AH NO! So close.
I thought I could get through. Usually the Vietnamese police only stop tourists. But I'm ethnically Indonesian. If I told you I was Vietnamese, I swear you wouldn't think twice.
I wonder what gave it away. There's no tourists for hundreds of kilometers. Middle of nowhere. Was it my clothes? My backpack? The phone holder sticking out of my handlebars.
I stop the bike.
The officer speaks Vietnamese. Guess they're stopping everyone today.
"Hi, sorry, I only speak English," I say, praying he doesn't ask for my license—which I don't have.
His head jolts back. Surprised. I'm probably the first foreigner he's seen here since the war.
He stares at me. Then he says "Ok" and steps aside. He waves me through.
What?? I guess he doesn't want to deal with the language barrier. God bless America.
I smile. "Thank you!" and I speed off.
I'm elated. It's a sunny morning. The Central Highlands around me are green, green, green. The scenery is out of a postcard. After four days of riding, I'm finally heading back without any complications.
Then I turn the corner—bam. There they are. More police.
Wow. The last guy led me into a trap.
They've set up shop on a small bridge. It's an operation: eight cops, four cars, and a pickup truck with four old beat-up motorbikes in the back. Seven locals sit on the ground. Devastated. In a few minutes, I'll probably be sitting next to them.
Of course, they stop me. I pull over. A group approaches.
They speak Vietnamese. I tell him I only speak English.
"Where are you from?" one says.
"America."
Massive smiles.
"Wow!" "Whaa!" they exclaim.
Again, I'm probably the first foreigner they've seen since the war.
One pulls out Google Translate.
"Where are you going?"
"Da Lat."
"Who are you with?"
"I'm alone," okay—does it look like I'm with anyone? Stupid
question.
He nods. They confer in Vietnamese. Then one guy steps forward with a breathalyzer.
Then my smart ass says,
"What? It's 10 in the morning?! Do you really think I'm drinking
beer?"
Crickets.
He presses it to my face. I exhale. It beeps. He says something. I exhale again.
0.0
Obviously.
Then the Google Translate interrogation ensues.
"Passport?"
I run back to my bike, grab it, hand it over. They examine its
contents like it's a novel.
"Visa?"
"E-Visa"
"Can I see?"
I show it on my phone. They glance, then return it.
"Do you have a license?"
I shake my head. "No."
For some reason, he smiles. Then he types:
"The fine for no license is 12 million dong. Your bike will be
impounded."
I do math in my head. That's almost 500 USD. Damn.
"Okay...".
I start to worry. I have a flight to Malaysia from Da Lat tomorrow
morning. I'm still three hours away. How the hell am I gonna get
there? And that's a lot of money.
"Who owns the bike?"
"A rental shop owner in Da Lat. I rented it from him four days
ago."
"Okay, he will be fined 9 million dong too."
Shucks. Rental shop Quang was a nice guy.
"Okay," I say.
"Do you have any comments?"
What?? What does he want me to say? "Thank you so, so much for catching me officer. I'm a stupid tourist driving without a motorbike license. Please, while you're at it, arrest me too!"
"I don't know. Do I have a choice? Can I pay by card?"
"Do you have cash?"
"I take out my wallet. I have 2 million dong. I show it to him.
Apparently, not enough.
"You will be fined 12 million dong. Do you have any comments?"
Now I'm really confused. Again? I don't have any comments!
Then it hits me—he's probably asking for a bribe.
I tell him I have more money. I dash back to the bike and rummage
through my bag.
There it is—one large, crisp bill of 1000 Hong Kong Dollars from
my gambling spree in Macau several weeks ago. Thank god I won
those last few baccarat hands.
I run back to the officer. I show him the bill. "This is 3.3 million dong."
He holds the yellow bill up to the light. Smiles. His colleague smiles too. He takes out a magnifying tool and inspects it. After a few seconds, he nods his head to the officer next to me.
He smiles, bigger this time. Then he extends his hand out to mine. We shake hands like we just closed a business deal.
"You're free to go. You can keep the rest of the money for food and drinks on the way. Have a safe trip!"
Wow, how generous.
They all smile and wave goodbye and say "Thank you!" in English. I wave back. I hop on the bike and zip off. The locals are all still there, looking at me as I drive over the bridge.
The absurdity of the situation lingers as the green farms and villages pass me by. The breathalyzer at 10am. The devastated locals. The Hong Kong Dollars. Me being their new best friend.
Yeah—they were dirty, dirty cops. But I don't really blame them. That crisp bill was worth more than half their monthly salary. To them, I was a magical prophet from heaven.
And I only escaped that situation because of privilege. And perhaps divine intervention. I felt kind of guilty driving away. To those locals without a license sitting on the ground, they're screwed. Their bikes are impounded. And I doubt they have 12 million Dong to spare to get it back.
I guess my takeaway from this story is: don't drive a motorbike in the boonies of Vietnam without a license.
Or, just don't get caught.