written in Cairns, March 2011 (ok, I’m a little behind…)
Hanoi’s Minsk trade is a niche market, but thriving enough that every major hostel here tries to keep at least one dealer on hand. Until now, my luck procuring the infamous Soviet hog has been spotty at best, as emails sent to dealers discovered on weather-beaten lamppost ads go unanswered. An Aussie mechanic specializing in Minsks passed along through my hostel is quick to respond, but unfortunately he’s situated in Ho Chi Minh City (nee Saigon) for the time being. Word of mouth and Internet accords all imply that finding a ride in either of Vietnam’s two biggest cities is trivial, but no one specifically mentions how long it might take.
I stole this shot from wikipedia because it doesn't just capture the essence of the Minsk, but how it's used in Vietnam as well. I saw a few motorcycles with multiple, large pigs tied onto their backs, both alive and dead
My winter vacation from Chongqing University clocks in at just over 40 days, which is both excessive and excessively awesome compared to any other vacation from something resembling a real job. But I plan to pack a lot into that time and already have flights booked to Indonesia for the final week, so every second wasted shlepping around for a motorcycle is one where I potentially won’t be relaxing in Bali, blowing helpless farm animals up in Phnom Penh or slinging down cocktails in Singapore. I’ve allocated a full two weeks of travel time to this potentially unwise trek — including purchasing time — and the clock is already ticking.
There is one other minor factor to consider — a trifle, really. I haven’t ever really ridden a motorcycle before. In an attempt to improve my overall coolness some years back, I actually enrolled in a motorcycle driving course and clearly survived the ordeal. But that was in a confined parking lot at low speeds and represents the entirety of my bike-handling knowledge. As a child in rural America, I had a Yamaha Enduro 80 at my disposal. My brother would masterfully tear through the yard with style, grace and panache. I, on the other hand, lost control of the vehicle and planted myself squarely in the center of a thorn bush, never to ride the diminutive yellow motorcycle again. Luckily, Vietnam is not known for being overburdened with a glut of thorn bushes.
Considering that just Walking on the streets of Hanoi is a particularly daunting and dangerous past time, I figure I should allot at least a couple hours to stick around town and, say, learn to drive. Maybe even a whole day…
How to Cross the Street
Like an invalid going through rehabilitation to relearn basic motor skills, visitors to Vietnam often are also forced to toss out all they know to stay alive on Hanoi’s streets and sidewalks. The expression “just like riding a bike” is immediately rendered inaccurate when one actually attempts to ride a bicycle on the mean streets of Hanoi, simply because different basic rules apply. When you’re sharing a tract of road the size of a single small car with seven other bicycles (not to mention scooters, motorcycles, taxis, cars and — the most dangerous menace in all of Vietnam — the dreaded passenger buses), elbow room is actually trimmed down to about the size of your elbows, so even minor infractions could potentially cause a great deal of damage.
In order to understand the collective “hive mind” style of riding together so densely like a flock of land-based seagulls, the best step one can take is simply re-learning how to walk. Many a tourist has been left stranded on a busy street corner, gingerly taking a step out into the onslaught of traffic before dashing back onto the relative safety of the sidewalk like someone testing out bathwater that is apparently far too scalding to bathe in. Gesturing madly with consternation clearly visible in their furrowed brows, they wait and wait for a potential gap before dashing across wildly to the other side. This common scenario has led to daily repeated utterances of a common question throughout the hostels, bars and hotels of Hanoi:
“How do I cross the street?”
I asked it myself and heard multiple varied responses, but my favorite is the “school of fish” technique. The thought behind it is that the bikes and motorcycles all travel together closely in a pack, much like fish. Just as fish seem to agilely twist through tight spots as a single unit, avoiding obstacles, predators and hapless SCUBA divers, so do the motorcycling legions of Vietnam. The theory is that if you are in their way, the herd of roaring, exhaust-belching rides will collectively wrap around you unharmed.
One person even went as far as suggesting to me that I walk blindly out into the street with no regard for the oncoming motorcycle traffic.
“If you keep moving and stopping jerkily, they won’t know what you’re going to do next, so they’ll have a harder time planning around your movements. If you just keep walking in a straight line without looking at them, they’ll know exactly where you’ll be moving. It sounds crazy–”
“No!”
“–but seriously, it’s the only way to get anywhere in Hanoi. Sometimes I close my eyes entirely.”
If it sounds mad, that’s because it is. But it’s also a necessity and probably far safer than alternative crossing methods. More than one tourist has run out into a pocket of safety in the middle of a road, only to suddenly find themselves surrounded on all sides by a flock of angry motorcycles, leaving the hapless foreigner stranded indefinitely in the middle of a busy street. Watch the locals: they saunter across with authority.
My First Minsk
There’s a message waiting for me back at the hostel when I return from a botched attempt at viewing the waxy remains of Ho Chi Minh (it turns out they ship his body back to Russia regularly so that the guys that brought us stuffed Lenin can work their magic on Uncle Ho). A French Canadian named Felix has at least one bike on hand and can meet with me at his office in a nearby hostel at my convenience. Score.
My baby, in all its glory.
Some people take the Minsk challenge across Vietnam and swear to never touch a Minsk again upon reaching their destination. Others fall in love with the iconic warhorses and become lifelong afficionados. Still others die. Felix falls firmly into that middle category of Minsk lovers, having taken his initial trip across the country two years prior on what was then to be a relatively brief vacation in Vietnam.
Something apparently clicked deeply inside him and the short trip turned into a two-plus year love affair with the motorcycles. Starting with very limited knowledge of mechanics or motorcycles, he became a self-taught expert in the two-stroke motorbikes. The learning curve with such a task is hardly daunting; not counting nuts and bolts, there are barely more than twenty moving parts to the entire bike from top to bottom. Having mostly mastered the fine art of Minsk maintenance, Felix expatriated semi-permanently and focused on buying and selling the bikes to meet the need of demanding and clueless tourists such as yours truly.
To simplify matters even more, there’s a club for budding Minsk enthusiasts in Vietnam (sensibly called Minsk Club Vietnam) offering all the news, advice and information a budding Minsk lover might need. The website hosts Digby’s famous Minsk repair manual and survival guide, but Felix provides a copy of it (along with a map of Vietnam) to every one of his customers. Not a bad deal for the low low price of 7 million Vietnamese Dong (approximately 336 dollars).
A quick read of Felix shows him to be on the up and up. His price is reasonable and comparable to other prices I’ve heard listed from past Minsk owners. The only remaining question is whether or not the bike I buy from him will randomly collapse into a pile of cheap Soviet scrap metal (“now with more human blood!!”) on the rough, gritty pavement of the scenic Ho Chi Minh trail.
Two fresh (read: less than 30 years old) motorcycles sit outside for me to choose from, identical except for some cosmetic issues. One is labeled “Minsk” in classic English, while the other more authentically is written out in the Cyrillic ”Минск”. Upon inspection, I make an observation to Felix:
Taking my pick between motorcycles.
“This one doesn’t have a speedometer.”
“Actually, neither of them do. The one that appears to have one doesn’t actually work, so both bikes are still about even.”
“Oh.”
The bike that has the speedometer, working or not, still comes more highly recommended from Felix. Its gears shift better and has a headlight that’s marginally more reliable than the other. Neither light works 100% of the time, but as a new driver it’s not recommended that I be out much at night anyway so in a ridiculously unassuring way, I’m led to believe that the malfunctioning light isn’t much of an issue.
“Want to take them for a spin? See which you like?”
It’s obviously the way to determine whether or not it’s the bike for me, assuming I knew anything about motorcycles. But I don’t, and as such, I’ve got no idea what I should be looking for. Or even, you know, how to ride a motorcycle. Felix is surprisingly unworried about my honesty, trepidation or visible lack of skills.
“Sure,” I say. ”Where’s the key?”
Clearly, I am thinking of a more refined type of road vehicle. Both Minsks actually have keyholes, but they haven’t been attached to any working mechanical parts in years. A simple kick start will get the engine of either bike purring and ready to go, making traveling with a chain lock an absolute necessity. Secretly, I’m pleased to see both start up on the first kick. From the Minsk’s reputation, I know this behavior won’t last, but why not start out on a positive note, right?
Felix gives me a quick rundown of the local urban layout. The collection of back alleys, unexpected turns and one-way streets makes my return non-trivial. Past customers have disappeared for hours at a time before eventually returning in a frenzied near-panic. His detailed instructions on what path to take are clear enough, and he doublechecks that I’ve got a cell phone to call him with in case of emergency. The Minsk starts again on the first kick and I look at him expectantly for instructions, but he stares back blankly with a smile. It’s all on me, now.
Baby Steps
One step down from neutral kicks the bike into first gear. Unintuitively, second gear is then a full step back up from here, with neutral hidden away an ethereal half step up that even weeks later I’ve never really mastered. It’s a nightmare tonight.
Other than this awkward bit of foot finessing, I falsely come across as capable in front of Felix and he seems ready for me to be off. The hostel’s on a narrow back-alley, just wide enough for a single car, and pedestrians are mostly limited to young, drunken foreigners with dimmed awareness to the world around them, blundering Minsk neophytes included. I weave and sputter forward with the adroitness of a newborn deer on amphetamines, coughing out apologies to each and every tourist I nearly hamstring.
Taking a last look backwards, Felix smiles hugely waving me off before turning around and heading back inside. He’s seen all of this before.
Despite a long and contentious history with my own coordination, the Minsk and I weave our way out of the tourist area with what might accidentally be referred to as style. At the first intersection, I pause to take stock of my situation. Motorcycles, bicycles and occasional buses ebb and flow in opposing directions like waves that somehow never collide. A gap in one direction is typically met by an onslaught of rumbling engines from the other. I try to recall Felix’s directions:
At the first intersection, go left.
The relatively simple engine of the Minsk.
Great. As if on cue, the bike stalls without even waiting for me to anxiously make my crossing. The kick start works impeccably well, but only when the bike is in neutral — which requires that ridiculously nimble half kick of a motion up with my toes from first gear. There are no lights, sounds or angelic choruses on the Minsk upon reaching neutral; the gear shift merely gives a soft, satisfying click that over time I learn to love and cherish.
Hanoi doesn’t stop or even slow down to encourage me in any way. Some vehicles honk disdainfully as they approach; others pass swiftly around, not even finding me worthy of the loud, mechanical rebuke. Even with the Minsk purring and ready to go, I sit in place while so many other motorcycles pass by me, as I wait for that one perfect moment.
When it comes, I’m ready this time. The engine gods are kind as I shoot out into the street, and wisely decide that this would not be an ideal time for a motorcycle to stall. First gear has enough kick to free me from my long, fearful inertia, but not nearly enough to get me moving along with the rest of the traffic. Risking an unwelcome return to neutral, I hold in the clutch and kick upwards forcefully on the gear shift into second gear. As the Minsk purrs softly down the crowded Vietnamese road I feel an unexpected surge of hope and elation.
Road Rules
Felix is right about the other bike’s gear box: it’s a bit less friendly, especially for someone as skill-less as myself. And even though the first motorcycle’s speedometer doesn’t work, its presence at least provides the vehicle with a sense of completion lacking in this inferior model. My decision clearly made, 7 million dong change hands and I’m the new owner of an old motorcycle.
Felix is a conscientious salesman, however, and not about to just send me haplessly out onto the road like a Vietnamese dog to the slaughter. At the very least, it’s imperative, he says, that I learn how to properly fill the bike with gas. He explains that the simple Minsk is powered by a two-stroke engine which, according to wikipedia, is a unique and interesting technological achievement. For the sake of simplicity in this blog, what it means to me is that the engine requires a small bit of oil to be mixed directly into the gas tank with every fill-up.
Driving the second bike, Felix takes me on a quick tour of town to the nearest gas station for a demonstration. From time to time he almost speeds ahead out of sight, only to look back on me with on a mild show of impatience while I catch up. I consider it a personal victory that I stall only two times.
Upon arrival at the station, he does a brief inspection of the oil options and points to a green plastic bottle which best suits my needs. The oil is necessary, but only in small amounts — four percent to be precise. This means that for every 20 liters of petrol added, I need to add in about 800 milliliters. The bottles of oil thankfully includes a milliliter scale along the side that even the Metric System-impaired user can get by without suffering any major difficulties.
Felix stores the remainder of the oil bottle in a compartment on the right side of the bike and then explains that the gas/oil combination still needs to be properly mixed. Standing over the bike, he pushes it down, then lifts it up rapidly, repeating these actions for about ten seconds as the petrol sloshes loudly within the tank. Apparently it is now mixed. He recommends a vigorous repetition of his demonstration every time I start the motorcycle back up again.
And like that, Felix’s obligation to me as a Minsk salesman is practically complete. I hammer him with every bit of minutiae I can think of during our last few moments together:
How far will it go on one tank? About 200 kilometers.
Will it break down? Yes. Probably more than once.
Where do I go when this happens? There will almost always be someone that can fix it in any town you stop in.
Which route should I take? Follow the Ho Chi Minh trail. Avoid the coastal highway like the plague. It’s an ugly death road filled with buses and trucks.
Will I survive? Probably.
Felix takes a final picture of me with the bike to add to his collection, and then guides me back to the main tourist area where we part ways for the last time. From everything I’ve heard about other Minsk purchases, I was really lucky to find him.
The clock is ticking, but it seems unreasonable to just immediately dart off into rural northern Vietnam without at least a little practice, so I spend the next day riding circles around the tourist district. On the whole, it surprises me how smooth my riding is. The “school of fish” technique applies even more to motorcycle riding than it does to simple pedestrian shenanigans.
Despite my not being able to steer the bike in a perfectly straight line like most other riders can, everybody else seems to inherently know how to compensate for my lack of skills. Each time my handlebar seems to errantly twist toward another motorcycle, my target deftly steers out of my way without even seeming to notice me.
My only frightening near miss happens late in the afternoon: While attempting to overtake a motorcycle bearing a passenger on the back with his arms outstretched, I notice at the last moment that within those arms is a massive plate of nearly invisible glass. Slamming on the brakes at the last moment to avoid shattering it, I briefly halt traffic, but no one even honks or calls out to me with unkind words.
Maybe this will be easier than I anticipated.
Packed, tested and ready to go
During one of these northern invasions, the gods (according to legend) took pity on the Vietnamese people and sent them an army of dragons to repel the foreign forces. As the dragons flew down, they spit out jewels and jade over the water of the bay, where they gradually turned into hundreds of small islands, protecting their country from further invasion. The spot where this mythical terraforming took place was named “Vinh Ha Long” or “Halong Bay” — literally “the Bay of Descending Dragons.”
