| Muller | Hitchhiking Vietnam
Page 156 |
The Saigon bus station was an island onto itself, with high walls to keep the untidy vendors with their carts and merchandise outside. We entered and were immediately bustled on board a half-filled bus. The engine was already running, the driver sitting behind the wheel. I blessed my luck that we had arrived in the nick of time and sank into a nearby seat. The driver honked twice, surged six inches forward, rolled back and disengaged the clutch. A harried woman and her small child clambered inside and made straight for a battered cooler next to the driver. Inside, a cracked plastic cup floated on filthy gray water, available to anyone who had a thirst.
Bodies filled the bus, their heat adding to the palpable waves coming off the engine. The driver put the bus in gear. I silently urged him forward. We rocked forward, settled back, and sat.
An hour later I was preparing to bludgeon the driver, toss him out the door and pilot the bus myself. He nudged the clutch into gear for the umpteenth time and urged the bus forward. I refused to be taken in by this sadistic trick. We kept moving.
We eased into rush-hour traffic and immediately slowed to a crawl. An unruly herd of bicyclists wove back and forth across our front bumper. Now, instead of cringing at the indifferent behemoth that was bearing down on me with blaring horn, I was inside the monster's mouth, staring out. I rained curses on the heads of the unresponsive bikes that blocked our way and lengthened for one second my confinement in this smelly oven. The driver did his best to humor my unspoken wish. He nosed the bumper to within inches of the wobbly bikes. He punched his horn and roared across intersections, secure in the belief that pesky bicyclists would get out of his way. So they did, though the occasional laggard disappeared from view under the front windshield for a heart-stopping moment before emerging to pedal off to one side.
