Xe Oms and the Meaning of Life

Tonight, for the first time since being here, I actually spent most of the xe om (motorbike taxi) ride home with my eyes tight shut.

Perhaps surprisingly, this had nothing to do with the traffic or the quality of the driving. In fact, it was simply an involuntary physical response to hurtling into pouring rain. On the long, straight stretch of Nguyen Thi Minh Khai from school to the river there was precious little bar the driver’s shoulder stopping the sharp needles of rain hitting me in the eye, the face, the neck and eventually even down my cleavage. By the time we whooshed through the flooded taxi rank and pulled up outside my building there wasn’t much of me that wasn’t soaking wet.

Yet, this is far from being the worst xe om experience I’ve had. I’ve already mentioned the difficulty of maintaining one’s dignity and public decency on one when dressed in a short, straight skirt. But there are other problems to catch the unwary too.

For a start, away from the tourist areas, it can sometimes be surprisingly difficult to find one when you actually want one. Walking across the road to the shop, no problem. You are bombarded with offers from all sides. But walk out of the flat, dressed for work in the early afternoon (as I do) and it can be tricky to track a driver down.

Then, as a relative newcomer to the area, it’s difficult to discern which drivers to trust. It appears to be a pretty unregulated profession (no surprises there) and while you can find little gangs (usually on street corners) who work together, and who, like the guys outside school, get to know you and your routine well and even take it in turns to drive you, you can also stumble upon someone who is apparently just taking a chance on a passer-by.

Take Friday, for instance. Now, I know this isn’t London. They aren’t Black Cab drivers. There is no knowledge here. Heaven knows I gave enough taxi drivers directions in Italy and Japan to know that. But really. If you’re going to set yourself up as a xe om driver, surely there are two basic rules you need to bear in mind. First, have some rough knowledge of the city you’re driving around. And secondly, have some change on you in case your passenger doesn’t have exactly the right money.

On Friday, I was hailed by this chap as I was leaving the apartment. I knew I should’ve walked away when, despite my print-out from the website showing not just the school’s address but a picture of it (located in, let’s face it, one of the main streets of the city centre), he had to ask not one, but two people where it was. Then after taking the circuitous route round the back of Nguyen Thi Minh Khai he had to keep asking me where to turn off. Which would’ve been fine if he’d actually been paying attention. Unfortunately, his response to my tapping his shoulder and pointing down the next alleyway was merely to slow down, pull in to the side of the road, and keep going.

He tried this tactic again at the next alleyway too. I persisted and we found ourselves halfway down an unfamiliar side street (which also looked like it might be a dead-end) with me simultaneously talking to him in the coaxing voice I usually employ for animals and small children, and rolling my eyes at the women watching me from a street stall. Finally emerging back into Nguyen Thi Minh Khai just a few doors down from school, he then seemed slightly stumped to find us facing the wrong way into the on-coming traffic. I gave up and got off the bike.

I got my purse out of my bag and proffered a 50,000 dong note (we’d agreed a fare of 40). He started waving his hands in the Vietnamese gesture of not understanding/not being able to help. In other words, he wasn’t even carrying 10,000 dong (probably less than 50p) on him. Now, I wasn’t being awkward here. I just didn’t have 40,000 in change, otherwise I would’ve given it to him. Hot and sticky, I gave up once more and walked away in a huff, leaving him with a 10,000 dong bonus. An amount so piffling to a Westerner one does feel twinges of guilt at begrudging it.

Still, I suppose he had at least attempted to get me to the right place. There is always a danger (especially if you don’t have anything written down) that the driver will misunderstand your pronunciation and try to take you somewhere else. I live in Binh Thanh district. Picking me up in Backpackerville the other week, one old boy assumed I was a tourist and tried to take me to Ben Thanh market. And, again, he didn’t have change when we finally arrived back here – much to the amusement of the 4-wheeled taxi driver parked up next to us.

But my increasingly familiarity with the city means my haggling skills are coming on. I know what such and such a trip normally costs, so I can make a fair guess at what’s a fair price for another trip. And in spite of tonight’s blinding, I’m getting fairly confident at riding pillion. Don't tell dad but I don’t even hold on most of the time now. And I’m coming to realize that safety and stability has as much to do with speed (falling off actually feels much more likely at a crawl) and the size of the bike (the bigger the better – who says size doesn’t matter!)

Finally, while stopped at traffic lights during Friday’s magical mystery tour, I noticed one bloke leaning against his bike on the street corner, puffing away on what appeared to be a huge bong. Now, where would a trip (yes, pun absolutely intended) with him take you, I wonder? Nirvana, or just Casualty?