After my corporate English class last night, I invited the students to get coffee– a thank you for such a great class. Of course, this being Saigon and them being investment bankers, each student took their own shiny, functional motorcycle to the coffee shop, and I took Bonushog. Travelling as a pack (there were about 12 of us), was interesting and I found myself ducking in and out of a few dicey situations to keep with the group. Apparently, even Vietnamese drivers think it’s crazy to cut off a bus. I can’t imagine why.

Well, when we arrive I got a somewhat stern lecture from one of my students. “Mr. Rob, I think the way you drive, you can compete with many young men in the city.” (Just like back home, the worst drivers here are teenage men with a short attention span and something to prove.) Well, after that we launched into a terrible round of horror stories about accidents. One of my students told me she had broken her leg twice, and spent 3 months in the hospital both times because of it. She said she was lucky she didn’t have a limp, because often a broken leg here will leave you with one.

After coffee, with all of my students around me, I found my bike, pulled out the kick-start and gave it a strong shove. Nothing. I gave it another. A little sputtering, then silence. I continued to do this in the Saigon heat for 30 minutes, gradually sweating more and more, while my students looked on masking their amusement with concern. They told me to go to the mechanic, which meant pushing this 300-lb. monster 2 blocks with a small contingent of my class trailing close behind.

The hour passes by very slowly while the mechanic works. My students can’t leave me now because he doesn’t speak English, even though it’s almost 10:30. If I had a tape recorder on me, I might’ve been able to learn every swear word in Vietnamese– the mechanic circled the bike shouting, occasionally pointing at some random piece of hardware and saying “everything is broken”. Great. Here I am at 10:30 at night, far from home, sitting on a tiny plastic stool, drenched in sweat, while half of my corporate students watch a mechanic swear at my motorcycle.

When the bike finally started (170.000 VND and an hour’s humiliation later), my students were reluctant to leave. I don’t think they expected me to get home actually. I took off for home scolded about my driving, terrified of long-term injuries, and humiliated by my own motorcycle. How could it be worse? Never ask.

Just before I turned into our neighborhood, as I focused on crossing the intersection, I hear a woman scream just over my left shoulder, a crash and silence. Glancing back, I see the two motorcycles locked like a knot of twisted metal, smoke, and a single person walking amidst the wreckage. I remember the scrambling police bikes shooting through the alley as I passed.

The message, as I see it: Drive more carefully, you may get seriously hurt. You can’t rely on your motorcycle to function, and even when you can, you can’t rely on anyone else on the road.