-^-for posterity-^-

i was driving my motorcycle along the road one day when it sputtered and wouldn’t start. i had run out of gas.

there are a million tiny stands that sell gas as you drive along. if you ever run out of gas you simply need to roll to a stop and someone will run out to you with a bottle of green liquid. i had done that a couple of times and, while it is convenient, it is not necessarily good for the motorcycle. you see, in order to turn a profit, one must add a bit of water to the gas.

i happened to stop in front of an official gas station. these places are very similar to what you would find in the states except for the fact that motorcycles crowd around each pump and a man in a uniform will come up to you and ask you how much you want in your tank. you tell him, he pumps the gas and then pushes your money into a gigantic wad he holds in his left hand.

i rolled up to the pump and asked for fuel. i was served and the attendant asked me quite kindly if i worked for the university. i, just as kind, responded that i did work for the university. after our pleasantries were exchanged, i went to start my motorbike.

i pumped the kick stand and it started. it revved for a bit and then sputtered. this kind of thing was normal, especially after running out of gas. i pumped again. sputtered. i pumped and pumped thinking that i could pump the gas back where it should be. i pulled the choke and gunned the engine. nothing was working.

slowly, everyone came over to my motorcycle. they stood around it and watched the giant white man pump and sweat and look generally frustrated.

the gas station attendants came over and they decided they could fix the motorcycle. one of them stood behind everyone else and told them that they couldn’t fix motorcycles, they could only pump gas into them. one man eventually found my fuel filter and took it apart. gas started to trickle out of the end but ever so slightly.

he fiddled with the filter and took some of it apart. i sat there sweating and hoping they would fix it. someone in the crowd asked why they were helping me and everyone quickly learned i was a teacher at the university and that, yes, i did speak vietnamese.

things were looking bleak. i didn’t know what to do and was still sitting on the motorcycle. the gas cap was right between my legs and one enterprising young man took it off. he looked in it for a bit, rubbed his finger inside and then lowered his head and put his entire mouth on it. he blew and blew and blew and i just sat there. all of the sudden the gas started to flow out of the filter and everyone realized nothing interesting was going to happen. they all left, i thanked my friends and drove away. such is life here: most are happy to serve.