Zoom Zoom

When I was in first grade I was paid a dime a day to walk Donna Norman to school.  I can still remember getting kind of shoved out the door by my mom, and encouraged (told) to scoot on down to the Norman’s duplex to pick up my charge.

“Put the money in this napkin, so you don’t lose it.”  I’m not sure the dime meant all that much to me, though it did gain momentum of sorts because of the attention heaped on it by the adults.  I was more concerned with the responsibility of getting another person to their destination.  After all, it was only just recently I’d put the whole getting someplace thing together myself, and was sort of looking forward to hanging with the bigger kids, but the adult world had other plans, and I was stuck with Donna, who, for the record, was cute as hell in her flared little dress and patent leather shoes—something that, like the value of a dime, was nowhere near my radar screen at the age of five.  I didn’t give much thought to how Donna felt about the arrangement, or if she knew or cared about the fact I was getting paid for my kindness.  Probably anyone other than her mother would have registered as competition to so young a kid, a roadblock in the way of true and pure love.  Plus, it was her first foray out of the home and into a place of pain and differentness (school) making me the proverbial bringer of bad tidings.  I’d take her hand and together we’d work our way down the sidewalks of Oak Park to Tyler Elementary school—about six blocks.  Come lunch hour, I’d bring her home and collect my dime. 

In retrospect, I’m hard-pressed to imagine just what kind of security Mrs. Norman imagined her dime was buying.  I certainly knew enough to stop at the crosswalks and look for traffic, but any number of third graders out there could have had us for lunch.  Perhaps the sight of us toddling off together down the sidewalk, her hand bravely linked to mine, sparked a certain invincibility; a shield of and from humanity fueled by the light of our innocence and lack of fear.  Somehow, the coupling of humans into pairs, then into units of family, and finally communities, bears an almost transcendent power over the caprice of mayhem. A pocket of peace amid the madness, and it starts with a child’s hand, reaching out with a bit of hope and faith. Then, too, it could have simply been the detritus of a beer-soaked Labor Day afternoon, in which our very young and stupid parents waxed romantic over the prospect of their very young and vulnerable children setting forth into a hard and callous world—arm in arm, together.  Whatever the reason, I’m guessing there are very few five year olds leading their neighbor’s four year olds down the streets of Oak Park today—and not just because Detroit has turned into a cobweb of dust, fumes, and empty Strohs beer bottles.  We now bundle our sacred ones into airbag-equipped cars, wrap them into various plastic contrivances of protection, and organize their every move under the careful watch of paranoid adults.  Helmets, knee-pads, elbow pads, mouth guards.  After all, the world’s full of catastrophe.  Just look at the news.

The other day while crossing a not-too-busy street in Nah Trang, I failed to take hold of Rebecca’s hand.  It was hot, I was a tad uncomfortable, and frankly didn’t much feel like human contact. Plus, I correctly assumed she was just behind me.  Still, it was a break from our established tradition while in Asia. Once we both landed safely on the far shore of sidewalk, Rebecca gave me something of a sideways glance and asked, “Don’t you love me anymore?”  

Assuming the question was rhetorical, I proceeded to crank up a suitably wise-assed response.  I’m sorry, have we met?  Did you brush your teeth this morning…they’re kind of fuzzy-looking.  I don’t think that girl’s wearing any underpants…

                Not really.  Instead, I turned, and with a sense of urgency only the heat of fervent passion can kindle, enveloped her hand into both of mine as I dropped to a knee and asked her to forgive me and to once again be my bride—all to the kaleidoscopic backdrop of scooters whizzing past carrying their appointed charges of young, smiling Vietnamese.  Very romantic.  I can’t remember that it worked to suitably gloss over my transgression, but it did go to show I’m still capable of bending to a knee and back again without white-hot pain and the sound of distant thunder.  So there’s that.

                Then this: yesterday we (by which I invariably mean Rebecca if it has to do with researching our world) saw a review of a little family run Vietnamese restaurant near our hotel here in Hue.  It was perfect.  White tile walls, stainless steel tables, grandma playing with a couple of kids, and the whole of it open to the street.  Plus the food was gorgeous and cheap.  Pig heaven.  When we were done eating (a frankly embarrassing spectacle of slurping and grunting, shoulders slouched protectively round our kill) I ordered a coffee with milk while Rebecca finished her beer.  When it arrived, I leaned back to consider the whir of traffic and to watch the sweat bead onto my forearms.  Just then a young man—probably in his late twenties or early thirties, pulled up on a scooter to pick up something from the restaurant.  He was with a little girl, who stayed on the scooter waiting while her dad talked with the owner.  And by “little” I mean like two years old, maybe three. The bike was resting on its kick-stand, and she fidgeted about as children will, holding the throttle, reaching for the brakes, fingering the keys in the ignition.  She alternated between standing on the little platform and leaning back onto the seat—like a chaise lounge, all to the invariable backdrop of scooter traffic, taxis, and trucks racing by within inches of her tender frame.  Her dad chatted away with the restaurant owner.  Pulled out a cigarette, checked out a couple of Danish chicks seated near the toilet.

                “Look at her.  What do you think?  Three?  Two?”  I kind of suck when it comes to guessing a kid’s age.  Especially here in South-east Asia.  But she was wee. 

                Rebecca considered. “Maybe three.  Can’t be any more than that.”  For one horrible instant I flashed on an image of the child turning the key, somehow getting the engine going, and roaring into the open jaws of traffic, smiling beatifically as her young father turns in horror…

                But only briefly.  I became suddenly aware of the number of other children on the bikes whizzing past.  Typically they’re perched between a parent and the handlebars.  Either standing on the small platform below the seat, or sitting on the seat itself. Sometimes they wear helmets, but typically not.  And they’re totally engaged, watching the buzz and hum of activity before them.  Feeling the wind.

                “Christ.  Some of these kids aren’t old enough to walk.  They’re actually getting their first sense of movement on a two-wheeled vehicle.”  And, by the way, it’s all bikes—rather, all motorbikes.  In India there’s a serious encroachment of cars on the roads, choking out what little space there is, but here in S.E. Asia, it’s all bikes, save for a few taxis and the obligatory truck/bus. (And SUV’s, which are the Darth Vadars of transport, but that’s another story.)   

                Motor scooters are pressed into every conceivable service.  Cages mounted to racks extending over the rear wheel hold chickens (hundreds of them, alive and in serious contemplation of their fate); pigs, two to three very depressed-looking hogs; baskets filled with fish, still dripping and flopping from their morning swim.  They haul cases (like, many tens of cases) of beer, fifty-five gallon drums of fuel, beds, furniture.  Flowers, ice, coal. Four to five members of a family, typically alternating big and small, so the older can kind of look out for the little ones.  It’s a proper circus, and something of a lesson on just what is possible with a 125 cc engine and two wheels.  (Which, by the way, have completely encroached on most of the areas originally designated for pedestrians.  Between scooters at rest--and often zipping along the sidewalk to cut around a traffic jam-- goods seeping out of shop fronts onto the sidewalk, and makeshift restaurants, there’s very little room for us bipeds.)  Walking, it seems, is for saps.

                There’s a fluidity of movement, too, in both the whole of the traffic as it wends and merges at intersections and roundabouts, and with each individual’s control of their bike, which seems an extension of their body.  It all brings to mind the coursing of blood through arteries and veins.  Indeed, so complete is each rider’s relationship with his (and her) bike, the machine takes on an organic, appendage-like aspect, capable of giving and receiving neural information directly from the road and its various impediments.  Most of these riders, after all, grew up on a set of wheels. And in that regard, they are very different from you and me.  Which brings me around to how we pedestrians (as in, Rebecca and I) fare in this world of non-walkers.

                The answer is, pretty well—as long as we exercise a degree a faith.  As in: stepping forth into the fray with the belief that we will not be slammed to the road and ground into meat-jelly paste. We’ve come to expect they’ll alter course in subtle and not so subtle ways to create a pocket in the mayhem---a not entirely comfortable circumstance for someone accustomed to crosswalks and stop signs with clear rights of passage. We often finds ourselves in the middle of this fast-moving stream, trying to negotiate what amounts to a barrage of large, hot bullets coming at us from three to four different directions.  But if we lack the courage to leave the curb, we only experience one side of Asia’s streets. Stepping foot by foot directly into the path of an on-coming missile requires the confidence—the faith—that said missile will veer just before the point of impact.   It’s quite the rush, one best shared with a partner.

                And so we set out, relative babes in the woods, practicing our own brand of innocence against a potentially harsh world, trusting in its capacity to yield in the face of our faithful ignorance. Preferably hand in hand.