Shyly, an orange glow, deep in hue and heavy with over-saturation, spilled lazily off of the morning clouds and onto the dusty scene below. Although it was not quite yet 7:00 am, the streets were already threatening to burst at their curbed seams with the traffic of the day's commuters. An endless current of motorbikes rushed along in waves, as if pulled by some extraordinarily strong tide, stopped occasionally by a sand bar of red lights. Dotted by cars and buses, the bikers effortlessly wove their way in and out of the moving obstacles, elegantly displaying their aptitude for urban mobility. To shield themselves from both sun and pollution, each wore a full body suit of colourfully patterned protection and a dusk mask, so that their only personal identification came from the peaks of mountainously gelled hair or the elongated heels of tasteful stilettos. Every so often, a tarped umbrella would sharpen into view on the roadside, temping passer byers with the promise of reprise from the sun's balmy poison, which by then had climbed significantly into the hazy sky so that all - bikers, umbrellas, my taxi - were drunk with dawn's harsh heat. After about a half hour ride on the long stretch of highway from the airport, the city slowly built itself into view, growing, and finally exploding into overcrowded pho stands, bustling side walks, and glorified communist billboards.
After putting my bags away at my gracious friend's family home, we two embarked on the start of a week's journey of culinary indulgence and cultural immersion. The gastronomic adventures began immediately at one of the small pho stands alongside the gritty roadway, where we feasted on delicious noodles with special chicken stock, vegetables, and fried dough, to be followed up later with a dessert of tapioka, gellied fruits, redbean, and custard served in a basement hidden away beneath a bustling storefront from large vats that stir a distant scene from Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.
With our stomach's overly stuffed, we walked to the centre of the city to visit Hanoi's most famous landmark - Vietnamese mythology who presented an ancient king the sword he needed to defend the country's victimized capitol. To its north shore stands a larger, accessible temple to give praise to the turtle and deities that protect Hanoi from harm. The first temple I visited in Asia, Ngoc Son Temple was starkly different then the mosques of Istanbul, the churches of Florence, or the temples of Jerusalem. In lieu of Renaissance frescos and orderly pews, the temple was opened to nature, inviting windblown flower peddles and insent smoke to dance freely about the alters. The temple superstructure, built of stone, was elaborately decorated with intricately carved red and yellow wooden doorways and scintillating gold statues flanked by endless gifts. Compared to the places of worship that attempt to elevate themselves beyond consumer materialism that I have visited, it seemed a bit odd to have a stack of kit kat bars as an offering next to the austerely serene warrior-like diety. And yet, even with mounds of snackfood, the temple's atmosphere was still one of sincere piety.
Sword Lake (although Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum comes in as a close second). At the centre of the lake - one of dozens throughout the city - stands a solemn stone temple, home of the famed (and fantastical) turtle of
After paying our dues to the lacquered turtle relic, we then headed to the Old Quarter of Hanoi- a maze of street vendors, shop keepers, and chicken heads boiling in pots alarmingly close to the busy traffic. The ever thinning sidewalks were covered with an array of lovingly arranged tropical fruits - dragon fruits, mangosteens, and countless unidentifiable red, purple, and brown spheres. Above the noise of local bartering and confused tourists hung an architectural mural of the country's past. Colonial French regal motifs jutted out over the "50 % off" signs, a reminder of the colonization that colored not only much of this country's past, but also the West's perception of it. Likewise, the prominence of Chinese characters on walls and above highly stylized red temples, several of which we ducked into to inhale the sweet smoke and gaze awestruck into buddha's magnificence, also tell an ancient epic of imperial days gone by. Seeking some more native culture, we attended a preformance at a water puppet theater, a very traditional Vietnamese form of entertainment, for an evening show of traditional music, storytelling, and a beautiful display of puppetry on a flooded stage.
Our next few days in Hanoi, now joined by two other coworkers, were filled with increasing amounts of noodled street food, wonderous pagotas and temples, museums, and night walks through the dimly lit alleyways in hopes of discovering local gems, like an unmarked cafe in a partially destroyed factory. A few highlights of our two day sightseeing scramble include the Temple of Literature at Vietnam's oldest university, which pays homage to the teachings of Confusious and a fervor for learning through stone books and guardian dragons, an incredible opened pagota on Hanoi's largest lake, filled with bonsai plants and pious devotees burning fake money in a large opened firepit, and a museum of the country's ethnography, complete with a lifesize village of traditional stone and wood houses from all across the country.
Saying farewell to our newly made friends, we departed for Hanoi, and upon our arrival there immediately took off for Singapore, the topical country of my next post. From the moment we landed in the airport - by far to most modernized and beautified tranait hub I have transited through - to arriving at my friend's spectacular public housing condo via metro, I left as if I had flown through the Twilight Zone, leaving the dusty streets of Vietnam behind and traveling into a future utopia world. Though I will save the details of my adventures there for writing to come, my few days in this miniscule city-state, and its contrast with Hanoi, drew me back to my professional life an ocean (or two) away.
This past year my work at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace has focused on the intersection of transportation systems, urban planning, climate change, and public policy. After 12 months of intense study, research, and writing on questions of urban policy and design, I cannot help but notice spatial details that have escaped me in my past travels - the contours of streets, the sustainability of transit networks, the zoning of buildings, and the conciousness of a carbon footprint. Taking the metro back to my friend's apartment after dinner our first night there, I realized that Singapore is perhaps the closest reality to an urban planner's dream city. It boasts of clean, efficient, and affordable public transit, congestion fees for low car use, urban renewal projects as far as the eye can see, recycled water systems, plentiful public housing, overflowing green space, a vibrant and globally successful business community, and a blossoming cultural sector, just to name a sliver of what this futuristic city-state has to offer. And yet, as Singapore gushed with the aroma of utopia all around me, I could nothelp but think back to the start of my journey in Vietnam, of Hanoi's pulsing, unorganized streets and how alive they felt. True, Hanoi could certainly use a metro, or even BRT service, and could undeniably benefit from augmenting its parks and environmental conciousness. But Hanoi has something that Singapore lacks, or perchance erased in its pursuit to become the overly planned city its founder Stamford Raffles dreamed of in his maiden voyage to the country - a personality. Much like my comparisons of NYC and DC to friends at home, Singapore lacks the one thing that makes a city truly liveable - character. Chinatown, Little India, and Arab Street all have cultures of their own, but Singapore seems to resemble the planned future city of Walk Disney in Tomorrowland far more than any inhabited space I can recall. Its monorails, food courts, perfectly manicured parks, and obscenely sanitary pavement, though beautiful, are eerily too perfect.
When researching in the abstract (and in a windowless office), it is easy to forget that your theses not only exist beyond paper, but are constantly evolving - that urban innovations for climate change, social policies on ageing, and equitable transit systems are all living, breathing organs of vibrant cities beyond the blueprints of dusty library books. What is perchance most obstructed by the abstract is the interface between inhabitant and inhabited space, arguably the most integral aspect of the discipline. Throughout all my research, I cannot think back to a single book, article, or plan that underscored how a built environment conditions the personalities of its dwellers - a strikingly stark phenomenon as I reflected on the motorcyclists of Hanoi and the businessmen of Singapore. Each overly signed traffic light, CCTV camera cautioning against graffiti, and purpose built greenery have shaped Singaporeans, while the labyrinth of lotus shaped alleys and turbid markets have patterned their counterparts in Vietnam. There are of course cultural, socio-economic, and historical differences between the two, but I cannot help but wonder if Singapore was once as alive as Hanoi, before its rapid thrust into artificiality, and on a macro-level the validity of urban renewal.
Yes, there is so much to be gained, particularly in much needed infrastructure and services as the world continues to urbanize at such a rapid rate, but there is also so much to be lost. I think back to the unimaginable beauty of Tbilisi's cobblestone streets, of French styled verandas and Eastern ornamentation and shiver at the thought of a Singapore-like restoration. Looking ahead at the tempting idea of travelling to Rio de Janeiro for the World Cup in 2014 or the Summer Olympics in 2016, I question, and perhaps fear, what will become of the city's localized neighbourhoods as it prepares for the games and is forced to present not just effective transportation and services, but a marketable urban culture. As governments and society at large rush head-on to accomodate a 70 percent urban world by 2050, it is imperative that we as nations renew our urban areas intelligently, least we destroy the gritty uniqueness that not only creates a personality for the space we live in, but for who we are as well. While traveling, I too often focus on the people and the city separately, writing either on the triumphant aesthetics of local architecture or my interpersonal experiences with friends met along the way. But city and citizen are inevitably connected and reflective of one another. We as humans are the expression of our natural and built environments, just as the architecture we design is an expression of our culture, era, and creativity. As I take the next few days to explore the Indian, Chinese, and Malay communities hidden in the shaddows of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel (and its monstrous ship atop its three towering buildings), I will be far more concious of how the newly, artifically constructed temple and cultural club facades have altered, or perhaps reinvigorated the unique personalities of those they serve.
