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Published: February 24th 2007
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The Millionth Mechanic!
Jolly, if a bit cheeky. I woke to a drizzly kind of day in the hotel, which I learned was just outside Yin Bin. After paying my bill, and being unable to refuse a present of some money from the owners, I faced the prospect of my broken Minsk.
It started after a few trys, and I puttered off, fighting the broken gears. I was seriously worried about finding a mechanic today, which was Tet. Imagine trying to find a garage open on Christmas day and you have an idea. Thankfully, Vietnam seemed to be generally going about it's business. I pulled up outside a chap who had a big, gleaming Honda chopper parked inside. This man clearly liked his bikes, so I figured I'd be in safe hands.
Just goes to show you how wrong I can be. After about an hour of tinkering around with the Old Buffalo, and looking very professional, he smilingly handed me the bike. Finished, and it was only 9.30. I casually asked if he had fixed all the gears, and he held up two fingers. I explained that I needed the other two also, and he set to again. After another hour, another stripdown off the gear box, he again handed me the bike. Again he held up two fingers. This was getting ridiculous. I was beginning to get irrate, and after he had had another try, given me the bike, and held up the two fingers, the sight of steam coming out of my ears seemed to provoke in him some sort of epiphany. He indicated for me to wait here, and off he went on the bike. It was now nearing lunch, so I popped off to a restraunt while I waited for him to return. It was oneish when he returned, and the bike was runing perfectly again. Obviously, he had taken it to some guy who knew Minsks, and had the right parts. Why he had decided not to do this three hours ago I don't know, but apparently God loves a tryer.
I finally got away, and I hoped for no more accidents or interruptions. The road became very very busy, with thousands of Vietnamese heading to or from Hanoi to visit their families for Tet. This made driving pretty stressful, but still very, very enjoyable. I became terrified of teenage Vietnamese kids on motorbikes, and 4X4's which would roar past you.
Still, I figured I was making good time, and the number of kilometers to Hanoi were steadily decreasing. Of course, the bike had some more surprises for me. As I cruised along at about 60 km, I heard a bang, and the bike skidded to a halt. Prising my fingers off the handlebars, I peered about to see what disaster had befallen me. Some guys came running out of a nearby shop, and helped me to move the bike over. I looked with amazement as I realized that the lower rubber chain had managed to completely wrap itself around the rear cog and push forward the upper guard. I remembered how, when I rented the bike, I had asked if the space between the guard and the plastic covering was ok, and being assured that it was. Note to fellow Minsk riders: watch that.
Again, I had stopped just outside a garage, populated by a couple of very jolly chaps. They set to work, but when I realised that they weren't going to have much luck, I decided to hell with it and we cut off the guard. They repaired a broken link, asked me for 30,000 dong, decided to keep the change of a 100,000 ("Tet, Tet!") and took me for a beer. Oh well!
One beer later, I prised myself away from their hospitality and set off again, terrified that the next problem would be a snapped chain and a hole in my leg. All was going fine, and suddenly I saw a glorious sight. The big, six lane motor way leading straight to Hanoi. Yes!!!!
NO!!!!! The bike puttered to a halt. What in the name of God now!!! I had a flash of inspiration and banged on the tank. Empty. Of all the stupid things, I had now run out of petrol! But fate was smiling, for I had stopped just outside a petrol stations. I pushed the bike, and my knackered body across the motorway, and filled up. It was darkening now, and I wondered if I could make it. Filled up again, I started the engine, open the throttle, and the bike moved forward a few meters and died. After trying many, many times to start it, I realised that I had probably flooded the carbarettor with oil by not closing the stop valve. By now my head was in my hands, and I felt close to tears. It was now too late to find a garage, the job to fix it would take hours, and there would be no garages open tomorrow morning after tonight's Hogmany-like celebrations. I might have to miss my flight tomorrow.
But the great, fantastic, wonderful bloke in the petrol station knew what to do. Just by opening and closing the choke, he was able to clean out the carb, and get it started. I could have kissed him!
Off again, on the long straight highway to Hanoi, tearing along and praying nothing else would happen. Finally I reached the city, the massive soviet style monuments lit up and dominating the night scene. I pulled up at a newsagents, and tried to draw a map of where I wanted to go. The lake in the Old Quarter (where I was staying) had a legend that a giant tortoise had taken back a sacred sword, so my drawing of lake, sword and tortoise was sufficiant to get me pointed in the right direction (much to the eventual amusement of the people there). In fact, a really nice couple took me all the way there, when they realised that I couldn't follow their directions. I cruised through the crowds in the Old Quarter, a massive, triumphant grin splitting my face, and saw the beautiful sight of the Red River guesthouse. Home! Dropping off my backpack, I rode over to Finnigan's Irish pub for a well deserved Guiness. And there, I talked to the first westerner since I had started the Northwestern Loop. Well, she was Scottish! A perfect end, to the best thing I had done on my South East Asia adventure.
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