Saigon: Two Wheels Good

“Saigon. Shit. I’m still only in Saigon”

Captain Willard, Apocalypse Now

Vietnam. Like the anti-hero of Francis Ford Coppola’s epic, I lie on my bed in the sweltering Saigon heat, a rusty old three-bladed fan slowly revolving above me.

My mind conjures up images from the film and others like it, movies with which I’ve grown up, shaping my visions of this enticing land.

But unlike Martin Sheen’s character I don’t lose it and trash the room in a fit of post-traumatic stress (at least not yet).

Instead my visions are disturbed by a strange buzzing noise, oddly out of sync with images of surfing GI’s and firefights with ‘Charlie’ in paddy fields.

As I awake from my reverie it grows louder and louder, as though thousands of bees are heading back to their nest, somewhere under my bed.

Drawing back the curtains I’m brought rudely back into the present, looking out onto a typical street scene in downtown Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon).

The source of the noise is not apian but human - I gaze down upon a street full of motorbikes and mopeds, moving in a constant stream, tearing up the street like a conquering army, sweeping all before them.

Honking Hondas, yapping Yamahas, screeching Suzukis, even moaning old Russian Minsks. It’s like a kind of oriental Quadrophenia.

Here in Vietnam the two wheeler is king.

For a practical people this makes perfect sense. Motorbikes provide them with a quick, easy and economical means of getting about.

Their size suits the Vietnamese - we’ve seen whole families crammed onto one bike - two adults and two kids - another, a little Honda, carried no less than five grinning teenagers.

Motorbikes also function as a kind of motorised beast of burden, deployed to cart the family’s food home or carry around the tools of their trade. These doughty little vehicles seem to be capable of withstanding a sizeable load - a very sizeable one.

Some of the bikers here would give Eddie Stobart a run for his money, squeezing onto their groaning machines great mountains of goods: pots; produce, even pigs, all trussed up in wicker baskets and heading for market.

And where there’s a market, there’s a motor. Or ‘moto’ in the case of passengers.

No Westerner in Vietnam is ever alone when walking the streets. Usually it’s the moto driver who’s thoughtfully accompanying them, trailing in their irritated wake, his little sing-song voice imploring them to hitch a ride on his grimy Suzuki: “ello motow….?”

It doesn’t matter how big you are, or how many bags you are carrying: Mr Moto will do the job. He made easy work of my 6 foot frame, 50 pound backpack and numerous other accoutrements, squeezing us all on board and zipping along the Saigon streets like a ballerina on speed.

As we tore up between the serried ranks of riders, I dug into his shoulder blades and thanked the gods that helmet-wearing has recently been made a legal requirement.

But pity the poor pedestrian. For here in Ho’Ville the sheer volume of traffic makes crossing the road a risky business.

You hover nervously on the pavement, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight, trying to perceive a slight gap which might allow you to squeak across. When one appears you’re in there, dashing into the road, pausing midway to finding another gap in the other direction, praying that some evil knievel doesn’t ram into your large Western behind.

Once again, our Western frailties are exposed. We look clumsy and awkward, like babies groping for their parents.

By contrast, the locals don’t find these bipedal menaces a problem; indeed they seem nonplussed at it all, casually sauntering across busy streets. A Ho‘Viller slowly strolls into the maelstrom, with barely a glance at the hordes of horsepower heading rapidly their way, and wanders out, without a scratch, at the other side.

This seems to be a blueprint for survival in Vietnam. We therefore adopt it as we board a bus heading north, pushing deeper into this this manic nation. Two weeks of ahead of us, without a scratch...