My first view of Saigon was from the back of a speeding motorbike taxi, known as hug taxis in my favorite piece of Vietnamese slang. I looked at the sky to avoid seeing the thousands of would-be killers who swerved way too late for comfort each time. My driver cornered like a lunatic and I clutched my left hand, which by now was livid and shiny as a corpse and a peculiar shape. I secretly hoped it was broken, so I’d get to be a cool kid with a cast. Then I remembered I haven’t needed to dodge Christmas exams in fifteen years.
Here is hospital.
I struggled to get the fare out of my money belt. The driver wore sunglasses with pictures of iridescent eyeballs on the lenses.
What you do your hand?
I learned how to ride a motorbike in Dalat yesterday. Then I fell off.
Its broken in three places. I have to wear an elbow-length cast for four weeks, and I’m already sick of it in the tropical heat. But at least its the left hand. I have enough trouble with chopsticks as is.
