Elf

Hanoi, Vietnam

There’s not much to remind you that it’s christmas here. Some of the hotels have made an effort; flimsy streams of tinsel draped across lobbies, plastic trees with clashing baubles, over-blown up Santa’s and a continuous replay of xmas carols singing out over loud speakers in the lift, the toilets, the foyer. But Christmas isn’t a national holiday here. It’s the same as any other day.         After all, most of the population is Buddhist.

So I’ve tried to keep the festivities alive. We have no tree for the first time ever, but each night, since the first of December, the elves have visited like they do at home, creeping in unseen and unheard, leaving their token gift, their countdown to Christmas day. This year they are leaving stamps to stick in the boy’s travel journals. Last year it was beads for a wish necklace, the year before that, seaside treasures for our move to the beach.

As the first rays of light slice into whatever new room we’ve slept in, I’ve woken up to the boys’ over exuberant exclamations of “Mum, the elves have been. The elves have found us again.” And each morning brings us closer to Christmas day. Through Thailand, and on into Vietnam, where on a cloudy humid afternoon we find ourselves in the city of Hanoi, the largest of Vietnam’s Northern cities, standing on the curb, contemplating as all foreigners have done before us, the seemingly impossible task of how to cross to the other side of the road.

There is a faded zebra crossing etched onto the pitted tarmac, but in the blur of passing motorbikes, rickety cycles, rusted cars and trucks, it’s difficult to make it out. The boys are either side of me, hands grasped tightly in hands, as we stand hopelessly waiting for a break in the traffic. None comes. The air is full of fumes and haze that clogs our eyes and burns the back of our throats. The colours are more faded here, greyer, browner, the colour of earth and grime. Gone is the neon of wealthier advertising signs found in Thailand, the multicolours of plastic packaging that were stacked high in roadside stalls. Here in Hanoi, everything is lower on the ground. Cooking pots spread out over the cracked pavement, filling the humid air with the smell of friend fat and herbs.   Men sit on their haunches selling cigarettes and warm coke. Women with baskets laden on sticks across their backs that hang like weighing scales, tip toe from street to street with artichokes and carrots, pineapples and starfruit. Barbers set up short cuts and shaves on the pavement with a cracked mirror and a comb. Immediately you can see it’s poorer, dirtier, a land from the past, an uneven mix of medieval and the new, the new creeping in half heartedly.

And yet above the sound of beeping horns, the thrum of tired engines, the choke from back-firing exhausts, comes the sound of the sweetest birdsong, for on every corner, above every doorway hangs a cage where a small bird sings out above the dirt. It’s a contradiction of sounds, half loathed for the captivity of something that belongs free, half appreciated for the reprieve it brings to the chaotic abuse of city sounds.

The Times

But back to the present conundrum of how to cross the road. There is not a single break in the traffic, just an endless stream of weaving vehicles speeding past. I stand there contemplating what to do next, weighing up the consequence of not crossing the road to the ATM on the other side and therefore not being able to buy the boys supper this evening, or risking life and limb so close to Christmas to fill our empty stomachs, when beside us there is a low movement. A young man has joined us on the curb. He is low because he sits on a small trolley that trundles on rickety wheels. He sits on this trolley because his body is twisted and deformed, his head bent into his right shoulder, the hunch of his back pushing his chin down into his chest. He walks with his hands, uses them to push his wasted legs along the ground. They are so thin they look as if they could be snapped in half with the merest effort. His clothes are worn and ripped. He has no shoes. His hair is uncut, tangled with weeks of unwashed grime. The only thing he has of any worth are the small pile of newspapers that he carries on his lap ready to sell to anyone who approaches him. It’s hard to look at him, to really see and thus contemplate what his life might be. I’m wondering how the boys will respond, start to prepare a speech about life not being fair, when Orly squeezes my hand.

“Mama,” he whispers and when I look down his whole face is lit with wonder and awe. “Mama,” he whispers again. “Can you see him? Can you see the funny little elf?” and he’s looking right at the young man, tentatively, shyly as if to look too hard would break the magic of what he saw before him.

“Is he an elf?” asks Dow, looking too now. He’s on the cusp of still believing and disbelieving the Christmas myths. At the moment believing is still winning. I don’t know quite what to say.   Eventually I nod.

“I didn’t know if you could see him or not,” continues Orly. “I thought it might be just us who could.”

The man starts to move forwards then, pulling his palms over the tarmac, into the oncoming traffic. A few feet ahead of us, he turns, and looks right at us. His eyes are bright, paler than usual, a hazel colour that catches the light.   He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod of his head, as if indicating for us to follow. There is nothing to be done, but take a deep breath and step out into the traffic after him.

“Ready boys,” I say, squeezing my most precious cargo.

“Yeah,” they squeak, sounding not at all sure. And so we begin to walk. “Don’t stop,” we were told by the hotel staff.   “Keep moving forwards.” “Never step back.”

So we do so, following the little elf in front of us.   Mopeds, trucks, bikes speed towards us, but just when it looks like all is lost, that we are going to be hit and crushed, they veer expertly past us. Step by step we shuffle forwards in this way, never looking back, only side to side as we keep moving, and when finally we reach the other side, hearts beating loudly, our breathes sharp and shallow, all three of us are still alive.

The elf has also reached the other side safely and is moving on down the street.

“Will he know where to find us tonight?” Orly asks.

“He’ll know,” I tell him. And sure enough that night, as birdsong still fills the darkened streets of Hanoi, a funny little elf does indeed find them.