Street rhythm before dawn

(Baonghean) - In Vinh during the 1990s, the youth union movement flourished every summer. In the mornings, before the sun even rose, those in charge would pass by, blowing whistles to urge the elderly and children to go for exercise. No one seemed bothered by it.

But over time, there was no need for alarm clocks blaring everywhere; those who preferred waking up before dawn simply set their phone alarms. Eventually, they didn't even need alarm clocks anymore, as it became a habit—they were wide awake when it was time to wake up.

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I enjoy watching the women in my neighborhood, in their fifties and sixties, dressed in their pajamas, enthusiastically going for their morning walks. I often find myself watching their every gait and face, trying to see if there's anything that resembles my mother, who used to jog with her friends. Sometimes, a few familiar faces see me and excitedly greet me like a long-lost grandchild, reminding me of how my mother always shared her experiences during our walks. People in Vinh are open-minded, so walking isn't just about walking. They share their joys and sorrows with each step and distance. My mother always says she often walks with women whose children study far from home or marry far from home. She "intentionally" chooses people in similar circumstances to walk alongside her. Women in similar situations find it easier to share with each other. They can share one's joy with another, and feel a greater sense of fulfillment after each morning's early morning exercise.

Female sanitation workers cleaning up Ho Chi Minh Square in the morning (Vinh City). Photo: Sach Nguyen

I enjoy imagining and speculating about the stories behind romantic gestures I encounter during my morning walks. For example, the image of an elderly woman holding a bouquet of flowers walking beside an elderly man – they're like a beautiful melody dedicated to the city at dawn. They're saying something incredibly pleasant and sweet, both with radiant smiles. That very radiance is enough to brighten a small corner of Vinh city, as the twilight transitions from night to day. Of course, I don't know most of the elderly people I encounter in similar situations, but I find it interesting to imagine some sweet circumstances surrounding them. Perhaps it was the woman's birthday, and the man went to the market early to buy a hastily arranged bouquet. Perhaps it was a special, sweet day for them… And after all these situations, those of us who are younger will wonder if, at that age, we can maintain the same peaceful, radiant smile, the warmth in our eyes and faces as they did.

My friend, born and raised in Saigon, originally from Nghe An, had the opportunity to work in Vinh City during a summer night when the power went out. She stayed at my house. After a tiring day at work, she slept soundly until almost dawn, when she was awakened by a light shower passing through the city. The rain came and went quickly, not enough to dispel the stifling June heat. Accustomed to the generous rain and wind of the South, she couldn't sleep in the summer weather of Nghe An, so she joined her father and the elders around the house for a walk to get some fresh air. She was surprised to see the bustling scene of elderly people exercising. The breeze was refreshing. And the sounds of birds awakening the dawn, soaring and circling by the archway of Vinh City, among the lush green ancient trees. The birdsong was so abundant that she was startled, thinking it was the first time she had ever been treated to such a wonderful morning symphony. The strange thing was that this natural harmony appeared in the heart of the city. Your neighborhood never receives such generous gifts from nature.

The two of us strolled around for a while, stopping at a porridge and soup stall near the city gate for breakfast. It was just a simple, familiar dish of the people of Vinh, but for a stranger in that atmosphere, it was unexpectedly memorable. And it wasn't just strangers. People in Vinh are familiar with such simple things; when far away, they sometimes wake up before dawn and wish they were at home, walking a few minutes to the city gate, enjoying a bowl of fragrant porridge with rice flour cooked in a sweet bone broth, or a bowl of spicy eel porridge with freshly baked bread, listening to birds chirping somewhere in the leafy canopy around the football field, near the city gate. They longed for such simple things, but couldn't have them, only hearing the distant sound of train whistles echoing from the Saigon River...

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Besides those who wake up early to exercise, laborers also get up before dawn. My father is still jokingly called a "city farmer" by his children and grandchildren because he maintains the habit of waking up at dawn. He throws open the doors to let the cool breeze gently into the house, brews a pot of tea, has a light breakfast, and then busily pulls his rickshaw out to prepare for a day's work. The job my father has been doing for decades is transporting honeycomb coal from the coal mine in Dong Vinh to Quang Trung, selling it to wholesale and retail customers.

Is going to work early fun? Of course it is. From 5 a.m. to just after 6 a.m., Dad has already made a round transporting coal from Dong Vinh to Quang Trung, delivering it to a few regular customers. Knowing that his daughter loves flowers, Dad tells her about the streets lined with flamboyant and crape myrtle trees, their blossoms bursting with the first flowers of the season in the early morning sun. He talks about the city streets, so clean they seem untouched by dust. Vinh is most beautiful at dawn. When a few rooster crows from somewhere in the city, hardworking laborers like Dad begin their work, awakening the city's streets.

Uncle Chau, who lives across the street from me, has a habit of waking up early to pull out a table, a chair, and a teapot to help his wife prepare the rice noodle rolls for breakfast. He has a leg disability, so he sits in one place, quickly and skillfully wiping dishes and arranging things. He has a habit of playing very old music every morning, the melancholic, sentimental voices of Khanh Ly and Son Tuyen from their twenties. The music is soft and pleasant, not bothering the neighbors. I often look from the window of my small attic room towards Uncle Chau and his wife's rice noodle roll stall, listening to the songs of a bygone era carried on the soft smoke rising from their early-lighted kitchen fire.

A locksmith reads a newspaper by Goong Lake. Photo: Nguyen Sach.

The small road where my house is located leads to a corner of Vinh Market. My house is at the beginning of the road, the market at the end. Because the road is narrow, in the morning, standing on the balcony overlooking the end, you can clearly see the women going to the market early, their hands and feet moving quickly as they set up their stalls in the thin mist. Even from the balcony, my chest feels as if it's swelling with the lingering scent of jasmine from the night before, the gentle fragrance of roses from the neighbor's balcony wafting through, and the lemon tree my mother planted in the old, leaky water tank, now bearing fruit and blossoming, also vying to release its sweet aroma. Very early in the morning, the neighbor also turns on the water tap to cool his mango trees, which are laden with fruit, to alleviate the heat of a sweltering summer day.

I'm no longer the little girl I once was, waking up before dawn to study even when exam season was approaching, casually hearing Uncle Chau's hacking cough or the soft laughter of the woman selling rice noodles, all mixed with familiar morning music. I also hear the footsteps of people walking by, the occasional clucking of chickens, and the distant sounds of vendors returning from Vinh market… These familiar sounds have become a small part of the city's soul each morning, settling down after so many years. Sometimes, waking up early and busily turning on my computer to write, I remember the simple working people of Vinh city, and I turn on those old, familiar tunes to feel more inspired for the new day.

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My father used to tease me when I overslept, saying, "Life is only a handspan long / Those who sleep during the day only get half a handspan." My father's concept of "sleeping during the day" meant sleeping when it was already bright daylight. And indeed, the rhythm of city life, my own life, is much more pleasant and meaningful, especially on sunny summer days, waking up to greet the sunrise.

Vo Thu Huong