# 11 What Misadventures Teach Us About Ourselves—a Road Trip in Vietnam

On collective decisions and the pleasure of fear.

Every road trip is a risk. We all know that driving is like leaping into the unknown. Most of us get into cars regardless. We try to minimize the dangers by playing safe. But some of us make exceptions.

I broke my first safety rule when I folded myself into the backseat of the car and didn’t mention I couldn’t find the seatbelt. Had it never been there or was it lost on the wrong side of the bench?

The 7-seater Mitsubishi Jolie was packed like a Tetris game. My friends—driver, co-pilot, and dog—would stay in the mountains for a month and brought along bicycles, computer screens, food specialties, pans, and other kitchen essentials.

“Are you two comfortable enough?” our driver asked.

Daniel and I were comfortable, albeit a little cramped. I didn’t mention the missing seatbelt because I didn’t want to cause trouble. The seatbelt was likely irretrievable, meshed up with the luggage, and I was grateful to hitch a ride with my friends. They shouldn’t feel as though they were falling short. Besides, we were already running late.

More broken safety rules

We were supposed to leave Hội An at 8:30 am for a road trip of 4-5 hours to Măng Đen in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. But our friends suffered a string of mishaps before our departure, among which a last-minute denial by the local police to sublet their home, and they arrived at our place with a delay. It was no big deal: We had plenty of time to make it through the tricky mountain pass before dark.

“Can you see out the back window?” Daniel asked.

“No, of course not,” our co-pilot said.

Daniel must have known the answer beforehand: The car was stuffed. So why did he ask the question? I guess he wanted to acknowledge that having no way of seeing out the back window was unsafe. But none of us made this into an issue. We collectively decided without debate that this was a risk we were willing to take.

We also decided, far more overtly, to stop at the Cavalry roastery just out of town to treat ourselves. I ordered my favorite: Vietnamese coconut coffee. It’s made with strong bitter coffee and fresh coconut cream whipped together with ice and condensed milk (though the last ingredient not for me). Calvary’s version came with freshly grated coconut on top and ice tea on the side, and made my light migraine feel a little better. Caffeine opens the blood vessels.

We were slackers

We rolled onto the toll highway in the early afternoon and laughed about our schedule. Our driver’s father, whose car we had borrowed, would receive an automatic message with our entry time and would consider us slackers. Had he been the driver, he would have already been on top of the mountain.

Hours passed on flat, nearly deserted roads before the car showed signs of trouble. A dashboard light flashed on. The motor shut off. “Strange,” our driver said, because the car had just been serviced. She turned off the airco and radio and tried once more. The car started yet made strange noises and the dashboard light kept blinking its alarm. She pulled the car over and parked in a bend of the road. We were already climbing by then, had just started the tricky mountain pass.

We were lucky there was a cemented shoulder. Our driver made phone calls to her father, our homestay in Măng Đen, and a local car mechanic. We were also lucky the mechanic was only 10km away, attending to another traveler with car trouble.

We abandoned our vigilance

The road was narrow, and we waited outside, away from the car. My stomach cramped each time a giant truck passed us by. These trucks were not staying on their side of the road and could have easily hit our car. The cement shoulder we occupied was meant to give these oversized vehicles space.

Thunder rumbled, lightening flashed, and it began to rain—hard. As it does in the mountains. We fled into the car.

“Should we get out when a truck comes?” our co-pilot asked.

We could make out the traffic approaching us. But with the car stuffed we wouldn’t be able to see trucks coming from the back. Or hear them through the rain.

None of us answered the co-pilot’s question. We collectively decided, again without debate, that we weren’t willing to get soaked in order to avoid getting hit. We abandoned our vigilance. Writing this, I find it unbelievable. We risked our lives so as not to get wet? How stupid were we?

We must not have truly believed we were at risk. We must have thought our worries were unwarranted.

Part of me felt indeed as though nothing could happen to me. As though I lived in a virtual reality, a video game in which I could not die. Now I wonder: Where does such naiveté come from? Was I suppressing my instincts or were my instincts telling me all would end well? In any case, I was sacrificing safety for the sake of convenience.

Undeniable risks

After an hour, when sunset neared, the rain eased and the car mechanic arrived with two helpers. Within minutes they had replaced the battery. There was an issue with our alternator and the car battery couldn’t charge as we drove. If we were too slow, we would run the battery down again before getting into town. The mechanic offered to drive. Our own driver could hitch a ride with the mechanic’s helpers.

Again there was no debate. Things happened quickly and we were on the road again. Is she safe? I wondered far too late. Our driver had gone off with two strange men. But this is her country, I reassured myself. She called these service men for help. She didn’t seem worried at all. She’ll be all right.

Meanwhile, I was in a partially broken-down fully-packed car with an unknown car mechanic who spoke no English and who revealed himself to be a talented race car driver. Daylight seeped away as we sped up the mountain without headlights—to save the car’s battery. I should have counted the twists and turns, the giant trucks coming at us like missiles. I sat in the back holding onto the co-pilot’s headrest with two hands, as though that would protect me. I doubt a seatbelt would have made me feel any more safe.

Anxiety rose. How did I get into this situation? I was grateful that this stranger was driving us to where we wanted to be, yet this time I truly couldn’t deny the risks. We were racing up a tricky mountain pass. Without headlights. In the dark.

Caught between fear and excitement

Still, I didn’t speak up. I thought about what it would mean if I asked (or rather mimicked for) the driver to stop. I could get out and stand by the side of the road in the dark. For how long? Was that safe? What about our luggage? Would anyone pick us up? How far were we out of town? What were the risks of hitchhiking? There were too many unknowns.

In a moment of mindfulness, I chose to soothe my anxiety and accept the situation. If my fear wasn’t directing me to act and demand change, there was no point in feeling panic.

Besides, wasn’t I secretly enjoying the rush? I felt caught between fear and excitement, as though I were on a roller coaster ride. It made far more sense to be frightened, yet I couldn’t deny that I was also appreciating the moment. The beauty of the road was casting its spell on me. The thrill of racing through a gorgeous mountain pass in the red glow of sunset, with the terraced rice fields rising up to meet us and the huge pine trees anchoring us down into the earth. My fear equalled my interest. I wanted the ride to end and go on forever. As though being aware of my vulnerability made my life more meaningful.

Near the Măng Đen lake, other, perhaps equally thrilling, rides are waiting for passengers.

Lessons learned

We made it up the mountain without accidents. Our kind hosts welcomed us with delicious snakehead fish noodle soup. I felt shaken throughout the meal. What disasters had we narrowly escaped?

“Are you going to write about today?” our co-pilot asked.

I nodded. I had no idea how I would spin what had just happened into a narrative, yet I already knew I would. Writing about my experiences is a way of making sense of my life. Of understanding my role in how things turn out and of learning how to possibly do things better next time.

I went to bed early, slept all night in the cool mountain air, and sat at my desk at sunrise, asking myself what I could extract from our (mis)adventure. What you just read is as far as I’ve come.

I got a book deal! (Also known as: Author News)

Perhaps you remember the lovely publishing news I couldn’t  yet share with you while I was in Sri Lanka? Well, I signed the contract with the publisher this week and the deal has been announced:

WOMAN OF THE HOUR, fifty tales of longing and rebellion, is a collection that will transport the reader from an Amsterdam canal to the Oaxacan coast, from a silt-streaked Venice to an imaginary world, from an Icelandic waterfall to a hall of mirrors. Resilient women show their extraordinary talents to prevail over the challenges they face—these are stories to hearten and inspire.

It will be awhile before the collection is available (July 2025), but I have something to look forward to and I’ll get to share the steps on this journey with you all, from the editing process to the marketing plan and the cover reveal. Yeah!

Can’t wait that long? You can already read:

• The story that inspired this collection in matchbook

• The story that gave this collection its name in Fractured Lit

For those of you less familiar with the publishing world: Flash fictions and nonfictions are short stories of less than 1,000 words that often experiment with style and form. About eight years ago, I wrote a post for SmokeLong Quarterly, one of the leaders of the genre, on why I love writing flash.

Want to learn more? I recommend spending time with the Wigleaf Top 50 and signing up for these 2 newsletters:

The Art of Flash Fiction

and

100 Word Story

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Time to Say Goodbye

I’ve been working almost nonstop since I came up this mountain and haven’t yet taken the time to explore. In my next newsletter, I‘d like to write about Vietnamese coffee culture, air quality, endless construction, and the feeling of being on top of the world. But who knows what will happen and what I will write. I guess you have to stay tuned to find out.

All my best,

Claire

P.S. To celebrate my book deal, I’m giving away 3 free flash edits to authors who could otherwise not afford to work with me. Max 1,000 words, fiction or nonfiction. Please send me a private message when interested and I’ll accept the first three authors (no questions asked) for this celebratory give-away.

P.P.S. Three writers have already gotten in touch with me for a free flash edit. Please subscribe to be the first to know about new give-aways in the future.