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Handlebar to handlebar in Hanoi

Bikes, bikes and more bikes. Veena. N joins the mass of two-wheelers on Hanoi's crowded roads

CHEEK BY JOWL Moped-riders vying for space on a Hanoi road

My experience with all things Vietnamese started at the Bangkok airport from where I was heading to Hanoi for a couple of days. "Don't bother to go early, the airport will be empty and you can get through the formalities quickly," my well-travelled agent had said. I reached two hours early to see a gaggle of Vietnamese descend from two huge buses with loads of baggage and beat me to the entrance where check-in baggage was being X-rayed — middle-aged ladies in severe brown and light blue suits with green plastic bags that screamed: `We've been a-shopping!' All those middle-aged women and men with so many plastic bags and briefcases getting on the flight felt like Indians on a train! I felt very much at home.

A friend of a friend of a friend was to show me around the city. She turned up on her little moped. "Sorry, it doesn't have a footrest," she said. It's OK, I said, searching for and finding a little stub to rest the edge of my first toe. My toehold on life, I realised later.

We set off to ride through Hanoi. The traffic comprised almost entirely of mopeds — small bikes. No scooters, no huge motorbikes. Just identical mopeds made in China. The one I was pillion riding was an antique piece from Japan. We joined a huge mass of two-wheelers cruising past us on the road. The bikes were almost handlebar to handlebar.

Simple driving rules

Oh! I finally saw a car. The driving rules seemed simple. Step on the horn and drive at about 20 km/hr. The motorbikes ahead ignored the horn and proceeded as before. It seemed as if the car had an escort of a hundred motorbikes — quite a motorcade that! There was a break in the road and a young woman in a skirt came by and turned into the road we were on. It seemed as if she wanted to cross the street. Hmmm, tough job, I thought. She edged her way into the traffic and just continued to cross the road despite the oncoming traffic. Somehow she made it across the road safely and continued her tryst with destiny. The traffic reminded me of an amoeba that is constantly changing shape, breaking off into smaller bits, growing again and moulding itself to incorporate little morsels of food and let the morsels out again if they are unpalatable.

The fastest way to reach your destination, I discovered, was to go against the flow of traffic. Most of the oncoming drivers swerved around and went on their way allowing us to proceed at a steady pace. Travelling with the traffic was rather slow given the number of people we had to swerve to avoid, slow down to avoid or sometimes, just stop dead to avoid. If you want to turn left, stay in the right lane, then cut through all the traffic to turn left. For a right turn, stick to the left lane and then use the horn to get across.

The women were wearing shoulder length gloves and caps and hankies across the nose and mouth — with only the eyes visible! "This," my guide told me, "is to stay fair." The hankies have little velcro tapes to secure them at the back of the head — over the cap! No messy business of tying knots at the back of the head. No helmets because they mess up the straight long hair. The price of vanity!

It started drizzling. My hostess drove to the edge of the road and stopped. She took out a double headed raincoat and proceeded to put it on my head and hers. "I bought it for my ex-boyfriend," she said. Over beer that evening, I learnt that when she saw him using it with another girl on the pillion, she took the raincoat back and dumped the guy.

Finally, we reached our destination and I hopped off the bike and on to the floor in a heap. The missing footrest had extracted its price, the cramp in my leg was excruciating. It was an experience I repeated several times in the course of the next two days and I must say I returned to Indian traffic with some relief.

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