So what the hell happened in Saigon?

***read after C'est La Vie Pt. 3***

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Having contacted a host through Couchsurfing.com, I drove my (now relinquished) motorbike  from Cần Thơ, where I spent a quaint few days with a gay Vietnamese guy and his silly friends, taking boat rides through floating markets, tasting some local food, and just sort of aimlessly being led around to do nothing in particular, to Ho Chi Minh City. I drove the several hundred kilometers in about 3.5 hours, stopping only once to take my just reward of a one half-hour nap in a roadside hammock at an outdoors billiards spot, local Viet café súa da in hand. 

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Aside from the not-as-stressful-as-I-made-it-out-to-be stint on Phú Quốc island (tropical islands are never that stressful), the two weeks motorbiking through the Mekong Delta were tranquil: 

random bouts of torrential 15 minute downpours, dodged cattle and cats, dogs and run-amok children, riverside road cruises with the wind in my face and screaming through the gaps in my helmet; lush green trees and vegetation along windingly trafficked canals with ancient bridges and homes only accessible by means of three bamboo polls tied to opposing shores. 

But then, gradually, dirt roads and infrequent passing motorists gave way to the gates of the Thunderdome, 2009. The dirt turned into paved roads and then an endless stretch of highway. At the beginning of the outskirts of the capital, there were more cars and trucks and honks and motorbikes and madness than the dust being kicked in the air could ever hope to dissuade to lessen. Driving became an intense racing game of frantic starts and panic-stricken stops, reflexive gear changing, puddle dodging, and the beginning of an adrenaline addiction. 

"Saigon, bring it!" I said.

And it brung it, hard and subtle, slow like water-boarding, yet comforting like the initial caress of a black-widow spider. My arrival into the old South Vietnamese capital was nuts and berserk and changed everything.

It started off great. My host Marc was a cool guy with about a decade of ex-pat life in Asia, conversant in Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, and a respectable amount of Thai. We hit it off well enough; we had time in China and our Jewishness in common, he had a spare room, and I needed a place to stay. He, in his despicable but charming way, made me wait for most of the first day whilst he, against possible condemnation, "was distracted" by a pretty guest. It started to rain. I got pissed-off, to neither avail nor to any length of time, and he finally called me. What a way to start a trip. He directed me through the tangled mess of streets and districts to what would become my over-staying-my-welcome home sweet home for the next three something weeks. 

To be continued...