Hell's Potatoes - Progress Update

I'm starting to get used to riding my motorbike.

My apartment building is roughly the size and configuration of a boutique hotel. Each of its 6 floors has a large, four-bedroom apartment ... and the occupants are mostly potato families with big budgets and fat stomachs.

My apartment is the exception. It is smaller, at basement level next to car parking. The occupant still has a fat stomach, mind.

There are two main entrances to the building: driveway to the basement parking area, or the lobby.

My front door opens straight onto the car park, which was a selling point for me because I thought that I would be able to:

a) come and go without using the lobby ... avoiding the need to make small talk with other potatoes. This has turned out to be true.

b) come and go without using the lobby .... avoiding scrutiny by the staff as I come and go. This has turned out to be false.

c) ride to my bike to my front door, like a tough bikie. This has turned out to be partially true.

There are 5 uniformed security guards at my building, on 24x7 rotation. There is at least 1 person present at all times, and often 2.

Given that Hanoi has no crime, this security is quite unnecessary. But I like it.

I always look around and wave to the security guard on arrival and on departure. These greetings form a basis for 5 identical relationships, each is based entirely on hearty hellos ("Xin Chau!") and heartfelt goodbyes ("Chau Anh!").

I believe taht they find me quite nice (for a potato) and tell myself that they like me. That they really, really like me.

My building is at number 56. Most of the time I find the guard hanging around the driveway, chatting with his mates from 54 and 58. Sometimes he is sitting behind the desk at the top of the entrance stairs. On occasion he is sitting on a stone fence across the road, smoking while staring at the lake and ignoring the building entirely. No crime, no risk.

On Saturday nights the guard will be crouched on the ground in a space between 56 and 58, toking on tobacco bongs with his security guard neighbours. I've been offered a couple of bongs as I ride past but have reluctantly declined ... I'm not sure whether it's my latent addiction to tobacco or the accumulated saliva on the pipe that scares me more.

There is always someone to supervise me when I arrive home and they will drop whatever they are doing - or not doing - to ensure my save arrival. I am not allowed park my bike without supervision.

As I turn into the driveway, the guard on duty immediately starts moving slowly towards me from his location ... much like the zombies in Thriller. If nearby, he will open the gate for me and stalk behind me as I slowly ride down the ramp and into the basement.

The next part is a little more complicated. The guard will telepathically direct me into my parking space from a distance of 5 metres. This is performed via a sequence of hand signals and head nods; occasionally a left shoulder gyration. He has is the leading role in the Sorcerer's Apprentice and I am his mop.

More often than not, I am then led (in darkness) to my front door. As I fumble to fit the key into the door, the guard (now less than a metre away) opens a cupboard beside me and a presses some switches. This illuminates the carpark, too little too late. As I remove the key from my front door, I nod my thanks to the guard as the entire carpark becomes incandescent behind me. The sudden brightness can be startling, like a surprise birthday party. I want to look around for balloons and people but catch myself.

Once, after emerging into my dark apartment I quickly closed the door and looked back through the peephole. The mop found out what his master did without him: he took two steps away from my door, then two steps back toward it, then switched the lights off and returned to his mates in darkness.

Founding Member

For the first week I was using the motorbike, the guards would laugh as I clumsily arrived and departed through the gates of the driveway.

They would occasionally tell me in Vietnamese what I was doing wrong. I didn't really understand except that it had something to do with using the brake when driving up the ramp and possibly something to do with my helmet strap. Tyres and headlights were also referenced.

In transit ("do you wanna be in my gang?)

During my second week of riding, the instructions became more tactile and intimate: they would help me remove the key so it didn't lock the wheel, switch the headlight on or off, rub my arm while explaining something confusing about how to stop skidding on the tiled floor, adjust my chin strap on the helmet, rehang my helmet on parking and so on. Usually they would use any spare hand to detain me via an elbow. As the weeks progressed and I learned my lessons, the feedback was reduced to a pat on the head (or the helmet) and a smile. No joke.

By now I've completely got the hang of my motorbike. Nowadays I jump on, chuck it into first and zoom up the ramp to the driveway. I greet the security guard ("Chau Anh") as I turn onto my busy, narrow road without looking. As I zoom off I think to myself "they must be so proud of me" and smile. I was thinking this last week as I merged into traffic and got sideswiped by a taxi.

At the client site, Hell's Potatoes working from some spare cubicles.

On Tuesday I sent my first text while riding and on Thursday I took my first photos. Progress indeed.

id → en

therein