The sun hung heavy over Hội An’s yellow walls, the lanterns wilted in still air. At 2:15 p.m., when even the river seemed to nap, the cyclos pulled off the road one by one—chrome frames gleaming under dust, green seats faded by a hundred summers. Near the shade of an old tamarind tree by Bạch Đằng Street, three cyclo drivers gathered like clockwork.
They didn’t talk much—just gestures, small laughs, long silences.
Nearby, a tourist couple argued over directions in French. None of the drivers moved. No one called out. This was break time, sacred and slow. The body needed to cool, the heart needed to idle.
“Chạy nắng, không chạy khách,” one of them muttered. “Run from the sun, not after tourists.”
Laughter rose like lazy birds. A dog wandered by and lay under one of the cyclos, sighing.
At 3:00, someone stood, stretched. Time to go. The cyclos rolled out again—soft wheels on stone, green seats ready, eyes scanning the road.
And Hội An returned to motion.