Vroom Vroom

So:

Two children in the front, sitting astride the fuel tank, filling all the space to the handlebars.

Then the father, doing all the vroom vroom (and wearing the only helmet).

Then the mother, riding side-saddle, elegant and poised like a tropical bird on a branch.

In her lap, another child.

And the baby, quiet under her warm armpit.

Everyone rides without blinking, serious as statues, with great purpose in the deep, brown eyes.

In contrast, our motorbike rides look like this:

Kira can't decide whether to sit in front of Moona, between us or way back. We go sandwich. She squirms and complains incessantly about being squashed. Motorwobble.

There's a constant rattle: not the bike but our helmets banging into each other at every jolt, turn or stop; also, shouted conversations and occasional whoops of joy. This is mostly fun.

Distracted by flying hair, fallen branches, unclear road signs; shopping bags sliding out of our grasp; crossing strong streams of city smells (curry, ripe mango, raw sewage, sawdust, rose); we eventually fall into sunny silence.

Then the journey is over and we have to wake up, disentangle ourselves and hop off without touching the exhaust, showing skin or toppling over our vroom vroom.