Motorbike Diaries

Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival, please get in touch with me, and I'll let you know how you can start participating!  Check out the rest of this month's entries about memorable experiences abroad by clicking here!

The police officer stepped away from the shoulder and into the lane in front of me, about 50 yards down the road.  I laid off the gas as he started waving his baton, motioning for me to pull over.  As I got closer, I saw two other cops sitting on their motorcycles behind a tree.

Crap. What now? 

I was wearing a helmet.  I wasn’t speeding.  The road was basically empty, except for a few other motorist, including my housemate Nick, who I now noticed was also being signaled over to the side of the road.

No traffic!!

I couldn’t imagine what offense I had committed to warrant being pulled over by the police.  I was on on good motorbike behavior.  Nothing like what normally passes for driving on the busy streets of Saigon.

On any given day, my commute across town to and from work offers up a plethora of death traps along the road.  Ho Chi Minh City is congested with motorbike traffic, and everyone seems to have their own idea of what appropriate big-city driving entails.  

Motorbikes weave in and out between cars, taxis, buses, and other motorbikes.  Buses blow exhaust in your face as they barrel across three lanes of traffic, blaring their horn in warning.  Taxis turn left from the right lane and right from the left.  Little old ladies cross the street in the middle of the block during rush hour.  Street food carts set up shop in the gutter, sticking out in the lane and causing jams as hungry patrons pull up to order.

But I wasn’t driving in Saigon.  I was out for a country drive in Can Gio, nearly an hour away from the hustle of the city.  The road was wide and open.  No real traffic to speak of.

Why is he pulling me over?  What am I doing wrong?

Blue sky, country road

As I slowed to a stop in front the police officer, a million thoughts were running through my head.

Is he going to write me a ticket?  Does he just want a bribe?  Crap, I don’t have very much money with me.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  Or maybe he’ll cart me off to the police station until I pay up.  

Oh my god.  

I’m going to be locked up abroad!

I parked my bike, turned off the ignition, and sat staring at the cop.  Nick pulled up next to me, and the policeman walked over to us.  He motioned for us to get off the bikes and walk towards the other cops, lounging in the shade on their police motorbikes.

Nick and I exchanged puzzled and worried looks as the police officer spoke rapid Vietnamese at us, pointing at his clipboard and miming that he wanted to see our documents.  This was a problem, as neither of us had a valid driver’s license for Vietnam.  

But surely, SURELY, this is no big offense.  There are ways around every deadline and regulation in this country.  I mean, which rules are ACTUALLY enforced??

Certainly not traffic rules.

Beyond all the turning left from the right lane and right from the left, there are numerous traffic violations I witness on an almost constant basis, every time I drive my bike.  Riders with no helmets.  Motorbikes up on the sidewalk.  Families of five, plus a dog or maybe a refrigerator, all on one bike.  No blinkers.  No checking your blind spot.  No side mirrors with which to check your blind spot.  Motorbikes driving down the highway with peach trees bungeed to the back.  Wrong way down a one-way street.  

And don’t even get me started on the roundabouts. 

If these horrible and terribly dangerous practices are commonplace, naturally my lack of one silly little document is small potatoes.  

Right??

My trusty Honda Wave

“Uhhhh, what should we do?” I asked Nick, my heart rate quickening at a terrifying rate.

“I don’t know.  I don’t have a license.  I don’t even have an ID on me.  Just.... Just play dumb.”  Good plan.

The brown-clothed police officer again demanded to see our documents, this time turning to look at his less-interested colleagues, one of whom was now recording this exchange on his camcorder.  All I had was my Wisconsin driver’s license and an International Driver’s License from the AAA office back home, which claimed to be valid in Vietnam, although it was not translated into Vietnamese.

I handed over what I had, hoping they would suffice.  The officer took them and walked away towards the other cops.

A few tense, silent moments later, he returned, clipboard in hand.

“Blah blah blah blah blah??” he commanded in Vietnamese.

“Uhhhh.....” we both shrugged our shoulders and smiled.

“Do you speak Vietnamese?” the police officer sputtered out in a thick accent.

“No” was our simple reply.

The cop turned to look again at the other officers for assistance.  They both stared blankly back.  Finally, one officer, who couldn’t be bothered to move from the shade of the tree, cocked his head, shrugged his shoulders, and looked away.

Defeated, the traffic cop turned back to us, thrust my papers back towards me, and waved us off without another glance.

That’s it.  We’re free.  We’re not going to Vietnamese jungle prison.  We’re not even emptying our bank accounts in an offering of peace.

“What just happened?” I whispered to Nick as we put our helmets back on and walked to our bikes.

“Don’t ask questions.  Just drive away before they figure out how to ask for money in English!” he responded as he hurriedly started his engine and lifted the kickstand.  

As we accelerated away over the bridge, leaving the police crew behind us, I felt a little like a criminal who’d gotten away with something sneaky.

I pulled up in the lane beside Nick and shouted over the revving engines, “Thank god for the language barrier!”

Free as a bird