All the peoples of the world, what things, tend to heal wounds, turn pages and open restaurants. No one uses a bicycle in Saigon. The hum of motorcycles has been extinguishing the magic of another time, the noise of the street markets ... and the thunderous memory of war.
There is no way to abstract from the crash of motorcycles. The streets are a hornet's nest so frantic that one is unable to explain how the motorcycles may not collide. The junctions and the traffic lights are, as much, a mere way to guide the driver.