The Hanoi Hug Taxi By Micaella Penning
Amidst the whine and whir of Hanoi’s traffic, small motorbikes carry propane tanks, carpet rolls, hundred-pound rice bags, cages stuffed with ducks and chickens—sometimes alive, sometimes dead— suitcases, bushels of baguettes, aquariums, ladders in an upright position, logs, and wooden crates of toilet paper rolls, five feet tall and wide. Entire families cling to single bikes; toddlers often left to fend for themselves while grabbing the backs of their parent’s shirt. Few children wear helmets; the law requiring their use is enforced only on adults. Many drivers wear facemasks to guard against pollution, giving an austerity to their faces, with only the eyes visible between the helmet, mask and jacket. In the city, the sun dissipated into a sickly bluegray cast. Breathing the thick fumes added to the feeling of sluggish nausea caused by heat and humidity. But drivers seemed relaxed and nonchalant, as they zipped and zoomed in a viscous mob, honking their horns, weaving around sauntering pedestrians and idling trucks, equally content in the right lane, the left lane, the middle, or the sidewalk. Drivers shouted into cell phones above the roar, and lighted up cigarettes at stoplights. I saw one man idly resting his foot on another bike’s muffler as they careened by. Crossing the street on foot was a nightmare—it felt as if all of two-wheeled Hanoi was barreling down on me. Several times my toes came within inches of bearing rubber tread indentations. My guidebook had said not to waver when crossing the street, and not to run, stop, or show fear. At first, this felt impossible. I sprinted and stopped, wobbled and waved, quivered and bounced, as if walking on glowing coals. Eventually, I became calmer, trying to emulate the placid ambling of Hanoians. I always tried to wait until other people were crossing, sidling to the group’s edge furthest from oncoming traffic, selfishly imagining them as human shields. But only my nerves were scathed; I never saw anything resembling a run-in, let alone an accident. It wasn’t only the road that was clogged with motorbikes: the sidewalks resembled giant, skinny strips of parking lot or dealership. In areas, their thickness sent me back on the fringes of the street, as I anxiously hopped back and forth between curb and road, as space allowed. Noodle-sellers stirred steel cauldrons of steaming broth among tailpipes, mufflers and wheels, clad in nón lá, the quotidian, conical-shaped leaf hat. The hat has ancient origins—even people carved onto bronze relics three millennia ago wore them; long before appearing scattered amidst parked motorbikes. “Lets take a xe ôm instead of a taxi!” my friend Diana excitedly declared as we left the cool, air-conditioned stillness of our guesthouse in Hanoi’s old quarter. “I took Hanoians amble placidly amidst chaotic traffic, often wearing traditional conical nón lá hats. | MICAELLA PENNING
46 APRIL 2017
NORTHERN WILDS