Just Push Harder

This entry is dedicated to Bert Moulton. I was up early today to meet a mechanic at my hotel at our not-so-mutually agreed upon time of 7am. Three mechanics, two travel agents and one staid immigration officer later I find myself stuck in Saigon one last day, my evening perspiration a clear indicator that it's half an hour past Miller time.

The morning mechanic guy never showed up. I called him at 8:30 and as soon as I said hello he began apologizing and telling me he was just too busy. Too busy this morning or too busy in general? Yes. You can't work on my motorcycle? Yes. No? Yes. ......... Long silence......... Um... OK... Bye.

Yesterday I met a guy on the street riding a Minsk and asked him who fixed his bike. He laughed and said that Minsks are never fixed and uncomfortably recommended Tran Hoa, just down the street from my hotel. A day earlier I strolled over to a man that Mike and I had seen working on a Minsk a few days yore. His reputibility was in question however because his vibe was a little too Mad Max meets Archie Bunker. I told his young assistant/translator/possible-relative, who reminded me faintly of a chihuahua for some reason, that I was interested in getting the bike fixed and he told me to come over as soon as possible. I said maybe. He said, yes, today. I said again, maybe. He said yes. Then I left. I have a lot of conversations like that where I'm not sure where they've ended up - but trying to find out where they've ended up usually just stokes the fires of ambiguity further.

So I went to the semi-recommended mechanic, Tran Hoa. He was easy to find. As I rode down his street, which was scooter mechanic alley, every man along the sidewalk would hoot and point me further down the road, towards Tran's shop. That's a good sign - it shows specializaton and reputaton. Or croneyism.

Tran speaks about as much English as I speak Vietnamese. Luckily (maybe that's too strong a word), his neighbor, whose name I caught but quickly dropped was able to translate the basics. The problem with translation is that you never know what's coming out the other end. And with strangers you don't really know what the bias is, if any. Additionally, given the apparently poor comprehension skills of our translator, I wasn't really sure if what I was saying was even getting successfully through the input stage. I think there's something connected with saving face here where saying "huh?" or "I don't understand" or "I don't know" is like letting people know you wear lacy, womens underwear.

With diagrams and sound effects, and an audience of teenagers lauging thier asses off at the funny American monkey boy, I eventually made the bike's symptoms known. Tran drove the bike around the block and told me I would probably need a new chain too. I was not excited about this, but then he told me that the cost of cleaning out the transmission and drivetrain, changing the oil, and replacing the clutch, chain, front and rear cogs would cost 300,000 duong, labor included. That's about 20 bucks. So I sat there and watched him disassemble my bike. I pestered the poor guy with questions while our interpreter interpreted. Now I sorta know how a clutch works. By 11am I had completed a two hour motorcycle anatomy class and had a working bike. Tran drove it around the block, gave me the thumbs up and told me to take a ride. Which I did, only to recognize the same exact symptom that I brought the bike in for in the first place.

Time for another round of Cranium. When I got back, Tran talked to the interpreter and the interpreter interpreted to me: Just push harder. I don't want to fucking push harder. All the other gears don't need to be pushed harder and that's why I brought this in in the first place. All that work you did got us exactly zero kilometers closer to fixing the problem. Blank stares. I agreed to take the bike for an extended spin - sort of a cooling off period mixed with some travel visa business I needed to attend to.

First I went to an address that had been given to me by one of two people. I'm not sure which one, but I don't think it matters. Actually, first I ran out of gas because they had siphoned gas from my tank to use as a cleaning agent. So first I ran out of gas, then I filled er up with gas, then I went to the address. Which was a monumental government building in the middle of Saigon. All government offices here are painted yellow with red trim. I'm not exaggerating.

Inside I talked to an official person with a sour face and eyeglasses made out of soda straws and mayonaise jars. I showed him my visa and he tsk-tsked and went off to get the others. At that point I freaked and ran out of the place. I didn't want to relive my time at the airport dealing with these over-uniformed bribe solicitors. A travel agent near my hotel said he could hook me up for 60 bucks, so I went to him, gave him my original passport and left with a photocopy. That's where I ran into the chihuahua guy. He ran into me actually, while I was driving. Where you come? Where did I come from? Where you come? Oh, When am I coming? Yes. Oh, I'm not coming - I already fixed the motorbike. Pause. Where you come? No. Yes. Okay, bye!

Back to see Tran. This time we went for a ride together and I sort of grunted and pointed when the bike wouldn't shift into third. A lot of dialogue ensued and I don't think much of the meaningful stuff was understood by either Tran or me, and the interpreter was getting tired. Tran finally said okay, okay in frustration and quietly sat down with the bike.

The mechanic's shop, and I'm speaking generally because it seems to generally be the case, is not a shop in the dedicated sense. It is a living room. A married mechanic does not disassemble motor vehicles in the living room. The living room is a place for the storage of spare tires, spare parts, spare beds, spare children, and spare ribs (with rice of course). The mechanic works in front of his living room in what would be considered a driveway if it was any bigger than a wide sidewalk. His tools cook in the eighty degree sun and occasionally even catch fire when a cigarette is flicked near a shallow pool of gasoline. My mechanic had a partner, so they shared one set of tools that would easily fit into the smallest of craftsmen tool chests. I think all of the repairs on my bike, which required near total disassembly of the engine, required about six tools, including a bent spoke. There is no lift so the mechanic squats in the Vietnamese style. Both feet are firmly planted, heels touching the earth, while the ass, touching the achilles tendon, floats just a few inches above the ground. I was with the mechanics for about 8 hours, and they assumed this posture most of the time. Dirty hands are washed with gasoline. Open toed sandals are worn. Cigarettes are chain-smoked. Rags and parts boxes and worn out bolts are tossed in the gutter and the gutters are swept upwards of twice a day by gutter sweepers wearing orange uniforms and wielding a hand made straw broom.

Turns out there were some worn out parts in the transmission. After many pesky questions and hours of peering at the internals I still have no idea how a transmission works. Tran jumped on his scooter and went to the parts store. He returned a half hour later with the parts and installed them. Nope. Better, but still shifting funny. Turns out one of the gears in the transmission had some funny grooves in it. Off to buy parts. Installation occurs and things are looking up, except the engine is leaking oil like the Exxon Valdez. Off to the parts store for a new gasket. While Tran is part shopping, I'm chatting up the rest of the crew. The camera is a huge ice-breaker and provides much entertainment. Photos of the interpreter's Buddha-like belly bring the most laughter and discussion. The interpreter takes it all in stride and is having just as good a time as everyone else. They taught me how to say so da chanh (which is a favorite local drink of mine. Here's the recipe: Put a bunch of sugar in the bottom of a tall glass. Fill with crushed and cubed ice. Add the juice of one or two limes. Fill remainder of glass with soda water. Stir vigorously with spoon while drinking from a straw.) I said 'so da chanh' fifteen times and they shook their heads in disappointment each time. No gold star for me.

Gasket in place, four so da chanh's in my belly, 350 thousand duong in Tran's pocket (50 for the extra transmission parts) and I was off, shifting easily into third and smiling because I had spent a full working day at a motorcycle mechanic's shop no bigger than Bert Moulton's surfboard room.