saigon and the mystery of the street stamps

The first thing that hits you (almost literally) about Saigon is the swarm of mopeds. In this city of 8 million people, 4 million get around on motorbikes. It's a maze of insanity; whole families risk wiping out their name for the sake of dodging a few centimetres ahead of our bus. There are face masks everywhere even though the air is fairly breathable, and long gloves to protect the arms from the sun. Tiny children are squished in between mum and dad, their litle faces squashed up under tiny helmets while their parents weave in and out of the vaguely defined lanes. Traffic jams start and end abruptly when it rains and the mopeds, who clearly rule the road, stop under a bridge for shelter and ignore the furious beeps of the horns on giant trucks and buses wanting to get past. Rain stops, no more need for shelter, traffic jam is over.

The city has a vibrant madness to it, evident not only in the constant revving of the bikes but also in the mess of powerlines adorning every street, the art gallery shops jammed against ball dress shops, cafes and the occasional garage, and the kids running around the place selling postcards and other things, but refusing to take money without a sale - anti begging laws perhaps, or maybe a communist leader trying to save face.

An afternoon traipsing around the city goes quickly. Seeing locals worship unfamiliar gods preys on a traveller's curiosity and once you stop t look, you are herded inside. Incense and a small leia are thrust into your hand and you are directed, with some impatience, to leave your offering and say your prayers at the foot of whichever god you worship, or in this case, think more photogenic. You hear someone mention to a friend that frangipani is only planted near temples and other holy places; the flower's strong smell attracts bad spirits so it isn't safe to have it in one's garden. Small children cavort around the room and are delighted to pose for a photo,rushing up to see the outcome on your digital camera. On exiting, you're unsurprised to discover that suddenly money is expected. (All religions are the same!)Innocently you proclaim that you have no money and just keep walking away - they won't stray too far from the temple for the sake of chasing down one traveller who claims to have no cash. Better to give it to the kids who ask for it up front instead of the adults trying to trick you. One lady smiles in a "well done" sort of way and they shrug and wander off.

Wandering accidentally off the map, you pass building sites with shirtless, shoeless, hatless, glasses-less men welding, hammering, lifting and working. Not quite the worksafe capital of the world. The construction is always contained by elegant gates and the streets are always clean, constantly being swept. The buildings flaunt their colourful facades, a gift from French colonial times. Teal, orange, pink, green walls with little flourishes at the corners and in the doorways. Yellow buildings are usually the official buildings, the communist government has inherited some style. There is no graffiti - probably because all the kids are working full time from the age of 6 and have no time to deface buildings with expensive paint. There are official looking stamps on many buildings, nobody can explain what they are.

The bikes are everywhere. People transport huge collections of flat-packed boxes, panes of glass, ladders, mattresses - all sorts of things are somehow tied to the back of a moped. People travelling together are so relaxed in their mode of transport that they rest their feet on each other's bikes! Horns sound constantly, the "bip bip bip" means "I'm here". Tourists dart fearfully across the street, even though the first thing you notice about the locals is that they merely amble through the traffic, not stopping, not hurrying. Everyone goes around everyone and the merge rule is basically "give way to anything bigger than you". The bike riders seem protective of tourists, yelling out when to cross and signalling each other to stop and wait.

Bikes, power cables, street kids and traffic. Traditional old ladies next to business men, ladies in market stalls ensuring a large western woman that the tiny t-shirts are "one size fits all". Tourists are pulled into shops and those who have lost their patience just keep walking, dragging small Vietnamese along until they give up and let go.

The bustle isn't chaos, the locals smile and laugh and are happy to help, the city is everything a city should be. Charming.