We stepped into a taxi and headed to the central government parade ground. A jungle set scene reminiscent of the former communist headquarters of Red Square. As we exited the cab and stepped onto the sidewalk, a mother’s scream pierced the den of the busy street scene a few feet from my ears. I jerked my head in horror at the view of a toddler no more than 4 years old running out into the motorbike-laden avenue of the busy central Hanoi streets. I watched in frozen horror as a sea of motorbikes barreled towards the unsuspecting child. Time and space came to a grinding halt as the lead motorbike laid down in front of the endless pack, and the concrete brought his bike to a jerky halt mere centimeters from the tiny boy’s feet. Almost simultaneously, his mother snatched him up from the tumultuous scene. The boy began to scream.
What I can only guess was the boy’s father rushed in to help the downed motorist. He was checked over, as was the child, and apart from some scratches on the red and black motorbike, all parties were unharmed. Just as fast as the street scene stopped, it began again in the bustling early morning traffic. It was the first time since my arrival in Vietnam that I was genuinely afraid. Not for my safety or my life, simply because I couldn’t handle seeing a child mauled in this developing country’s streets. It was an Image I would not soon forget.
