Lessons in Jaywalking: Hanoi

Exploring Hanoi for the first time can feel like you’ve been warped into a hazardous game of human "Frogger." But once you get the hang of Vietnamese jaywalking, this beautiful city with a complicated past will challenge you as a traveller and change you as a person.

By Gabriel Huntting

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For any right-minded traveler, the beeping, zooming legions of Hanoi's motorbikes can turn crossing the street into a harrowing dose of daily trauma. There are so many, the city is attempting to reduce the number of motorbikes, hoping to curb their climbing carbon footprint and tame their infamously crowded traffic.

It’s complete madness--and extremely intimidating--but it’s one of the many ways the capital of Vietnam provokes subtle discomfort to confront visitors eager enough to book a flight and uncover its popular charm.

In this bustling city built in the jungle, the seemingly simple task of crossing the street isn't just a way from A to B; it's a right of passage.

While western drivers habitually text and talk their way into collisions, Vietnamese motorists are a different type of irresponsible driver. Sure, traffic lights and caution are considered optional, but in Hanoi, J.D. Power safety ratings are about as scarce as the cars that might come with one.

Instead, the Vietnamese opt for the maneuverability and convenience of motorbikes, and at every corner or intersection, you'll encounter endless seas of locals zipping and zooming within a hair of each another, barely obeying whatever traffic laws might or might not exist.

For a Westerner, we're rightly conditioned to assume that bikes are dangerous, and so inherently we view the drivers riding them in the same way. However, because motorbikes require a level of presence and awareness that might otherwise escape the attention of a casual driver, Vietnamese motorists are generally more aware of frightened, hesitant tourists that balk 4-5 times every time they approach a city curb.

But fear not, wanderluster. We've got you covered. Jaywalking is a borderline requirement for efficient exploration, so we'll provide some tips to keep you moving.

Keep these very simple rules in mind before you hit the streets of Hanoi, and keep them in your travel tool belt beyond when you leave:

1. Don’t be intimidated by the frenzy. Sure, you could get blindsided by a motorbike, but if you conduct yourself appropriately, you won’t be in danger.

2. Look ahead and find the right opportunity to step out from the sidewalk. Believe me, the biggest hurdle in this whole process is you.

3. Move with confidence. Don’t hesitate or balk. If you do your part, they’ll do the rest.

It certainly takes some getting used to and definitely feels a little more natural after some practice—and a Saigon beer—but you’ll eventually get the hang of it. Becoming comfortable with crossing the street in Hanoi is something that’s earned, which makes it that much better when you figure it out.

If you follow these steps, I assure you, you won’t get hit by a motorbike.

The country of Vietnam has an exhausting history of foreign abuse, so maybe these inherent obstacles are signs of a societal immune system finally adapting to a long medical history riddled with colonial contagions.

The city's aesthetic embodies this theory, as a facade of centuries old French buildings have weathered over time into an architectural identity unique to modern-day Vietnam. At a point in time everything probably looked out of place, but as the city continues to develop into the 21st century, it’s hard not to marvel at the last final physical vestiges of colonial rule, but even more so, how the jungle has swallowed them. Hanoi finally belongs to the Vietnamese, and although its distinctive look is derived from a complicated past, it’s a complex beauty that commands your admiration.

While many of the Vietnamese probably couldn’t rattle off many of their current politicians, Ho Chi Minh is still revered as the country’s ultimate hero and he’s a ubiquitous presence throughout the capital city. Just like any other country that honors its revolutionary leaders, you’ll see his likeness immortalized on currency and street signs. Similar (strictly) in theory to Napoleon’s tomb in Paris, his mausoleum is a popular attraction for both tourists and nationals, but instead of a grand honorarium to Vietnam’s most triumphant and fabled leader, the monument looks and feels more towards its purpose: a the somber, stoic dedication to the legacy Vietnamese communism.

The way that the Vietnamese military manages the site will feel just as strange to Westerners as the monument itself. The officers on duty closely monitor visitors, but instead of barriers or fences to indicate where you can and cannot stand, strict lines painted on the ground indicate the public’s absolute limits.

If you place a bag on the ground to take a picture, you’ll quickly be notified or whistled. And stepping on the grass? Completely out of the question.

The military presence wasn’t the only uncomfortable part of our visit to the site. While we were there, I volunteered to take a picture for a young, sweet Vietnamese couple in front of the tomb. After handing me their phone, they moved into a firm pose—faces falling into a solemn, rehearsed expression, hands at their foreheads in solute—before I snapped the picture. As soon as I handed back their phone, they reverted right back to a jovial, bubbly couple, thanked us, and scurried away.

Ready for a change of scenery, we strolled back through the old quarter, bumping and squeezing our way through its crowded, congested streets, inhaling the unbearably enticing fragrance of Vietnamese street food.

When it comes to iconic food experiences, I’m not sure if there’s anything better than sitting down for some pho and bánh cuốn in Vietnam. Nearly every corner restaurant puts out miniature plastic tables and chairs, better suited for a toddler’s tea party, so guests can sit, slurp and swallow brimming bowls of noodles, meat, and broth while the city swarms through and around them. There’s no space, no one cares, and you’ll never judge a “kids table” the same way again.

Emboldened with a solid buzz and a belly full of pho, we decided to double down and wrap up our tourist itinerary with a visit to the Vietnamese Military Museum to see its massive collection of military equipment, weaponry, and aircraft from the war.

The history of Hanoi, we’d come to understand, is a little more difficult to digest than its food, but a savory experience, nonetheless.

Our visit to the museum was complicated, but not because we felt unwelcome. For Americans, visiting a war museum is typically a simple and straightforward experience because it usually follows the same basic storyline: the United States and its Allies were good, the bad guys were bad, we won, and the world was better because of it.

The Vietnam War was not only a catastrophic American screw up that sacrificed our own young men, igniting a western socio-cultural revolution; it also exposed the a callous abuse of power, arrogance, victimization, and fatal stubbornness by our government in the name of a “greater good.”

At the museum, we weren’t following the familiar narrative of the “Vietnam War” from American textbooks in middle-school history class. We were looking at exhibits and reading a familiar story from a different perspective. In this museum, we learned about the “American War,” a triumphant act of resistance to invasion, and a glorious victory for communism.

Seeing the memorial of a shared conflict from the other side—the side that “won”—was a sobering dose of reality and something I didn’t expect to cause such discomfort…

But it did, and that was good. Anything that makes you think and feel foreign is worth engaging, and for any American in Vietnam, visiting the museum to learn more about the country’s grueling history of relentless foreign invasion, we felt, is something that’s worth your time.

After the tour, we left the museum and crossed the street to sit, talk, and decompress.

As if the presence of communism in Vietnam wasn’t already apparent from all the faded patriotic imagery throughout its capital city, a comically gigantic—he was 5’5” in real life—statue of Vladamir Lenin towering over the park from beside our bench provided a swift, soviet reminder. However, as we’d discovered time and time again, today’s Hanoi finds a way to ease any emotional tension incited by its political history.

Whether his effigy liked it or not, no one in the park really gave a sh*t about Lenin, and if jumbo-Lenin could simply look down from his perch to the people below, he'd understand why.

The large embankment in front of the statue is one of the popular skate spots in Hanoi, and as we soon discovered, the dozens of skateboarders snapping, flipping, and grinding across the memorial were far more concerned with their "run" than the Bolshevik gazing over them.

I imagined, on a different afternoon, a modern-day American, Russian, and Vietnamese might all sit down on our bench for a beer and a good laugh up at Lenin.

“Vlad--you still there? No, you can’t sit with us. No one cares, buddy. Go home.”

Our walk back to the hostel felt more normal. The motorbikes were still there, and so were the flags and other reoccurring displays of communist nationalism, but the discomfort had evaporated.

Hanoi got over everything a long time ago, and finally, so had we.

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When you travel to new countries and new cities, it often feels like the beginning of a new, romantic relationship.

We love, hate, miss, and obsess over the places we’ve recently visited, refusing to and stop thinking or talking about them, as if they were an impactful person that entered our lives, rocked our world, and must to be introduced to everyone else we know for their own good.

Relationships can be intimidating, and so can the places we visit. Many of the most important people in our lives contain the power to comfort us when we need it, but cause us discomfort when we need it more. Similarly, we cherish the passive exhilaration of achieving a level of comfort and fluency in foreign environments, but that can only be achieved by welcoming the experiences within those environments that terrify and challenge us. It's an uncomfortable, complicated relationship, but in the end, it encourages the best version of ourselves.

In that respect, travel isn’t as scary as it seems if you keep a few simple things in mind:

1. Don’t be intimidated by the frenzy of travel. It’s easy to get blindsided by new experiences, but if you conduct yourself appropriately, you won’t be in danger.

2. Look ahead and find the right opportunity to step out from your comfort zone. Believe me, the biggest hurdle in this whole process is you.

3. Be confident in yourself. Don’t hesitate or balk. If you do your part, everything and everyone else will do the rest.

It certainly takes some getting used to and definitely feels a little more natural after some practice—and a beer—but you’ll eventually get the hang of it.

Just like crossing the street in Hanoi, becoming comfortable on the road is something that’s earned, which makes it that much better when you figure it out.

If you follow these steps, I assure you, you'll be a seasoned traveler in no time.

And you certainly won’t get hit by a motorbike.