The Morning After in Saigon

Up this morning — I’d love to say bright and early, but it was mostly just early. The “bright” bit refused to participate. We were a tad drunk last night, which is very unlike us. I am practically teetotal. Usually.

Anyway. Up, showered, out the door, and straight to the bakery for Craig’s daily bread like the loyal carb-observer I’ve become. Then we strutted (okay, shuffled) a couple of streets to the Futa bus office.

Saigon in the morning

We arrived at 7am and were immediately told to sit inside. Then the cleaner told us to go outside. Then the conductor told us to go back in. We were basically doing the Hokey Cokey before breakfast. Left leg in, left leg out, mild hangover shaking all about.

We’re heading to Da Lat today — a six-hour bus ride. We booked it through one of those tour outlets for £12.50 each, feeling very organised and grown-up. Only to discover later that the actual Futa ticket is £7.50. This did not impress Craig, who is normally on the ball and absolutely not one for paying a penny more than necessary. You could practically hear his Lancashire soul leave his body.

A minibus turned up to take us to the real bus station, which — surprise! — is 45 minutes outside Saigon. Suddenly the 7:30 pickup for a 9am bus made sense. Shame no one mentioned that tiny detail when we booked.

At the station we inspected our bus (pretty posh by sleeper standards, practically sparkling) and then sat with a coffee pretending we weren’t still slightly fermented from the night before.

Bus station

Craig decided we needed snacks for the journey and nipped off to buy some peanut rice paper treats. He returned triumphantly… albeit briefly. Half the bag had already been enthusiastically chewed through by the resident station rat.

We stood there staring at it. Him holding the bag. Me reconsidering how I’d survive six hours without a snack. The rat, presumably somewhere nearby, smug and well-fed.

We decided against sharing.

Craig, brave man, marched back to the stall and asked for a swap. The woman smiled and agreed immediately — in that way that suggested this was not her first rodent-related exchange of the morning.

Once aboard, we snuggled into our little pods and I got my writing head on.

But let’s rewind to last night.

Walking Street Drama: A Man in Boxer Shorts

We tootled up the tower, admired the city lights, then wandered back to Walking Street for “one drink before bed.”

One turned into several, and we sat chatting to Dan and Malcolm from Newcastle — father and son, accents thicker than gravy — people-watching and solving absolutely none of the world’s problems.

And then — the scrap as good as any cock fight 

Chairs scraped. Bins clattered. Everyone did that half-turn nosy swivel. No one intervened. Everyone just watched. Beer in hand. Like it was part of the evening’s scheduled entertainment.

Next minute, a skinny chap in nothing but his boxer shorts came sprinting out of an alley and straight into the street. Honestly, he looked like he’d escaped from his own laundry basket.

A woman — presumably his wife — stormed out after him, shouting like she’d caught him nicking the neighbour’s chickens. It was like watching a human yo-yo in boxer shorts. He’d follow her back into the alley, she’d chase him out again. Round and round.

Each lap he got angrier; she got more theatrical — hand on forehead, full Victorian fainting-couch energy.

And then it tipped.

A young lad tore out after him and suddenly it wasn’t theatre anymore. Proper kicks. Proper punches. Laundry lines shaking like ringside ropes.

We’ve no idea what started it, but the general consensus at our table was that the old chap had quite literally been caught with his pants down.

Eventually it fizzled. As these things do.

Post-Scrap Bánh Mì Recovery

After a skin full, the munchies hit hard. We tried our little bánh mì man, but the queue was halfway to Cambodia. So we slipped down a side street and found a tiny café. Two pork bánh mì and a bottle of water. Ta very much.

It was glorious — even though I knew full well I was eating things I probably shouldn’t. My beer-brain ignored the slimy textures entirely. Chew quick. Gulp. Don’t think.

How we got home alive through Saigon traffic is beyond me. Two wobbling old farts with pork dribble and crumbs. I’m fairly sure the scooters parted out of pity.

Climbing Out of the Chaos

Once we left Saigon, the scenery changed almost immediately. The chaos thinned out, the horns quietened, and suddenly we were gliding past endless stretches of green. Palm trees, banana trees, and little roadside stalls selling things I couldn’t identify even if sober.

At one point we passed a young boy — maybe four or five — fast asleep on a mat beside the road, a tiny puppy curled next to him. Fast asleep. He was surrounded by little trays of bits and bobs for sale, though not today. Today he was simply tired.

As we climbed higher, the air shifted. Cooler. Fresher. Like someone had opened a window in the world.

Craig noticed folk wearing coats. I smiled, as this meant no more melting. Craig frowned. We are so opposite.

The road wound its way up through the mountains, twisting and curling like it had been drawn by a drunk snake. Every now and then we’d glimpse valleys below — tiny houses, misty patches, motorbikes bravely tackling hills that would make a goat think twice.

The higher we got, the more the landscape changed. Pine trees. Cool air. And that strange feeling of being somewhere half Vietnam, half Austria (Craig says more Northern Italy as Austria is a way too clean and organised)  but with more scooters and fewer rules.

Craig spent the journey indexing and naming photos, desperately catching up after the Saigon whirlwind. But every few minutes he’d peer out of the window like a kid on a school trip and announce,

“Look — another bloody cement mixer.”

The journey took two hours longer than planned and, with only two very quick comfort breaks, we were bursting for a wee. We arrived, dashed, and then hopped on a free shuttle service to the town

Arrival in Da Lat 

By the time we rolled into Da Lat, the hangover had faded, the bladder had recalibrated, and my pelvic floor muscles had had a full workout.

Saigon’s chaos was still buzzing faintly in our bones, but the pine trees and mountain breeze were already working to iron us out. The cool air was amazing,

No more humidity, and my skin could breathe once again. Craig, on the other hand, grabbed his fleece and muttered something about it being cold under his breath. Hey ho to Ying and Yang 

There’s something oddly comforting about surviving a city like Saigon slightly hungover and slightly over budget. At our age, it feels less reckless and more like proof we’re still game.

It’s funny — you set off thinking it’s just a bus ride. But it becomes a whole chapter. A night of accidental drinking. A bánh mì you probably shouldn’t have eaten. A man in boxer shorts being chased down an alley. And six hours of watching Vietnam slowly transform from sweaty city to cool mountain retreat.

Travel does that. It turns the ordinary into the ridiculous, the ridiculous into the memorable, and the memorable into stories you have to write down before they slip away.

And now… Da Lat.

New place. New vibe. New characters.

Let’s see what tomorrow brings.