Breakdowns and buffalo

We shared a look. It wasn’t of panic or rage, frustration or impotence. One of bemused resignation. On the shoulder on a nameless part of the Ho Chi Minh highway, poncho in tatters, Aaron wheeled his motorbike to a stand. The rain was steady and indifferent.

Leaning my weight against the hill’s grade, I balanced the bike while Aaron prodded at its slack and displaced chain, stick in hand, fingers slick with greyblack grease. Yesterday it had detached three times and after a bit of hotel-mechanicry we thought the problem was fixed. Less than an hour into the day’s ride it had popped off again, been reattached, repeated. Now going up a hill, every time Aaron tried to change gear it would dislodge.

Traffic

While Aaron crouched and worked the other denizens of the motorway, putting up the incline on motorbikes, watched with steadily rotating necks until out of view. One, with a small trailer that looked like it usually carried single batches of livestock, pulled over. He looked at Aaron’s bike. He tapped my petrol tank and mimed for my keys. He got on a revved. Opening the back of his trailer, he and Aaron heaved his stricken bike into the back. Aaron jumped in after it. I got into gear and fell in behind. We started off up and over then down the hill. The rain continued.

Five minutes passed and we slowed to pull off the highway up an unmarked, rutted and puddle riddled side slope. More dirt than path, more mud than dirt. Tyres skidding, I followed. We slowed outside a house. A concrete cube with one side missing and a sheet metal overhang veranda. Several birdcages took up a quarter of the main living area. A TV was playing a Vietnamese soap opera and two men slowly raised as we rattled to a halt.

For Mum 

They talked in Vietnamese with our chaperone and Aaron’s bike was wheeled out. In a crouch the smaller and leaner of the two men started to examine it. He had on a distressed turtleneck with infrequent holes through which peeked skin scarred from chickenpox or something similar. He took apart the gear guard and took out a piece. He compared it to a new one and showed the edges worn from smooth curve to a sharp and straight rasp. He tightened Aaron’s chain.

Concerned about the wobble on my back wheel, I was next. The clunking of my gear changes also turned out to be due to a loose chain which he shortened by several links. He checked my air pressure by banging at the wheel with a hammer. Once adjusted, he fine-tuned his analysis with a spanner. All was mended. For 10,000 dong. 50c. Aaron’s repairs cost $2. The man who brought us here wouldn’t accept anything more than a handshake.

Our breakdown friend

We rode on. Through lush green national park, down into a flat plain through which the highway struck straight until lost into the horizon. Rice paddies green and irrigation waters brown. Sky a glaucoma whitegrey. Nearing midday we were 1km out of a town as signposted on the highway stone markers and cruising at 70km/hr when my tyre blew out. At first I didn’t know what was happening, just that I was wobbling dangerously. Thankfully my reflexes for motorbiking were far enough developed that my panicked choking at handles and pedals resulted in braking, not wild acceleration. Front wheel sagging forlornly, I started pushing.

Mechanic #1

In the town at the next turnoff people materialised out the front of their houses to watch and offer advice in Vietnamese, pointing vaguely down the road. A group of young guys had me wait while one ran out the back, returning with a foot pump. I appreciated the sentiment. One family pointed me down an alleyway. Aaron cruised ahead to scout out the tip and called me down. After about half an hour of searching, we had a mechanic. For the $5 he replaced the wheel’s inner tubing. For a further $2 he tuned up Aaron’s motor which was idling far too high and soothed his clunking gear changes. Next door lived one of the onlookers and we were encouraged into their living room come restaurant for pho and tea. It was dark and the mirror behind the table cloudy with dirt and smudges. The daughter had been to Melbourne and showed us photos of the Flinders Street Station on her phone. A man held a young child and watched TV. The mother looked on as we ate. Aaron surreptitiously redistributed the slices of beef from his bowl to mine. We were still soaked from the rain that had been falling intermittently and the hot broth gently warmed us.

Mechanic #2

Back on the road we motored on. All was going well as we swept up towards slowly gathering hills. In the mid-afternoon Aaron’s chain popped off again. I rode to the petrol station we had just passed with the bundle of maps the motorcycle retailer in Hanoi had given us with some handy phrases hand written on the back. “Where is the mechanic?” I ran my finger under the line. He pointed across the road. Aaron rolled down the hill on which he had broken down and pushed the rest of the way.

The man crouched and worked, balancing the bike on an offcut of scaffolding as a makeshift means of elevating the rear wheel. I had to lean on the front, Aaron holding up the back. He noted my height with the customary process of measuring himself against my shoulder and raising his hand to my head. He had a rude wooden hut as his garage, a rather nice house behind. His young daughter looked on, an even younger child in her arms. He first bawled but then stopped to more closely stare at me before falling asleep.

Kids

The mechanic went to fetch a part and on the way back to the bike brushed my crotch with the back of his hand. He grabbed himself at the elbow and clenched his arm and fist. Then he pointed at his crotch as he squatted back down, poking his thumb out and against his clenched forefinger so as to only project the tip. A nearby chunk of wooden pole was similarly utilised as a physical analogue. He was very amused. As were we. Then he got handsy. A handful of my crotch. Then a handful of Aaron’s. More forearm gesticulation. Next he started trying to lift us up.

Eventually he replaced and reinforced the rear part that allows you to adjust the tension of the chain. We motored out. About three kilometres later, the chain was off again. This time it was a man in three quarter army-green shorts and a matching shirt over a bright yellow t-shirt who cycled past and pointed us to the nearest mechanic, mere metres away. The mechanic was very chatty and kept making jokes in Vietnamese—at least I assume so, judging by the response of those around. The entourage was sizeable. Women from next door came over to watch, gumboots on. One stopped mid-conversation to pick up a rock to throw at some chickens who had wandered into the adjacent rice paddy.

1, 4, 5!

He took apart the entire rear section of the bike. Wheel, chain, gear cogs, miscellaneous parts all greasy and dirt caked. He started putting it back together with a few new pieces. He snorted and spat on the floor nearby as he worked, the only interruption to his stream of jests. Another onlooker with a moped who kept powering in and out kept up an even steadier commentary. It became obvious he was a bit of a smartarse.

The mechanic went back into his house and emerged with an empty Beer Hanoi can. He took to it with metal scissors, cutting off the top and bottom and coming away with a strip. He cut triangles out of one side, and rolled the finished product around a circular bearing, wrapping down the teeth he’d cut to hold it in place. He then took this piece, laid it upon the hole into which it would rest, and with a hammer bashed it within. Aaron and I shared a look.

Drying shoes

He proceeded to put together the rest of the rear section, stopping to pick up bits he’d forgotten and go back to fit them in, tossing aside the odd washer. Aaron’s gear cover had been distended from his chain popping off and he attempted some rudimentary panel beating. The section snapped off. He giggled and reattached the partially broken guard. The fragment broken off lay discarded. The process had taken almost an hour and was still on going. We were increasingly dubious and the smart arse wouldn’t shut up. He was using us a rich seam of comic gold. He mimed for money so he could get himself and the mechanic a drink. We asked him to be quiet, the tone enough to convey our sentiment. He eventually seemed to get the idea as we offered further unfriendly looks.

$20 for new gear cogs and a chain and a reassembled rear end which had remedied the lean his back wheel had previously been on. The smart arse was taking a piss as we prepared to head off. The mechanic pointed at him and mimed a small penis. Aaron extended his little finger and waggled it. Everyone found this very amusing. Then he pointed at himself and employed the gesture of the previous mechanic, elbow clutched, fist clenched. We motored off.

Pausing to admire

Night was beginning to fall and we found a hotel within a few minutes ride—the first we’d seen for hours. We had just finished eating at a restaurant down the road when a van arrived out of which came a series of inebriated locals. A bottle of rice whiskey was decanted from a huge plastic vat into an old cloud-glass bottle with the label, ‘Men’’. We were invited over for drinks. I was measured against.

One, four, five! Shots of whiskey. In his state of excess, Anh had lost track of his numbers. We stood, clinked glasses with the delicate precision of alcohol, and toasted so. He had a boyish fringe that hung long and well shampooed, shaken down across his brow every time his laugh gave way to a high pitched giggle. It was contagious.

Aaron's steed

He was teaching us the names of the dishes across the table. The youngest kid had gotten hold of an iPhone and was snapping photos of us. An older man, tiny of frame, skin taught and in a suit, stood periodically while maintaining a constant lecture in Vietnamese directed at Aaron and I. The man who appeared to be his son was the only one at our end of the table with the presence of mind to eat, and watched on with the resigned ambivalence of familiarity with a recurring scene.

Highway

The next day we started out early working into the mountains and the bikes remained healthy. But the rain continued. Mountain climbs in third gear into the lingering mist. The drizzle was steady and fine. We were drenched to the bone. Unfolding on either side were tree tops slipping down mountains and out of cloud fading upwards and backwards into the white. We climbed ever higher and into the cloud itself, barely able to see thirty metres ahead. 10 degree inclines and slippery s-shape roads serpentine through forest on forest. The odd motorbike left by the side of the road, its owner farming silently just out of sight.

Sandals

10 degree inclines seem much steeper on the way down, the road much more slippery. Then suddenly we were out. The temperature jumped several degrees and we coasted down gentle slopes. We stopped for breakfast at a lone hotel. Sodden and shivering, we only felt the cold now we had lost the delirium of wonder and focus. Attempting to eat rice, omelette and stir fried greens the chop sticks clattered from my unresponsive hands. I started doing push ups and squats to get the blood flowing. The woman brought us tea. We raided Aaron’s pack for more layers and set off once more. Dodging buffalo wandering across the lower roads from pasture to pasture.

Wildlife

Soon we were out of the mountains entirely and on arrow straight highways deserted except for us. We raced and overtook each other. Highway sign posts signalling a town gave way to only a few wooden structures before we were out again. Dogs lounged in the middle of the road and watched as we hurtled past, unperturbed. Some ranged across with no heed to our passing providing the most dangerous obstacles.

My steed

We covered over three hundred kilometres from 100km north of Dong Hoi in a place whose name I do not know to Hue, arriving late in the afternoon. The final stretch of highway was busy. One lane in either direction, coaches hurtled down the wrong side, motorbikes huddled in the emergency shoulder. Horns blasted constantly as smaller buses wove in and out of traffic. School kids wobbling on bikes. The rain was back.

We found a hotel and went out in search of a much needed beer.