July 2019 spent another month in Vietnam. Better prepared I was this time for the temptations of Southeast Asia and indeed, much better behaved I was also. Surprising, therefore, how, with budget still intact, with morals still unquestioned, with scruples still, largely, untested, I should find myself making the costliest mistake I have made in three years visiting Vietnam.
7 July, I flew out of Christchurch, New Zealand. Somewhere in between I visited Guangzhou, China then, 9 July, I landed in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. I stayed that first night in Saigon (because, like I’ve said in past instalments, no one in Ho Chi Minh City ever refers to Vietnam’s former capital as ‘Ho Chi Minh City’) then the next morning, took a bus up-country to Dak Lak (‘Duck Luck’) Province to stay in the city of Buon Ma Thuot (look at it, say it). Met a wonderful young lady at the bus station in Saigon, Den (‘Dane’, her nickname, reportedly the Viet word for ‘dark’ or ‘black’), who, given that I was the lone native English speaker on the bus, and given her intermediate ability to project English, proved a saviour.
Around seven hours into the ten-hour journey – in Dak Nam Province – Den disembarked. I was on my own. Concerned but not defeated, now every time the bus stopped and I heard the driver yell a string of words – of which I could usually grasp the nouns but that seldom turned out to be of much help – I had to quickly assess and decide whether he was indicating that this was my stop, or whether the frantic surge of Viet faces clambering off the bus were simply having another toilet/cigarette break. Turns out when I did finally need to disembark and transfer buses near my destination, as Den had earlier assured me it would be, it was without confusion.
I had one day in the beautiful Buon Ma Thuot, Dak Lak Province, then a further five hours’ bussing up-country to Gia Lai (‘Zia Lie’) Province and the city of Pleiku. Now near the centre of Vietnam, worryingly near the Cambodian border, mid-summer and, my God is it warm (mid-to-late thirties with no airflow and unobstructed equatorial sunshine coming from directly overhead). Punishing. Next day, 12th July, my 36th birthday. In Pleiku I developed a solid regime; snack, walk, swim, walk, snack, swim, rest, repeat. It was too warm to do much else. Back down to my beloved Buon Ma Thuot, still the only White face to be seen, still arousing attention from every passer-by; walking the street, passing a group of sedentary Viet folk who immediately stop what they are doing and stare, one young man in the group apprehensively intoning the only English he knows, “Helloh…”
Of course, slowing, turning, my response, a grand, “Sin chow.”
Their eyes then widening as I continue my ingratiation…
“Ban koh quear com?”
Their laughter, delight, disbelief, “Doy quear…?”
“Ah, den doy la, Tim … Den la zee?”
Eyes widening further in disbelief, “Ah, ah, Tuhm (indicating me) … Den doy la, Cha,” indicating himself then pointing at the sign above his head, ‘Hotel Kim Tra’ (Kim Cha).
“Aha, Cha,” extending my hand, warmly shaking, smiling, “hen gap lie,” before moving on for the next such encounter.
A further nine hours on a sleeper-bus and I’m back in Ho Chi Minh City (and regardless how long we are apart, I shall never Miss Saigon). I recall though, the previous week when I turned up, strolling down my avenue of Bui Vien and across to the Yen Trang hotel café, the look of astonishment on Loan’s face, “Aha, Tim’s back!”
Then later up the hotel steps to daytime hotel receptionist, Thao, “Oh helloh, Mr Tim, Johnnie Walker!” (I neglected to mention, last year, during my last few days in HCMC, the handle ‘Tim Johnnie Walker’ had been passed down by locals, I guess, given my penchant, my reputation, for imbibing Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch Whisky up and down Bui Vien, but particularly at Loan Café out front of the hotel; the fact my middle name is John only made the title more brilliant). Every person affiliated with the Yen Trang hotel remembered me from last year, and most of them by name; in fact, all along Bui Vien, even the street vendors, who must encounter hundreds of new faces each day, appeared to remember the ‘dep chi Kiwi’ with the multitude of hats, too, and of them some even by name.
A short week later I took a ferry two and a half hours southward down the Saigon River and out the end of the Mekong to Vung Tau (‘Voom Dow’). This most picturesque, tropical, beach is the Vietnamese (also a few, but not many, Westerners’) choice of holiday destination; again, I was the only White face I saw on the ferry and one of only a few on the beach – I became familiar on the Vung Tau beach with the Viet observation, usually from awestruck, giggling, women, “Wow, you so hairy … You like monkey,” which I found to be a strangely bold thing to say to a foreigner they were seeing for the first time, but nonetheless hilarious. They are wonderful people, so cheeky, playful and keen to laugh.
Everything was going well; health was holding up, budget was on target, and even the daily blasting of equatorial sunburn was being kept under control. Every day I was walking great distances, usually to locate food vendors or (first time in a week) an ATM, or just for some Southern Vietnamese sightseeing; it was during one of these pilgrimages that I came upon Do Lon Bar; it was this bar, along with the two women therein, that was to be my undoing.
Each day I was in Vung Tau, before 8 a.m., I would head down to the beach, hit the water, breaststroke out the shallows, before performing a seamless transition to freestyle (head down, eyes open, you know, swimming like grownups do), then continue out until I could no longer see the bottom – around 150 metres from the beach; the drop-off at Vung Tau beach is very gradual and the water clear – then, after diving, scooping and pocketing a handful of sand (pointless ritual), back in. I loved it, it was brilliant, it was wonderful, it was – ‘You like monkey’ – like a dream. I would then head down the road for a regulation breakfast of banh mi op la with, of course, ca phe sua da, before taking to the streets for a few hours. Returning to my hotel, Tam Quynh on Phan Chu Trinh – affordable, pleasant, cost effective – I would grab a quick shower, also a nap (it’s Vietnam, baby, you sleep when you can), before heading out again that afternoon.
One such afternoon, around 5 p.m. strolling along the far end of Phan Chu Trinh, I was surprised to hear the words, “Hello sir, how is your evening going?”
While not unaccustomed to the ostensible anomaly that is the Vietnamese-American accent, at least, in Vung Tau, I found anything more than a monosyllabic ‘Helloh’, to be out of the ordinary.
I turned, to see an extremely attractive Vietnamese woman along with her, somewhat less alluring but still very attractive, younger, friend.
Nguyen Ly (‘Nwyen Lee’), it turned out, is the owner of Do Lon Bar and, along with her 23-year-old employee, Nhi (‘Knee’), would sit on a stool, smoking Shisha and eliciting business for her tiny premises. In fairness, during the week anyway (I first showed up Tuesday evening), Do Lon Bar has only a handful of passing customers or sometimes, for example that Tuesday night, just one or two. Ly and I chatted that first night, in what became the most enchanting evening of my life, solidly, largely uninterrupted, all night (until midnight closing). About four hours into the conversation I could honestly have called her ‘The most remarkable woman I have met in my life, to date’ (and in fact, shit, I think I did say that – ah crap, maybe even twice); the 37-year-old Ly had been forced out of school at the age of 14 to help support her typically impoverished, farming family. She had gone on, with no formal English training, to work behind the bar, in a bar; then around 8 years ago Ly had bought her own bar. Somewhere along the way she’d had a husband and child where, not atypically in Vietnam, the husband had soon opted out of the relationship. Ly was beautiful like nothing I’d seen, and the more I spoke to her the more resplendent she became; she was strong, independent and, having taught herself to speak fluent English, she was intelligent. Maybe the best thing though, she had a tattoo on her forearm which read, in English, ‘Never Give Up’. She was a quintessential Vietnamese Goddess and I was infatuated, there was no question.
Having already booked my return ferry ticket to Saigon for that Sunday, I had under a week to show Ly how I felt about her; I needed a way to prove to this woman that my feelings for her, my intentions, were genuine.
I proposed to Ly the idea of ‘thopping’, just for the chance to spend some time with her outside the bar scene; she told me, with a loving smile, that ‘I will spend all your money’. I retorted ‘I doubt you could’. (Incidentally, I/we had already decided that, as an early birthday present for employee Nhi, I/we would fund her first tattoo; it was at the tattoo parlour while Ly and I watched Nhi wincing under the needle that I decided to take Ly to a nearby jewellery store to buy her something nice.
We entered the jewellery store where I had intended to purchase a 5.000.000VND (350NZD) bracelet or necklace; Ly promptly informed me, however, that she did not want bracelet or necklace, she wanted ring.
“Alright,” I joked, but reluctantly, knowing that rings were rather more expensive, “I’ll give you a budget of fifteen million ($1000).”
We studied the selection for some time before she eventually pointed, “I wan that one.”
I followed her finger. “Ly,” feeling my bowels clench, “that’s an engagement ring – do you seriously want to be engaged to me?”
“I wan ring,” she looked at me hopefully.
“You want to marry me?”
Her eyes moistened; her lower lip quivered.
I briefly assessed her features, screening for sincerity, before leaning forward, clasping her delicate jaw in both hands, and pecking her cheek.
She smiled and said silently, “I wan ring.”
I allowed a few moments to pass before exhaling hard through my nose. “Com ko chi … Bough new teing?”
“Fourteen,” I heard come from her exquisite Vietnamese palate.
“Fourteen?” I experienced a momentary chill. “Shit, Ly, you’ve almost tapped out your budget.”
“No,” she shook her head, “four-teen.”
The chill which had begun as ‘momentary’, seconds later, would be better described as ‘prolonged’. I was pretty sure I knew what Ly was trying to tell me and, much as I hoped that I was mistaken, my interpretation of Vietnamese broken English had in past weeks come a long way. “Forty?” I hazarded, shaking my head, holding up four fingers.
Ly nodded, slowly, “Four-tin.”
This situation was escalating more rapidly than I could comfortably handle. Earlier that day a tattoo for Nhi had cost me 1 million dong ($70). Incidentally, I had given myself a loose daily budget of 3 million dong (around $200). I had brought Ly into a Vietnamese jewellery store with the intention of buying her a small something nice, such as a necklace, or a bracelet, for 5 million dong ($350). I had then joked that if I was going to buy her a ring, she had a budget of 15 million dong ($1000). She had presently found a ring and was now asking me to pay 40 million dong (you work it out) for it.
Following several longer-than-ordinary moments, wherein my body underwent a period of clandestine dry-reaching (seriously, it felt as though my sphincter was retching), like a man finally I came forward. “Alright, Ly, but you need to understand,” I spoke slowly and clearly, very much akin to the besotted fool I had become, “if I buy this engagement ring, until I actually propose to you, until you have actually agreed to be my wife, you do realise that it’s still my ring, yes? You won’t be able to have ring until after I have proposed to you.”
“I wan ring,” she pointed.
“Yeah, about that,” I chuckled, “I don’t currently have forty million dong in my account – think I have thirty-one…”
“You pay deposit, now, pay rest, tomorrow…?”
Begrudging, yet knowing I needed to somehow prove to this goddess that my intentions were true; looking deeply into her eyes, I capitulated, “Sure, let’s do that, then.” I withdrew my debit card and, head swimming, paid the 10 million dong (non-refundable) deposit.
That was in the afternoon then, that night, via the Tam Quynh PC, I reluctantly transferred the funds necessary to complete the deal.
I had concluded in the meantime (because I am not a complete idiot), and which probably accounted for my instinctive reluctance on the day, that this woman did not want to marry me and in fact only wanted the ring. I had decided, therefore, that, as I was already in too deep, having already committed around 700NZD on the deposit, certainly I was still going to be buying the ring, I just would not be offering it to Ly. Ultimately, therefore, I will have purchased an exquisite, very much high-end Vietnamese engagement ring which I supposed I might to one day offer to a more deserving woman.
The next day, at the jewellery store, as I prepared my debit card to pay the remainder, I did my best to ensure the attendant understood that this was my ring, and under no circumstances should she let Ly have it.
Nevertheless, as I keyed in my PIN from one side of the store, across the other side I saw Ly taking the ring from its box and slipping it on her finger. I was in disbelief; I was aghast, I was frustrated, annoyed, and beginning to feel that familiar sense of being cheated in Vietnam.
On the taxi ride back to my hotel I turned to Ly. “I wan see ring.”
She held up her hand for me to see.
“Lovely, now take it off, let me see properly.”
“No, I wan wear.”
“Ly, take it off, show it to me.”
“Let me wear.”
“Ly,” I said, clasping her left wrist, “until I propose marriage to you, that is my ring … Give it to me.”
“I wan wear,” her eyes were pining.
Becoming angry I tightened my grip on her wrist and, with my other hand, hooked my fingers under the edge of the ring.
Ly’s eyes became frantic.
I pulled. Glancing down I saw the lump of a past scab, recently healed, on the second knuckle of her ring finger, preventing the ring’s movement. Twisting the ring I pulled some more, to no avail; then seeing that I was beginning to cause physical discomfort to this fine woman, defeatedly, I relaxed my grip.
Releasing her wrist but still staring at her left hand, I said firmly, “Ly, take off the fucking ring.”
She looked back me with a barely perceptible smirk of victory and said, almost playfully, goading, “But I wan wear.”
A moment later she leaned forward to the taxi driver and uttered some words; those that I recognised were ‘stop’, ‘beauty’, ‘get out’, ‘go’.
I waited, contemplating. A moment later the taxi stopped outside a beauty salon and, with a kiss on the cheek and the assurance she’d see me tonight, as though there was no more tension between us than any other old married couple, she quickly disembarked.
That night when I saw her, I was unsurprised to see she wasn’t wearing the ring. “Ly, where ring?” I asked.
“Oh, I take off for shower and forget to put back on.”
I knew she was lying to me. I shook my head and drank my scotch.
The next night, again, no ring on her finger. I knew, at this point, I had lost it. My 40.000.000VND ring was gone, and there was nothing I could do. “Ly, where is my ring?” I asked, perhaps pointlessly.
“Where your ring?” she smirked, this time, overtly, “Your ring, oh, I already sell it.”
“You what?!” My sphincter spasmed; I choked and came very close to vomiting.
“I sell your ring, so what, you don’t need, you don’t wan marry me, anyway.”
“So you sold my ring? For the record, Ly, I do want to marry you, it is you who I now know does not care about me … I bought that ring to show you how much I care, but you don’t believe, you just sell my fucking ring…?”
“So you buy another, so what?”
“Ly, fuck it, that’s not the point – you sold my ring – I can’t believe any woman would be so cold – callous enough to do something like that…?”
“Yeah, so buy another one, you can afford it.”
“Are you fucking serious? Forty million dong is not nothing, Ly. Shit, you’re just like every other woman in Vietnam – you see a White man and what, you assume he has an endless supply of cash? You assume that he has all the fucking money in the world – are all Viet women seriously this fucking stupid?!”
“Don’t yell me! I not stupid!”
“What do you expect?! You stole from me, then you sold what you stole…?! You’re a thief, you’re a liar, you’re a cheat, and you’re a silly bitch.”
“Get out my bar!” Ly pointed forcefully to the open end of her bar, toward the road.
“I’ll finish my bottle of scotch first, thank you,” I said calmly, taking my stool. I poured a shaky drink and, deliberately audibly, muttered, “Forty million dong … How much do you have to love a woman to spend that kind of money on a ring – which she then steals, and sells?”
“So what, you rich White man, you buy ‘nother one, for other girl,” she muttered in response.
“Ly!” standing up quickly, I had lost my hold on calmness. “No! You cannot do this!”
“Oh so what,” she said firmly, “you want me call Vietnamese Police for you, so you tell them how pretty lady steal your ring – you think they believe you?” Taking a seat while casting a discerning eye over her shoes she hissed the words, “You think they gonna believe you? Fuck off, dickless White-boy.”
Disregarding that last bit, again with aplomb, I said, “No, I don’t think they would believe me, Ly, I think you can manipulate anyone you want, to make them think whatever you want … I think I misjudged you – I think you are not the wondrous goddess I originally met on Tuesday night, I think you are a cheat, you are a liar, and you are a thief.”
“Oh, you wan talk shit about me in my bar, you fuck off!” She pointed again at the exit.
“I’ll finish my bottle of scotch first, thank you,” I said, again taking my seat by the fan and, slurping the remainder of the last, poured myself another glass.
As it would turn out, that was the second time of many that Ly screamed at me to leave her bar that night. It was also the second night of many that I entered a bar before 6 p.m., bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label over the counter and, finishing it before midnight, wandered back to my hotel in preparation for an 8 a.m. swim/stroll/or just start.
Days later I rounded off this year’s Vietnamese excursion amid the debauchery of Ho Chi Minh City, solidified lifetime friendships with many of Saigon’s locals then, promising this time that I would return, I flew home.
Despite that ostensible debacle I did enjoy this trip although, even after transferring funds to compensate for losses in Vung Tau, think it’s fair to say I suffered another comprehensive defeat at the hands of Vietnam(ese women). What’s that now? None for 3? Can a man be expected to come back from that?
Additionally, because I promised I would mention them: during four weeks in Vietnam I had three haircuts. Last year a supposedly cheap haircut cost me 120 dong and was a disgrace. This year, down the bottom of Bui Vien I paid 80 dong for a trim; this haircut also was decidedly lacking. A week later I stopped in at The Cut Station, also on Bui Vien, conveniently, positioned right alongside Crazy Girls Bar. They charge 60 dong per cut. Cheapest yet but my God, they are amazing. The Cut Station is state of the art; they don’t brush or blow, they vacuum hair from your skin. I had beads of perspiration on my forehead from the walk; she used a baby-wipe to dab it dry before starting the cut. Everything they use is heated for sanitary purposes, these ladies know how to cut hair and oh yes, they cut hair so very well. Seriously, haircut in HCMC District 1? The Cut Station, 100%. Those ladies are awesome.
Article by Tim Walker
Edited by E Ville
Photography by Harry Don