on Vietnamese hitchhiking

A woman flags me down at the top of a mountain. Her name is Bom Gom. I pick her up at the apex of the Hai Van Pass in central Vietnam, or, rather, she climbs on the back of my motorcycle once we've established that I'm driving into Da Nang. A few women come running out of the nearby shops, waving their hands and shaking their heads, indicating she should climb back down, but Bom Gom dismisses them and slaps me on the ribs, telling me to go. She is at least 70 years old and just over half as tall as me, and while we're driving down the rain-slicked and twisty mountain roads, she keeps rummaging around in her handbag and yanking at my poncho. I think it's somewhat strange that this old hitchhiker has trusted me to transport her safely into town, but I cannot see what she is rummaging for, and figure if she stabs me or something, she too will be injured in the fall. “Children?” she asks. “No, no children.” We laugh. Then it's into some sharp cutbacks, which I've never negotiated before, and our halting conversation stops. Through the rising mists I see promontories and beaches spreading along the coastline far below, but cannot risk more than a glance for fear of hitting a pothole and crashing. We enter the outskirts of Da Nang city, cement plants and tiny shops, a school, some houses. A few minutes down a divided highway Bom Gom slaps me on the shoulder, saying “Stop, stop.” I down-shift and pull over, and when she gets off, she says, “Now, you give me one dollar. I have no food today, no money. One dollar.” With a chuckle and a shake of my head, I hand over a little more than the requested sum, thirty thousand Dong, then bid farewell with a butchered “Hen Gap Lai.” The old woman walks away, I insert my swastika-shaped key into the swastika-shaped keyhole, start up my rented motorbike, and continue on, heading south.

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