I woke up at 5:30 AM, as I did most days, with the blaring of the government loudspeakers. Every city in Vietnam is supposed to have a loudspeaker, but I first noticed them when I reached Hanoi, and I’m reasonably certain that they only exist in the north, where the government has greatest control.
The speakers are impressively loud, able to penetrate my ear plugs at several hundred yards. Although I can’t comprehend Vietnamese under the best of circumstances, it is difficult to fathom that anyone can decipher the speakers’ monotone rasp.
As far as I can make out, the broadcasts are part state news, part cultural programming, and part propaganda. I listened to one radio play featuring a sobbing woman and a reproving matron. It was easy to imagine the sobbing woman confessing some disloyalty to the party that had resulted, tragically, in a bad case of syphilis and the loss of her left eye. The matron chastises the apostate, but then reassures her that the party will provide a new eye and some penicillin.
I asked a local how citizens feel about these broadcasts, hoping to provoke an anti-goverment tirade. I want the Vietnamese to dislike their incompetent leaders as much as I do. You can speak openly to me, brother, of your yearning to be free.
“We like them. Means town is more famous.”
Apparently the small villages feel the loudspeakers are a mark of distinction. And really, what’s one more noise added to the din of Vietnam?
I drop into a low plastic chair, order a bowl of noodles, and watch my sweat pool on the table in front of me. Two teenaged girls, daughters of the proprietor, pull up chairs facing me.
Ah, this again. Yes, my wife-to-be?
They are playing the usual roles. One is matchmaker; the other is reluctant bride. After the usual exchange of information — name, nationality, marital status — and between many giggles, the matchmaker asks:
“Do. You. Want. Vietnamese. Wife?”
“No, I want an American wife.”
“Why?!”
Because I have this bizarre fetish for women with whom I can have a normal conversation. Because I’m 29 and you’re, what, 17? Because I’m way too hairy for you, sugar — you have no idea.
“Because I live in America.”
I have an imaginary girlfriend I usually use as an easy exit from these situations. I thought I was too old to have an imaginary girlfriend, but Gwyneth, she’s something special. Maybe you’ll meet her some day. She’s 24, and she’s studying to be a doctor. She used to be 29, but the Vietnamese thought this a shockingly advanced age for a single woman. Besides, everyone here is convinved I’m 23, bless their hearts. So Gwyneth shed a few years.
I wish you could be here with me, honey, but I know you have a lot of studying to do.
My last stretch of road in the northwest loop — my last stretch of road in Vietnam — was a 30km drop into Mai Chau. At the top, I filled my tires with air, and fueled my legs with pho.
On the first straightaway, I dropped into a racing crouch — chest down, butt up.
“What your name?!” the children screamed as I blurred past.
You don’t recognize me, little ones? I’m the one your parents told you about when they tucked you into bed. I’m the ones the legends speak of. I ride on the wind, shooting heat lightning from my Crotch of Fire. I come to do battle with the Devil Trucks and their Horns of Torment.
My name are as numberless as the hills of Sapa. Some know me as Dropzone McCool. Others as Velocity Hotsaddle. Frontier Palomino. Steinosaurus Rex.
But you, little ones, you can call me Monkey Rider.
