Heart of Darkness
‘You want boom-boom?’
I turn to look at the leering Xe-Om driver who smiles the most decrepit smile I’ve ever seen. I count two teeth and those are hanging on for dear tobacco-stained life.
‘From you? I’d rather not.’
‘No’, he laughs, smiling wider yet revealing no additional teeth. ‘Beautiful lady. I call her. No good, no pay’.
I pause to ponder the logistics of this arrangement. How would a money-back guarantee play out with a commie Hanoi hooker? Who would have the gall to withhold payment after services had been err rendered?
‘Khong, cam unh’ (No, thank you)
‘You want marijuana? Cocaine? Heroin?’
‘You’re just a veritable one stop shop for trouble aren’t you?’
-blank stare-
‘You don’t understand a word I’m saying do you?
-continued blank stare-
‘Lady boom boom?’
I didn’t know it yet, but some version of this exchange would happen just about every time my feet hit pavement in the socialist paradise of Vietnam. Sometimes helped along by the old finger in the hole hand gesture (take THAT language barriers). Apparently no one who looks like me comes here without seeking some type of vice. I don’t judge. If you’re chasing the dragon I can’t imagine a better place, but when I’m just trying to find breakfast at 8am it seems a little forced.
There’s scant few times where my predilections for women and intoxicants take a backseat to hunger. Flying twenty-seven hours around the world (and back in time) is one of them. To that point I had survived on plane peanuts, Oreos, and Korean-Air Bimibap. The only meal I’ve ever had that arrived like a chemistry set and came with a laminated instruction manual.
As far as marathon flights go it wasn’t the worst. Dropping the weight had made flying mildly bearable. At 6’2 my knees still dug painfully into the tray table hinge, but at least I wasn’t sitting in both my seat and my neighbors. My neighbor for this particular flight being a South Korean opera singer who was quick to proudly show me his songs in the in-flight music program. Cute Korean stewardesses don’t hurt the flying experience either, although I question if any of these waifish little air-geishas could operate the emergency door if it came to it. But I digress…
In my first trip to Asia in 2010 I was at first struck by the smell. Bangkok was a heady mix of spice and hot garbage that hits you like a punch to the face as soon as you step off the plane. (The Bangkok Two Step) It would be a lasting memory that would not disappoint on my return. Hanoi however was a different world altogether. This was not the tropical slum of Bangkok. It was cold, very cold, and permanently draped in a thick misty fog that gave every alley ominous overtones. I loved it instantly.
Groggy and jet-lagged beyond belief, Shortround and I set off into the morning mist in search of our first real meal.
Feeling well equipped with not one but two phrase-books, we would quickly learn that tonal languages defy any attempt by western tongues.
As proof I would go on to strike out thirteen times in a row to order a bottle of water. I feared if things kept up I might die of simple dehydration before the tigers even had a chance at me.
(To this day the word for water is still hit or miss. Nguoc. It requires a throaty gutteral pronunciation that even two months in I have yet to master. ‘Bia’ beer, ‘Co-ca’ Coke, and ‘cha’ Green tea, are all easier and therefore more often ordered)
Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam for the last sixty years was a warren of shops, markets, and winding back alleys, all teeming with life that poured from every corner. It would be our introduction to Vietnam, and the gateway to a months worth of travel that would take us through three countries.
Steaming food stalls of every kind dotted the winding alleys of the ancient Old Quarter, replete with miniature plastic furnishings that quaked at the sight of my rotundity. Stooped toothless old ladies ladled mysterious things into bowls right and left. Bánh Xèo, Bun Chà, Phó Bac Dîet. Words entirely unknown to me scrawled on hastily made placards denoting the one meal that was on offer. If you want variety, go to Taco Bell. If you want Bun Chà that will melt your face, go to Mà May and Lúong Nùôc. Just don’t examine any meat too closely.
Welders, tailors, cobblers, and a thousand other professions plied their trades, doing brisk business even at 8am. Open air butchers whose wares quite literally writhed, wriggled, and hopped with freshness. The packed alleys simply pulsed with the business of the day. We went entirely ignored.
Our to-do list was both simple and at the same time incredibly complex.
1. Eat.
A steaming bowl of mystery Pho in the Old Quarter would satisfy this. Although the transaction was far from smooth we had successfully fed ourselves, a hurdle I very much felt we needed to surmount before plunging into the wilds.
It was to be the first of hundreds. Pho is a staple in Vietnam, but more so in the North where the cold drizzle makes a hot bowl of soup a necessity.
2. Procure transportation.
In our case this would be illegally purchased motorcycles. I say illegally because in the midst of our marathon thirty-one hours in the air the law had amazingly changed beneath our very feet. After years of remaining moot on the subject, the Vietnamese Minister of Transportation had finally decreed that all foreigners must procure a Vietnamese drivers license or risk impound and fines. No International Driving Permit’s would be recognized, not that we had any to begin with.
Seeing as how neither Evan or I could successfully order a bottle of water, our chances of passing a Vietnamese drivers test seemed slim. We decided to feign ignorance, and if stopped perhaps our licenses issued by the U.S.Treasury would suffice. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice that we were both named ‘Jackson’.
3. Gear up.
Tools, rain gear, dust mask, bike locks, compass, and extra socks (thanks Lieutenant Dan).
We made a quick shopping list of materials we felt needed for a month of cities and jungles and decided the best place to shop would be the famous Dong Xuan central market.
A simple list, but in retrospect we had no idea what we were getting into.
With a steaming bowl of what I believe may have been meat in our stomachs we were off to a good start. #1 knocked off with only mild difficulty and sub-par charades. The rest of the day would not be as easy.
Some internet searches provided some leads on motorcycles for sale (god bless Craigslist) and with a VietMobile SIM in our phones we were able to begin making appointments to do test drives all over the city.
Now let me preface by saying I’m not an experienced rider. Far, far from it. To be honest i’d have preferred to have sailed down the coast waving occasionally to Evan from the beach. My single solitary time on two wheels was a small scooter I had rented in the Bahamas over ten years ago. After witnessing the Hanoi traffic I was fairly certain I would not see the end of the trip, and secretly hoped that being squished by a 20-ton Soviet-made rice truck would be quick and relatively painless.
Nevertheless, I had bought the ticket, it was time to take the ride as Hunter would say. I endeavored to throw myself into this as much as I could, and wasn’t about to let a little thing like ‘experience’ stand in the way.
There have been some hair raising moments in the last two months. Flats, breakdowns, snakes, rapids, homicidal elephants, none of them compare with test driving beat ass bikes in the jam packed back alleys of Hanoi’s Old Quarter. To this day it ranks with the most nerve wracking experiences of my life. Had there been a lump of coal between my cheeks I could have paid for the bike in diamonds.
Knowing that we were riding illegally left very little room for error. A simple fender bender, the type of which happen every ten feet in this type of traffic, would be a game ender for me. I would most likely be shaken down first by the offended party whether it was my fault or not, and then by the ‘Cang Sat’ or municipal police.
The low wages afforded these officers of the ‘law’ meant that they regularly went after any white face for a little tea money. Now I have no problems with bribery as a societal norm. Let’s just say I know the proper way to fold a bill so if fits in the palm. In fact it makes me sleep better knowing that the stupid scrapes I usually find myself in can usually be gotten out of for a little well placed, and politely handled, baksheesh. But should a local be hurt in an accident, my fault or not, they would be renaming a wing of the police station after me for the amount it would take to get out of that.
Yet despite the day’s white knuckle terror I had yet to find something that fit my needs. Honda Win’s, Honda Wave’s, Soviet Minsks, all either too expensive, small, uncomfortable, or in various stages of disrepair. I was dejected. I ended the day empty handed and seriously questioning if I had this in me. A day of near-misses in tiny alleys and staggering traffic had put the fear into me. If left to fester it would surely undercut what little confidence I had been able to fake regarding my bike skills.
Little did I realize that my savior would come in the form of a diminutive Polish fashion photographer named Lucasz who bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Vladimir Lenin.
