Travels and Perceptions

Every rev of an engine tugs my heart, I purse my lips through every acceleration and the constant braking makes my stomach lurch. My arms are around my aunt’s waist and my fingers are tightly intertwined so that only a crowbar could unlock the fear sealing my hands. Somehow in this heavy traffic, there is a hidden chaotic order built upon a latent trust; foreigners like me call it absurdity. Motorcyclists are appearing out of thin air, or perhaps a more fitting description, would be the hot, thick and suffocating air. The smell of summer’s sweat permeates through the polluted atmosphere and pedestrians are waltzing rigidly through the relentless stream of traffic.
Among the sea of heads, not a helmet is to be seen. Despite the sweltering heat, I see a woman with a denim jacket encrusted with fake gaudy jewels that spell out “Bebe”, she wears large sunglasses and her face mask stretches to her décolletage. Her socks are specially tailored to isolate the toes, so that she can slip into a pair of thongs. She is dressed from head to toe, in typical modern Vietnamese casual attire, assembled specifically to block the blazing sun and prevent tanning.
The stranger is approaching. I am staring into the black sun shades hoping we are making eye contact, but she continues and she is dangerously close. She is next to me and my ankles feel the heat emanating off her exhaust, my aunt seems unfazed by her proximity and I cannot fathom her indifference. I am going to be in car accident within two hours of arriving to this concrete jungle; and I am calculating ways that will soften the impact when I fall. To my relief, she scoots through a little gap between two other motorcyclists and she is gone.
Before I can think of the breaches of road safety and her interesting ensemble of clothing, I am distracted by
a street vendor fanning her coal heated stove. A cloud of smoke covers my vision momentarily, and I can only smell the aromas of Suon; vietnamese grilled beef. The smell of lemongrass garnish and honey drizzled on top draws out my saliva. I am hungry for something that is not reheated and salt-saturated aeroplane food.
I arrive. This will be home for the next four weeks. I am overwhelmed by the drastic lifestyle changes I will encounter during my sojourn in my mother’s childhood home.
Hidden in between the labyrinthine network of alleyways and small roads of the Ho Chi Minh City’s 11th district, I have a family I have never met.