Motorculture


They beep at every corner. They beep from behind, from ten feet in front, from either side, from head-on. They beep at 4:30 and don't stop until midnight. Two beeps warn; one long one alerts others of high speeds. A woman in a pencil skirt beeps on the way to the office. An aging man in green linen pants beeps on the way to the farm, with two pigs stacked on top of each other, lying in a cage behind him. A teenage couple beeps on the way to the movie theater, the girl's arms tight around her boyfriend's waist as he swerves down the road.

There is a game commonly played amongst foreigners living in Hanoi--let's call it The Things They Carried. Merely a quotidian occurrence for motorcyclists, we visitors stare in awe as entire families pack in to one Honda Wave and zoom away. Past winners include two children standing in front of a seat with two more wedged between a couple sitting on the seat; three men with four bags of squawking roosters; and four adults with one air conditioner.


Not only are motorcyclists able to observe what others are carrying, they can also view the jean brands of every passenger or the type of candy a child clutches. In American traffic, cars trap passengers into a secluded compartment of glass windows and metal doors and no one moves. In Vietnamese traffic, motorcycles squeeze as close together as possible as everyone streams down the French boulevards at a similarly slow pace.


The sense of camaraderie fits the socialist political system. Xe ôms, which literally translates to hug the driver, pepper street corners as an alternative to bulky taxis. Men catch naps after work as they wait for customers to haggle with them. With feet resting on the handlebars, they nestle their torsos into the seat cushion. The side mirrors become an extension of the bathroom. The drivers pick at their teeth with toothpicks, shave, and clip their nose hairs. Private life seeps into the city of Hanoi.

Every motorcycle serves as an extension of the owner's house. It travels down the twisted marketplace alleys, it provides a space to lounge on and read the newspaper while escaping the midday sun, and it provides assistance to vendors who pack up clothes or pottery and move to another street to continue selling.

The motorcycle craze involves a high degree of trust. The vehicles are small enough to wheel away inconspicuously. The engine is close enough to cause serious injury if another driver overshoots a swerve, gets distracted by a Western pedestrian, or meanders home after a night of rice vodka shots. Passengers pack into a seat tight enough and drivers pack a street dense enough for strangers’ legs to brush against each other. A hundred breaths mingle with exhaust fumes.