It’s like water. It
flows into whatever space is available, no matter which side of the
street. It stays at a constant metered
pace, unless a dam of sorts forms ahead stopping its flow. Everything - scooters, push bikes, cars, buses, wagons -
they all just move back and forth with a sense of grace and order that is only
appreciated after you have experienced it for long enough to understand
it. Contrast
to one’s first impression, there are indeed rules. If you stay in the flow, don’t make any erratic
movements, and stay aware, everything just works. One short beep, I am coming by.
One long beep, I am coming by and you are in my way. Repeated beeps, I am coming by, you are in my
way, and you will get hurt if you don’t adjust quickly. It is just the way it is. It’s the language of the road. And like any other language, once you give up
criticizing its differences and instead embrace them, you get it.
This morning riding my bike in rush hour to school, I felt
Chinese. Stopped at the lights, I looked
around at the crowd of us waiting and saw that I had indeed stopped in the
right place. Scooters turning right could pass without a honk and cars doing
the same could easily turn on the other side of me without feeling the need to
yell “lao wai” (foreigner) as they
pass. I may be the only one wearing a
helmet and the only one who still fears the buses, but I understand the
flow. Now I speak the language.
