Scoot Over...

I snapped a couple scooter pics this afternoon.  Being Sunday, the traffic’s kind of light.  I sat at a little table in front of a restaurant near where our hotel’s alley empties out.  As scooters whizzed by, I hit the button.  I also took a walk around the block and shot some scooter pics.

At the risk of re-stating the obvious, scooters rule in this land.  They’re parked in tight rows along the sidewalks, pressing pedestrians (a dying breed) closer and closer to the street where—surprise!—their mobile brethren fly by, sometimes zagging onto the sidewalk to avoid a slowdown in the scooter current.  

More than cars, I think, they serve as an extension of one’s personality.  And, too, become something of a companion, a trusted friend, a little piece of solace amid the noise and haste.

It starts when, at a very young age, a parent props their child into a make-shift seat, or stands them on the foot rest between their legs, and admonishes the child to hold on as they go about the business of getting where they need to go.  As such, the feel of the bike under foot and butt is visceral and completely natural.  The motion of the machine makes perfect sense on a cellular level. 

Rebecca and I learned early on that there is no end to the scooter river.  Waiting for a break in traffic  to cross the road is sheer folly.  Instead, I’ve taken to grabbing hold of Rebecca’s hand and pulling her into the fray with the confidence she’ll not balk.  The scooters, for their part, react in much the same way a school of fish reacts when a strange breed swims into their midst: they part and shift in such a way as to make a small pocket of non-scooter space in the road.  As we walk, the pocket tracks around us like an air bubble fighting for the surface.

The people here clearly love their scooters.

There are probably cops here, but I’ve yet to see one.  And so, the scooters do whatever it takes.  Generally speaking, they follow the rule of stop on red and go on green.  But they also seem to think nothing of swimming upstream, against traffic.  Or, as I said earlier, turning the sidewalk into road “B”.

They are bothersome in many ways but, truth be told, I’m a bit jealous. I sense a closeness among scooter riders that is very different than what transpires between people in cars in tightly packed traffic.  They’re tucked in cheek and jowl, and would certainly be justified were they to erupt in anger.  But no.  It’s as though the tightness of the road and the closeness of their fellow riders only serves to sharpen the blade, as it were, and force one into a more elevated game of wheelmanship.

We’ve befriended the desk guy here at the hotel, name of Phu.  The other night, after work, he and his brother came by on their scooters and took Rebecca and I to a place near his house for a bowl of Bun Rieu Cua.  On the way, I held on tight as we zipped in and out of traffic, sometimes missing the edges of trucks/cars/pedestrians by inches.  At one point, Phu’s brother pulled alongside—we were doing thirty or forty MPH—and the two exchanged money for a gas stop, handlebars perhaps half an inch apart.  

The next morning, I jokingly shared with Phu that he drives like a madman (not the exact word I used…)  He seemed physically hurt by the comment.

“I have never had an accident,” he stammered.  “I am a very good driver!”  I assured him I was speaking in jest, but sensed it didn’t help much to withdraw the knife, once the initial plunge of the blade is secured.  

I suppose a cowboy would understand; to insult his horsemanship is fighting words.  Still, though there’s poetry in the process, I think for our next foray into distant parts of the city, we’ll hail a cab.