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Once in a while, I bump into a little sliver of my hometown on a random license plate on the street.
Living in Saigon for about four years, I sometimes spend my time driving without a destination in mind.
Passing one street after another, my mind seems to retain just enough clarity to keep the handlebars stable. The pressures and exhaustion of life inundate my mental capacity, turning objects on the street into a blur occasionally lit up by street lamps and scored by the grunts of surrounding motorbikes.
Right in the middle of this thick atmosphere and crowd of multiregional motorists, a number 69 on a license plate caught my eyes. It’s the provincial code for Cà Mau, where I came from. Once, the number showed up behind a rickety Honda Dream bike manned by an elderly man. Once, behind a Vision owned by a student whose backpack bears the logo of my university. Another time, behind a Wave ridden by a Grab driver dashing down the boulevard. Most surprisingly, behind a Mercedes right downtown.
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During those moments, my sour mood often vanishes, replaced by meandering thoughts. Who are they? Why are they in Saigon? Do I know them? I have more than once sped up after those 69’s, even though I know that it won’t provide the answers I seek. At least, once I have overtaken them, they would see that I, too, carry a 69 plate — just a quiet signal that we’re hometown buddies amid this strange land.
My 18-year-old would never have cared about that number. He wasn’t in college, not living in Saigon, and didn’t anticipate that there would be a day when homesickness would plague his being. In my memory, the number 69 symbolizes an impossibly peaceful Cà Mau: where the roads are immense and the vehicles drive languidly. Our license plate sneaks into numerous milestones: alongside my mom’s bike when she took me to the barbershop, or to the local tailor to get my school uniforms made before a new school year; behind my dad’s bike when he drove me to the local youth center; and behind my friend’s bike when we stopped at a spicy noodles eatery.
Now, the 69 plate on my own bike takes me to a different horizon, towards foreign destinations. The last vestige of familiarity hangs by a thread on those 69’s I see on the street. At times, I dream that somebody will speed up and shout at me: “Yo! You from Cà Mau?” I would be overjoyed. Even though the currents of life might prevent us from having a chat, I would surely give them the most earnest greeting through my eyes.
I’ve heard many stories of my friends and family bumping into a fellow countryman in the most delightful ways. About half of those would happen thanks to the license plate codes. It could happen in a parking garage when their bikes are right next to each other. A friend started talking to a ride-hailing driver because they spotted that familiar license number on the app interface. Another person found it in the most awkward situation: when they were asked to present their driver’s license to a traffic officer. I realize that those numbers might be the most tenuous link, reminding people of their shared origins in Saigon.
From a long time ago, I’ve learned by heart: Bạc Liêu-94, An Giang-67, Cà Mau-69. It’s not for any particular use, but sometimes, thanks to that, I can learn a piece of someone’s story via their vehicle. Perhaps they are also waiting for a simple greeting from a familiar face just to not feel alone in a strange land.
