A study in contrasts

This afternoon, after a lunch of noodle soup, bread, and a glass of incredibly good orange juice, I went for a walk, down an alley Lap told me about yesterday, in search of the island he described (I was surprised to learn of an island so close!). The density of living in this area is so amazing. The main streets themselves seem jammed with humanity coming and going in all sorts of ways and engaged in all sorts of activities. The sidewalks are a constant buzz of making and dismantling, of washing and cooking, of eating, drinking, and cleaning up. Yet, off these incredibly busy avenues are numerous alleys, each of them by themselves extensions of the mass of humanity one glimpses along the major streets.

My afternoon walk took me down one of these alleys. In contrast to the street, where there is semblance of distance between the casual observer and the inhabitants, the alleys brought me up close to the living conditions of those who live and work along these narrow urban corridors. They are right there and one can readily see into their living quarters, the conditions of which vary as much as any in the city proper. My walk took my across a narrow, metal bridge, framed in the immediate distance by a larger, more modern-looking concrete bridge that remained unfinished at both ends, as if that was all that was called for. In contrast to the city street and even the alley, few motorbikes, bicycles, or pedestrians were using the bridge when I crossed. I felt like I was engaged in a quiet, casual stroll into the country. As I crossed over the river onto the island that Lap had described, the quiet continued. “What a study in contrasts,” I thought. “This is actually contemplative back here.”

As I left the bridge, the road took right angles left and right. I looked down the more narrow, concrete path on the right and decided to first explore the broader, more expansive road to the left. Again, the quiet and contemplative mood continued. Things definitely seemed slower back here, more quiet and subdued, almost a vacation-like spa. All around me the feel of the tropics crowded the road in a lush, green display of foliage. As I continued down the road, the quiet punctuated now and again by a passing motorbike or two, another study of contrasts began to emerge. Along the road, down the bank I noticed buildings that resembled hutches barely hanging together, with an assortment of materials assembled together in a patchwork like manner to provide shelter from the sun and rain. In front of some of these, stands were erected for selling a variety of produce and other goods. The entrepreneurial spirit of the Vietnamese people expressing itself. Despite these rather squalid living conditions, this road appeared to be the route to prosperity, because I soon came upon houses erected and being built that might make some of the homes in Spring Lake look modest. These homes were magnificent structures and stunning in their attractiveness and aesthetic appeal. A sign down a gravel road where men were working on a house in progress, a sign that closely resembled one we might find in a housing development around the Lansing area, suggested more such structures to come within the vase array of emptiness that stretched beyond the sign.

What struck me, however, was the location of some of these gorgeous structures, almost directly across the street from structures that resembled shanties more than homes. The street was wide, smooth and modern, and hardly traveled. I could see why folks would want to live here.

After heading down this street for a while, I turned back and headed down the other, more narrow road. To call this a road might be an overstatement. We have bike paths that are wider than this road. Still, it was a route for motorbikes and bicycles, paved and in good shape, although I can’t imagine four-wheel vehicles using it. But along it was where obviously the less fortunate lived. Here there were no splendid structures rising mightily into the air. Here the structures hugged the earth, sometimes receding into it. Outside one of these structures a woman was washing her clothes in the fork that run off from the main tributary of the river, a river that is known to be highly polluted with a variety of toxic and infectious substances.

So many people here seem so poor. As I began my trek back across the old metal bridge framed by the incomplete modern bridge leading nowhere, I reflected on some of this. Then I was passed by two boys on a bicycle, one holding a bamboo pole made into what looked a little like a toy spear. They said and waived “Hello” and I waived back, saying hello to them as well. They were laughing and seeming to have a good time. Part way up the bridge they got off and walked their bike up the slight incline and I passed them. Then, on the downside they passed me, saying “Hello” again, giggling, and waiving as they coasted down the slope of the bridge to the main land, seemingly without a care in the world. Who is really poor, I wondered.