The Crossing

He had always been an adventurous energetic soul, with a curiosity which often led to some uncomfortable moments beyond his sensitive expectations and unworldly comprehension. He enjoyed challenging situations, in some kinky way, he liked the uneasy feeling of vulnerability and jeopardy experienced in the new and the unknown.

The day he arrived at the crossing in the epicentre of the sweating, heaving and old run-down city named logically; river inside – Hanoi, was another day he agreed with Dorothy’s famous but enlightening observation to Toto – “we sure are not in Kansas anymore!”

The view in front of the pending road crossing was impossible to describe in terms of an orderly rule-abiding mode of transportation, a thoroughfare, a crossing, which is a place where normally one can safely cross a road, with care and attention for traffic arriving from opposing and different directions. Also, a term used in railway, and water transportation. On safe solid terra firma, a crossing is where one must give way to any pedestrians or other forms of walking life, whether it is a level crossing, or pedestrian crossing, such as pelican crossing, or a zebra crossing. Funnily, that day, a pelican and zebra were the only two living and walking creatures he didn’t have to circumvent, give way, or give rite of passage to: in his nerve-racking journey of crossing the crossing.

The crossing - a place where at least two lines, or roads, or tracks cross. This crossing had countless!

It seemed all roads lead to Hanoi, not Rome. It was imponderable, if not impossible, nonetheless he needed to cross to get to his destination in the vibrant Asian city. He needed fortitude and courage to face the crossing to the other side. He couldn’t stand there all day, straddled above the idling engine of his rented motorcycle, watching the masses of small people going about their busy daily lives. They glided with ease past him, as though he didn’t exist. If he did exist, they bypassed him with indifferent ease, as he stood there, like an immovable, impenetrable object, a life-sized street statue. Which he was, but he was pondering the imponderable, and he had to gain his fearlessness. If he stayed any longer, he would attract birds, or he would become a contemporary look-a-like stone statue, the street artisan named, unknown tourist with motorcycle. He had to find bravery, he needed courage. In his muddled, addled and anxious thoughts, Lord Tennyson appeared, figuratively of course! A distant whispered shout from the annals and memories of his mind.

“Onward, onward rode the six hundred” Except he was alone and feeling timid, lost, straddling a Honda 50, soon to become the latest piece of Banksy street art.

Tennyson’s words made him reconsider his predicament. Those words were perfect, the exact locution to his foolhardy predicament, it encouraged the bravery and the courage that he sought. He needed to acquire some semblance of faith. Faith in others. Faith in his fellow human beings, faith in the small, tiny people and whether they would avoid him and change their course of direction for him. He needed faith in others. A realization that settled uncomfortably on his independent minded shoulders. He came to the sudden awareness that he was completely out of control, and at the mercy of others. Those others were complete strangers, except in one activity, they too had a destination, and a purpose at those crossroads, at that very moment in time.

He had hired the rental motorbike on a whim, a sudden desire to integrate with his fellow citizens of the Asian city. With a motorbike he felt connected to the daily commute. He certainly didn’t have insurance. Insurance was a modern invention to pay for risk avoidance, in a world lessening risk by day. Most of the citizens of the city of river inside had survived a dreadful battering of airstrike bombing, and a savage war that they were supposed to lose. Their victory, their win; came at such a cost, and twenty years on, the recovery and reconstruction would never erase the mental or physical scars in the city of river inside. Under these circumstances his choice of transport was against all the meaningful advice and gasps of shock from his fellow peers and co-workers back in Kansas - figuratively speaking!

The desire for this type of uninsured motorized biped transport was spurred by his first short visit. Moving around the city in the safety of a taxi car he felt alienated, isolated from the dusty chaotic life on the other side of the windscreen. The inside smells of the vehicle were full of pungent scents of disinfectants and cheap airflow deodorant from frequent interior cleaning. He wanted to be outside with the bustling humanity, pulling, pushing their two-wheel modes of transport stacked high with produce destined for the city market. Every conceivable item that moved was stacked high upon bicycles, motorcycles and dilapidated hand carts. The daily taxi rides he and the driver became hostages to all the wayfarers, as they captured every inch of space on the roads. The car and its occupants were voyeurs and onlookers to the real energy and life on the streets, separated by their affluence, separated from real life and their fellow human beings. Totally, alienated and safe, cloistered by money and wealth.

The feeling of escaping was too compelling. Freedom and a Honda 50 was the only remedy.

With his leather-bound brief case tucked between his legs, he carefully negotiated the gear shift foot pedal, and hand accelerator towards his destiny on the other side of the river, the red river in the ancient Asian city named aptly - river inside.

The journey took him from the quiet embassy district, the location of his hotel on the outskirts of the city along a road running parallel to the mighty red river. Towards the bridge river crossing, but before that passage, he must negotiate the road crossing of a hundred entrances, and many more tiny people with their multitude of motorized and more frequent non-motorized methods of transport. It was a straightforward drive from the less populated area, traveling in a straight line, without foot movements for gear changes, or hand tension movements on the hand throttle. It was easy. The road gradually became busier the closer, as he got to the centre of the Asian city. Driving in the same direction as all the other road users, going in the same direction towards the city was uneventful. Until he arrived at the crossroads, together with the entire population of Vietnam. Then he was struck by the enormity of a problem. How to cross this huge main central intersection? There were no traffic lights, no directional flows, no traffic police, but there was a huge unruly mob of people, a crowd one would see at a sporting event, or a demonstration, but this was the normal morning commute. He had arrived at the crossroads of his morning journey, literally speaking, and it was impossible to cross. The central intersection was the convergence of all the roads, where all the pathways met, at the epicentre of the city. Now his fragile faith had abandoned him, and he realized he was completely out of his depth; the uneasy feelings of panic started to freeze his mind and body. He was statuesque and rooted to the spot unable to move.

The surrounding sounds had been muted by his mind, now gripped in panic, only the sight of thousands of bicycles, piled high, completely overloaded with passengers, smaller, tiny people of the tiny people, piled with bricks for construction, strapped on animals, and lashed down fresh produce market bound, the entire world heaped, tied down, sometimes driven, sometimes pushed, heaved towards and across the crossroads of the city of the river inside. Pedal bicycles, motorcycles, carts of various sizes, pulled, pushed by man or beast descended onto those crossroads endlessly.

By a miracle of human instinct, some sort of spontaneous manners, utter compromise of movement, and subtle body movement and sway, the multitude of tiny people navigated and crossed from one side of the multi-intersection to the other. Without mishaps or collisions. Without guidance, rules or supervision. Without any level of insurance.

He stood and contemplated how they accomplished this miracle. Maybe there were silent coded or disguised code signs, or telepathy, as he witnessed the crude elegance of the masses, snaking their pathways in the chaotic hustle and bustle of the multi tracked crossing. As he continued to ponder the imponderable, the answer gradually came into his head. There was only one answer to the puzzle, the human puzzle in front of him. He closed his eyes, turned the handle of the accelerator slightly, ever so gently in his gripped hand, as the engine came to life and revved. Amongst the noise and bustle of the throng of bedlam in front of him, he slowly edged, he slightly moved into the sea of humanity, the chaotic mass of people, goods, and apparatus. Moving at a constant speed, never changing direction, never opening his eyes, by some kind of higher consciousness of the general masses, a truly personal Moses moment – the chaotic crowd of tiny people parted, swayed, changed course direction, but never stopped, and to his surprise he found like the rest of his commuter companions, he had crossed to the other side of the crossroads. He had crossed the crossing!

As a result, he had become, with his eyes closed, heart open, praying for his life while crossing the crossing. Just another morning commuter in the rush hour of downtown Hanoi.

*Hanoi in the mid 1990’s. I’m told that Hanoi and the surrounds are vastly different today.