroads, I stopped and glanced in each of the four directions. Nothing.