One of the questions I am most frequently asked — right after “What your name?”; “Where you from?”; and “Why you travel alone?” — is “How much your bike?”
To which I have always answered, “Adam; America; because I’m on an intensely personal voyage of self-discovery, I’m a tragically lonely figure, and all my friends have proper jobs; and $100.”
$100 struck me as a figure that was impressively large without being decadent. But really it’s a fairly stupid lie. High-end motos in Saigon cost anywhere from $3,000 to $6,000. Even a new cyclo costs $60. Your average thinking Southeast Asian will realize I paid more than $100 for my bike. (One guy gave me a puzzled look and said, “Secondhand?”)
So recently when I was asked this question, I offhandedly threw out a much larger number. The larger number still wasn’t right, but at least it lived in the same timezone as the right figure.
After a pause, my questioner asked me, “Vietnamese dong?”
Yes, that’s right. My bike cost seven cents. I’ve got a dozen more just like it back at the hotel.
“No, dollars.”
As the questioner goggled, several things occurred to me at once. The first was the basic flaw in my premise that the locals would see some sort of rough equivalence between a motorscooter and a mountain bike. I might be familiar with the cost of a house in San Francisco, but I wouldn’t react calmly if a friend dropped a few hundred grand on a kitchen appliance.
The second thing that occurred to me was that I basically had announced to the guy, hey, my pockets are lined with gold bullion, and did I mention that the bullion also conveniently doubles as a getaway vehicle?
He chose not to clobber me over the head, for which I am grateful. And if anybody asks, the bike cost $200.
