A Brief Account of a Riveting Collision

• This is an excerpt pulled from ‘South From Hanoi’, my account of a short but benignly animated motorcycle trip I made along the length of Vietnam in 2023. In this story, I detail the event of crashing my motorcycle, and how the Lord protected and even blessed me through it.  

    …Back on my bike, I poured water on my neck and drove fast through the countryside. I was only two hours from Dong Hoi and found myself in a lackadaisical mood as I entered a smooth valley road. I followed the valley until its end and climbed up a verdurous mountain range before plunging into another gorge. A wide, dirty river runs along the center of this valley, called Song Gianh. I puddered along the East side of the river for the better part of an hour. 

       Then I crashed my motorcycle. 

I was traveling at 64 Kilometers an hour. I know because I was zoning out, staring at the speedometer when, in the distance, I saw a small red car pull a fast left turn and stop directly in my path. I put on the breaks, hard, but it was no use. As my bike made impact with the hood of the car and my body was hurled over and along the windshield, I lifted a desperate prayer:

       God, please let me live. 

       I landed well on the other side of the car, tucked, and rolled several feet. I stayed down. My left leg and my right shoulder were both numb. The driver and his family piled out of the car. 

      They surrounded my frame, which laid haphazardly in the center of the busy road, and helped carry me to the shoulder of the street where I was propped up under the shade of a large stone wall. A crowd began to form as other drivers and passersby came to see what the stupid westerner had done this time. When they saw the blood and my bike and the red car the crowd erupted into a flurry of commotion. Water, rubbing alcohol, bandages, Neosporin, Advil, beer, and a dirty, sweaty bandana were all brought to me. A man with a deep tan and a blue hat crouched before me and rolled up my pant legs. He rubbed Neosporin deep into the gashes on my thighs and shins. As I sat there, still in shock, drinking water in the shade and being pampered by a hoard of kindhearted locals, I felt truly relieved. Then the pain hit. I initially felt it in my shoulder, which was the first thing to hit the car. The pain carved an electric arc in my neck, down along my biceps and elbows to the tips of my fingers, back up my arms where it then shot down to my hips and my torn legs. I wanted to stand and find my bike, continuing on until I found a safe haven in Dong Hoi, but there I was - in the dirt, peering up at the adults in the situation like a child who had just fallen from a tree. I checked my head and a man in a yellow shirt, protected by the shade of two others, checked my pupils for dilation. I did not want to jump the gun; I simply could not believe that my wrists and knees were intact, unshattered. Still, I knew, after checking my neck and head and major arteries, that I was alive and even well. Now the large task of recovery was at hand. I gritted my teeth and tried to distract myself with practicalities. 

     Against the murmurs and admonishments of the crowd I pulled myself to my feet and started to ask the real questions: My phone? My bike? My pack? The car? Was everyone else alright? 

     I found my phone exactly how I left it before the crash. Unharmed, still telling me to turn left on Doang Cha Avenue in 120 meters. I then inspected my bike. The handlebars and entire frontal frame was mangled into an ugly sight. The headlights, transmission, front body, and tire rim were all either damaged or gone. The right mirror was completely missing (I found it 12 meters from the site). I looked at the entire pitiful scene with an impossibly unhopeful eye. I recalled the words of the kind American, in Hanoi, who sold me the bike: 

     “There’s no insurance in Vietnam”

      I examined the car which I had hit. The front-right side of the body was peppered with small dents. The right headlight was busted. A spider-web crack had erupted in the far left side of the windshield. I realized that it was from my head smacking against the glass when I first landed on the hood. I thanked God that I was wearing a helmet. 

      The entire time, while I analyzed the scene, I was followed by a group who were all, in their native tongue, beckoning me to sit back down and tend to the scrapes on my arms. I slumped against the wall and let several of them rub alcohol on my cuts and cover them with various bandages. In my pack, which had miraculously stayed attached to the rear of my bike (a testament to the bowline), I had a full first-aid kit with gauze and limb wraps. I wasn't bothered to access it, though. My support team was doing a fabulous job at patching me up. Once the last bandaid was secured I stood back up and found the man who was driving the red car. He did not speak English and so his daughter, a woman named Mai, translated for us. Mai was kind and wore a full formal getup. Her hair was perfect and her lips were covered in a thick but even layer of red lipstick. She told me that they were all on their way to the wedding of their cousins when I came barreling over their windshield. 

      I asked several questions about the logistics moving forward. She would turn to the crowd and translate, and I would watch with amazement as the crowd fell into chaos about every decision, obviously disagreeing. When there had been enough yelling the driver of the car would speak up to the daughter and the daughter would turn to me to translate. Finally, she imparted the most impactful news:

     “We have agreed,” She began, “That the crash was our fault.” 

     The driver approached me with his wife and laid a hand on my shoulder. He gave me a thumbs-up and gently patted my arm. The daughter continued, 

     “We will cover your medical and your bike fixes. We take you to mechanic now.” 

     The wife began a barrage of arguments towards her daughter. The older woman, also dressed in formal wear, was contorting her face in an odd mixture of worry and anger and general displeasure. The daughter was apparently consoling and assuring her when, in an instant, the father snapped his fingers once in irritation. The wife stopped her complaints and the daughter said something to the father. I was in the dark, aside from presumptuous observations based purely on facial expressions, and so I asked Mai what they were saying.

        “My mother wants to take you to the hospital. She thinks you may be badly injured.”  The mother came close to me and placed two fingers on my temples. 

         “She thinks you have a head injury.” 

         The mother pointed to my head and then walked over to the car and pointed at the large, head-shaped crack in the windshield. She had a point. Even so, I was alright. Shapes and lines and colors were all sharp, and though my neck hurt, I knew I was certainly un-concussed. I did my best to dissipate her concern, though the mother did not surrender her maternal instincts in full; she continued to give me wary looks as I collected my scattered belongings, probably to substantiate my claim to good health. 

         The crowd thinned out as I climbed onto the back of a man’s motorcycle. Mai told me that he would drive me to the mechanic and that someone else would walk my bike there as well. Once we arrived I was ushered into the garage where a group of dirty mechanics all sat, smoking cigarettes. As soon as the procession arrived all of the men, who wore denim coveralls, leaped into action. Mai explained what happened to one of the mechanics and the man nodded along. I explained, with Mai as my mouthpiece, that I needed to be in Dong Hoi before dark. A delayed arrival to the coast would result in a missed train to Ho Chi Minh City and, subsequently, a missed bus to Cambodia. After a minute my bike arrived and it was brought into the shop. Mai translated regarding prices, duration, and the technical side of things. She and her parents insisted they pay for the damage. Her father approached me and handed me over 1,000,000 Dong in cash. The damages would cost nearly 800,000 dong (About $40 USD). They told me it would take 2 hours. 

         Mai led me by the hand into an air conditioned lobby. She sat next to me and we talked for 10 minutes before she rose and beckoned a mechanic over. She briefly spoke to him and then turned to me. 

         “I have to go now. My cousin is getting married in an hour.” 

         Before she left she brought me a bottle of water and a cold can of coca cola. I attempted to thank her but felt remarkably inadequate. How do you thank a legitimate guardian angel, someone who turned a theoretically nightmarish situation into a simple and straightforward problem with a feasible solution? She and her parents left, driving away in their dented red car. 

       I sipped on the water and watched the men work on my bike. They were impressively efficient and I observed them with fascination as they replaced the body, transmission, and entire front tire frame. I dug into my pack to find my first aid kit and re-dressed several of the gashes on my legs. I found a bathroom and washed the dried blood off of my hands and wrists. 

        Less than an hour later I was approached by one of the men and was beckoned to rise. I walked into the garage and saw a completely new motorcycle. I could not believe my eyes, it looked better than when I first rented it in Hanoi. Two brand-new mirrors were attached to a polished frontal frame. I tested the transmission and gear and was astonished to hear it start up and shift with ease. I paid the mechanics and thanked them profusely before tying my bag to the rear rack. Before I left one of the men approached me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and uttered one effective word of advice,

       “Slow.” He said. 

       I gave him a thumbs up and promised to be careful. I swung my sore legs over the bike and, slowly, pulled back onto the road. My eyes were then fixed on the coastline. 

Omar and the Small Book of Poetry

The following is an excerpt from ‘Breaking in Boots’, my account of a hitchhiking expedition from New York to Virginia. My rides on this particular journey were notably winsome and interesting in every regard. Omar, a kind-hearted, well-spoken, middle-aged Afghan who drove me across the Maryland border is a prime example of this. 

      I was picked up by a man named Omar near the border of Maryland and Pennsylvania. He had kind eyes and smile lines deeply embedded into his dark olive skin. 

      “You are a writer? I have a story for you.” 

      He began by telling me about his life before America. Omar was born in Afghanistan and lived in Kabul during the Afghan civil war. Because of the region’s ongoing conflict in and around the region, many residents of the city began fleeing to Pakistan and Iran in the early 90’s, risking uncertain travel in new lands for the hope of sustainable refuge. But not Omar. - he had a shop to keep. 

       “I owned a small bookstore in the city,” he told me. “I sold used books which I bought from families and other shops. When the war broke out, and people began leaving their homes behind, everyone started bringing me their books. Box after box of books people thought were too important to abandon, even with the rebels closing in. One day, after an especially large donation, I was going through a cardboard box when I came across a black notebook about this big,” said Omar, holding up his hand and putting about an inch and a half of space between his pointer finger and thumb, indicating the thickness of the journal. 

        “I opened it, flipped through the worn pages, and saw page after page of poetry, all written in small and crowded but beautiful handwriting. I was busy, but I was curious, so I put the book in my pocket to take home. That is one thing… I never read much, even with the shop. I thought, for the first time in a long while ‘Maybe tonight I’ll do some reading before bed’. Anyways, later that night, I brought out the black notebook and read it under a lamp.” 

        Omar quickly discovered it was the personal journal of a woman he guessed to be in her early 20s. 

       “She observed the world and she wrote funny things, simple things, all very poetic and witty. I could tell she would carry the book wherever she went, she would always write in it. The first entry was dated in February, ‘91, the last was in November of the same year. If she saw a boy steal something in a market and a vendor give chase she would recount the event with vivid words. She was a good storyteller.”

       Omar explained that while there was a woman’s name scribbled on the front page, there was no way for him to track her down, especially during the war. He told me about the pangs of guilt that he would feel while reading through this private log. As if the most secret parts of her could somehow be understood by a total stranger. But Omar did understand her, in a way. 

      “I felt like I figured out her humor, that helped me understand her fear and even her pain.” 

      The mystery author did not indicate much about the rising violence in and around Kabul. She wrote only about the streets and her insights and what she thought of herself and her brother and her parents, whom she loved but made fun of throughout the log. 

       The sun was striking the horizon as we passed the Gettysburg Battlefield. The sky turned hues of copper and auburn, becoming a rich sunset, the last hour of golden light illuminating Omar as he drove us through hills and plains, south towards the town of Fredrick, Maryland. 

        He took a break from his narrative to take a few long sips of his lukewarm green tea, then, with a deep sigh and a smile, he jumped back into his story, telling me about a young Afghan woman somewhere who, over 30 years ago, gave a rough and beautiful insight into what life in 90’s Afghanistan must have been like. 

        “...She painted pictures with her words. Big vocabulary, very descriptive. How she cooked her food, the disputes of her neighbors, the emotions she’d get caught up in. I do not know how she got to be such an excellent writer. But I thank God—-” He took a moment to point toward the ceiling of the car with a look of gratitude, then continued, “—that I picked it up. It helped me read all sorts of other things, Dostoevsky, uh, Jane Austin, Mahapatra. She got me into reading great stories and poetry.”

        I asked him if he had ever tried writing poetry. “Not then,” he said. “4 days after 9/11 I fled Afghanistan. I sold the shop and began traveling the world, first for school, then for work. The whole time I had this black journal, usually at the bottom of my bags. I returned to my country to marry my wife in 2008 and in 2009 we moved to America to raise our kids. My job at the time, working with the ambassador's office, helped make the move smooth. I went to the States first to start work while my wife stayed for a few weeks to pack up our things. The journal fell out of my mind when I got married and I didn’t think about it once during my move to the U.S.” 

           Four or fivemonths later, at their new home in Pennsylvania, Omar came across a peculiar black book under a pile of unorganized documents. When his wife came into the room and saw Omar and the journal she said something along the lines of “Oh, dear, I was going to ask you about that. I found it while packing up our things and I could not put it down once I began reading.”

        Evidently Omar’s wife, whose name is Amira, was also of the sound opinion that the young author who wrote the log was gifted in prose and poetry and this, coming from Amira, who is an English teacher and frequently reads, was a huge validation for Omar. As they raised their family the book kicked around the house and was read every so often by all members of the family, even the young children. 

        “I considered it to be a piece of history. I could not write very well and so I would point to these handwritten descriptions and say to my boys ‘Look! Read this, this is what growing up in our country was like.’” 

        In 2016 Omar and Amira decided to try and track the author down in pursuit of a romanticized end to a decade’s long mystery. “I felt a responsibility to at least try and find her.” What happened to her? Did she remain in Afghanistan or has she died there? Was the book donated by her or someone she knew, and what was the course of events that led to the discarding of such a seemingly valuable item? 

        After three months on Facebook and Instagram, dozens of emails and messages, along with many dead ends, they found her. She now lives in Boston and has three children. She never pursued writing professionally. 

        Omar insisted on returning the book to the then 47-year-old woman, whose name will remain a mystery to readers like it was a mystery to me on that drive with Omar, and like it was for Omar all those years ago? 

       “I drove to Boston with the black journal in the passenger seat. It had seen four continents and over 30 countries. It was intact, though the ink on the pages were slightly faded. It would retire in Boston.” Omar said, laughing to himself. 

         “What was the meeting like between you two?” I asked. 

         “Very short, she seemed very shy but also nice. I told her how much the journal meant to our family, what I suppose it had come to represent. She scolded me, saying things like ‘I was no writer as a girl. It was only a silly diary. Kids stories.’ and I tried to convince her otherwise but she would not have it. She thanked me for returning the book and I went on my way.” 

          He pulled off the highway into the town of Frederick. He had drained his green tea cup completely. The richness was gone from the sky and all the colors faded to a mild pink hue. His last sentiment before he dropped me off in a Waffle House parking lot: 

            

            “Driving home from Boston I stopped to pick up a journal, so I could have it on hand, just for writing for the fun of it, not for work and not because I have to, but because I can. I thought ‘Hey, maybe I could try this out, and if I lose interest after a while, maybe I’ll donate it someplace so some curious young person can pick it up and learn to worship the lines of poetry I thought were garbage’.”