Meet Thong

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No, not my underwear. (or if you’re in Australia my sandal). I’m talking about our motorbike driver the past 2 weeks, Thong (pronounced TOM).

When I was dodging for my life on the streets of Saigon I remember thinking that there was no way in hell I would ever get on a motorbike, especially considering my motorbike mishap in Greece 4 years ago. I have had a motorbike-phobia since. So when Karen asked me if I had a problem with 3 on a motorbike, it’s actually that I have a problem with ONE on a motorbike...ME.

It is at least 5 times a day that I am certain that I will die (mom, don’t read that, actually stop reading here). I’m surprised I can still feel my heart beating because I was sure that it had fallen out somewhere on Bach Dang Street. But if I want to tag along with Karen, I need to do it. I look around and watch how entire families, infants, grandmoms, all hop on and speed off. Hey if that 6 month old can do it, I can surely do it.

A few rules, or lack there of: There are no helmets. There are few traffic lights and when you go through an intersection it’s just a beep and glance from side to side. You will drive directly into oncoming traffic at an accelerated speed before making a turn. And if you drive through the market you will weave in and out of numerous obstacles such as chickens, pots of noodles, small children, baskets of fish, other motorbikes and tourists, yet it is nice to know that if you’re feeling hungry you can reach out and grab yourself a bite to eat along the way. But my least favorite is the alley we take to school which has a section between a concrete well and a wall that you need to get by with about...mmm...maybe a few inches to spare on each side. With other motorbikes coming at us, Thong speeds through and I squeeze my legs into the bike, squeeze my eyes shut and pray my knee caps don’t become part of the beautiful antique walls of Hoi An.

I’ve experimented with several mental pep talks, the most recent is the old just “let it go” talk. The, “it’s ok not to have control”. I remember that was one of the ideas I liked about Salsa dancing, the girl lets go, the man leads. It’s all about trust. Just go with it. Don’t think, just feel. Yes, yes, that’s it. That should work. I lean close into Thong and close my eyes and trust him. But wait, this a little different. I’m afraid the consequences of a wrong turn on a motorbike are a bit more serious than the consequences of a wrong turn on the dance floor (mom, I said stop reading). But there has been several times I have forgotten my fears and I close my eyes not because I am scared but because the rich scent of night blossoms from a nearby lily pond swirl around me and the cool evening breeze lifts my “special” hair while driving through streets lined with hundreds of glowing colored paper lanterns and Vietnam becomes so intoxicating that it seems that the only thing to do is close your eyes, hold out your arms and fly.

When Karen left this morning for Australia (sniff, sniff), Thong returned to Da Nang to finish his time in the army. I gave him a thank you card which read “thank you for being my driver” but what I meant to write was “thank you for not killing me”. I could hire a new driver, or I could even rent a motorbike myself, but I think I’ll just thank my lucky stars and use the good old fashioned legs from now on.

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