The First Step

The sun is about to set over Hanoi. I have been waiting on this street corner for two hours. Sitting on a small plastic stool at a small plastic table, much like the ones you see at children's tea parties, I survey the cacophony of motorbikes and taxis whizzing past. For the thousandth time my anxious gaze passes through the traffic to the shop across the road. There sits my pride and joy, a Honda Bonus 250cc motorbike, minus one front wheel.
Finally I spot the young Vietnamese man return on the back of a scooter, carrying a wheel over one shoulder and a cigarette in the other.
Before I've even crossed the road the mechanic has thrown his cigarette on the ground and is squatted down with his knees level with his chin, his calves pressed to his thighs and the back pocket of his jeans hovering just an inch from the ground. This position we later dubbed the Vietnamese squat, seems to be impossible for foreigners to replicate. I flick a message to Mauricio, the other half of my recently formed motorcycle gang. By the time I am done, my new wheel is on. With oil blackened hands the 21 year old mechanic reaches for his cigarette, still burning on the pavement and a wide grin melts away his furrowed brow.

The plan had been to get out of the city after lunch.
Mauricio, a Mexican I met while collecting my luggage from the carousel at Non Bai International, pulls up on his hired Chopper just as the street lights come on.
"Do you still want to go today?" he asks with his furry eyebrows.
"I do if you do" my anxious smile replies, teeth tugging on the right side of my bottom lip.
That cheeky monkey grin shines brighter than his naff white helmet. "Plan B then?"

There was no Plan B

As we leave the city I feel like we have joined a game of 'Space Invaders.' Only the roles are reversed and we are invading aliens being targeted by the red and yellow lasers of the other hundreds of motorbikes and scooters on the road. My shoulders seize, my fists ball around the handlebars, my knuckles whiten and the relentless honking of tiny horns engulfs me. My nerves are close to shattered, when I remember my headphones are in. I take a risk and lift one hand from the handlebars to hit 'Play' inside my jacket pocket. At first, the music starts quietly and I'm not sure the risk has paid off.

"This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end."

I clench my jaw and hope that my phone, or Jim Morrison, or the universe isn't trying to tell me something.