It’s a simple formula; for a body to remain slim, said body must ingest fewer calories than is needed by that body for basic function.

The alternative is to ingest more than is needed and have the remaining calories (energy) converted to fat by the body then stored under the body’s skin in case of sudden famine.

Of course, every body’s sustenance/energy/calorie requirements are different; metabolic rate, body size, genes et cetera, all come into the equation, yet, taking in account a few variables, the above formula remains the same.

Working alongside one of those ‘variables’, few years ago, inadvertently, I discovered the key to superior fat burning.

Please understand, this was somewhat of an unwelcome revelation as, at that time, with 183 centimetres and barely 72 kilograms to my name, I was already closer to ‘underweight’ than I was ‘overweight’.

Thing about that, few years prior to my ‘revelation’, I recall witnessing the rapid transformation of British comedian, Jimmy Carr, as he went from a massive presence in every way to, only a brief time later, standing still as a hugely tall character but without the accompanying corpulence; also lost, arguably, in the months surrounding his downsizing, was a sizable portion of his ebullience but then, Jimmy Carr’s waning comedic ability of years gone by was not my concern.

Indeed, today’s concern relates to the modern-day penchant for compulsive or, over–eating. “But we’re so busy, you know,” some might contest, “we have no time to eat properly, like, we just have to take what we can get, you know, like a quick snack on the go or you know … We’re just so busy…”

Really? How busy are we? So busy we must eat more, or do less? I mean, really. Are we actually any busier than we were ten years ago, or have we just allowed our lives, our minds to become so terribly occupied by a modern-day technological scourge, that for most of us, we feel there is not-a-moment-to-lose, lest we miss out on the next update or like or comment or validation or request or, other highly-pressing-but-ultimately-pointless, notification? Yes, occupancy may have increased but likely, productivity has remained steady.

Jimmy Carr, all those years back, was interrogated by many notable characters; all asked basically the same question – “So what diet did you do?” – as if there was no way in the world he might just have started an exercise regime.

As I recall, Jimmy Carr, all those years ago, replied simply, “No, no diet, I just cut down to two meals a day.”

This strategy, at least this principle, as verified by my own experience some years later, is worth noting; remember, if your body doesn’t use the energy (calories) you have provided it, that energy (calories) will be converted to fat and stored under the body’s skin for later.

When I (unwittingly) discovered the technique that (lamentably) caused me to, an already slim being with (perceptibly) not a lot to lose, in the space of twelve months, somehow, drop from 72 to 68 kilograms, I was aghast; yet I felt I understood.

My routine for years has remained unchanged: I start the day with a gargantuan breakfast which I consume at my desk over the following hours then, sometime later, at around 2 p.m., I work my way through a similarly sizeable lunch, again at my desk, in preparation for a 6 p.m. sporting engagement (I realise exerting strenuously for the best part of two hours over four nights of the week, to many people, isn’t realistic but that’s fine, please, bear with; like I said, focus on the principle here). I return home around 8, ravenous, grab a banana, a few handfuls of nuts and an apple to wash it all down, before showering and going to bed.

Maintaining this schedule, as a 33-year-old man with no ostensible excess, I dropped a horrifying 4 kilograms; my target weight was, and still is, 75 kilograms yet here I am, to this day, languishing on 68. The principle, like Jimmy’s regime, cut out that evening meal or at least, make it more of an evening snack.

Do have breakfast and do not think that if you go to bed with a full stomach you can skip breakfast the next day, ‘Because you know, it’s like, basically the same thing’. It’s not the same thing. Your body has already taken all the leftover calories from that unnecessarily large evening meal and converted them to fat as you’ve slept. By skipping breakfast that next morning all you’ve effectively done is not announce to your metabolism that it’s time to wake; of course, your body will use some of the fat stores it accumulated the previous night but because you’re still biologically half asleep, because your metabolism has yet to properly awaken, your body won’t allow you to use nearly the amount of energy (calories) you might have after sustenance.

Alternatively, if consuming a sizable evening meal is more important to you than being slim, alright, but how about having it earlier – instead of 9 try 6 p.m. – give your body time to digest and more to the point, to metabolise what you’ve ingested.

Again, this earlier mealtime thing won’t be realistic to some but still, the principle remains the same; endeavour to go to bed empty, rather than full.

You’ll feel better, you’ll look better because of it.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Isla Orway Eatwell

Photography by Fatboy Slim

 

 

 

 

As per the last instalment, while frequenting Do Lon Bar in Vung Tau, I was the victim of a brazen robbery.

Upon my return, therefore, I wasted no time in filing a claim with my travel-insurance company, Cover-More Insurance.

In an email to Cover-More Insurance I outlined exactly what had eventuated, describing, in practically the same words that appear in the previous post, the sequence of events that had befallen me regarding my acquaintanceship with the Vietnamese Goddess (and, as it transpired, rapacious harridan), Nguyen Le.

In addition to the personally written claim, as the only evidence I possessed of the theft in question was an empty ring-box (official documentation had been signed at the jewellery store then retained by Le, presumably as proof of ownership for when she later sold the ring), I had copied and pasted the pertinent portion of my bank statement, showing two comparatively massive withdrawals over two days – deposit then purchase of the ring – at the Vietnamese jewellery store.

Cover-More Insurance’s response appeared in my inbox, just 13 days – also one follow-up query, 10 days in, on my part – after completion of the claim:

 

‘26 August, 2019

Dear Mr Walker RE: CLAIM NO.  1276877 – (PLEASE QUOTE WHEN RESPONDING)

We have assessed the documentation and information we have on your file.

We note from your claim that you are claiming for a stolen engagement ring. You claim that the ring was stolen by a Vietnamese lady that you had met while in Vietnam.

We refer you to the Cover-More policy wording under the section headed “Policy Conditions” which states 5. Claims a) The loss or theft of luggage, personal effects, travel documents or money must be reported within 24 hours to the police or responsible Transport Provider and a written report must be obtained at that time.

We also refer you to the Cover-More policy wording under the heading “Luggage And Travel Documents” which states: We Will Not Pay For: 1. loss or theft which is not reported within 24 hours to the: a) police; and b) responsible Transport Provider (where Your items are lost or stolen whilst travelling with a Transport Provider). All cases of loss or theft must be confirmed in writing by the police (and Transport Provider where applicable) at the time of making the report and a written report obtained.

In your case, the loss was not reported to the Police with in 24hours of your realising that the ring had been stolen.

In light of the underwriter’s policy exclusions and conditions above, we are unable to provide any compensation in this instance.

We are disappointed that we have been unable to help you on this occasion. We appreciate your understanding and hope that we can be of assistance on your next journey.

If you have any questions regarding your claim please do not hesitate to contact us on 0800 500 225. Or alternatively, you can email us: [email protected]

Yours faithfully COVER-MORE (NZ) LTD.,

Grant Robinson CLAIMS DEPARTMENT Please note that in relation to processing travel insurance claims, Cover-More acts as an agent of the insurer.’

 

I was quick with a rebuttal; possibly too quick. I feel as though perhaps I should have afforded more thought to my response; nevertheless:

 

‘Cover-More Insurance,

 

That is a disgusting attempt at avoidance.

There was no realistic way I could have reported that incident at the time; Vietnamese Police wouldn’t have cared and in fairness, I expected there would be no difference between making a claim to your company then, or upon my return.

Ultimately this is unacceptable; you are avoiding paying a claim based on a loophole that you have written into your policy, clearly, for handling exactly this variety of instance. For example, who, when they are abroad, thinks about promptly lodging a claim? People take care of it when they get home, that’s what they do.

Therefore, Cover-More Insurance, if you do insist on hiding under this conveniently self-placed safety-net in order to avoid your obligations as an insurance company, as a journalist with a sizable following, you should know, influencing public perception of companies is what I do.

Typically it’s tourism related, but I can diversify.

I recommend, Cover-More Insurance, you do the right thing.

 

Tim Walker’

 

I realise embellishment in order to elicit results is morally and ethically questionable but realistically, so is providing ‘insurance’ that doesn’t actually ensure anything.

I doubt if Cover-More Insurance ever pays out on significant claims; I guarantee there is always a devious little loophole written in somewhere to their ‘Terms and Conditions’ enabling the company to avoid honouring those claims they wish to shirk.

Additionally, here is some more small-print I just discovered in my Cover-More policy:

‘Please also note that under the policy you have the limit of any item is $750 and is subject to an excess of $250.’

Right. $500. That’s the best I ever could have expected from Cover-More Insurance. Interesting, given that for each of the three trips I’ve taken, supposedly covered by Cover-More Insurance, they have charged me over $200 for ‘peace of mind’. That’s over $600 I’ve paid in ‘insurance’, and all I could have salvaged this time was a meagre $500. Do the math.

Cover More? At best they might Cover Some; assuredly, this so-called insurance company does not Cover More.

 

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Lee Jetty/Matt Claim

Photography by Noah Cover

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, 12^th July, my 36^th 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

 

“Oh! … Soddy, housekeeping…” With that I heard the scurry of footsteps followed by light switches being flicked off and the door being quietly closed.

Through my unique inside perspective, also perhaps the fact that my mind at the time was in a freakishly heightened state of alertness, I had registered the nature of her mistake even before the cleaning-lady in question had registered that she had swiped into the wrong room. I had already flopped back down in bed, mentally shaking my head in frustration – in anger – by the time she had reached the door; expectedly everything on the sideboard was just as I’d left it – Singapore folk, typically, as previously established, are not thieves (regardless, housekeepers, at least in Vietnam, showing up in my hotel room at inopportune moments, was a phenomenon with which I had, some weeks ago, come to the end of my tolerance).

Turning onto my stomach and thrusting my face as hard as I could into the pillow, I tried to ease back into some semblance of rest; alas my body was dominated for the time being by adrenaline – a sensation that could best be described as massive shocks of electricity, were coursing, pulsing, dead-set ripping their way through and around my limbs thus, for the next half hour lying in that bed, I just tried to remain as calm as I could be while enduring the hell of my entire physique twitching and spasming itself into contraction.

A little later that morning, and following a half-hour yoga session to re-stretch my seized muscles, in the Hotel Boss lobby, after again dining at my brilliant Gloria Jean’s café (which I believe I referred to on the way over as a ‘restaurant’; it’s not a restaurant, it’s a ‘café’, or ‘coffee-house’, situated in the Boss lobby, offering delightful morsels, at a reasonable price, and all served by a wonderfully personable local, English-speaking, gentleman), I had a brief word to the Hotel Manager regarding ‘unauthorised entry to currently occupied hotel rooms by misdirected staff members’ (calmly noting, ‘Given I have spent the past four weeks in Vietnam, where hotel room intrusions legitimately do occur, and, well, given my personal level of alarm coupled with the darkness of the room at the time, you were probably just lucky I didn’t cause some kind of serious injury to your unwitting staff member…’), then with my suitcase having been put on the direct route back to New Zealand – my backpack full of nothing of substance but for my flight documents, passport, and of course the few books I’d bought from that Ho Chi Minh City street vendor a few weeks’ back – and myself not required on the same route home until later that afternoon, with iced coffee in hand I made my way out to the gloriously sunny Hotel Boss courtyard to read a book for the day…

Now, and this is possibly the most important part of my story, therefore, I implore you, please, pay attention.

…Private Dancer is a ‘novel’ (inverted commas because the story is so heavily based on fact it might as well be fact) about a young British journalist who travels to Thailand in the ‘90s (given Thailand’s quicker advancement, fair to say this is tantamount to Vietnam in the 2010s) with the intention of penning a realistic travel guide, among other literary works, about the current (90s) tourism boom across Thailand. As is the fashion, in Thailand, he attends a Thai Go-Go bar and quickly finds himself besotted with one of the dancers therein. This dancer, subsequently, interestingly, appears to reciprocate his emotions entirely. Indeed, in this respect the book reads as a love story; the storyline depicts the protagonist’s rapid and helpless tumble into infatuation and how, at the height of his passion – while he is happily spending thousands of British pounds (a literal fortune in Thai Baht) on his Thai ‘girlfriend’ – he begins to experience doubt. This young journalist just can’t work her out; he has been in Thailand many months now and has spent so much of his money on her, yet she never seems entirely ‘there’ with him – their relationship has reached an impasse which he just can’t seem to overcome…

I recalled with a smirk, as I began reading, under the sunshine that day in the Boss courtyard, this book, Private Dancer, had been recommended to me by a group of wizened old expats, sitting outside one night on Bui Vien, listening to my own tales of Noobie from Crazy Girls bar – about how amazing she was and how utterly infatuated I had become with her – this trio of middle-aged men, all apparently having taken Vietnamese brides some years earlier, unabashedly laughed in my face. “Your girlfriend’s a working girl!” they had jested.

I had laughed right back at their faces and briefly explained how I knew Noobie was not a ‘working girl’.

“Well, do you give her money?” one of them asked.

“To buy us drinks, yes.”

“And what else do you buy her?”

“Well, in the bar, I guess, I buy Shisha for us, I buy those Nos Balloons … I dunno, I buy her, anything she wants, I guess.”

“Sure, but you give her the money, and she runs away and buys whatever, yeah?”

“Yes, and at comparatively high prices, I guess,” I replied tactfully, “but I consider I’m paying for the convenience of not having to leave my seat…”

“’Convenience’…? Hah! You’re a fuckin’ sucker’s what you are – she’s robbing you blind, matey.”

I smiled in that way someone smiles when they don’t quite get the joke and are wondering if the laughter they can hear around them is maybe not so much directed at the punchline but is perhaps targeted more at them…? “Yeah, I’m always reasonably cautious of that,” I noted soberly, “I mean, in the beginning they used to try and over-charge me, short-change me and the like – guess they try on everyone – but not so much these days.”

“Alright, well put it this way then – does she go home with you?”

“Ah, after closing, most nights, yeah.”

“Most nights, aha! Think about it, matey, you’re payin’ her, I’m guessin’ millions o’ dong, she’s goin’ ‘ome with ya – mostly – she’s fuckin’ workin’ you over so good and I bet, I bet, you think you’re in love with ‘er, don’tcha?”

“Well…”

“You are a fuckin’ sucker, matey – oh, look at old mate over here,” the middle-aged drunkard became theatrical, putting on a stage-voice and making out he was talking to someone in the distance, “yeah, gone an’ found ‘imself a hot little piece o’ arse at a bar down Bui Vien, and yeah, reckons she’s in love with ‘im, ‘e does – gives ‘er all ‘ees cash, ‘e does, ‘n she fucks ‘im summa the time too – course now ee’s gone and fallen in love with ‘er, but ee’s runnin’ outa cash – ” he for the moment reverted to reality, hissing words in mock secrecy “ – you are runnin’ outa cash, ain’tcha, an’ ya know ya’ll be no good to ‘er once yer cash is gone, don’tcha, matey?”

“Yeah, reckon I’ll be good, thanks bud.”

“Hey, shit, don’t worry about it,” the vile drunkard turned suddenly friendly, “we’re not mockin’ ya or nothin’ – shit, it’s happened t’all of us, matey – happens to all us Whi’ folk in Vietnam … You just gotta make sure ya git out ‘fore it’s too late, ‘sall.”

“Reckon I’ll give it a bit, see what happens.”

“She’s a workin’ girl, matey, that’s a fact.”

“Noobie? Nah,” I shook my head defiantly, becoming a shade frustrated with – what appeared to be at the time – this ignorant run of generalisation. “No way, she’s not like that, she’s intelligent, she’s classy, she’s different…” (Interestingly, that phrase ‘she’s different’, was one I heard frequently spoken by the protagonist in Private Dancer, in his repeated efforts to convince his cohort of his Thai girlfriend’s goodness) “…I mean she’s high maintenance, but come on, all the best ones are…” (Bear in mind this conversation took place at the pinnacle of Noobie’s and my relationship, before she appeared to lose interest; back when, most nights, I would hear the heart-melting string of gloriously accented words, ‘Love you, Tim’.) “…I mean, we go out together,” I continued, in hindsight, I think more in an attempt to convince myself than this table of mocking drunkards, “we have meals together – we do plenty of shit together – she is not a ‘working girl’.”

…As I was saying, regarding my synopsis of Private Dancer, she and he had reached an impasse which he could just not seem to surmount; he’s going insane with exasperation while she doesn’t appear too bothered by anything anymore and, although she no longer sees need to exert the same level of effort with him, of course, she seems to expect that he will continue to be as financially generous with her regardless. In the story, the young journalist is wracked with uncertainty, to the extent that it is adversely affecting his work – he is in Thailand primarily on work duties, after all. He’s going insane. He can’t take it; he hires a Private Investigator, to find out some truths about the woman of his dreams, who we then hear making reference to the protagonist’s case – ‘Just another stupid Farang (Thai name for Westerners), fallen in love with gorgeous Thai bargirl, expects she will love him even after he stops spending money on her’ (while Private Dancer is written in first person narrative, it goes between the perspective of all the book’s main characters in first person, meaning the reader gains insight into inner thoughts, also plans/schemes, of various characters, allowing the reader to know what those characters are thinking despite what they might be saying which, in the story there is a terrible lot of this variety of duplicity). As it happens, in the book, the protagonist soon discovers that his ‘girlfriend’ is already married; unsurprisingly the husband is Thai and, typical of most Southeast Asian males, although this man doesn’t contribute much to the relationship, thanks to her income as a dancer/stripper/prostitute, they own a nice house with vehicles in the Thai countryside…

Interesting to note also, almost everything I read in Private Dancer regarding the way Thai Bargirls spoke to their Farangs, reminded me, chillingly so, of the way Viet bargirls did this very thing; the vernacular was almost identical, to the point where some (Thai) parts of speech in the book were as though they’d been borrowed directly from my (Viet) experience. For example, posing a choice with two potential outcomes, Noobie’s typical response (along with a cheesy grin, cocked head, and the batting of eyelids – just like in the book – was an extremely agreeable, ‘Up to you’; alternatively, when asked a direct question, for example, ‘Do you want one?’ the response was a very cutesy, ‘Only if you wan, too (along with the token eyelid batting).’ It went on like this, with each new example leaving me more bewildered than the last; it was as though somebody had gone to great lengths to orchestrate this thoroughly deceptive charade for me – by the end of the book I could legitimately not believe the nature of the words that I was reading.

…I finished this book, also five or six iced coffees, by that afternoon (and for the record, that afternoon in Singapore, resulted in the only substantial suntan I picked up over the entire month I was away). Despite the ambient heat an icy chill swept over me as I realised, I had allowed myself to fall victim by the allure of Ho Chi Minh City, an area of peril to which I was only recently claiming to be so very attentive, and in fact, had I been just a little more invested, this fall might very well have been headlong into the fabled Curse of Vietnam, from which, only days earlier, I recall priding myself on salvaging Stu’s South African hide.

While I’d definitely had one hell of a time being a part of this real Vietnamese Experience  (can’t be too sore about my second successive comprehensive capitulation at the hands of Southeast Asia, because let’s be fair, most everything in Vietnam is a con; they are an ancient land of cheats, thieves, and liars, after all), damn it, it still hurt to know I had been so blatantly deceived.

Also left me a smidgen concerned for my health…

[Bugger. On my Microsoft page I had scanned six pages of results from the Christchurch Sexual Health Clinic – all with NEGATIVE findings – which I thought would have been a nice way to end this saga; alas, evidently this website is too shithouse to project such documents. Sorry about that.]

Huh, while I may have left a great deal in Vietnam – of money, of dignity, of myself – I was ever so pleased to find I didn’t bring anything back.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Glen Billy-Health

Photography by Job Dunn

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

 

 

Alright, first, let’s clear up the awkwardness. To all you clever buggers out there, thank you, I am quite aware that the Roman Numeral for 40, 41 and so on, would ordinarily require the use of Roman Numeral ‘L‘ – 50 – which is all fine and accurate but, the issue, I have tried this convention in the past – see, Fustigators – and it just became awkward. Example given, ‘Fustigator XL’ – without ‘XXXIX’ coming before it giving it context, honestly, who the hell knows that ‘XL’ is 40 and not just something quite large? In other words, if somebody is perusing the Your Daily Dose of Profundity site and decides they want to locate, from the ‘Search’ box, say, instalment number 42 – XLII – (which they very well might do because it’s going to be awesome), if they’re regular folk, by which I mean not Roman history fanatics,  honestly, what are they likely to do? Seriously, and this is not a dig at the intelligence of my readers this is reality, given the modern-day proclivity to use numerical numbers rather than Roman ones, most people, let’s be fair, are a touch uncertain of what comes after, say, XXXVIII; indeed, most people would probably, logically, think, ‘Shit, right, if number 39 was XXXIX’ (as it realistically is), ‘then 40 must be XXXX and 41 must be XXXXI, thus 42 will obviously be XXXXII’, which does make for good logic, but it would be erroneous logic nonetheless. (In Roman reality, 40 is ‘XL’ – 10 before 50; thus 41 is ‘XLI’, and 42 is obviously ‘XLII’.) Therefore, I have made the management call and, given there should be only three or four more instalments before the gripping (still 100% reality) conclusion, I am more than comfortable flouting legitimate Roman Numerals for the benefit of our modern-day ease of comprehension.

Hm. After that sizable first paragraph, let’s make the second one tiny. Alright. Done. Good work, team.

Anyway, back in the good old Arsehole of Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh City, District 1, while everyone was glad to see Stu’s plans for English Teacher grandeur back on track and no one was really giving a damn about my almost-conflict with the man named Gary-Garrick-Derek, when I considered it, I was somewhat disconcerted by Stu’s initial words upon our reunion – I still smelt the booze on his breath and felt his whiskers against my neck as he’d drawled something along the lines of, ‘…thought they might’ve killed ya.’

Now, I understand that in Vietnam, particularly after dark, if one is not constantly on-guard, in fact anyone is susceptible to being mortally injured by another, but Stu had used the pronoun ‘they’, and he had said it with such ominous vehemence – ‘they’ – as though whomever had occupied Stu’s time on that most worrisome of nights, was the same group, or were perhaps affiliated with that same group, of people who he’d thought may have been responsible for my demise. As I said, disconcerting, particularly as it was now accepted up and down Bui Vien that I, the bespectacled Englishman with the multitude of hats, could be found frequently roaming these darkened streets, seeking out scenes of interest or unrest – of course, unbeknown to the scene-makers, all with the projected intention of documenting the aforementioned scenarios upon my return to New Zealand – alone, unguarded and ultimately, at this late stage in my tour, fair to say, with a sense of confidence, or even, as some might have noted, moxie (interesting point, first time ever writing that word; in fact same goes for ‘bespectacled’). It occurred to me as a sudden revelation, however, that even after spending 20-something days canvassing this fetid environment, I still really had no right to be brazen; indeed, in no way should I have been so damned bold. I mean, other than my own basic knowledge of self-defence, I was unprotected. Against multiple assailants I was entirely vulnerable.

At this point I had no real idea why anyone on these crooked streets should want to harm me anyway, although I did suppose that ‘third night on Bui Vien’ unpleasantness may have caused some perceived ‘loss of face’ to various face-holders, and I was now well aware how seriously Asians – namely Vietnamese Asians – tended to respond to people causing depletion of said face; aware furthermore I was just how long they might retain a grudge brought about by this act of so-called face-stripping.

I probably should have been more concerned than I was because ultimately, I didn’t give a toss; these Viet street-youth were largely piss-ants – if that was in fact who was going to be targeting me – they were small, they were weak and, at this time, I felt they scarcely warranted my upset.

Therefore, I wasn’t, upset.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Washer Back Mann

Photography by Te Gunner-Gitcher

 

That well-dressed, paunch-harbouring, self-satisfied, cigar-smoking Yank had been largely forgotten throughout the Stu fiasco, although I could usually sense him a few metres behind me, pompously puffing away on his cigar.

After a small ‘welcome home’ ceremony for the beloved one, Stu disappeared up to his room to sleep…

It mightn’t have been my business but, so determined I was to ensure nothing disastrous should befall my new best friend, Stu, I took the initiative regardless; the night of his return, and before I had watched him clamber drunkenly up the hotel steps to his room, I had checked with the man himself then confirmed via his electronic recording device (because let’s be fair, at that point in the night I was struggling to believe a word that came out of Stu’s mouth), and was able to clarify that the date/time of his first ‘English Teacher’ interview was still over a full day in the future. I then relayed this day/time to Lieu at the desk, requesting ‘If Stu was not out of bed by a day/time several hours before the aforementioned day/time, please, afford him a rigorous wake-up call’.

…“Hey Tee-im…?” I heard from behind me. I didn’t turn immediately; I knew exactly who it was, and I just needed a moment to choke down the lump of abhorrence that was forcing its way up my oesophagus. I didn’t like the way he looked, I didn’t like the way he sounded, I didn’t like the way his shirt pulled tight over his belly when he sat back and smugly chewed on the tip of his fat cigar. Add to that, I didn’t like his demeanour, I didn’t like his aura, I didn’t like his accent, I probably didn’t like the way he smelled, I didn’t like his haircut and I guess, ultimately, I didn’t like this guy’s face.

“Teim,” he called again. I could just visualise him resting complacently on his chair, leaning back with all the self-satisfaction of a preening pussycat, speaking effortlessly and without exerting a muscle because nothing was worth this guy’s time or effort; making no attempt to engage anything but his self-indulgent Yankie-doodle voice-box…

Against my better judgement I half-turned and gave my addresser a nod.

…“Good to see your friend back safe, ay?” he asked.

I gave an affirming flick of the eyebrows and half-smile in response.

He smiled broadly and moved his arms in what appeared to be a languid ‘come hither’ gesture, “Come on, sit, I’ll buy you a drink.”

I had to do it, had to find out for sure if this was the creep supposedly hacking Facebook accounts, casting scurrilous aspersions and making juvenile threats, all in the supposed quest to ensure he was successful in wedding a Vietnamese woman half his age; I needed to know if this was, after all, the infamous, ‘Gary’. With adrenaline pulsating throughout my body I slowly stood, then even more slowly pushed in my timber chair, hearing it scrape across the timber deck (the height of irreverence in Vietnamese etiquette; I needed him to know that I didn’t give a damn about proper behaviour), lifted my fruity/bourbony concoction, turned back from the road and made my way towards the Loan’s café counter, beside where the Yankie-doodle arse-wipe poser was relaxing with all the grace of a sunbathing manatee. I placed my drink on his table and took a chair, offering my hand, “Tim.”

“Yeah, hey Tim,” he clasped my hand in an expectedly pithy grip, “Loan told me your name before, says you’re a real good guy.”

I cringed at his pronunciation of the Vietnamese name ‘Loan’; just as any Westerner would articulate the word ‘loan’ – Lown as opposed to her actual name, Luhn – nevertheless, I smiled and nodded, “Yes, Luhn, is a good woman.” I then hesitated, cursing my anxious disposition, “So, when you’re at home, what do they call you?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry Tim, right,” he leaned forward, unintentionally I’m sure, exemplifying his smarmy grin. “My name’s Gar –” he began; I froze, but then, instead of adding the ‘ee’ sound as I had expected would come next, he enunciated what, to my ears, was “– rick.”

I leaned forward, casually sipped my drink, consciously trying to outwardly calm myself, and looked askance at the man; inwardly trying frantically to decipher the dual syllable sound that I had just heard. After two enduring seconds I conceded, “I’m sorry, I think I missed that, did you say, ‘Garrick’?”

He just smiled at me, that same, intentionally endearing but realistically off-putting, grin, and, in what were probably supposed to be passively-aggressively patronising words, assured me, “Sure, no, no, it’s my accent, I’m Canadian … Sorry Tim, no, I said my name’s, Garrick.”

Seriously? I thought. Is this guy messing with me? I’d said, ‘Garrick’, then he’d said ‘No, no, it’s Garrick’. Is he trying to screw with my brain here? ‘Garrick’ versus ‘Garrick’ – where is the disparity? More interminable moments passed, then it came to me; probably it was a mildly nasally voice coupled with a presumed sloppy palate mingled with a thick North American accent – idiot, it wasn’t ‘Garrick’ it was ‘Derek’.

“So, Derek,” I said, backing myself, putting it out there (to which he smiled and nodded, indicating my gamble had payed), “what brings you to Vietnam?”

“Me?” he looked surprised at the question, “Why, Tim, I live in Vietnam.”

“Oh, wow … Do you live in Ho Chi Minh City, then?”

“Yep, sure do,” he confirmed (as, with an overwhelming sense of speculation cum paranoia I screened his accent, almost certain that what I was hearing was in fact little more than an overcooked US accent), “I work at the Casino … Have you been?”

“Huh, no,” I said without raising my eyes.

“Sure, not a gambler.”

“Oh no,” I laughed, “I most certainly am a gambler, it’s just that, on Bui Vien, I’m finding that, basically, every night’s a gamble and, typically, I can’t afford to gamble every night.”

Derek chuckled, “Sure, I hear you there, Tim … So, are you winning?”

“No shit no,” I replied without even needing to consider.

“Yep, that sounds like Ho Chi Minh, alright – you should come to the Casino, try your luck there…?”

Yeah, the frustrating thing about this supposed ‘Derek’ – who had supposedly taken a Vietnamese wife some years earlier, whom had supposedly blessed him with a brood of Vietnamese children – was that, once I got past all his perceived negative points (including that ghastly Canadian accent, ay), he was actually quite a likeable bloke.

In fact, I had further drinks with ‘Derek’, indeed, ‘Derek’ introduced me to his (stunning) wife and their four (gorgeous) Canadian-Vietnamese children; so now my paranoid theory about Derek being Gary was collapsing around me and I felt as though I was going to drown amid the rubble of its destruction…

Skip to the present. I am currently aware that the man named Gary Cooper, the 50₊-year-old man who was evidently more appealing to the 26-year-old Lin Aug than I was, operates a menswear chain out of the US (his large fiscal package undoubtedly the reason Lin’s Viet father – who was in fact several months younger than Gary himself – gave them his apparent blessing to wed), and appears to make frequent trips to and around the Asian continent (go ahead, I did, find the creep on Facebook, send him an ‘embarrassed’ emoji, if you like); then Derek, the man I met out front of the Yen Trang while my brain was spinning from being perpetually bludgeoned with buttloads of duplicity then further cudgelled with, and finally asphyxiated in, the leftover bucketfuls of shit, reportedly, worked Casino surveillance and, despite my initial assessments, probably deserved every iota of happiness that his life, and wife, in Ho Chi Minh City was affording him.

…I recall seeing Stu, some days later, looking a veritable picture of health, bounding down the hotel steps, presumably on the way to his interview, departing from our lives without so much as a wave, a hug, or kiss, or even a peck on the cheek and a gentle ‘I love you’; I wondered if he’d been able to get out of bed on time or if Lieu had had to deliver him his wakeup call.

No question, I was ready to go home (although in fairness, I recall thinking that very thing by the end of week one). I was a wreck but the worst thing, I felt as though Vietnam had beaten me again.

Mind you, what I did not realise is that the glorious Vy (current tour, first night) was set to reappear and even Mai (2017 and 18 tours), would make a strange kind of, belated, if you like, final effort for me (which, now I hear myself say it, sounds more bizarre than the moment itself).

Only a few days to go and, where I feel as though things are naturally, finally, winding down for a steady transition to the end, my God, if I only knew the shitstorm that was brewing over the Vietnam horizon.

 

 

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Ana Spected

Photography by D Lights