Motorcycle Madness in Vietnam

March 24, 2009

Today we watched two motorcycles collide in the chaotic cross-fire of a relatively speaking fairly minor Saigon intersection. The driver of one of the motorcycles was a middle-aged bloke, surprisingly big for a Vietnamese, but otherwise unremarkable. His passenger, a somewhat younger flamboyant-looking woman, was carrying a brand new pink child's bicycle – likely a gift for Tet, Vietnamese New Year. She was balancing it at the end of her arm, well out from the right side of the motorcycle.

The driver of the other motorcycle was a middle-aged matronly woman with unruly wavy black hair and smudged red lipstick. Her passenger was a young girl, maybe eight or ten years old, and obviously her daughter.

The woman and her daughter were making a right turn into the intersection. There were no traffic lights, and under normal conditions no one stops at intersections in Saigon – or anywhere else in Vietnam. Everyone just keeps rolling at a steady pace. They expect other drivers to read their intent, and to speed up, slow down, weave or dodge in order to avoid smacking into them. Timing is routinely split-second.

In this case one or both of the drivers miscalculated – misjudged the direction, speed, or intent of the other driver. They crashed, and both motorcycles and all four riders went down. The little girl's helmet flew off. It was obviously too big for her, and its strap had been only loosely done up under her chin – no more than a token gesture. The strap was still done up as the empty helmet rolled across the road.

The rest of the traffic on the road continued with hardly a moment's interruption. Motorcycles, cars and bicycles streamed around the 'scene of the accident,' as a river separating and flows around a rock or small island.

We had been waiting to cross the road. I had just remarked to my travelling companion how amazing I thought it was that we had not seen more motorcycle accidents in Saigon. We have in fact seen several, but not more than one a day, and so far not too serious. And we've seen countless near misses – countless in number, and countless because they don't really 'count' with that many motorcycles on the road, and so few rules, 'close encounters' are part of the minute-by-minute experience.

There are five million people in Saigon – and three million motorcycles. Almost no one walks or rides a bicycle anymore. The people have become motorcycle dependent, motorcycle bound. It's well-nigh impossible to separate them from their cycles. They go nowhere without them. And they ride them anywhere and everywhere.

Motorcycles surge through the streets like massive schools of fish swimming in a river too small and too shallow to carry them all. Their drivers weave like barrel-racers through an oncoming tide of traffic, up a one way street or into an oncoming lane. They sail nonchalantly through intersections, directly across the flow of traffic, stopping only when confronted by a much bigger vehicle – say a car, bus or truck.

They ride up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, dodging and threatening pedestrians in equal measure, and with equal insouciance. They careen down narrow alleys crowded with people,with street sellers balancing bamboo poles or pushing large carts, with people drinking tea or beer, cleaning vegetables, cooking meals, doing dishes, and with children playing. Make way for the motorcycle! Step aside pedestrian peasant!

Intrepid urban warriors, motorcycles invade even the most challenging environments: the confined aisles of covered markets, the inside of a mall, a store, a bank. We had to almost climb over one to get to an ATM machine in one of the largest banks in Saigon. Nowhere is 'out of bounds' for the Vietnamese motorcycle.

And when they're not in use they're parked everywhere. Sidewalks have become motorbike parkades. Lowly pedestrians must sidestep their way through a sea of cycles – or walk on the streets. Doorways are made impassible, lobbies and entrance halls jammed with sleeping cycles. In their somnolent state they become chairs, couches, even beds. Or just decorations. Many of them are quite beautiful. They come in rich glossy colours like cherry, lime and aqua, often with fiery or floral decals adorning the front and sides. Even the saddles are custom-upholstered to match.

Motorcycle drivers come in all ages – some no more than children. They may be cautious and careful, or free-wheeling and reckless. Some are focused on what they're doing, watching the road ahead, trying to anticipate what the other guy is about to do. But many seem to be paying almost no attention at all – talking on their cell phone, looking for an address, yelling to a friend across the road, or picking their nose.

Motorcycle passengers are equally nonchalant. Most ride with their arms dangling at their sides, or crossed in front of them. No hugging the driver or holding on to the bar at the back of the seat. Even children, tiny tots, sit passively like little sacks in front of the driver. A few put their hands on the handlebars, more for fun than stability – practicing up for when they will really be in the driver's seat.

Motorcycles may be carrying anything from two or three or four passengers to a pyramid of boxes, a couple of funeral wreaths, several baskets of fruit and vegetables, a floating bouquet of balloons – or, or as in the case of our accidental friends, a child's bicycle. They may be pulling a wagon loaded with furniture or long lengths of rebar, or pushing a food-vendor's cart filled with hot dumplings. Motorcycles are the passenger vehicles, taxis, trucks and buses for millions of Vietnamese people.

Almost all of the adults on motorcycles – drivers and passengers – wear helmets, most with the chin straps securely fashioned. The ones who don't, the reckless young bucks, immune and immortal, risk cracked heads to maintain their cool. Children are seldom helmeted. It's a curious phenomenon, understandable only from the most brutal of Darwinian perspectives: you can't make another father or mother, but you can make another kid. And anyway, they bounce, don't they?

The woman and her daughter looked stunned, but only momentarily. The mother picked herself up, glanced at her daughter, who had managed to right herself and stood, shocked into stillness, in the middle of the road. Seeing that she was alright, the mother tended to the downed motorcycle. She picked it up and examined the broken rear-view mirror, scratches on the body of the bike. It would still run.

Meanwhile the woman from the other motorcycle came marching over, brandishing the pink bicycle like a weapon. It was damaged – not greatly – just scratched and maybe bent out of shape a little. But it was no longer perfect, and she was angry. Predictably the other woman responded with equal anger, pointing at the damaged parts of her motorcycle. It looked like an even draw.

The middle-aged man stood quietly with his motorbike, assessing its wounds. The little girl continued to stand like a statue, eyes wide, bewildered, disoriented. Neither of them were going to join the women's squabble.

A few pedestrians and shop-keepers stood on the sidewalks watching the action. None of us were willing to jump into the fray – especially as it would have meant wading into the still streaming traffic. I overheard a Vietnamese fellow explain to some hapless tourists: “This is nothing. Sometimes when there is an accident there is also a big fight. The people get into a big fight. This is nothing. It doesn't matter.”

And luckily it seemed like it didn't matter – this time. Even the two women, having exchanged a few choice words, backed off. Within a few minutes everyone was back on their motorcycles and on their way.

A short time later, as we were leaving Saigon, safely inside a bus, we passed the scene of a more serious motorcycle accident. A couple of motorbikes and their associated parts were strewn across the road. A small crowd was hovering over an inert body at the side of the road. Hopefully an ambulance was on the way.

More people die in traffic accidents in Vietnam per capita than almost anywhere else in the world: well over 13,000 a year. Hardly surprising, but definitely alarming.

Vietnam's motorcycle madness reminds me of the old Arlo Guthrie song: “I don't want a pickle; I just want to ride on my motor-sickle. And I don't want to die, I just want to ride on my motor cy-y-y-ycle!”

PS: Since writing this article I have come across almost a dozen tourists who have been injured in motorcycle accidents. One of them got hurt in a remote area of Laos, where there were no doctors, so I 'treated' her by cleaning her scrapes, applying antibacterial ointment, and giving her lots of reassurance that she would heal - she was badlly shaken up. The worst victim was a guy in Hanoi who'd had all his front teeth knocked out and badly mangled his hand. He'd already had several surgeries by the time we saw him, a month after his accident, but his hand was still swollen and sore. Ouch!