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| Family values: Riding a Vietnamese
SUV. |
| Photo by Thomas Jandl |
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| Grace under fire: Schoolgirl
in national dress (ao dai) braves traffic in
central Ho Chi Minh City. |
| Photo by Thomas Jandl |
To get a good feeling of the sense of urgency that
prevails in Vietnam, all one has to do is to jump
on a motorbike. Finger on the horn, wildly zooming
left, right, hitting break and accelerator simultaneously,
but always with a smile, your xe om (motorbike taxi)
driver will get there – in a rush, but not
fast.
The frenzy on the road reflects a society in transition;
a society that knows where it wants to go but is just
working out the ground rules on how to get there in
a coordinated fashion.
There are two kinds of rules on the road, those established
by tradition and those established by government.
The first set is observed meticulously, the second
… well, they are getting there.
At every crowded intersection, motorbikes will rush
towards you on the left side of the road, plowing
into a wall of oncoming traffic, beeping frantically
– which makes no difference, because everybody
does it. The idea is to cut across before traffic
cuts them off, thus saving a few valuable seconds.
Since traffic comes to a virtual standstill when the
waves of oncoming vehicles clash, no time is gained,
accidents are legion and Vietnam has the second-highest
road death rate in the world after India.
But drivers feel they are in the fast lane. And what
could be worse in a country with such buzz and pace
than being left behind?
The foreigner continues to feel like acting as a consultant.
“As you know, we are turning right in 10 seconds.
There is no need to dart out onto the left side of
the road to pass one bike just to slow down and make
the way across half the width of the road to the right,
losing twice the time you gained in the first place.”
A friendly smile, and zoom … one more bicycle
passed, and now full stop, return to where we actually
wanted to go. “See, I told you so.” Friendly
smile.
The issue in Vietnam is not – has never been
– time, it is the principle of motorbike passing
bicycle, of car passing motorbike. Why would you work
so hard to buy a moto if you were to stay to the right
side of the road and wait behind a pauper on a bike?
The same psychology is at work when it comes to honking.
Nobody can seriously believe that anyone – anyone
at all – listens to the millions of horns constantly
beeping. Bicycles don’t ring their bells at each
other, nor do pedestrians yell to get the right of
way. But they are left-overs from the old egalitarian
times, when everybody walked or biked, no need to
hurry. Time is not of the essence.
But the few who could afford a motorbike, they needed
to go faster, needed to indicate their new-found status,
get the others out of the way. So they beeped their
timid little horns. Enter the car!
Now, of course, almost everybody has a motorbike,
and it seems the beeping is getting less ubiquitous
– or is it getting used to? But of course, now
there are more and more cars. And they need to get
ahead.
In Ho Chi Minh City, where cars are limited to certain
lanes where in turn all other traffic is banned during
rush hour, there is no honking. They are all in the
same boat, stuck in traffic among social peers. But
wait until they get back on the same road with lowly
two-wheelers!
But in all the madness, in all the trial-and-error
approach to progress on the road, in all the attempts
to skirt rules and regulations to be faster, or seem
to be, the Vietnamese have not lost their grace. They
smile as they dart headlong into traffic, they forgive
a foreigner for stopping at a red light, they keep
their composure even as their left knee hits a car
while the right shoulder makes contact with a moto
speeding by.
It’s chaos, but it’s charming, and like
the whole country, it’s always on the move. |
