That afternoon I received the invite to, and that evening I attended the function of, the joined birthday party of two close friends of Vy; along with their boyfriends as well as another couple, Vy and I made up the numbers to eight.

We ate and celebrated at a street-food restaurant on Bui Vien – bustling with people as it was it seemed well-prepared when the street’s electricity went out – immediate distribution of candles indicating power-failure was not a rare occurrence on Bui Vien and – although I swear one of the birthday girls’ boyfriends was looking to punch me – possibly because she was making sultry-eyes at me all night or possibly for other reasons entirely – I did never find out what had happened to Vy for all these weeks gone but – from what I could understand through her seemingly subjective display of broken-English – whatever the reason it was largely my fault – an assertion which I magnanimously accepted.

As Vy and her friends had parked their motorcycles near the entrance to the Yen Trang hotel, near the top end of Bui Vien and from where Vy and I had started the night, once the celebration had been deemed finished, given that this particular street-food restaurant had been situated near the bottom of Bui Vien, we again walked the entire length of the street (must be about number 319), with Vy repeatedly brushing away my attempts to casually put an arm around her waist because, apparently, walking holding hands, arm in arm, or engaging in a similar contact of the upper limbs, indicates that the couple is in love, and under no circumstances, after only two ‘dates’, were she and I permitted to be ‘in love’.

I went to bed that night, tired, exasperated, and convinced that when I boarded that plane tomorrow afternoon, not only was I going to be glad to be going home – actually, just to be leaving Vietnam – I was never coming back.

That next day – my last day in Vietnam – only minutes after gifting my last 500 dong note to Loan as appreciation for all she had done for me, I was contacted by Mai. She wanted to see me before I went home; thus the obvious question, the same one in fact I had put to Vy, who had essentially left me alone for four weeks before deciding she wanted to ‘see you before you fly home’ – ‘Where have you been?’ Also, ‘Why now – why not weeks ago?’

Not unexpectedly Mai gave me the classic, ‘Oh, but Vietnam lady very busy, you see, Tim’ – leading my perpetually exasperated mind to flash through image after image of so many sedentary Viet women – occupying a chair, sofa, or just a clear spot on the floor, splayed out, relaxed, or sometimes sleeping; granted, some Vietnam ladies might be ‘very busy’ but most (I’m guessing, any daughter who is not an eldest daughter), they take their merry time and do essentially as they please amid the tropical cesspit that is Ho Chi Minh City.

Predictably we’d met outside the Yen Trang hotel, where I noticed immediately, Mai had done herself up for this ‘date’; she was wearing a lovely floral summer-dress, sensible heels, with the typical (utterly hideous) Vietnamese stockings – ghastly, thick, woollen, skin-coloured things – but the most amazing thing, for the first time since I’d met her, Mai was wearing makeup (most younger Vietnamese women have the kind of skin and facial features that receives little benefit from the addition of makeup; indeed most Asian women appear to wake each morning with a congenital dusting of foundation and lick of mascara), and my God did she look beautiful.

I ordered a couple of fruit smoothies from Loan’s Café behind us (an additional 80 dong, on top of the 500, because I couldn’t very well renege on my generosity at this late stage), and we chatted.

My mood, having been exposed to this intermittent Vietnamese shitstorm for quite long enough to leave me feeling very much under the weather, was understandably deflated. I was happy to notice, however, compared with the first time I’d met Mai (Aston Hotel Saigon, circa tour of 2017) or even to just three weeks’ ago, her English had improved markedly; evidently I was not her only ‘English’ friend though, and in fact (I recall her noting excitedly), I was not even her only English friend from New Sealand – apparently she also kept in communication with somebody named Tietrian from Tietreurt which, after some blind guessing and cryptic extrapolation, I was able to deduce this was ‘Christian from Christchurch’ (as previously noted, the Viet palate struggles with its ‘chr’ and ‘rch’ sounds), who chatted with her regularly.

As our beverages were dwindling and Mai’s departure was nearing, I could appreciate that she had become strangely concerned; turns out she was worried that I might neglect to maintain our (let’s be fair, already very tenuous) lines of communication. With that though, almost in a revelation, I understood why it was so important to her that we had this meeting; it wasn’t about her further leading me on with implied assurances of an intimate relationship, it wasn’t about her setting me up now to dupe me out of more cash later or in fact, far as I could tell, almost unbelievably, it wasn’t directly related to money at all. It was simply that, as a Vietnamese woman, seemingly, Western friendships are extremely valuable (which, in fairness, is still a little bit related to money).

Mai puttered away on her scooter; I shook my head in the hope of expunging some of the fug left by her pining words, also by the last month in HCMC in general, then staggered up the steps to the Yen Trang lobby. Walking through the glass doors, first thing I saw was Lieu, almost in tears, looking decidedly shaken.

“Lieu,” I began, with as much tenderness as I could be bothered employing. “What’s up?”

She looked at me, nerve-wracked, terror-stricken, but said nothing.

“Lieu,” I tried again, more firmly, “what the hell happened to you?”

“I … I just got mugged,” she eventually mumbled.

I almost laughed. It seemed so ridiculous. Tourists in Vietnam get mugged, not locals; not this quint essentially Vietnamese woman who has lived in Vietnam all her 20-something years thus who knows and understands the ways of the Vietnamese people, and who should presumably know how to avoid this filthy Vietnamese scourge…?

She peered up at me, her big dark eyes wet around the edges.

“Are you serious – you were mugged – what, by Vietnamese dudes?” I blurted the inquiries, disbelieving.

Lieu nodded, “They attack me, they try take my phone.” She held up her Smartphone as if illustrating how close it was to being stolen.

“You serious?” I was still finding this very hard to believe, “Vietnamese men assaulted, and tried to steal from you, a Vietnamese woman?”

Lieu nodded silently, no doubt wondering why this peculiar Englishman was asking her so many stupid questions.

“That’s unbelievable,” I had turned off the filter and was now dis-compassionately speaking my mind, “those gutless little shitheads … Stealing from tourists,” I went on, “I mean I kind of get that, but from your own countrymen – from people who they must know are finding it just as tough as they are … That’s fucking disgraceful … So what happened, Lieu, where did they attack you – where were you?”

“It was on bus, on way here,” it was her turn now to blurt speech, “I was using phone, then at stop, some guys stood up get off, they try snatch my phone, as they go past, and I wouldn’t let them, I stand up, I try push them, but they are two guys, one try take my phone, Tim, I start yelling, ‘Thief, thief, thief here!’, and they run away…” With that she dissolved into tears.

I shook my head, placing a spread hand on the outside of Lieu’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry you’ve been through that, Lieu, it sounds awful – sounds as though you did very well for yourself, though.”

The pretty young Asian woman smiled, nodding. “I din wan lose my phone,” she mumbled, tears bubbling at her lips.

 

Once Lieu had cooled off, she booked me a taxi to the airport, then I was ready to leave Ho Chi Minh City and not look back.

Hours later I was being driven from Changi Airport to Hotel Boss in Singapore. The place was surprisingly dead; shortly after my check-in, I was in bed.

I wake. Someone is scrabbling at my door. Mental assessment; I am quickly aware that I am a resident of Hotel Boss, Singapore. Even with eyes closed I can tell it’s still dark. I suspect it must be a mistaken, or drunken, handle-grabber, in which case I’m not worried – feverishly alert, but not too worried. Suddenly my eyelids are lit up. Somebody has just opened my door. My heart, my blood, adrenaline; everything inside me pulses with such immediate force at that moment I feel as though my heart might burst. My eyes are still closed as, now from a supine position in my Boss hotel room, I hear an intruder shuffling along the foot of my bed, between the bed and the room’s sideboard, where I had carefully laid out all my belongings the night before…

Before getting into bed the previous night, I recall chuckling to myself as I had removed my wallet and, where in Vietnam I might have slid it under my pillow or suchlike, last night I recall thinking, ‘Nah, no security issues here, bud – we’re in Singapore now’ then, as if in some kind of defiant statement, I recall mischievously catching my eye in the mirror then casually dropping it onto the sideboard.

…I listen to a pair of, what appear to be soft – slipper, or perhaps sock – feet shuffling across the carpet at the end of my bed, and I realise, in horror, all of my belongings are either on that sideboard or crudely stuffed into bags on the floor just below, but still very much in clear view for anyone who wanted to see what was available to idle hands.

In my Boss bed, eyes squeezed shut, body clamped by adrenalin’s frightfully icy grasp, I curse my complacency. I might be out of Vietnam but, lest I forget, I am still very much in Southeast Asia; indeed, the only person I can trust in this place, essentially at the behest of this continent of depravity, is me.

I blink, once, twice; then in a frantic movement with a puff of air exploding from both nostrils, I throw myself upright in bed.

 

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Arf Bucket

Photography by U R Boned

Last night in Vietnam, just as I was deciding I would never return to this hellhole, I was invited to a Bui Vien Street birthday party for two friends of, none other than, Vy.

It was the day before that final night, though, that things became truly revealing.

There I am, strolling, slowly, proudly, confidently, down the footpath of the narrow avenue that joins the main Bui Vien Street and my favoured ‘back way’ home – for those instances where I’d rather avoid the clamour of Bui Vien the second time around – watching three small motorcycles execute unwieldly U-turns before again coming at me, this time, from the front.

Although I avoided eye contact with any of the four incoming youths, with my peripherals I could see, and with my being I could feel, all their eyes upon me. From around ten metres out I detected the revs dropping of the salient scooter; as he coasts to a stop I neither engage his eyes nor alter my pace. Suddenly brakes are squeaking as he tries to pull up before I go past. The two trailing bikes are forced to abruptly halt also, as it becomes clear that no one in Vietnam is proficient at maintaining their motorcycle braking systems. “Hey, hey!” the leading rider attempts to stop me.

I honestly don’t know what he expects from me; he and his trio of scooter-bandits have basically just ‘attacked’ me from behind and now he wants me to stop – for what – a chat…?

“Hey, you,” the leading rider has kicked down the stand and is now clambering from his bike.

Deciding I’m not in any immediate danger from the scrawny youth, I stop, turn, clench my teeth, tilt my head, elevate my jaw, and literally stare down my nose at the little punk.

He steps forward, having pulled off his helmet, chest now all puffed up, seemingly trying to staunch me out, exuding around ten times the level of machismo than is warranted by a man of his stature.

Over the following moments I observe as his confidence steadily dissipates, his initial belligerence going with it.

“Heh,” he now utters with attempted gruffness, in a peculiar burst of air, as though trying to remove a lump of phlegm from his throat.

“Sin chow…?” I reply slowly, almost comically, appreciating the irony.

We lock stares for some time longer before he finally speaks. “You … You sleep with my sister…?” he says with uncertainty, as though he isn’t sure if he has the words right.

I look deeply into his eyes and see a scared little boy just trying to look out for his big sister; admittedly, I admire him for it. “Noobie,” I eventually say, nodding.

“You gon marry her?” he demands, his confidence returned.

I step forward, he shuffles back; I notice that his buddies have stayed seated on their bikes throughout our discussion, which surprises me. I continue staring into his deep, soulless eyes. “Honestly, yes, I would like to … I would very much like to marry your sister…”

A glimmer of a smile appears on the face of the youth.

“…But the thing is, I don’t think she likes me – anymore.”

“You sleep my sister, you need marry her,” his response is immediate. “She Buddhist, you know.”

“I know she is,” I reply, feeling strangely bashful. “Your sister is a good person, I like her a lot.”

He smiles now, openly, fully, as though he has made a friend for life. “So you marry my sister, when?”

I attempt to soften my expression and shake my head slightly, “I’m sorry, Noobie doesn’t want to marry me … You should speak to your sister – ask her – she doesn’t want my love.”

The poor lad looked as though he was going to cry; truly I had to admire that kind of brotherly adoration for an elder sister, and in fact I almost asked him – ‘Say, do you carry on like this every time a tourist or other White man becomes besotted with your sister and takes her to bed, because, my God, it must happen a terrible lot?’ – but decided to leave it on a tasteful note. “I’m sorry,” I said, and offered my hand.

He took it, gave it a limp embrace; then I turned and walked sedately home (what the hell? One month in this place and I’m already referring to my hotel on Bui Vien as ‘home’…?).

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by D Fee Ted

Photography by Tia Rust

I liked Lan. She was cool. We chatted for half an hour then established a tryst for the next morning.

I was shattered so, soon after saying ‘Hen gap lie (see you again)’, I grabbed a snack then headed excitedly up to bed for a big morning tomorrow.

The plan had been to meet at 8 o’clock that next morning where Lan was going to give me a guided tour of an area of Ho Chi Minh City that she didn’t expect I would see on my own; also given that she had been able to promptly locate my Facebook page on her phone, with assistance from the Yen Trang PC, we now had some basis for communication.

I had gone to bed around 7 p.m. the previous day; I was up shortly after 6 a.m. that next day. I quickly showered and shaved, put on some fresh clothes, then headed down for a big Western breakfast. I shot down the hotel stairs just after 7 a.m. and, aware that Loan and her husband opened the café at around 7 o’clock each morning, I excitedly conveyed my order, filling her in on my plans for that morning. I then ducked back into the hotel lobby deciding I’d best check for any new Facebook messages, just in case there had been alterations to Lan’s and my scheduled rendezvous.

This was going to be great; every other prospective woman in Vietnam had ditched me but Lan was awesome – we were going to have a great morning…

The first thing I saw when I opened my Facebook inbox:

I won’t come

I’m sorry

 

…My heart sank lower than I can even describe. I glanced above that message, looking for explanation. There was none. I typed a message, requesting a reason for such an abrupt turnaround.

She’d blocked my page.

I couldn’t work it out; what had happened? How did she go from being so happy and cheerful, so ostensibly excited about our impending meeting, to blocking me from further communication? I felt like crying with exasperation. What was I doing – what was I doing wrong?

I went downstairs and ate my breakfast. I thanked Loan for the wonderful meal and took to the streets. As always Bui Vien was markedly different in the morning; I barely noticed the group of street-youth who eyed me menacingly as I went by.

I cut through my perpendicular avenue and, avoiding puddles in the potholes, started along the back-way home. I walked past the seedy bar where Noobie and I had played pool the morning after our first night together at Crazy Girls; I saw in the distance the street-food restaurant where Noobie and I had shared breakfast, before playing pool at a seedy bar, after our first night together at Crazy Girls. I heard a motorbike behind me; unable to use the footpath for the clutter of trailers stacked with produce, I walked as closely to the curb’s edge as I could manage.

A motorbike rushed by closely, spraying muddy water onto my lower legs. I tried to step onto the footpath but there was still too much junk in the way. Another motorbike raced past; there were no puddles at this point in the road – this rider struck me in the arm as he passed. Another bike; a resounding thump this time between my shoulder-blades. That one was hard; took my breath away. I looked up and saw the pillion had removed his helmet and was using it as a bludgeon. I could hear no more engines behind me and, ironically, there was finally now room to walk on the footpath. I stepped up the 200 millimetres onto the sidewalk and continued walking; I wasn’t surprised, I wasn’t annoyed, I wasn’t perturbed, and I certainly wasn’t worried.

I had been warned it had been brewing, I just hadn’t cared; ‘Let the piss-ants have a go’, had been my thinking, ‘let’s see how far they get this time.’

As I watched three motorbikes turn and come back, one with a passenger, the only action I took was to perform a habitual swipe of my back-right pocket.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Vee T Numb

Photography by Toff Guise

My fleeting acquaintanceships were rapidly evaporating; deluges were occurring regularly and with each washout more overstayers seemed to drift away.

During a respite from the rain I wandered over to the second Bui Vien and past the Pink Tulip hotel, to see a minibus depositing its load of flamboyantly dressed middle-aged men to the sidewalk.

I strode along the main Bui Vien Street for perhaps the 317^th time that month and, as had become the way, was largely ignored by everyone; food vendors, shop owners, massage girls, street merchants – no one even offered to sell me a set of nail clippers anymore.

I barely looked sideways as I paced along the street; my mind was in turmoil – I was being tormented, oppressed by my own brain and I just needed to feel free again.

In my head I saw image after image of gorgeous Vietnamese faces, nodding, smiling, giggling, laughing, playing with their hair, as I attempted to articulate their language; then their happiness, their willingness, their almost eagerness, to put in place a future meeting yet, invariably, when that time came, how they would never be there as arranged.

As I approached the dark end of Bui Vien I realised, I think I was intending to stop in at Crazy Girls bar, I think in the hope of catching up with Noobie. Why I should want to do that I do not know, but that’s what it appeared I was doing.

My brain controlled my body’s actions as expected, but then there was me; it felt as though I didn’t know what the hell was going on anymore.

I heard Noobie before I saw her. My heart fluttered; God that annoyed me – why did it keep doing that? Then I saw her; she was seated out front of the bar with workmates, poring over some documents, typically ravishing. She saw me; her face at that moment became one of consternation. She spun and said something to a nearby bargirl; they both turned to look at me with expressions of distaste. “Why you still here?” Noobie called out to the street.

I responded with an expression of apathy.

“You go home now,” she said, making dismissive gestures with her hand. “You not wan here anymore.”

I gave the one-time love-of-my-life a brief nod and kept walking.

Performing the usual circuit, I ducked down a perpendicular lane and walked home the back way; then stepping into my avenue of Bui Vien I was momentarily halted by a particularly demonstrative street vendor, playing the game, trying to sell her wares to a group of (I believe) Australian tourists. This attractive young Viet woman – who I’d met, to whom I’d chatted and from whom I’d purchased, numerous times in the past – Lan, had been seemingly convinced to put on a display for these decadent middle-aged husbands and wives. The vivacious Viet, so keen and willing she was to ingratiate herself to these potential customers, having set down her tray of assorted bric-a-brac was now spinning and twirling her thick wire loop of friendship bracelets (every street vendor carried one of these, pieces of Number 8 wire circled into a half-metre ring with hooked ends, through which around 100 colourful bracelets were threaded, with the ends latched closed), as if she was some exotic dancer performing on a stage. Mid-dance, Lan spun, mischievous smile at her face as she swayed her hips provocatively, holding her wire loop in both hands at arms-length; she saw me, flashed a brief grin of recognition, just as her wire ring swooped and collided with the back a passing tourist. The tourist in question didn’t appear to even notice but of course, the youthful Lan was immediately gripped by contrition. She allowed her wire loop to hang by one hand, bumping on legs as she tried to bustle through the crowd, in the hope of commanding the tourist’s attention to offer an apology; alas the pedestrian had merged with the crowd and was gone. Lan looked back at me with a sheepish half-grin, her cheeks dimpled as she walked in my direction, biting down lightly on her tongue, allowing her wire loop to bump forcefully against her knees as she came. I glanced down to where the ring now hung, unmoving; it appeared to have sprung open at the ends. All but about four friendship bracelets had just finished sliding off the wire and now lay in a haphazard pile on the road. Without thinking I stepped forward and dropped to my knee, surrounding the mess. Lan followed me down with her eyes; she saw what had happened and froze in horror. I shot a look upwards, endeavouring to convey reassurance, while at the same time attempting to protect her livelihood from so many oblivious feet (to most Westerners, Vietnamese street vendors are purveyors of crap; to those vendors though, that ‘crap’ is their livelihood – they lose that merchandise and they are the ones who have cover the shortfall). From a kneeling position I surveyed the situation on the ground – myriad bracelets scattered over almost a one metre diameter – and, still just seconds after the disaster had been spotted, decided upon the most effective way of rectifying the mishap. With my left knee on the road I braced my spasmodic right arm, at the elbow, against the inside of my right knee. With one last glance upwards at the horrified Lan (how does a woman who earns no more than 2.000.000VND – around 140NZD – each month, reimburse for 100 items each retailing at 120.000VND? Let’s just say I felt as though I could understand Lan’s concern), using my left hand like a scoop and the right like an immovable horizontal stake, tensing shoulder muscles to the point of excruciation in order to mitigate tremulous limbs, in several juddering movements I carefully manoeuvred every last one of those fallen friendship bracelets up and onto my right hand/wrist/arm. I looked up at Lan, saw a face of radiant relief, then with my right hand grabbed the lower end of her broken ring and simply rose to my feet. Lan watched joyously as the colourful array of straps threaded themselves back onto the loop, then she quickly snapped closed the hooks and breathed, possibly, for he first time since seeing they’d come apart.

She looked at me and, although it is not considered acceptable for a street vendor to touch or, particularly, embrace a client – they must, of course, respect a tourist’s space – the warmth in her eyes was thanks enough. As I turned and continued walking towards my hotel, I heard one of the group of Aussies observing in a commanding voice, “Oh, good man … Shit, that’s a good man, right there! … Isn’t ‘e a good man, isn’t ‘e, sweetheart, ‘elpin’ you out like that?”

At the Yen Trang I afforded Loan the usual salutations then ascended the marble staircase to the hotel foyer. Lieu could tell something was awry the moment she saw me; “Hello Tim,” she began tentatively, “What is the matter?”

I looked up and, in response to her query, simply shook my head. Suddenly I had an uplifting thought, “Hey, did My Hanh call?”

Lieu looked at me blankly.

“My Hanh, from Nhan Tam, you know? When I was there the other day, she said she’d give me a call at this number, so we could, you know, organise something.”

“Call you, at the Yen Trang?” Lieu asked confusedly.

“Yes, it made sense, given that my phone went down weeks ago and the dental clinic have this number on file…”

“Oh, sorry Tim, she might be busy, I have not heard from her – but you should ask Thao, she might have had a call.”

“It’s fine, Lieu, thank you,” I forced a smile and opened the door to the stairwell.

“Tim…?” Lieu’s small voice pulled me back down.

Turning to face her, I cocked my head and gave a questioning look.

“Tim, I think you have very bad impression of Vietnam lady, yes?”

“Honestly, Lieu, currently, yes, I do.”

“No, Tim, you should not … We very busy, you see, to make time for nice man, like you.”

“Hah,” I shot back sarcastically. “As I see it, you are so very busy, because you have not enough time to get through all the White men like me, falling at your feet.”

“No, Tim, please don’t think that about Vietnam lady … We want love nice man, we just don’t know you yet.”

“Oh, come on, Lieu, you, ‘Vietnam ladies’, have had ample opportunity to know me, problem is, you, are never there when you say you will be there … You, don’t appear to give a damn about ‘nice man like me’.”

“I know, Tim, Vietnam ladies, very busy.”

“Anyone, anywhere, is able to make time for things they consider important, Lieu.” On that note I took four flights of stairs, two at a time, to my room.

Half an hour after that I was back down, having showered, changed my clothes, shaved, and washed my hair (this ‘clean and pleasantly aromatic hair’ thing, this is a novelty which, upon leaving Southeast Asia, I will sadly not maintain). Walking by reception I couldn’t hide a smirk as Lieu made a big, Vietnamese/broken-English, fuss over my ‘dep chi’ appearance. I headed outdoors and, bombarded by the late-afternoon heat, also the sun that shone almost directly into my eyes, made my way down the hotel steps. “Hey Tim,” called a very cheerful Loan, from the café to my left, in her thick Vietnamese accent, “what you want? I cook any food you want.”

“Ga com tien,” I said with a smile as I stepped off the bottom step and turned immediately leftward, towards the Loan’s Café facade.

“No, no … No matter, I make you any food, whatever you want – it cost you nothing.”

I stepped up to her counter. “Why would you do that?” I asked with an abashed grin.

Loan beamed and was manifestly ecstatic. “You make my business grow, Tim – you have faith in me, you believe in my product … You tell the people, and now, look!”

I turned into the sun’s glare, squinted my eyes, and was genuinely astonished; every table at Loan’s Café was occupied. I couldn’t believe it; after a moment I turned back to Loan, “It’s your food that’s done this, not me.”

“You,” she replied warmly, “it was you made the people stop, take notice my food … Thank you, Tim.”

I stared at the face of the elated Viet woman and smiled; it was surprising just how satisfying it felt, knowing that I had made her so happy.

“So what you want?” she asked again, laughing, “Anything”.

I grinned, nodded, tilted back my head and in my sharpest Viet accent, announced, “Café sua dah!”

As Loan poured the dollop of condensed milk in the bottom of my iced coffee I gazed around the seating area – she was right, I could recall stopping and speaking to, convincing, to come in for a meal or otherwise, every one of these people over past days, and now they were repeat customers – then promptly swallowing my outpouring of pride, which was threatening to pour out all over the floor, I breathed in the fetid air and continued waiting on my sumptuous Vietnamese iced coffee.

Taking my beverage, I went to sit out on the road where, in fairness, the only spare seats were located anyway. I had barely sat down when I saw, walking in my direction, just one more of Vietnam’s utterly stunning woman. ‘Do I bother?’ I asked myself, ‘Or do I just let her walk on by then later when I’m berating myself wishing I’d stopped and chatted with her I can console myself with the reality that there was never really any hope with a woman like her anyway?’

“Ah, sin loi (Ah, excuse me).” No, I didn’t seem to have a lot of decision-making power anymore; my brain just did what it wanted to do, and I had to go along with that.

She slowed her progress and looked shyly in my direction.

I stood up.

She looked startled, impressed even, stopped, appeared to slightly overbalance, and took a small step backward.

“Sin chow (Hello),” I started again, consciously employing my Viet accent.

She smiled, but with uncertainty.

“Ban co quear com? (How are you today?)”

“Doy quear… (I am fine…),” she said with what I perceived as mild trepidation.

I raised my hands to waist height with splayed fingers to show I meant no harm and, smiling in a hopefully reassuring way, continued my ingratiation, “Den doy la, Tim … Den la gee? (My name is Tim … What is your name?)”

“Den doy la, Lan,” (different Lan to street-vendor Lan; although in fairness I recall pointing out in an earlier instalment how, among the Vietnamese population, names are frequently repeated, so go with it please, this is reality). “Ah, hi, Tim … I speak English, if you’d prefer…?”

“Lan,” I extended my hand, grinning wildly, “pleasure to meet you.”

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Wan Moore-Shot

Photography by Justin Knicker Thyme