My name is Georgina Dingle.  My son Martin Dingle Wall is a friend of Byony’s daughter Heather and her partner Greg. I became a member of Groovy Grandmas  when  Martin  told me about the magazine after meeting Bryony. I consider myself a “groovy  grandma” and am thoroughly enjoying my so called senior years.

I have recently returned from an adventurous trip to Vietnam. I enclose my impressions of the streets of Hanoi in case you think it might be of interest to your readers in the Postcards from Grandma section.

The streets of Hanoi are chaotic. They are choker with scooters, pushbikes, mopeds, cyclos, bicycles, tricycles, electro rickshaws  any and all types of vehicles that supposedly consume little fuel but which nevertheless spew out foul smelling, black discharge guaranteed to make the most fit cough and splutter. Wonderfully courageous pedestrians weave their way across these ever flowing thoroughfares confidently side stepping potential collisions and side swipes.

 For the newcomer it is a NEAR death experience made even more nerve wracking by the ear shattering blasts of horns which assaults the ear the moment  the foot leaves the footpath (if there is a footpath) and which sends ones stomach into an immediate sinking spiral and ones heart beating frantically.

Stalls, which sell, or at least display, all varieties of unnecessary junk front these streets. The vendors crouch on plastic stools at the level of all these exhaust pipes. The neighbouring stalls, right and left, up and down the street, sell exactly the same junk. As in the days of the craft guilds each street has its own speciality. Who buys this stuff?, how do these people make a living? Do they make a living? Who owns all this junk?, some rich entrepreneur, some exploitive bigwig?.   If there is any footpath it is crammed full with parked scooters and bikes so you are forced to walk along the gutter risking death by collision.

Surprisingly the people look happy enough, relatively content. Is that the right word to describe people who just don’t look fed up, when by all rights they should be colossally overwhelmed with the futility of their struggle. Every few hours they wander across to a different stool outside a friend’s food stall where they squat and consume some awesome assortment of food, have some tea, a good laugh, five minutes of raucous chatter before returning to their lot in life.

I watched in amazement when these people would spring into frantic activity whenever the rain would pour down and their valuable stock was in danger of being drowned by vehicular splash or being washed away in the overflowing gutters. When your existence depends on stuffed toys, plastic cars, rubber balls, fairy dresses and other miscellaneous stuff, it is crucial that they are saved at all cost.

I am really impressed with this country. It is like an enthusiastic teenager, full of ambition, about to burst forth with new life. The streets are the most memorable sights of Hanoi. These throbbing lifelines make me think of the crucial  veins and arteries of the body keeping the whole structure pulsating and existing but constantly in danger of clogging up and I imagine causing shutdown.

However no one gets cross, road rage does not exist, red lights and pedestrian crossings are ignored, drivers determinedly go the wrong way up one way streets, traffic cops stand on street corners (sometimes), picking their teeth, studiously ignoring the chaos flowing in front of them. And for some reason it does flow, but continuously accompanied by beeping and hooting and blaring of horns which the drivers must think protects them as they forge steadfastly ahead.

By Georgina Dingle