Walking The Streets of Hanoi

The week that followed passed by more or less routinely.  I'd wake up later than everyone in the house, well after Mike had gone to work and the kids to school.  I'd then either hang out with Tinh for lunch or go into town to explore Hanoi on my own, before heading home to play with the kids, have dinner then chill with Mike.

Maybe it's a result of my underdeveloped sense of direction, but one of my favorite ways of exploring a new city is to get lost.  In the Old Quarter of Hanoi this was particularly easy to do, surrounded on all sides by the ubiquitous vespas and motorcycles, the principal method of transport in Vietnam.  The collective and ever-present buzz from their motors is reminiscent of a giant beehive, and it's taken me some time and effort to be able to cross any street in Vietnam amidst the sea of two-wheels.  Helmets are mandated by law, though I question the structural integrity of many of those helmets.  Especially those with holes in the back of the helmet where girls can conveniently pull their ponytail through.    As in other developing Asian cities, honking is a way of communicating and not an act of anger; this at least was not new to me.

The advice I was given was, "If it's a motorbike, keep walking.  If it's a car, proceed with caution.  If it's a bus, get the hell out of the way."  But even with this in mind, it's counter-intuitive to plunge into an intersection with forty bikes crisscrossing at every angle and honking to boot.  But the alternative is to never cross any busy street,  because it's a concrete jungle with pedestrians the lowest on the food chain--nobody is going to stop for you.  

The prospect of cowing to traffic offended my pride as a Hong Kong street-walker, so after watching a local or two stride confidently into the street undeterred, I proceeded to do the same.  I walked slowly but steadily in a straight line, trying to avoid stutter steps and abrupt stops and trusting the motorcyclists to calculate my trajectory weave around me. 

Traffic lights were another culture shock, because I had no way of knowing when they would be obeyed.  At one intersection I'd see an army of vespas lining up on a red light as if at the start of a race; the next red light would be ignored completely by everyone.

Evidently my swagger belied my nervousness and confusion, because on one especially busy crossing an old Vietnamese man casually took my arm, expecting me to lead him through the chaos.  Like everyone else here he mistook me for a local, so overcoming my initial shock I happily obliged and guided him through.  When we reached the other side, he gave me a smile and we parted ways.  Since then, I've grown more accustomed to moulding into the traffic, but somewhere in the back of my mind is still a nagging doubt that every crossing is a gamble.  

Baby Jesus Rio

Entrance to Old Quarter