Darkness fell and still no sign of Jay. A nagging cold had blossomed into yet another flu and I was swaying blearily. The mechanic's wife took pity on me and led me to a nearby wooden plank to sleep. The next I knew she was tugging at my sleeve for dinner. My host, his fix-it brother and Jay were already well along the road to that masculine form of bonding that comes from too much whisky and the endless repetition of the word "Friends!". By the time I excused myself again to sleep the happy, hearty drinking club had now expanded to seven, added "America" and "Vietnam" to their collective vocabulary and would soon, apparently, be moving on to "love".

The next morning our discreet gift of cash was summarily rejected and a much more elaborate bill drawn up. The sleeping plank, the chain, the whisky and the friendship came at an aggressive price. We paid and Jay made his final farewell affirmation of "friends!" with considerably less enthusiasm than he had the night before.

The cold, damp night and the toxic clouds of raw tobacco smoke had prostrated me completely. We drove back to Yen Bai in search of softer beds and perhaps even the luxury of a luke-warm shower.

We had been this way before. I remembered a dusty town that boasted little more than a happy drunk who had offered Jay fifty cents to make me his wife for an hour. The monsoon season had since transformed it into an oozing, glutinous wallow that quickly coated our packs, our bike and ourselves with an inch of splattered mud. My sinuses pressed up against my brain like overfull balloons, my joints had long since petrified and my tongue tasted like a rusty spring. One thought penetrated the misery in my skull. A shower. A hot and steaming, infinitely relieving soak in fresh, clean water. The hotel was almost in sight. then, with a now-familiar crack, the chain broke again.

We wheeled the bike off to one side and discussed our afternoon plans. I opted for the repair shop just down the road since we now had plenty of spare links from the old chain. Jay wouldn't hear of it. The last vestiges of midnight camaraderie had faded with that mangled snap and he was out for blood. Without another word he set off down the street in search of the famous fix-it brother. The man would redo his work for free or there would be Hell to pay.

Three hours later they woke me from a fitful slumber half draped across the bike. My services as translator were urgently required. The mechanic brother had agreed to do the work but only at twice the price of the original repair. The second break was not his fault, he said. We had obviously been driving too fast and shifting without the clutch.

We wheeled the bike to the nearby repair shop and I found the ancient owner. He heard me out in silence, then pointed at Jay's fix-it friend and sealed our fates with just two words. "My son."

We paid him what he asked.

It was almost dark and raining when at last we wheeled the Beast out and climbed on board. The mechanic puttered along beside us, insisting that we follow him to a guesthouse of his choice. We suspected it would be owned by more in-laws who would relieve us of whatever money his side of the family had not yet managed to secure, and waved him off. "Good riddance," Jay said and slowed to let him go. He let out the clutch and with a cheerful crack, the chain broke yet again.