And then, there are the objects that accompany motorbikers. It's not uncommon to see live hogs or chickens strapped on the back of motorbikes calmly controlled by adolescents. Crates of eggs, lumber, office chairs, jugs of gasoline, cases of beer, bicycles, fish, baguettes, javelin-like metal rods – you name it, we’ve seen it strapped, tied, lassoed or velcroed to a motorbike.
Armed with this understanding that riding a motorbike is a piece of cake for everyone, (the young, old and disabled included) and the encouragement of a couple supporters I too believed I was capable. How could I not be?
Minutes into my relationship with my motorbike, I feared we would not be able to ride as one. The first problem was that it wouldn’t start. While my travel companions eagerly engaged their engines every time I started mine it sputtered and died. The owner of the motorbikes patiently explained to me via a combination of hand signals, miming, childlike engine noises and Vietnamese that as soon as I started it I needed to gently rev the engine. I did as told, and the beast lurched forward aggressively. The man then advised (from what I could understand) that I should just coast down the slight incline to get out of the driveway and away from all things that could be potentially destroyed or killed.
Armed with my newfound confidence from the whole coasting experience, I gently rev-ed the engine with the intention of getting on the small dirt road leading out of the guesthouse and to the main road. The bike pitched forward towards the opposite ditch. Fearing disaster I turned the handlebars so that at the very least I would continue at an unsafe speed up the dirt road. At the time it seemed a favorable alternative to crashing in the ditch with the group of already skeptical Vietnamese men watching me. And so, I turned the handlebars hard, the back tire caught in the loose sand kicking the bike out from beneath me and in a pile we crashed to the ground -- my leg pressing against the hot muffler.
Calmly the motorbike owner approached me again, chuckling as he began to re-teach me – pointing excitedly at various buttons, pulling back on levers and making engine noises. Clearly still inept I switched bikes – happily handing over the keys to the red devil in exchange for a shiny and new looking bike, complete with a supple brown leather seat. While I automatically felt more comfortable with my new ride, we took off for the main road a bit more hesitantly. My new bike idled nicely and I was less afraid that it would turn against me at any moment.
We rode forward onto the main paved road that leads from the touristy beach area into the city of Duong Dong. The road started off wide, with light traffic but before long we entered the city proper. Motorbikes, trucks, motorized noodle carts, bicycles and cars fought for space in the city’s roundabouts and narrow, dirt streets – horns honking, red dust flying. Following lunch at a small, empty restaurant we began our quest to find the less popular beaches located on the island’s northeast coast. Road signs in English do not exist so we struck off blindly, pointing ourselves vaguely in the direction we believed to be north. After a few unsuccessful attempts we spotted a traveler who appeared to be riding confidently toward some unknown destination. Sensing no better alternative we took off after him, maintaining enough distance so as to look informed ourselves but not entirely creepy.
The once-wide paved street quickly narrowed into a road that more closely resembled a dirt path. The bright orange dirt kicked up in a fine dust with each passing vehicle, covering each of us in a thin layer of rusty grit. Our motorbikes bucked and jerked – coughing their way through the deep potholes, skidding through sand and gravel – and, for the most part, I felt in control. I began to feel more confident. With the foreigner still locked in our viewfinder we passed through small villages. Children scampered along the side of the road, men crowded around small noodle or tea shacks, women sat behind store counters awaiting the next customer. As quickly as we entered villages we seemed to pass through them and find ourselves surrounded on both sides by deep, thick forest.
Hand confidently on the gas I accelerated up small hills, speeding down the other side. It wasn’t until my first experience with a “bridge” that my terror returned. First of all, bridges have always terrified me. Ask my friend Sam how difficult it was to convince me to go to Prince Edward Island once I learned that the route there included a 16 mile bridge (that I swear did sway back and forth). Secondly, bridges on this island should terrify everyone. I don’t believe that any concrete was utilized in their construction. Instead, they appear to be built of rotting lumber, held above the stagnant water by rotting posts. In addition, every other board or so is broken and/or not attached to the rest of the “bridge.” The sound of riding a motorbike across one of these contraptions is terrifying --not that I could hear it over my racing mind that was busy conjuring up images of my imminent death.
I eased my bike onto the edge of the first such bridge we came across, waiting patiently for my friends to safely reach the other side – not believing for a second that the “bridge” could support more than one motorbike at a time. As I sat on my bike collecting myself and trying to create positive scenarios in my mind to overpower the ones of myself breaking through the “bridge” and plummeting to my death in the sludge water below, I saw, to my horror, two motorbikes passing one another on the “bridge.” PASSING! Sure I was going to witness some kind of horrible accident I turned away. Overcome with my fear I waited until I was certain no one was around before meekly crossing the death structure that appeared to bow beneath me. Not that the other side was much better. Jagged rocks littered the small road that wove narrowly between huts teaming with small, unpredictable children, chickens and kids zigzagging around on bikes that were much too large.
Two life-threatening “bridges” later we caught our first glimpse of the ocean, peeking through the forest. Soon after we found the beach. Soon after we realized we had no water, no snacks, no towels and had forgotten our snorkel. We decided to take a quick dip before having to struggle back into our dry clothes – transforming them into knots of sand and salt water.
Retrieving my key from my bag, I started my motorbike to continue up the coast. Feeling rejuvenated and confident I accelerated into the road, making a hard left turn as my bike and I propelled forward. In my panic I confused the brake and gas and at that moment, hit the sand. Again, my motorbike and I crashed to the ground in a heap. The key dug hard into my upper right thigh, bending it in the ignition. The bike landed on my left leg, momentarily trapping it. Embarrassed, I pulled myself up and reassured the few concerned locals who stopped to check on us, that I was in fact fine – just a giant spaz. What little pride remained quickly disintegrated as I inspected the scratches on the new brown paint and the bent key.
I proceeded to ride 25 miles an hour back to our guest house and survive each and every “bridge” crossing. An accidental journey into the city market did not fail to entertain, however, as we were forced to navigate through even narrower streets with even more obstacles, people and motorbikes. I lived in a constant state of fear of accidentally accelerating and losing control.
And yet, somehow I survived and somehow everyone else here seems to drive with such poise – calm and confident amidst a sea of utter traffic-chaos.
