Where's the Zoloft When You Need It?

A combination of homesickness, lonliness and a hangover gave me some serious anxiety on the way out of Saigon. Thankfully the boys at Phuong Honda cured my bike rack and me with a welder and a socket set.

Getting lost in Ho Chi Minh city is as easy as eating yummy ice cream. I sat with a group of xe om (motorbike taxi) drivers for about an hour before I left and they gave several (differing of course) sets of directions to the Mekong delta. It took about three blocks for me to get lost. It was a problem of scale. The route on my map was about three inches long - in real life it was about 15 kilometers - and that was inside Ho Chi Minh. I got so turned around that some superb man eventually had to lead me out. First he drew a map with about fifteen turns and then I gave him this look like, are you fucking kidding me? We both cracked up, along with the group of hangers on that inevitably attend a course clarification question, and he gave me the wave to follow him. Niceness like this happens all the time. Vietnam is the best.

Hitting the highway (more on that later) I was suddenly struck by strong anxiety. Holy shit! I'm alone! What if I get in an accident? What if somebody steals my stuff? I miss my friends! Why am I doing this? What if my bike breaks down? What if this wind picks up instead of dying down? What if I get sunburn? I was freaking out in that unreasonable, self-perpetuating anxiety way. Tearing down the road, tour buses attacking in both directions, and I'm spending most of my concentration trying to calm myself down.

There was also something about hanging out in the backpacker district of Saigon that really bummed me out. I met so many tourist and expat dickheads. That little 6 block area is just filled with drinking, prostitution, italian restaurants, tiny kids selling cigarettes, and bad vibes. There was just too much mutual exploitation going on.

One of my worries was the rear rack on my bike, attached partially to the frame under the seat and partially by the rear fender. The bolts were loose on the fender, one support was completely unconnected and one arm of the rack wasn't aligning properly with the frame. There are hundreds of one-man scooter repair shops along the road. I'd venture that scooter parts and repair account for the greater share of the Vietnamese economy. In the smallest of villages, there will be at least as many scooter garages as rice stalls.

I passed many before stopping at one. I don't know what compelled me to finally stop after scores of kilometers, but this little garage, although undiscernable from any of the others, had exactly what I needed, both mechanically and mentally. I pulled up and got the look from several of the guys inside. Not a good look, but not a bad look either - more like a "hmmmm, this is interesting" kind of ogle. A dude came out and I showed him the state of my rack (the one on my bike you pervs). I said sin chao (hello) and gave a wave and that was enough to get return smiles and make a couple of freinds inside. The dude tightened some bolts and then asked for my keys. I didn't really think a test-drive was necessary, but okay, I handed them over. He gave me the straight-armed hand signal you'd give to an ansty dog: STAY.

I STAYed and made infintesimal talk with the other mechanics. Americans would say 'minsk', but the Vietnamese say 'mink' with an almost silent 'k'. Mink, mink, (thumbs up) (smile) okay! They had a pitcher of iced tea in the middle of the shop and they gave it to me. No glass. This is one of those things where I'm not sure what to do tactically - remind them that they forgot the glass or drink directly from the pitcher. They were all looking at me so I assumed the glass was not forgotten, and took a big draw. It was a slightly sweet jasmine tea that was ice cold! Ahhhhhhh, and they all smiled with me.

Fifteen minutes later the dude was back with my bike. He had gone to a welder and had fixed the rack to be so sturdy as to never break again. Someday at a junkyard, someone will be tearing that bike apart for scrap metal and they will have to give up at the rack - it will not be separated from that motorcycle.

I was so happy. One worry I don't need to worry about any longer. How much? He gave me the hand and waved me off. No. Dude really made my day and I was definitely going to compensate him for his half hour of labor and sub-contracting. He wouldn't have it. I wasn't so tactless as to really insist or force money on him. I did however thank them with a low bow, which they thought was funny. They gave me the get outta here sign and I left with a big grin and a total lack of anxiety. That is exactly why this motorcycle riding stuff is so killer. Every time I stop somewhere I have a little interaction. Sometimes its just a look and sometimes its a really nice show of generosity. Sometimes it's a lady yelling at me to move the bike from in front of her cell phone shop and put it in front of the pho stall where I'm eating.

The rest of the ride was glorious. The sun was shining, moving perpendicularly above me across the sky as I moved south. I turned off Highway 1 onto Highway 80, which is much smaller. Pretty much all the roads are two lanes, but you can tell a small road by the condition of it's pavement. On a really small road, it's not there. A medium road is bumpy and poorly maintained. Highway 80 went about 30km before dead-ending into a river. At the dead end several men were pouring concrete pilings for a future ferry crossing. Construction projects here appear to be going in slow motion. I think appearances are deceiving however because Mike Tran saw a three story house built by hand across from his family's crib in the three weeks he was visiting. These guys at the river were doing the CalTrans thing: smoking cigarettes, pointing at various elements of the construction and talking seriously, but not really making any use of the oversized equipment around them.

I have three maps now and none of them agree. Sometimes a map says there is a bridge when there isn't, sometimes a town is put on the wrong road. Many times a road is showing connecting before a town when it's really after or inside the town. This was one of those cases where all three maps disagreed. Actually the scale of one map made its usefulness negligible. There was supposed to be a bridge here - or at least I needed there to be a bridge here in order not to backtrack 80km. Two little girls came up to me saying "whats your name?" and "nice to meet you." They were probably six and ten years old and they charmed six pieces of gum off of me before giving me directions to the ferry crossing, 10km away.

On the other side of the river I finally stopped for food. I knew I was only 60km away from my destination (2 hours on this road) giving me an ETA of about 6pm. Small food stalls were lining the exit ramp of the ferry crossing. I just stopped at one randomly without even looking at what they were selling. That was purposeful - sometimes it's fun to get a surprise. I was surprised with a too-bright green rice porridge. There was a husband and wife and two kids working and living there and they seemed surprised that that's what I wanted. I tasted the bland concoction and got confused. I've gotten used to the regularly delicious grub that I get wherever I go and now I've got this tasteless funny colored gruel. I finally stood up and looked in the glass case next to the porridge pot. There were several plates full of stuff. I pointed and the woman gave me a questioning look. You want this? I thought I did. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to eat this stuff together or what. Soon the husband came over, loaded up several plates with: a heap of whole, one-inch long fish; a heap of salty pickled vegetable; an egg, apparently hard boiled. The thing is, that there is a WAY to eat this stuff. It's not like in the states where you have portions on your plate and you sort of eat in a clockwise direction or whatever. So I mimed myself doing different things with the plates until the husband showed me. He even cut the egg in half and scooped out one side into my spoon. The yolk of the egg contained a semi-developed little duck I think. That was pretty weird, but good nonetheless. Everything gets eaten in combination. The side plates are salty and you can pour this sauce into it which gives it a fishy sweet flavor.

Highway 80 straightens out all the way to the coast, about 45 kilometers. Along the road is a canal, clearly man made, built off one of the 40 or so tributaries of the Mekong that I crossed on my way out. Delta is no lie. This giant area is just a hyper fertile wetland crisscrossed with canals and rivers. The entire distance of the road was essentially one unending town. On the right, next to the river were houses and businesses built on thin, bending stilts, which descended rather precariously into the water. Occasionally there would be a small path to the canal and a row of men would be loading or unloading rice to or from a barge. On the left side of the road were rice warehouses. Stacked 12 feet high on the road were giant sacks of rice. In front of the homes, instead of lawns were hundreds of kilos of yellow rice, raked flat, drying in the sun. At one point, on the opposite side of the river I saw a host of brick-making factories. They looked like beehives, rising from the ground and since they themselves were made of the same bricks they were making, they appeared to have been organically grown there.

It was afternoon so kids were riding bikes home from school. At the elementary schools, hordes of parents would be waiting to pick up their kids and scooter them home. It was really cute to see all the moms and dads with their sons and daughters in their laps holding on the the mirror posts for stability. Young kids wear a blue and white vaguely sailor-ish uniform. Sometimes they have three-stripe adidas-style sweatsuits. Very smart! The high school boys where a shortsleeve white button-down and navy trousers. The girls wear the traditional Vietnamese woman's attire of black or white silk pants and a longsleeved silk top that is form fitting on the torso, slit at the waist, descending in front and back down to the ankles. It's cool to see a long line of these kids, all looking super sharp, bicycling and joking around as they head home for the night.

Phu Quoc is about 100km from the Rach Gia ferry terminal, the terminus of highway 80. One can take a fast boat or a slow boat. I missed the slow boat, but it wouldn't have mattered as the fast boat does not take motorbikes aboard. The slow boat is a very large ferry boat which isn't really equipped to take motorbikes either. But that doesn't stop the ferrymen from taking 70K duong to take them on. I helped three other men lift my bike over the railing next to the passenger ramp onto the rear deck to join the 8 other scooters which had apparently gotten the same heave. On the ferry a Vietnamese woman now living in the states struck up a conversation with me. She was visiting because her son was getting married. He lived in the states too, but came back to Vietnam to find a wife and tie the knot. Interesting! When did he come out? Three weeks ago. No, I mean to meet his wife. Yeah, three weeks ago. So I met the newlyweds and they were very nice. The husband said that in fact he wanted to motorbike across Vietnam, but got married instead. The mom wanted to know if I wanted to get married because she knew a couple girls. I politely made it known that I wasn't quite ready, but thanks nonetheless.

In Phu Quoc a man at the pier helped me lift my bike out (this time the crew wasn't attracted to participating in the labor) and showed me to the road leading to my hotel. His English was fantastic and he gave me the lowdown on what's happening on the island: just about nothing.

I rode into town and found the bustling market. Sometimes one forgets that an island is an island and that somethings just aren't readily available. Phu Quoc is known for its fish sauce which is apparently graded like olive oil. The whole island seems to be contributing to its production. All along the road were spice orchards. Have you ever driven by a pepper orchard? It smells sweet and spicy at the same time. And all along the road pepper is drying. Green, red, black - long stripes of color like astroturf following the curves of the road.

The market of Duong Dong lies on the other side of the river over a bridge made of thin warping planks that seem as if they'll give way at any moment. The whole bridge feels like it's bending as you ride over it. I parked my bike at the bike lot with a hundred others and walked into the covered center of the market in search of food and coffee. Couldn't find the food area, but a little coffee stall was situated in the back of the market near a busy utility alley. The woman working there served up some ice coffee after I stumbled trying to order it, evenually relying on my guidebook for the right phrase. I spent the next hour talking to her and her compatriots mostly in Vietnamese. No English spoken here. Nobody even tried, which was rad. Eventually they figured out how little Vietnamese I know (pretty much none actually) and got to work educating me. I felt embarrassed for having been in the country so long relying on a vocabulary of hello and thank you. Now I know the proper way to address elders and peers. I know how to say I love you. I know how to say goodbye. I can say black coffee and black iced coffee. Mike Tran's family taught me how to say I love Vietnam, so now I can say I love black iced coffee, too.

After about an hour, the table and it's immediate vicinity included me, the coffee lady, a couple kids, a young girl about 24, a youngish man, an old man and an old old man, an old woman and and old old woman. We were all having a good time, even though comprehension was low, but I decided that I needed to go out and get some food and find my hotel. I paid for the coffee, said my goodbyes and got up to leave. The coffee lady said I should wait a minute and I wasn't sure what for, but I stayed. A few minutes later a big plate of rice with pork something and chicken and a bright orange hard-boiled egg showed up. There were a couple dipping sauces and some chilis and a pot of fresh tea. For me? Yes! Thank you! I ate and we continued to chat (sort of) and evenually it was decided that I should marry the coffee lady. She was 29 and far too old to not be married - everyone was worried. Her name is Noi Roi pronounced Naw Yawi with an almost unpronounced trailing i and different tones on both words. Again they insisted on paying for dinner and I promised to come back tomorrow to learn more Vietnamese and help pick a caterer for the wedding.