I was just admiring the ridiculousness—really admiring it—but didn't expect what came next.
Halfway up the mountain, I stopped in a small village and chuckled:
Motorbike, halfway up a mountain
No map, no mirrors, no plan
Long, tailored pants made for cafés, not cliffs
Black-and-pink sneakers (from a lost pair's afterlife)
Mud on the ground, mud on me
A storm forming over the pines
Two dogs circling
One horse on a hill
And me, somehow part of it
A small dose of chaos, perfectly mixed with comedy.
The drop: losing control
I wanted to capture the moment—the scene, the feeling, the absurdity—so I reached for my phone. I recorded a couple of audio messages for friends. Holding my phone in one hand while revving with the other, I nearly hit record when I hit a bump.
The bump knocked the phone from my grip. It thudded on a dry patch of dirt, bounced, cartwheeled down the roadside ditch, and dove into the runoff with a perfect little plop.
I cursed, even though travel had numbed me to stuff like this. I'd already lost a phone to water on my way to Vietnam, and I didn't really want to buy another one. But here we were, another phone testing its waterproofing for me.
The retrieval: letting go (again)
I reached into the muddy stream, like dipping my hand into a toilet bowl, and pulled it out. The screen was still on. I shut it off immediately, hoping this one would survive.
For the love of story, I wish I had taken a quick picture of the water before shutting it off. Oh well.
The return: more comedy
A few minutes later, I gave into curiosity and turned it back on. Wow, it powered on. But I wasn't to be fooled; last time, the phone came back to life only to die moments later.
After messaging a few people, I turned it off again and found my way back to Da Lat. The diver in me used this as another chance to practice navigation.
When I returned to my accommodation (I found the way!) and turned my phone on again, everything worked, except for the main camera. It was fogged from the inside, casting a soft haze over every picture. I could still take selfies with the front camera, but not capture the world as I saw it.
For someone telling stories through places, that felt worse than expected. A fogged lens was more than a technical flaw. My window to seeing and sharing the world was fogged.
The fix: a small price
I decided I'd do things differently this time and take it into a repair shop immediately.
Walking down the hill through the narrow, wet, mossy alleyway, I thought to myself, "How much more ridiculous can this get?" As if the universe responded with perfect timing, I slipped on the moss and caught myself on a fence before landing ass-first. Okay, got it, I won't be asking that again.
The repair cost 150,000 VND (less than $6 USD). The technician opened the phone and showed me the moisture inside, including the camera. I was glad I'd come to have it dried.
Everything works on the phone now, except Face ID, which would require an expensive repair at an authorized shop. I can live with that, as long as I can still capture the world from my perspective.
Maybe control is overrated. At least I can still laugh... and see.
