January 3, 2009

8:15 am

Who has a copy of Robert Pirsig’s book “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?” I need one immediately! Regretfully, I approached my motorbike purchase with about as much due diligence as I had when renting bikes in the past which constitutes a simple ride around the block.  Against my better judgment, I did not take it to a mechanic to have it inspected as I would have when buying a used car.  I didn’t even personally inspect the body for scratches or scrapes to see if it had been in an accident. I failed to notice that my speedometer didn’t work. Hell, I didn’t even check the mileage (or in this case, kilometerage).  

At the time, I had a boyfriend who had purchased his motorbike with no more care either and who I perceived to be overly anxious to hit the road.  He had scoffed at my idea of taking either bike to a mechanic prior to purchase and, like a schoolgirl, I was anxious to please him.  So I stupidly allowed myself to fall prey to a bit of peer pressure (What was I? Thirteen years old again?) and now was paying the price.

Only four days of actual road time into my motorbike trip and I was at the mechanic AGAIN.  Third time.  The first two times were because my bike, after running along just fine for an hour or two, simply failed to start after I cut the engine to get gas or check a map.  I ended up buying a new battery which I’m still not certain is the answer to the problem, but with language barriers, it will have to do until the next breakdown.  I’m currently having a gas leak repaired and the odd sounds coming occasionally from my front wheel have become as continuous, loud and demanding as a hungry, screaming two year old child.

My bike was all packed up to begin Day 5 of my roadtrip to Ninh Binh.  Naturally, before hitting the road, I stopped at the petrol station to fill up … and a good portion of the contents I’d just put in were now pouring out all over the ground below.  As I pulled away from the petrol station wondering whether I could make it the 150 km I had mapped out for the day’s drive, the front wheel scraped, screeched and made horribly angry sounds as offensive as nails on a chalkboard … times one hundred.  Damn it all to hell!  There was no way that I was going to be able to ignore this.  I needed to get to a mechanic immediately.  

I’m studying Vietnamese in an effort to be able to communicate during my time here.  At this point, I’ve picked up a few phrases and am able to read a few words.  Sadly, one of the phrases that I easily recognize on sight now is “xe may” which is, of course, Vientamese for motorbike mechanic.  There are “xe mays” everywhere in Vietnam … which will probably turn out to be a good thing for me if the Fonda continues its war of aggression at its historical pace.  So it didn’t take me long to find one … only about 5 blocks.  Thankfully, when he took the bike for a spin, I heard the wheel/brakes continue to make the same grinding sound that had alarmed me so at least I didn’t have to worry about the age old problem of saying “I swear, it’s making this sound …” and of course it won’t utter a peep for the guy who can actually diagnose and fix the problem … particularly since I haven’t yet mastered being able to say “I swear, it’s making this sound” in Vietnamese.  I’m still working out the tonal arrangements of “How are you?”

Through sign language and silly gushing sounds, I think I was able to communicate also that petrol was leaking out of the tank and onto the ground.  At any rate, I communicated enough that, as I sit and type this, my little Fonda is in pieces all over the mechanic’s garage, stripped down to her skeletal frame and probably feeling as cold as I am.  

I am aware, of course, that by pulling out my laptop and writing while waiting, I’ve probably doubled or tripled the cost of my bill.  Prices in Vietnam, and Southeast Asia in general, are “flexible” and seem to be primarily based on perceived ability to pay.  I’m certain that the sight of my laptop, in addition to my white skin, has just upped my perceived payment abilities astronomically.  Luckily, a standard motorbike fix runs only a few dollars and writing is good therapy for me; therapy which I greatly need in this moment of frustration.  So I’ve thrown caution to the wind.  I figure whatever extra I’m charged I’ll attribute to therapy rather than motorbike repairs.  

10:30 am

Playing and interacting with the kids here is also good therapy for me; not as productive for my blog, but certainly good therapy.  Within thirty minutes of sitting down and starting to type, the mechanics’ two kids and their two friends surrounded me.  At first, they sat in tiny chairs beside me watching curiously as I typed on my laptop.  We exchanged smiles and hellos, but my linguistic skills don’t extend much beyond that at this point.  Kids being kids, however, they’re not daunted by language barriers in the way adults sometimes are.  They began chattering away at me in Vietnamese and smatterings of English.  Children are great language teachers and our play turned into a mutual linguistics lesson; Vietnamese for me and English for them.  

For the past two hours, they’ve helped me learn my numbers.  Their mother got into the action when she brought out children’s books with animals and vegetables in both English and Vietnamese.  The girls, aged 11 and 14, were particularly interested in the language lesson.  The boy who’s about 6 years old is more interested in jumping around on my luggage and playing with the American and Vietnamese flags I carry with me.  

Time for lunch.

11:00 am

Back from lunch.  This mechanic is brilliant!  It appears that he’s solved the gas leak issue AND has discovered that I have a starter  problem (or rather a “keeper-going” in my high tech motorbike linquistics) too.  He’s not trying to recharge my battery or sell me a new one so I think he’s onto the heart of the matter.  Hopefully he’s also brilliant enough to fix it.  And then onto the scraping wheel/brake issue …

12:00 noon

Starter/keeper-going is still presenting a problem.  Looks like I won’t make it to Ninh Binh today.  And an old man has seated himself next to me.  He’s saying things I don’t understand.  He keeps reaching out and grabbing my hands and pinching my chin.  He’s weirding me out a bit.  Thankfully, he can’t resist giving his opinion on my motorbike issues and has gone to tell the mechanic his business.

12:45 pm

I’ve lost complete confidence in this mechanic.  Did I really describe him as brilliant just one hour and forty-five minutes earlier? He keeps requesting payment from me and trying to give me the bike, indicating that the Fonda is fixed, good as new, but now problems exist now that didn’t before.  Ugh!  The Fonda, which started just fine when I brought it to him, will now barely start.  As I try to head uphill to test drive it, the engine sputters and dies within fifteen feet.  How in the world can he possibly be trying to tell me the bike is fixed and ready to go?  I think the problem is the spark plug (I had a similar problem in Bali and a $4 spark plug solved the problem just fine), but the word for that isn’t in my pinky-thick dictionary. I try to draw a picture of one, but can’t remember exactly how they look.  I used to weld them together to make business card holders, but now their exact appearance eludes me.  I had intended to buy an extra before leaving Saigon, but in my rush to get out of town, I let that detail slip.  Shit shit shit … and other expletives.

1:15 pm

I go back to my hotel, looking for a guy named Zoom who works there and who speaks really good English to come and translate for me and hopefully take up my cause.  He’s not there, so I recruit another guy whose English isn’t as good, but it’s better than the mechanic’s (non-existant) and he seems to understand the concept of a spark plug.  We hike back to the mechanic’s, but my escort isn’t much of an advocate. He does at least get the mechanic to replace the spark plug.  Turns out, however, that I’m not much of a motorbike mechanic.  Even with the new spark plug, the Fonda still fails to start and stay running properly.  I’m my best advocate and the mechanic realizes that the current condition of the bike is unacceptable.  He clearly has no idea what to do to solve the problem but goes back to work trying this and that .  

2:30 pm

The Fonda is still not driveable.  I walk down to the rock climbing gym hoping to find my friend Tim who has toured Vietnam extensively by motorbike.  I’m certain that he’ll know what the problem is or at least have some ideas.  Probably with the amount of time he’s spent in Vietnam, he probably speaks Vietnamese too.  Not there.  Drat.  On my way back to the mechanic’s I pass my hotel and find Zoom standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette.  

“Zoom!” I exclaimed and excitedly launched into the day’s events in such rapid-fire English I’m sure all he probably heard was what Charlie Brown heard when his teacher talked, “Muah, mah mah mah mah muah mah mah.”  “Slow down,” he said calmly  “What’s the problem?”  Right.  I composed myself and retold my story in a much more understandable fashion.  Zoom became incensed on my behalf (Excellent! Just the reaction I was hoping for.) and said, “Why didn’t you come to the hotel for help sooner?”  Pfffft, I thought.  But off we went on his motorbike.  

When I first met Zoom, I thought that he had a tough, almost mean look about him.  He always wears a black leather jacket that added to this impression. (I failed to notice at the time that stitched on the front were the words “Sport Girl” which of course made me realize that he wore the jacket out of necessity, not to establish a certain look.)  Now having gotten to know him very well, I can’t imagine how I ever thought he looked mean as I’m now convinced that every bone in his body is made of 100 percent sugar.  He’s always smiling and was from the first time I met him when he invited me to join him and some other hotel employees for drinks and karaoke.  At any rate, however, a tough Vietnamese guy was what I saw at the time and a tough Vietnamese guy was exactly what I needed.

When we arrived at the xe may, Zoom calmly discussed the matter with the man.  After five minutes of the mechanic sputtering, Zoom offered some of his own ideas about the solution to the problem.  He then got a semi-stern look on his face and I imagined he said something to the effect of “You have only a short time to fix this bike or else.”  Of course I have no idea what he actually said.  Knowing him as I do now, it was probably more like, “Good luck. We’ll leave you alone to work on it so we’re not in your way and will come back in a while.”  And I probably imagined the stern look as well.  

“We come back here at 4:00,” Zoom told me.  “Go rest and relax for right now.  You obviously can’t leave the island tonight, so I’ll get a new room ready for you and will bring your bag up.  Just take it easy.  You’ve had a hard day.”  Geez.  What a guy.

7:00 pm

Four and a half hours, four mechanics, several arguments and 200,000 dong (about $12) later, the Fonda is back in my hands.  She’s starting and running again, although she still has the gas leak (turns out it wasn’t fixed afterall) and the crunching wheel/brake sound that I originally brought her in for.  In other words, I’ve spent money, energy and emotion and nothing’s changed except that I’m $12 poorer.  The twelve bucks went to some later mechanics to fix the things the first “brilliant” mechanic broke.  Sure, in America we would have tried to get the first mechanic to pay to fix what he broke, but you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, it’s only $12 and this ain’t America, Toto. 

Zoom offered to accompany me to Hai Phong, the mainland, the next day to help me find a reputable garage to repair the gas leak and brakes.  He was also going to take the opportunity to show me Hai Phong’s animal market at which there were chicken fights (his favorite) and many exotic, and probably illegal, animals for sale.  

To thank him for his help, I treated him to a seafood dinner at the same restaurant the two Vietnamese couples had introduced me to the night before.  Cousin Joe the Fish got sent to the frying pan afterall.