Get Up Eight

I am a salmon

Making my way upstream, doing my best to avoid random grizzlies

With one key difference.

A salmon heading to spawn is all purpose and faith. These resolute fish are steadfast, spurred on by instinct, assured by ancestral wiring that they will reach their goal.

Procreation is a powerful motivator.

As for me, I’m a minnow. I have purpose – get the bike running – but lack confidence on my way up the river.

can I really trust this map

I have no idea where I’m going

I’ve left the friendly cartographers, their hand-scrawled map in hand, and have made the questionable decision to push and walk alongside the bike against the flow of traffic.

If I’m turning left up ahead this is definitely the right decision

right?

The swarming, endless headlights continue their assault, nearly blinding me as I stride awkwardly beside the bike, trying to avoid collision. I trust in the map, channel my inner sockeye, and continue onward.

That’s when, from nowhere, the small yet sturdy woman emerges. Grey coveralls and soft-brimmed hat, bandana trailing out her back pocket. Urging her double-wide garbage cart along the same side of the street as me. She is unbowed, indifferent even, to the oncoming flow. She powers forth, her sense of purpose leading her on.

She has work to do. And she is confident.

I keep pace, grateful for her shield, comforted in the notion that this tiny robust woman knows the way.

I pick up my pace to match hers. Our steady shared rhythm bolsters my mood.

Now I have someone to swim with.

From the first spin

The drive engine on our e-bike has done a share of cutting in and out.

Usually after a little bit of whacking or tapping (I’m the Fonz) the drive kicks back into gear. But since the lay-down, it’s gotten worse.

This is called foreshadowing.

---

A couple of days have passed since we had our near collision. I wrap up the school day and try to decide on the best route home. I round the corner from the school gate and make my usual decision. Two roads diverge.

Is it the road less traveled?

My choice today is exactly that, and that, of course, makes all the difference.

Straight out the gate towards the four-lane causeway, saving the side road for another day. Off to S&A’s place, we’re on for dinner. Taxis, trucks, and endless motorbikes fly by, all horns and clutter. I make my way into the mix, ease the throttle forward, and get up to speed.

And then the engine dies.

Nothing.

I hastily peek right, throw on my signal (thankfully functional), grateful for my momentum but inexorably coasting to a stop. Luckily, I’d stayed close to the curb and hadn’t yet made the dash across 4 lanes for a left turn.

I pause, take a breath, and try to coax life. All my usual dance moves, but they disappoint.

Stone dead.

I punch out a text

Bike’s dead, gonna try to check with a shop over here

Lacking alternatives, I get off the bike and start to push. Past the four gentlemen, hunched over their soup. They eye me briefly, quizzically. And then return to dinner, I’m no longer their concern.

I make my way to the major intersection dotted with shops – I know that there’s a small garage there. I settle up and point to the bike.

No go

With a shrug of my shoulders

can you fix?

The man and woman squatting on their plastic stools tell me, not in so many words but with their actions, that they cannot fix an e-bike here. They glance and motion inside, as if to make their case. I see the array of gas cans, cylinders, and greasy tools.

I believe them.

Is there another shop?

They point down the street and then tell me. I don’t recall seeing a shop on this street, so I wonder how far. Quickly translating, I do my best to ask.

Is it far?

They look at each other and instead of answering me, grab a piece of scrap paper and scribble out a map detailing the route.

A left turn, then another left turn. At the bottom, scrawled hastily to label,

Ngo 38

I thank them and make my way down the road

Searching for lane 38

I have thoughts

in a state of preponderance

Just moments out of a self-care special, a massage, tea, and a sit.

I’m calm on the out, but my in is busy

Considering future, ruminating on past.

Contemplating.

I wander up the concrete ramp, eager to hop on our bike and meet the family at the ramen shop, a recommendation from a friend

It’s been a while

I crest the top, recalling last time, when for some unforeseen reason I forgot to put on my helmet and rode for twenty minutes, rag top down so my hair could blow.

Today, the helmet cozies my noggin, lending comfort to the whirls and swirls within. I slide the latch one extra notch, secure it to my head with a satisfying click.

That’s better

I peer to my left, eager to hop on our bike and sample the noodles.

I really hope it’s decent ramen

But the bike is gone

I pause, shook from my reverie. I think my brain is playing tricks on me yet again, the massage has shaken my noodles loose

Alas, no.

I stare at the blank slate, the negative space created by a bike that is no more. And find myself left alone

To contemplate

Reflecting today on a piece I drafted a year ago, written with hopes that Distance Learning would be a short-term deal. And what might be, today and tomorrow. A flash.

Third floor

J in the middle of a Zoom with one of her EAL students. She smiles and solicits a response to a prompt, the child smiles back

First floor

Rhino and Elephant in the middle of Hangouts and Zooms with classmates

Second floor

I’m in the middle

And on the edge

And so, so, so

Tired

Just out for a stroll.

We take the long way around today, which allows us to jump through the short cut. It sneaks us under the scaffolded awnings and into the 3-metre wide corridor, past the usually abandoned restaurant. Once again today, it is dark, fish tanks arrayed in front, pumps busy, ready for the catch of the day that never comes.

I’ve yet to see any fish.

We pass through and approach the wood slats that define the end of the restaurant property and beginning of the alley. I never really know whether it’s okay for us to travel this way, but we’ve never really been hassled.

Hello!

Until now.

Where are you live?

Sorry?

I worry that we’ve pressed our luck and it has run out. We both tend to be rule followers, but this path is well-worn, and we regularly see random motorbikes pass this way, so what’s the harm in a couple of kindly foreigners?

Where are you live?

We live in Xom Chua!

I point.

He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. His green helmet slightly askew as he settles on the motorbike.

Crap. Did we do something wrong?

Ah, no, sorry! Where do you from?

Country?

Ah! Canada!

I say, with relief.

Ok!

How old are you?

Sorry?

How old are you?

Ah, I’m an old, old man.

No?

I’m an old man!

I offer, only half in jest, with a smile.

Okay. Have a nice day!

He says with a kind wave and a broad smile, and his body relaxes.

English practice for today is done

And I am genuinely, duly impressed at this risk-taker.

I sit in the abandoned classroom, accompanied and hassled by the squad of flies, diving in, alighting on my neck and flitting away, just enough nuisance to distract.

There’s so many at this time of year

Where do they all come from?

I hear a couple voices down the way and peek at the clock

they’re coming back already?

With a start, I jump up, sneak out of the classroom, and await the returning kids

they trail in at different times, back from their range of world language classes.

There’s great energy here. Plenty of smiles, they’ve had fun.

And the overarching mood is gratitude to be back in school.

I welcome each child back with an elbow bump and reminder

back to your nonfiction text – looking for important details

right back to it

When I notice the folded paper on the shoe rack

What is that?

I can be a bit fastidious (at times, that is), keeping the area in and around the class tidy is generally a priority for me.

So I step over and thoughtlessly reach down to pick it up, and find my fingers sticking to the paper.

I pull my hand away and finally look down.

And that’s when I realize I have put my hands down, firmly, onto a folded piece of fly paper

but this is, cruelly, not a fresh piece

It’s loaded, squished nibblies, and guts. Fly guts. Everywhere.

And now, all over my fingers.

I gasp, the kids spot my mistake, and groan.

I throw the paper into the trash, rush into the bathroom, and wash my hands

doing my best to keep my lunch down.

I sneak into the back of the cab

It’s always a quiet moment. Invariably, as the driver sees that I am not ‘from around here’, he keeps quiet. I, being not ‘from around here’, do the same.

I settle in, watch the lights of the neighbourhood wander past, and listen

The radio is gentle, understated, some kind of talk radio. I strain to understand, navigating tones and sharp cuts to find any kind of meaning

Gotta keep studying

When I hear, unmistakeable

Leicester City and Brighton

Now they’re speaking my language.

In my broken, flawed Vietnamese, I manage to ask whether he likes football, and he’s off.

Pulls out his phone, excited now. Points to today’s fixtures.

Man City – Man U

I ask which team he likes

No Man City! Too much money!

On this we can agree. I have a begrudging respect for them, but yeah.

I consider explaining how the Top 6 are basically an oligopoly, how the bottom half of the table serves largely as a farm system for the big clubs, symbolic of the inequity plaguing our greater society and inherent issues with capitalism as a problematic pillar of our modern world

But decide that might be a tough explain

---

So, instead, we spend the rest of the ride in silence, the radio show in good form

Smiling

Appreciating our shared language

Happy International Women’s Day!

It should be, and is, for many.

But it’s not, for far too many others.

We read Malala’s Magic Pencil this morning. About how she wove magic, achieved the unimaginable. With her words.

How words have power.

There is an audible gasp in the classroom when I tap the statistic that 130,000,000 young girls are unable to attend school.

This is unthinkable, for these kids. Unconscionable, for me.

But sad simple reality, for so many more.

A colleague adds that since COVID, these numbers are on the grow.

---

In the face of these official ‘days’, ‘months’, and various campaigns that so often act as bandaid, performative and toothless, I’m reminded of Cornel West’s clarity:

Now I have nothing against philanthropy. I just don’t confuse charity with justice.

---

And, so, again this year, with justice in mind and an eye on a world where we don’t need reminders

I raise a glass to the moms, grannies, aunties, sisters, partners, friends, teachers, and girls

Who weave magic, every day.

Like many things in Hanoi, these winding streets feel unimaginable. The narrowest of alleys, sheperded by iron gates, concrete walls, towering apartments. All linked with secret turns and punctuated by the sharpest of angles.

The sky darkens from gray to black, dusk is here. We’re unconcerned, despite being trapped like rats and even accompanied by a few.

We wander.

The slight woman with the twin baskets slung over her shoulder, perfectly balanced, conical Non La atop her head, overtakes, then keeps pace with us. I’m not sure where she’s going, but for now she’s a rabbit to our chase.

She pauses, slides open the imposing gate, and steps delicately up the three landing stairs. Removes her shoes and hat, and slips inside. The fresh vegetables lining her baskets have found their home.

We continue along, leaving our rabbit behind, until the impossibly narrow alley becomes impossibly narrower. Just wide enough for a bike, or a wild dog. As we squeeze through, and round a couple more corners, it’s clear we’re not sure where we’re going.

We round the next corner and pause to peer through the narrow slats on the metal gate, and finally recapture our sense of direction.

But what seems right has left us.

where did the lake go

Undeterred and resolute, we march on.

If there’s one thing we’ve learned from our time here

it’s that something amazing is around the corner.

My eyes are drawn

First, to the bike.

Immaculate, sleek, defined. This is the treasure of one who tends, with care. Both helmets perfectly placed, one hanging, as it should, from the handlebar, ready at moment’s notice. The second, lain in wait, nestled securely in cradle, eager for a second rider.

The spokes define the wheels, all aglow, bright silver against black rubber. HONDA, blocked, parallels the concrete slabs below. Decals, lit fire. Acute bumps against obtuse and apexes in a leather cushion, providing an unexpected yet perfect perch.

And so, unexpectedly, he perches, perfectly.

how did he get it so clean on such a sodden day?

Behind him, there’s a collection of less significant bikes. Parked for the hour, perhaps the day. They don’t mean as much.

Lotus is scrawled in rushed, looping black letters, trailing down the narrow white wall.

And I wonder what that might mean.

---

But, in the end, in this frozen moment in time,

He is what demands my attention.

He sends his gaze downward, greying hair framing his lined face, shadowing his black leather jacket.

is he content

world weary

wondering what is or what might be?

Nah.

without a doubt, his thoughts are on what was

He balances, safe off the ground. Legs – almost crossed – soles of bare feet touching, arm propped on knee, hands holding him in place, anchored, trenchant. He looks down, and away.

anywhere but here

or now

And I have two questions.

what is he looking at

and

what has he seen