Like most cyclo drivers, Tam was an ex-ARVN - a south Vietnamese soldier (he had worked as an interpreter for the Americans during the war) and was now an illegal refugee in his own country. Unable to get the proper permission papers to live in Saigon, he was limited to whatever black market living he could earn...

Tam's career as a loader in the marketplace ended when he at last managed to rent a cyclo from four a.m. until noon each day. The price was three dollars and his potential earnings close to ten. There were hidden costs, however. His vehicle was unregistered and therefore illegal to use within city limits. If the police stopped him it would cost him five dollars on the spot. If he didn't have the money they would impound the bike for ten days.

"You think driving a cyclo is easy?" he asked with sudden belligerence. "It's not! You have to hold the handlebars very tight," he gripped the air with both hands, "especially on downhills." The weight of the cyclo rested on the front wheel, under the heavy seat that held the passenger and cargo. The driver steered from behind, maneuvering the bike by hauling on the handlebars to turn the wheel. I could well imagine the uneven pressure those wobbly old bikes would build up on a steep slope.

"The very first time I got in my new cyclo," Tam said, smiling at the memory, "I found a passenger right away. When we reached an intersection I forgot that the pedals didn't turn backwards. I caught my foot and my passenger spilled over onto the street! I got off to help him up, but he was so scared he jumped to his feet, threw some money at me and ran off."

Tam quickly learned the quirks of his idiosyncratic machine and was soon pedaling passengers and cargo all over the city. But no matter how much sweat he left upon the pavement, he still barely managed to pay the rental fee and fines, flat tire expenses and axle grease. Eventually, in desperation, he drifted towards the hotel that housed foreign guests. It was a risky venture; the government didn't want outsiders to realize how the city depended on pedal power to move its people and supplies, and had forbidden cyclos from the area. The police were always on the lookout for stray bikes, and the fine was a whopping thirty dollars. Tam learned to hide his vehicle behind the hotel and lure potential customers away from the alert eyes of loitering informers.

Despite his precautions, the government discovered his whereabouts and, more importantly, his skill in English. "They asked me to become an informer, to report on the number of guests, where they went and what they said." In return he would get special papers, could sit freely in front of the hotel and would be allowed to change dollars into Vietnamese Dong. At the time, possession of even one illegal US dollar could have dire consequences.

And why not? Every hotel had at least one informant among the cyclos. Not only did they wallow in special privileges, they were always popular with the other drivers because they could intervene with the police to rescue an impounded cyclo or plead a fine.

Tam refused. Even then, he dreamt of going to America and was afraid of the consequences should he take a role in the Communist regime. "After that, they were always looking for me, and fined me extra when they found my cyclo." He shook his head. "I had to go back to the streets."