Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam

by Andrew X. Pham

The intersections are the worst, particularly for those who need to make a left. Traffic lights are rare. Where there is one, there is never a turn signal. When Viet wants to make a turn, he simply does it, plunges in ahead of the coming traffic, hoping that his timing is right so they don’t run us over. He goes into it, blasting his horn, dodging moving obstacles as aggressively as everyone else. At the free-for-all junctions, Viet waits until enough traffic going in our direction accumulates—this never takes more than ten or fifteen seconds—and moves forward with the flow when our team inches into the intersection. With such a large contingent, the cross traffic screeches to a halt to prevent collision. But close calls and accidents—if one can call them that—are common, so Viet instinctively worms into the center of the pack to minimize our chances of being hammered on either flank. Do it the Vietnamese way, he hollers at me. Let others take the risk. Travel on their lee and let them take the hits. It is more difficult than it sounds because everyone else uses the same principles. No one wants to get hit, but there’s always a hothead who happily leads the effort.