Naked and UnafraidFiveo1

The locals assumed they had just enjoyed an R-rated show.

They hadn't. But assumptions are powerful things.

Before they had a chance to pillage our belongings — spread carelessly on the shore like a buffet for opportunistic thieves — I was already closing the distance. Naked. Fully naked. Manhood swinging with each desperate stride. Not a heroic charge. Not a warrior's sprint. A naked man running toward a group of people who had absolutely not signed up for that visual.

I assume I terrified them. Because they dropped everything — my clothes, my wallet, my dignity — and ran.

We quickly pulled our bathing suits back on, resumed our daily attire, and walked back to the bar like nothing had happened. Because in travel, that is the rule. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. You laugh. You drink. You move on.

The next morning, she left with her girlfriends. Continued on their journey. I never saw her again.

That was Monday.

—

Mui Ne is an exquisite destination for any traveler on a budget. Beautiful sandy beaches stretch along the South China Sea. Fishermen push themselves across the water in teacup-shaped boats — round, improbable vessels that look like they were designed by someone who had never seen a boat but heard a description once. The sand dunes are a popular tourist site; orange and white hills that roll along the coast like a desert dropped into the jungle.

Restaurants and fresh fruit stands appear at every turn along the main road. Coconut sellers. Pineapple vendors. Women with conical hats and baskets balanced on poles across their shoulders. The air smells like fish sauce and sea salt and something sweet you cannot name.

After a few weeks of lodging, I had settled into a comfortable routine of ease. Too comfortable. That should have been my warning.

—

I hopped on my motorbike to get a quick bite to eat. Andrew — still at the hostel — would join me. The restaurant was just around the corner. Five minutes. Maybe ten.

I usually never ride without a helmet. Usually. But the lackadaisical sense of my nature at that time failed me. The helmet was in my room. Ten seconds away. Ten seconds felt like too much effort. I wanted food. I wanted wind in my hair. I wanted to feel like I was on vacation, not a safety briefing.

So I hopped on my bike and headed off. Andrew did the same.

It is common knowledge that the police in Mui Ne — indeed, in most of Vietnam — are extremely corrupt. They set road traps. They wait for unsuspecting tourists to galavant around on motorbikes without proper documentation. They look for bribes. Easy money. A tax on stupidity.

We passed the original restaurant we intended to stop at. Kept going. Aiming for something new. Something exciting. Not paying attention to how far we had actually traveled. The road in and out of town is long, straight, and deceptively empty.

We inevitably crossed paths with a pop-up inspection station.

They flagged us down. Waved us to the side.

No helmets. Easy targets.

—

Vietnam has few requirements for tourists operating a motorbike. A helmet is one. The others: a blue registration card (which does not even have your name — only the name of whatever original owner purchased the bike), and an international driver's license. A document easily obtained for twenty dollars at any DMV or AAA in the States.

We had none of these things.

We pulled off the road. Stopped in front of four officers. They stood with arms crossed, faces hard, already calculating the bribe.

"No helmet," one said. Not a question. An accusation.

I had very little experience with corrupt cops outside of Mexico. In Mexico, you know the game. You pay. You leave. Everyone moves on with their day.

Vietnam was different. Or maybe I was different. Maybe the naked run had left me with less patience for authority.

I had nothing in my pockets of value. Two dollars. That was it. The equivalent of lunch. A bowl of pho and a beer.

The officers demanded we get off our bikes unless we could pay the bribe. One hundred dollars each.

Andrew looked at me. I looked at Andrew. Neither of us had two hundred dollars.

I objected by refusing to get off my bike.

This escalated things.

—

Andrew sat there watching as four tiny men tried to pry me off my bike. One put me in a headlock. Two others pulled on my arms in opposite directions. The fourth tried to pull the bike from underneath me. It was absurd. A comedy sketch performed in real life. The only thing missing was a laugh track.

But no one was laughing.

Long story short: I lost a motorbike. And the Vietnamese police were furious. Furious because now they had to do paperwork. Actual paperwork. Forms to fill out. Reports to file. A process that would take hours instead of the thirty seconds it would have taken for me to just hand over a bribe.

I had denied them their easy money. I had made them work. In Vietnam, that is a sin.

Andrew and I watched our bikes get hauled away on a police box truck. Like garbage. Like evidence. Like we had committed murder instead of helmetlessness.

We pondered our predicament during the couple-mile walk back to the hostel. The sun was setting. The road was long. The fruit stands were closed.

—

Because we had the blue cards for the bikes — tucked safely in our pockets — we just had to wait a week. Pay the impound fee. One hundred dollars. Ride away. Simple.

Simple is boring.

With hindsight, the adventure of breaking the two bikes out of police impound was an unnecessary life experience. Unnecessary in the way that all great stories are unnecessary. You could avoid them. You could stay home. You could wear a helmet.

But then you would have nothing to write about.

—

The breakout went like this:

We returned to the impound lot at midnight. The fence was low enough to climb. The guard was asleep — or pretending to be. We found our bikes in the back corner, covered in a thin layer of dust and disappointment. The keys were not in them. Of course the keys were not in them. The keys were in the police station. In a drawer. Behind a desk. Behind a sleeping guard who probably had a machete.

Andrew looked at me. I looked at Andrew.

"Hotwire?" he whispered.

I shrugged. I had never hotwired anything in my life. But how hard could it be?

Very hard. The answer was very hard.

We spent an hour in the dark, pulling wires, sparking connections, cursing softly in multiple languages. At some point, a dog started barking. Then stopped. Then started again. The guard shifted in his sleep. We froze. He snored. We resumed.

Eventually — through luck or divine intervention — one of the bikes started. Then the other. We pushed them to the gate, rolled them through, and did not start the engines until we were two blocks away.

We rode into the night. Wind in our hair. No helmets. Because of course no helmets. We had not learned anything. We had only accumulated another story.

—

The next morning, we left Mui Ne. Andrew went south. I went north. We never rode together again.

But somewhere in Vietnam, there is a police station with four officers who still tell the story of the American who would not get off his bike. Who forced them to do paperwork. Who came back in the night and stole his motorcycle back like a character from a bad movie.

I hope they laugh when they tell it. I hope they have forgotten my face.

I have not forgotten theirs.

—

Travel is not about the destinations. It is about the moments between destinations. The naked runs. The corrupt cops. The midnight impound lot escapes. The choices you make when you are tired, hungry, and too proud to pay a bribe.

Some lessons cost money. Some cost bruises. Some cost a week of your life waiting for paperwork.

Mine cost a motorbike I never really owned and a story I will tell until I cannot speak.

Worth it.

Every stupid, terrifying, naked second of it.