Motorbikes and Menu Roulette in Saigon

I survived Saigon on the back of a motorbike. There ought to be a medal for something like that.

You know how you’re driving and sometimes wish you could just turn around in the middle of the road, reverse until you get to that exit you just missed or haul ass down a one way street going the wrong way? Well, in Saigon, you can. Just go over there from over here, crowd into the same lane as the other five motorbikes and the car and the seven bicycles and the bus, ignore the stop lights and go as fast as traffic will allow. Sidewalk? No problem. One way street? We laugh at you. Painted lines on the street? A waste of money and a waste of paint. Red light? Green light? Both mean Go. It’s hair raising.

Let’s clarify that I did not drive. I would not be writing this story had I tried to drive. I ventured a trial run down the alley but was not up to Saigon standards so I forfeited and my friend Jack drove. And the minute we got on the bike it started to downpour. Of course. And we only had one rain poncho. Naturally. So he wore it and I hid under the back. Ever tried to navigate with a sopping wet copy of Lonely Planet Vietnam while hiding under a poncho on the back of a motorbike  in a tropical rainstorm as street signs you can’t read whip by and you’re driven through traffic circles of death? No? Well, it’s tricky.

Some kind of tofu with pork in a spicily sweet barbeque type sauce arrived in a big steaming pot. Delicious. When we finished it the waitress brought over a dish of grilled hot dogs cut into pieces, plunked it on the table, said “Free!” and left. I’m pretty sure that meant “We never get Westerners in here but we hear this is what they eat so we want to treat you to something we’re sure you’ll like.” Isn’t that lovely? An hour later when we left all the girls waved goodbye and shouted things in Vietnamese that probably meant “Goodbye! Thanks for coming in! Learn some Vietnamese for the next time you come back!”

Then we got incredibly lost trying to get back into District 1.

Five hours later we were finally having a drink at the bar telling stories about our brushes with death and inspecting our wounds. My knee got bashed up pretty good from a small misjudgment about how close we were to a neighboring motorbike; and I have a bruise on my arm, another on my foot and a scrape on my leg, all of which kind of stopped a bike from running us over. Jack got off pretty easy with just an elbow that had a very close encounter with a headlight; but he did have to drive, so I think the psychological scarring will show up later. As we told stories to the Vietnamese guys we rented the bikes from they laughed and showed us the scrapes and bruises and scabs all over their arms and legs from their most recent drives out in the city. Good to know it’s not just the tourists who shed blood all over the streets.

So here’s the thing: In one day I saw most of Saigon from the back of a motorbike huddled under a poncho. If you think you can handle NASCAR and you have the reflexes of a lightning bolt, I would definitely recommend it. Just rent a bike, start driving and see where you end up. And remember: Merge Seamlessly.