Nearly every motorbike taxi driver I met in Saigon had the same three words to say to me.
The first would be, “Motorbike?” when the driver first caught sight of me. The second would be, “Massage?” as we passed one another. The third, “Marijuana?” would be whispered after we had passed; it was the most amusing to hear, since it was muttered in a magical way that allowed it to slip through the noisy street and right into my unsuspecting ear. Which in turn left me wondering on a number of occasions whether I was hearing things or being offered an illicit substance by drug peddling birds.
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