Our First Stop in Vietnam

Ha Tien was our first town in Vietnam, and it wasted no time in confusing us.

On paper, it’s meant to be great. Coastal. Historic. Gateway to the Mekong but it greeted us with the sort of hesitant enthusiasm you normally see in people who’ve been told a surprise party is happening somewhere, but not precisely when or for whom. The town has all the infrastructure of a place expecting great things—wide boulevards, ambitious hotels, a promenade that could comfortably host a small marathon—but absolutely no evidence that anyone has ever used them.

In reality, Ha Tien feels like a town standing at a bus stop with its suitcase packed, glancing down the road, still waiting for tourism to arrive.

Our hotel

A Little History (Because It Deserves One)

Ha Tien has history. Founded in the early 1700s as a trading port, it once mattered. Merchants moved through here, money flowed, cultures mixed. Its position near the Cambodian border made it strategic, valuable, and occasionally fought over.

Wars came. Borders shifted. Occupations happened. Like much of Vietnam, Ha Tien has lived several lives already. Which might explain why it now feels slightly paused—as if it’s between versions of itself and no one’s told it which one is next.

Markets, Eye Contact, and Small Humans Shouting “HELLO”

The market, however, is very much alive.

People here are far more in your face than Cambodia—but in a genuinely nice way. Big smiles. Direct eye contact. People stared at us with the kind of frank curiosity you usually only get from toddlers and border collies. Children shouted “HELLO!” with such triumphant delight you’d think they’d just cracked a secret code. 

It was impossible not to smile back, even as you wondered whether you’d accidentally wandered into a local competition for Most Enthusiastic Greeting of Foreigners.

It’s warm, human, and oddly reassuring. You don’t drift anonymously through Ha Tien. You are seen. Possibly assessed. Definitely acknowledged.

Morning Coffee, Vietnamese Style

Craig had his first Vietnamese coffee, served in one of those little metal percolators that look like they were designed by a patient watchmaker.

Strong. Slow. Serious.

He watched it with reverence. I watched him watching it, wondering when exactly he had become the sort of person who enjoys beverages that require engineering.

White Goods and Cultural Enlightenment

After coffee, Craig spotted a white‑goods and computer shop and lit up in a way I hadn’t seen since he discovered Dominos Pizza in Phnom Penh.

“Oh, I could go in there for a few hours,” he said, as if announcing a spiritual calling. “I could compare prices and see what things they have.”

He said this with the earnestness of a man who genuinely believes that browsing fridges in a foreign country is a form of cultural immersion.

“Really?” I asked, trying to keep my face neutral. “That’s not my idea of travel, but go fill your boots if you want.”

He looked at me, confused, as though I’d failed to appreciate the rare privilege of examining washing machines in Southeast Asia. I realised then that every couple has these moments—tiny, unexpected revelations where you learn that the person you’ve shared a life with for decades harbours a secret passion for, say, regional appliance pricing.

Thankfully, I was spared several hours among microwaves and voltage converters.

Pho Bo and a Sudden Crisis of Confidence

We had our first Pho Bo—a proper initiation into Vietnam. Steaming, fragrant, comforting. Everything you want noodles to be.

Then we noticed the drinking water situation.

I have a complicated relationship with water. I like it clean, invisible, and preferably from a bottle that has been sealed by a machine, not a man named Vinh who fills it from a hose behind his house. The Mekong, meanwhile, is a river with… texture. Once I realised my broth had probably been introduced to it, I began to taste things that weren’t there. 

Regret, mostly.

A Town Waiting for an Audience

Ha Tien feels… odd.

Not bad. Just unresolved. A bit like the border towns on Turkeys border.

There are big hotels, wide roads, promenades that suggest ambition—but hardly any tourists. You start to wonder whether people were sold a dream that never quite materialised. Or whether tourism came, left, and didn’t bother to write back.

We’d planned to visit a few smaller towns along the Mekong. Ha Tien made us stop, look at each other, and quietly re-evaluate that plan over warm beers.

Supermarket Surveillance (Aisle-Based)

This strange, unsettled feeling followed us into a supermarket.

Within seconds of entering, I had someone trailing me. Craig did too. Different assistants. Same behaviour. They said nothing—just stayed a few inches behind us, smiling. 

If we sped up, so did they.

If we slowed down, they hovered.

No questions. Just silent, close proximity.

It wasn’t threatening—but it was bizarre enough to make a routine shop feel faintly surreal. We left without buying anything, both of us oddly relieved to be back outside, where at least we had room to breathe.

Night Falls (Karaoke Rises)

Night-time didn’t improve matters—except for the karaoke.

Karaoke is clearly the entertainment of choice here, and enthusiasm is off the charts. Talent is less so. Stalls still set up. Chairs still arranged. People sang with such gusto you had to admire their commitment, even as you quietly prayed for a power cut.

The audience remains optional.

Bar after bar of empty seats

Fish Guts and the Return of Crisps

Most restaurants focus on fish, which makes sense geographically.

Less so visually.

There were guts. Intestines. Things that looked like they belonged in a medical textbook rather than a menu. Nothing screamed “western digestive system friendly.”

So once again, we reverted to crisps. Southeast Asia continues to test our flexibility—and occasionally, our courage.

A Shower, a Snuggle, and Absolute Betrayal

Moments after we’d showered and climbed into bed—clean, cosy, and ready for a peaceful night of TV—a cockroach the size of a small family car launched itself across the wall at full sprint.

No warning. No apology. Just Olympic-level parkour. 

We screamed in perfect harmony—a beautiful duet born entirely of terror—proving that long-term relationships really do make you move as one, especially when you’re both trying to abandon the bed at exactly the same time.

Then it started to fly. Jeez!!!

Straight into Craig’s shoe.

The cockroach was eventually dealt with, but not before we both stood frozen, suspicious of every shadow and sound, seriously considering whether the hallway might be a safer place to sleep.

Friggin roaches.

Bikes, Borders, and Accidental Military Encounters

Unlike Cambodia, USD isn’t readily accepted here, adding a small but constant layer of mental arithmetic.

We hired a bike for $7 and explored. Nothing dramatic, but the countryside is lovely—coastal, green, and noticeably almost no litter, which felt miraculous.

We attempted to find a limestone cave, took a wrong turn, and ended up at a military outpost where three very young soldiers stared at us with the expression of people who have been told to expect danger but not this kind of danger—two sweaty foreigners on a scooter, apologising profusely.

Barely out of nappies they stood holding rusty guns, clearly unsure whether to shoot or smile. We startled them. They startled us. Nobody fired anything. Everyone lived.

We found the cave.

Beach Plans and Quiet Discomfort

We tried to find the beach and instead found a cockfight. 

I don’t know what the etiquette is for accidentally attending an illegal animal event, but I’m fairly sure it isn’t “stand there looking horrified.” We left immediately, trying to look neutral, like people who had simply taken a wrong turn on the way to a yoga class.

So… Ha Tien?

Ha Tien isn’t awful. It’s just unfinished.

It has friendliness, greenery, history, and potential. It also has emptiness, strange food moments, and the feeling of a place waiting for something to happen.

Ha Tien is just a place that made me feel slightly more aware of my own ridiculousness. And maybe that’s the point of travel—not to be dazzled, but to be gently humbled by the world and your own inability to navigate it without screaming at insects