The streets of Vietnam are alive with them.
The sidewalks too, from time to time. Motorbikes weave nimbly around one another with such controlled precision you might feel silly to fear them striking your jaywalking heels.
Actually, probably not.
I, for one, have developed a deep admiration for this two-wheeled species of transportation which, at first glance, might seem like just a motorbike. No big thing. But wait until you see what it can do.
I’ve seen motorbikes ferry giant cages of puppies and ducks and chickens (not all at once, in case that needs to be said). Mandarin trees and stacks of milk crates rising twelve feet high. Clusters of straw baskets and giant potted marigolds and steaming dumplings. Cardboard boxes and folding tables and families of four. In fact, it seems there is nothing these things can’t handle; so it’s only natural that I have been dying to try one, and, at the same time: terrified of dying on one.
Hoi An is a charming town that, at its geographic center, seems to exist solely for tourists but becomes gradually more gritty and ‘real’ as you work your way outward block by block.
I’ve been enjoying the best of both worlds: devouring to-die-for Vietnamese food in restaurants geared toward western tourists (judging by the ambiance and the presence of a wine list) and also running each evening through local neighborhoods and silent rice paddies where I skirt around small herds of cattle sauntering down the narrow paths. It’s a nice place, Hoi An, but we are ready to see what lays beyond the radius of our walking distance.
We are ready for the motorbike.
Right out in front of our guesthouse is a woman with a stand offering bottles of water, beer, cigarettes, a 24-hour laundry service and…motorbikes. Lucky us.
I tell her I’ll take two.
She hands me the keys and a few minutes later David and I are poised hesitantly in front of our respective bikes, knowing only what to do with the key and not a thing beyond that. I can tell we’re both trying to decide how inexperienced we want to reveal ourselves to be.
“So with this one you just…” He trails off. As if he’s ridden plenty of motorbikes but none quite like this exact one and so could she please just confirm the basics? You know, make sure we’re all on the same page with this one. She complies, quickly twisting the throttle, squeezing the breaks and pointing to the horn button.
Easy enough.
David’s down the block before I’ve even picked up my feet; I’m still contemplating exactly how much I need to pull the throttle and what are the chances this thing will tip over? I stare over my left shoulder one, two, eight times as if I’m just waiting for the right time to pull out into traffic. Except there isn’t any traffic – the street is quiet and thank heavens for that because once I do finally hit go it’s a stuttery start. I nearly inflict whiplash on myself before coming to a full-stop about 25 yards down the road.
Just a quick regroup.
Beside me appears the British man who had been observing the beginnings to our adventure back at the water/cigarette/beer/laundry/motorbike stand.
“Can I give you just one quick piece of advice?” He asks. Honestly? I wouldn’t mind if he pulled a 45-minute instructional video out of his back pocket. “Keep your wrist down,” he says and physically pushes my right wrist – that culprit in the whip-lash incident of thirty seconds ago – so that it’s at a 90 degree angle from my knuckles. It’s not a not an entirely comfortable position but one that I would maintain thanks to his explanation about a friend who shot through a fence due to a knee-jerk reaction in a moment of panic. I thank him a few times – stalling, actually, in the hopes that he might think of another helpful nugget or two. He does not.
We fuel up at a woman’s make-shift gas station. While she dumps plastic water-bottles full of gasoline into our bikes we consult the map. This isn’t just a joyride, by the way. We have a destination. My Son, a cluster of Hindu temples in the hills is described as ‘an hour’ outside of Hoi An but once we’re on the road I see it’s going to take us at least two. I cannot bring myself to go faster than 20 km/h and even at that speed I feel very, very close to death. I cling to the edge of the road so that I’m not the subject of any more honking than I need to be. Bikes zit-zit around me on my left and occasionally a bus or truck passes, its behemoth frame shoving off high winds causing me to grip the handles even tighter and, for the gazillianth time, check my right wrist. Yes, still feeling as uncomfortable as ever at that 90-degree angle.
We cruise across quiet strips of road bordered by rice paddies into which men and women wade wearing hats that look like squat triangles from afar. We cross a small bridge, and then a larger one and I stop to take a picture of the boats, relishing in this freedom not found behind the window of a train or a bus or a taxi. We navigate through a few intersections. We stop to ask for directions.
Soon I am one of them. I’m picking up speed and passing people. The blood is returning to my fingers and I even give my horn a try, just once – on principle refusing to contribute to that cacophony that is ubiquitous with the streets of Vietnam. I soon learn that it’s not the riding that I need to fear, because as long as I’m just another water-molecule in the raging current it’s all just fine. Easy, even. But then I go too far. I pass the turn off and must make a U-Turn and so find myself pulled over to the far right side of the road, a bystander to colliding currents, each four, six, seven bikes deep. I feel like a pedestrian once again, casting futile, longing, hopeful stares in either direction as if a big red traffic light might suddenly drop from the sky and bring semblance and order to it all.
This does not happen, of course, and so eventually I wade back in. Right wrist at 90 degrees I grit my teeth and just go. Go go go. There is no stopping once you start, though I’m feeling fairly certain that the inevitable collision will do exactly that. It’s coming any second from some direction I can’t see because I refuse to look anywhere but forward for fear the site of the careening bikes will overrule this intellectual decision I’ve made to just. Keep. Going.
Miraculously, I make it into the opposing lane and fold into its traffic as if I’d been there all along. I catch my turn, which is now unfortunately on the left, and shimmy through the oncoming traffic like a pro.
Which of course I am.
We stop for lunch at a roadside restaurant operated out of a family’s home.
I’m feeling so empowered after the whole U-Turn thing that I don’t give the sanitary conditions of the place a second thought. I inhale my bowl of Pho with its unidentifiable ingredients and occasional strands of dark hair, expertly wielding my chopsticks while nearby our chef’s children watch cartoons from a queen-size bed.
I. Love. Vietnamese food.
We finally make it to My Son, which, even though we’d both acquired enough confidence to cruise at speeds of 45 kph, did take us about two hours. Somewhat reluctantly I get off of my bike and drop my helmet into the hole beneath the seat. This is what we got out of bed for – these Hindu ruins are the main event – but by nature they can’t really compare to what I’ve just been through. Crumbling bricks lack the adrenaline rush that was so plentiful in that rawness of the open road. Still, I dutifully tour the sites, snapping pictures of what remains of the carvings of Shiva. I try to feel impressed by the skill of those builders back in the 9th Century. I bask in the serenity of the space, which backs right up into mountains buried beneath so many trees. I soberly survey the giant craters caused by bombs dropped from one of America’s B52s. We wander pretty far down a stone path that doesn’t ever end up leading anywhere until we’re sure that we’ve seen all My Son has to offer us.
And then? I get back on my motorbike.
Somewhere Seeking 
You’re so brave! I have a complete fear of motorcycles, even in the US. But it sounds as if the liberation of taking yourself where you want to go is a worthwhile adventure. Maybe I’ll give it a go the next time I’m in Asia. Or maybe not.