Vietnam: Impressions

You step out, and it is like 2 entirely different worlds. From the comfort of the clean airport, you step out almost immediately into the warm, dusty air of the city. The effect was much more photographic than health: the building edges seemed softer. It was like the city was shrouded in thin veil of mysterious charm. It teased; it beckoned. So I stepped forth...

The first thing one would eventually realise about Vietnam was how the two-wheeled vehicles ruled the streets; everything else did not matter. Cars could move only as quickly as the motorcycles would permit; painted white lines provided order for only as long as cyclists were not in a hurry. You see, a motorcycle in Vietnam is a a Multi-Purpose Vehicle:

1) Family vehicle.
It is not uncommon to see a family of 5 sharing a single bike: child-father-child-child-mother. The dad holds the handlebars, the mom holds the dad; their arms reach around their children, holding them safe. Relatively-speaking, of course.

2) Mover.
Requiring only 1 or 2 people, bikes can be used to transport almost everything from wooden boards to refrigerators (this I saw once!). The objects would rise vertically from the seats of the bikes, secured by ropes and string. If space permits, a back rider would spread his hands across the object, holding it in place. He (often, male) holds onto nothing else. Supported only by his legs wrapped around the seat, he often cannot see ahead. The bike would surge ahead, swerving suddenly and abruptly to squeeze forward. Still, he barely shows a sign of stress.

Clad in a half-helmet, the Vietnamese would often don a mask to filter the air they breathe. Betraying only their eyes and a bit of their forehead, their identity is otherwise concealed. Perhaps it is this that gives them the reckless bravery to live life so dangerously. As a tour guide would in a future day reveal, the Vietnamese live by the bike and die by it.

Not surprisingly, vehicle horns ring throughout the city.
Horn! Coming through.
Horn! Thanks.
Horn! How is life?
Horn! It's great; how is yours?
The language of the street is rather cryptic, but the horns have to mean more than aggression. Once, as I crossed the street, a motorbike rushed towards me and swerved away, horning. I had a look at the cyclist: his expression betrayed no aggression.

"Horn! I am sorry, were you shocked?"

Ah, the charms of Vietnam -- in a quick essay.