At dawn, the sun breaks through the water; golden grains threshed in the water. Lush, looming islands reach into the sky and disperse the light like green seeds over black soil. A sea eagle glides across the water, swoops down to catch a fish. Water and blood drips from its beak. On land, a lizard runs through a tangled forest, narrowly missing the stomps of a wooden sandal. Then, a lone fisherwoman, in a bamboo hat and bamboo boat, dips her oar into the speckled water. The water beats against the boat, and beats against the orange light, and beats against the fish and seaweed dancing underneath. Waves beat against the port at daybreak; a harsh grey sky. Boats pull into the rubber-lined docks. Boxes of cargo clang onto the concrete; pulleyed by hollow metal machines. Dust cradles with each sweeping moment: in the crevices, spread across the vast concrete expanse, and far into the air and sea. The machine loads the cargo onto a truck, and the truck turns onto the highway and fades into the grey air.
The sea funnels from a river. It originates from the jade mountains of Southern China, and travels southeast along the edges of the hills until it reaches the sea at the northern coast of Vietnam. Sediment along the river is snatched up, giving the water a rusted hue. Locals call the river “Song hong.” The pink river. Colonists renamed it the “Red River,” and built their manicured yellow mansions, cobblestone churches, and steel bridges. The mansions have since been reclaimed by revolutionaries, and repainted. The cobblestone is molded. The steel bridge is now rusted red, like the river it watches over.
The river is the heart of the city. At dawn, steamboats chug along the delta. Bamboo boats carried boxes of fruit and clothing and love from each side of the river. A gentle, rhythmic, push. The river divides mountain and ocean. And the bridge brings a barrage of motorcycles pushing through― rattled with the hourly passing of the trains bound west. If you stand on the bridge while the train passes through, you must hold onto the creaking railing and watch as the concrete steps below you rattle to expose the red water beneath.
The arteries are the roadways, constantly cycling molecules are the motorcycles. They too come in many shapes and sizes. The woman in a grey Vespa and heels on her way to work. The student in a white button-up shirt, navy pants, and a red Yamaha scooter. The old man in a military hat balancing a basket of sticky red lychees. Your father rides from the other bank of the city in a scooter too small for him. He arrives swiftly, as if the rising sun is pulled behind him. He is always punctual, ready to cook your breakfast and tie your shoes. A river, the heart of Hanoi, can not stop love― it knows not to do so.
Your favorite time of day is the afternoons, when the city awakes from its siesta and takes their motorcycles to enjoy the setting sun. All other times of the day, the bridge is too packed to stop. Fruit vendors sell sweet purple mangosteens and prickly green jackfruit, and cyclists stop and hang the bags of fruit from their dashboards. Even when vacant, you are bound to hear beeps. Everyone goes at their own speed here, though they all reach their destination eventually. At morning rush hour, the motorcyclists clog one another― yet a lucky few managed to skid past and maneuver between cars, vendors, and buses.
There is beauty in the traffic. You learned that the only way to learn to drive in traffic is to drive in traffic (if that previous sentence makes any sense.) Your sweaty hand grips the brake. Your sneakers glide over the concrete, ready to stop at a moment’s notice. You realize that the only way to trust yourself is to trust others, and let the current take you away. After your first time in rush hour traffic, you never feel stressed again. The chaos of the streets has a particular order: as long as you have the will to keep going, you will reach your destination. Kind of like how life works, right? The only rule is to keep moving.
There will be a day when your father does not come. You will get a distressed call from his girlfriend, asking to speak to your mom. When you hear the news, you will not know what to do. You will drive far away: to the other side of the city, across the river and across the red, rusted, bridge. You will feel the wind rush against you, blowing your hair and tickling your ears. You will reach the edge of a deserted rice paddy. And you will sit on your motorcycle and watch a buffalo wade through the brown water. Its movements are strong and assured.
When you drive home, the sun will pour diagonally across the bridge. A flaming red sky, (you like to think it was his way of saying “I love you.”) The two constants of the city: the sun will rise and set and the traffic will pour across the bridge.You stop along the side of the bridge, and stare down the center of the river. Dissected: two worlds unfurl beneath you. The red river beneath you extends into the horizon; between two green coasts and towering concrete homes. He probably watched the sun set too.
A woman with her child sitting in front edges behind you. A cyclist stops to stare at the sun. Motorcycles rush past and between, yet even those in a hurry take a moment to turn their head and appreciate the orange sun. You stop and breath, watching the red river flow like the coursing veins of the city.
The Big Duck 