So there I was, sitting in Smoker’s Row, having my pick of
second hand smoke from either the guy plastered against the window three people
to my left, the guy next to him, or the guy immediately to my right, as one or
all of them lit up every few minutes. I
sat forward, hand and cheek planted on the headrest in front of me as I welcomed
the touch of the poor lady next to me, who was using my back as an armrest in
between playing with my mess of hair. It
was the least I could do since she had to make room for my dead weight at the
last minute, with the limited space she had to begin with. Even though the smoking local to my right had
his elbow digging into my hip, I couldn’t complain.. this dude was the reason I
was on my way back to Dalat.
In front of me in his row, Benny was listening to the music
of frequent wails coming from a baby on her mother’s lap. He was 
also making faces at the more docile
baby closest to his left, trying to emit smiles and giggles. His legs were scrunched up and his right side
was pressed against the door, close enough to feel the outside air seeping in
from the crack of the door frame. Once
in a while, the man two people over would nod off directly onto Benny’s
shoulder. Both of us looked at each
other and laughed.
How in the world did we find ourselves riding in a ratty
gray minivan missing the left side view mirror, a legit horn (unless you count
the smoker dude next to me sticking his arm out the window and smacking the
side of the car or yelling/grunting to alert animals and people on the road),
and good tires (one of them wasn’t doing so well and we’d have to pull over
every 30 minutes 
or so to check on it)? As we squished like sardines with local Vietnamese (nearly 30), I felt
truly thrilled – this is what the World Race is supposed to be about, what
experiencing the world is all about… blending in with locals or at least being
accepted by them. They didn’t think
twice about fitting two more random strangers into the car when they found out
we were heading the same way, nor did they treat Benny as a spectacle much the
way all my Caucasian teammates have been treated here in Asia. How our transportation back to Dalat panned
out without Benny or I having any kind of plan is exactly how I imagined ATL
month to be…
Riders are experienced Viet motorcyclists who take tourists around Dalat and
outside Dalat). Peter and Thien, our
guides, had arranged everything for us for the entire trip – what time we got
up, where we ate, where we slept and what time we’d arrive at our next
stop. As they dropped us off at Lac
Lake, our final destination, Peter mentioned something about us surviving on
our own now. After saying our goodbyes,
Benny and I headed into town in hopes to find internet and communicate with our
team about meeting us at Lac Lake to experience the countryside. The
town was surprisingly untouched byWestern influence.. I assumed we’d see other foreigners, since Lac Lake offers
an opportunity to see the hill tribe people and stay in their longhouses. After no luck finding internet cafes, a bus
station, or anyone who spoke English, we stopped by a random lady’s store for
cold drinks and plopped our parched selves down on her little plastic chairs
outside. We agreed to just sit and rest
a bit. The idea of hitchhiking came up,
exciting both of us. How cool would it
be to see how far we could go on non-verbal communication, the kindness of
strangers, and (of course) the protection of God? While we sat, cooling off and with little
else to go on but the general direction of Dalat, the shop lady sat down next
to us with her toddler… she couldn’t offer more than a nod and a sweet
smile. She understood nothing of our
conversation, but she must’ve caught onto a familiar word: Dalat. She also saw me write it on a piece of paper
to hold up to passing vehicles. All of a
sudden, she jumped up and flagged down a ghetto minivan crammed full of
locals.. the smoking guy had his head and arm out the window, and before we knew
what was happening (Benny had uttered Dalat only once and I hardly had time to
show my paper), he slid out the window to open the door for us. He threw my backpack under the chair behind
him and gestured for me to get in. Half
of Benny was still out the door when the van started moving and Smoker was
trying to close the door. We didn’t even
get a chance to thank the kind lady who totally looked out for us.
Our ride from Lac Lake back to Dalat could have been on the
back of the Easy Rider bikes, zipping around with the wind at our 
backs, the
sun on our arms and amazing scenery hugging us… it could have been on a regular
bus, guaranteeing that we’d get back to Dalat with relative comfort and
safety. Instead, we went the local route
– taking over 4 hours to move less than 200 km, invading each others’ personal
space, and giving the poor driver credit for navigating winding, narrow, rocky
dirt roads with no horn, one side mirror, weak headlights and over two dozen
bodies weighing down already crappy tires. We then got dropped off in the middle of a random town at night, only to
take a shorter minivan ride into Dalat. Once again, the help of another store lady (and following a local) got
us onto the right vehicle to finally get us back to home sweet home..
surprising our team with our sudden return and one heck of a memory. I took tons of pictures during our Easy Rider
tour, but it’s the unplanned and relatively un-photographed experiences that
sometimes speak the loudest with how God’s got our backs.
