The story of the xeom

Prologue
They say that coming to Southeast Asia is like going back in time, but it is actually going ahead in time. Maybe the person who created time zones should have planned for this better.

Chapter 1
I met my xeom (Vietnamese for motorbike taxi driver-literally translates to hug), while wandering through the old quarter one day in search of a bank. He was selling photocopied books on the streets to tourists (a very popular occupation amongst the locals in the old quarter). It is always best to be cautious of these touts, as they usually tend to be relentless, sometimes aggressive, and there have been numerous reports of theft from expats during encounters with them.
I became skeptical of him when I told him I didn’t want to buy any books and he didn’t push the matter any further. Instead, he just asked where I was going and offered to help me find a bank. My first instinct told me that this must be part of a scam to steal my newly acquired money or credit card information. However, I had not yet learned the secret to crossing the streets of Hanoi so I followed him as he cleared a path through the unwavering stream of motorbikes. He patiently waited outside as I entered bank number one, which turned out did not accept visa. Against my better judgment, I followed him again to bank number two, which was now closed for siesta. At bank number three, I was able to withdraw cash from the ATM machine but was careful to keep my credit card information hidden and my money held close. I figured that in exchange for his help, I would surely be obligated to buy a book from him in order to avoid a confrontation.

Interlude:
I’d like to pause here to clarify that I am not proud of myself for being so distrusting. I think it is shameful that we cannot always accept a stranger’s help without thinking they want something in return. Yet, I am a young women venturing outside the comfort zone of suburban America for the very first time into a country I know very little about. Historically, my naivety often gets the best of me, and I can’t help but to be overtly cautious, not only for my own safety, but also to appease the qualms of my overly worried family, whose reminders to “be careful” constantly ring in my ears.

Chapter 2
I realize the boy with the books is after nothing, except genuinely wanting to help someone in need and to make a meager, yet honorable, living. I have three job interviews that day, and he offers to take me. He asks if he can take me to work everyday, and I agree. It is the only guaranteed source of income he has.

Chapter 3
For three weeks, he has faithfully driven me anywhere I need to go. He is never late, and never complains when I call him on short notice. Each time he picks me up, he has a piece of gum and a new Vietnamese song on his mp3 player for me. One day it started to rain while he was taking me to work. We stopped and he bought us a rain poncho, a lovely bright pink piece of plastic with two head holes for us to share, equipped with duck billed hoods. Other motorbike drivers sped past us, dressed in similar attire, splashing water up at us as we went, but my nice work clothes remained perfectly dry underneath.
He gets frustrated with me because he thinks I don’t go out enough. “Why you always go home? Why you never go anywhere? Always work and home! I think you go see Ho Chi Minh museum, I take you! You never eat? You don’t like Vietnamese food? I think I show you Vietnamese food!” I can attempt to explain myself, but his English is poor and he doesn’t understand, so finally I agree to let him show me Vietnamese food.

Chapter 4
We go to a typical Vietnamese restaurant. Small metal tables and tiny plastic stools lining the sidewalk. The menu is all in Vietnamese so I tell him to order something good for me. The waitress runs across the street to fill dirty glasses with bia hoi, a Vietnamese microbrew. Small eateries and other dives concoct their own versions and varieties of it. Stored in plastic containers that look like a large drum used to carry gasoline (and probably once was), with a long rubber tube hooked to one end and a cork serving as a tap; you never really know what you are going to get.
My intention was only to stay out for a quick dinner, an hour tops. Although every third sentence was answered by one of us saying, “I don’t understand,” frequent pauses, and trying to come up with a simpler way to explain something, we ended up talking for a long time. Slowly the story of his life unfolded.
He grew up in what he calls, “his country”, which really isn’t another country at all, but a village about 50km from Hanoi. His mother is 60, which is very old for the Vietnamese, and her health is failing. She can no longer work, and he helps pay for her hospital visits when he can afford it. He never knew his father. His younger sister is 18. She is married to a much older man and has a baby. He asks me why I am not married yet, because in Vietnam 23 is old for a women to not yet be married. I explain to him that in America, 23 is still very young to be married and ask him why he is not married. He tells me that men do not get married until they are 27 or 28 and typically marry women 10 years younger than themselves. He also tells me that he only attended school for six years. There is no requirement to go any longer here. When he was 13, he left the village and moved to Hanoi by himself to sell books. His mother could no longer care for him and it was the only way he could support himself. I ask him where he lives, and he tells me that he shares one small bedroom with 7-10 other men. They all sleep on mats on the crowded floor. His rent is 10,000 dong per night, about $0.56. It is all he can afford, but he has never known the comforts of a bed, so he is content.
It is time to leave, and I try to pay the bill, but he insists on paying. It is tradition in Vietnam, and besides, it was a good day. “Today I sell many books and make a lot of money,” he says with a big smile, “$44 US. It was a good day”.