Leaving Ha Tien at the wildly hopeful hour of 9:30 am, we boarded a sleeper bus — a term that seems to refer less to sleeping than to gentle concussion therapy. The bus itself was a two-tier, three-aisle bunk system that felt like a cross between a submarine and a children’s soft play. My niece’s son, George, would have had an absolute field day, hopping and swinging from bed to bed like a caffeinated lemur. We, on the other hand, climbed in with the grace of two people who should probably stretch more.

Outside, the landscape opened into vast rice fields and slow-moving canals, the sort of scenery that makes you feel both peaceful and slightly guilty for complaining about your spine. Houses stood right on the edge of the road, tall and narrow, as if built by people who’d been told they could have as much height as they wanted but only one metre of width. Entire lives spilled out of their open fronts — cooking, chatting, selling, napping — all conducted with the serene confidence of people who know exactly what they’re doing, unlike the foreigners wobbling past in reclining seats, trying to look worldly while slowly losing circulation.

Further along, homes perched on stilts above brown rivers, balanced on ladders, boats, and washing lines that looked optimistically improvised. Hammocks replaced sofas, chickens wandered through doorways with the entitlement of regular tenants, and everywhere — absolutely everywhere — someone was washing something.

Inside, the bus was equally compelling. Shoes came off upon entry, which is good in theory — except for the barefoot man in front of us whose feet looked like they’d been dipped in soy sauce and left to marinate. Craig, meanwhile, was still chewing on his Banh Mi without any filling (he has trust issues), scattering crust across his seat like a small mammal preparing a nest. David Attenborough would have whispered, “Here we see the male in his natural habitat… shedding carbs.”

Three hours in, a snack seller boarded for approximately thirty seconds and somehow sold 14 bags of dried squid and a bag of banana chips. She boarded, sold, and vanished again — faster than a magician with rent due — leaving behind a faint smell of seafood and the sound of enthusiastic chewing.

Somewhere between the rice paddies and the stilt villages, the bus slowed and we had a moment to take it all in: country number seventy-eight. Thirty per cent of the world ticked off, yet still enough to make us feel like wide-eyed beginners again — toddling into the unknown with wonder, optimism, and the kind of lower-back regret that probably deserves its own passport stamp.

Arrival in Can Tho

By the time the bus lurched to a halt, we were equal parts concussed and curious — ready to see what the Mekong’s biggest city had in store.

We arrived in Can Tho with the Grab App, Southeast Asia’s answer to Uber, except it requires a basic grasp of technology. Craig hates apps and gets annoyed before he’s even started. He hurled instructions while I prodded the screen like I was attempting to milk a calculator. Eventually, a car did appear — whether summoned by software or pity remains unclear.

First Impressions of Can Tho, Vietnam

Can Tho

Can Tho announced itself quietly at first, which felt suspicious. Cities don’t usually tiptoe. But this one did — like it was trying to lure us in before revealing it’s the largest city in the Mekong Delta. A trading hub shaped by water more than roads, it’s basically Venice with fewer gondolas and more fish.

Our hotel, Khách Sạn 101, sat right in the thick of things — an excellent location if you enjoy stepping outside and immediately being part of someone else’s day. It was one of those slim vertical affairs, the architectural equivalent of a bookmark jammed into a paperback. The hotel also had a sky pool — “infinity” in the sense that you could float attractively while quietly wondering if the building’s weight-to-balance ratio was something you should trust.

The city was gearing up for Lunar New Year with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for royal weddings. Decorations sprouted everywhere, stages were being built, and the collective volume knob had been nudged firmly to neighbour complaint. Can Tho was even hosting Vietnam’s Got Talent, with the finals scheduled for New Year’s Eve — because nothing says fresh start like pyrotechnics and nervous singing

We ducked into the Cần Thơ Museum, partly for the air-conditioning and partly to pretend we were cultured. Artefacts, agricultural displays, and a thoughtful account of the Vietnam War filled the rooms, presented firmly from the South Vietnamese perspective — quieter, personal, and heavy with consequence rather than slogans. A large section was dedicated to Uncle Ho, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was being framed as saviour or stern headmaster who confiscates your comic books. The top floor was closed, apparently because the photos were too graphic, which left me both curious and slightly relieved.

Back outside, we noticed the sheer number of people doing Instagram photoshoots. Not just a few — dozens. Tripods, outfit changes, careful posing against flower displays and river railings. It felt less like sightseeing and more like accidentally walking through a live production schedule. Nobody looked embarrassed. Everyone looked extremely serious about it. I briefly wondered if I should be pouting somewhere, but decided the internet could wait.

Instagrammer

We wandered along the riverside, then into the central market, which — as always — never failed to impress. Every time we thought we’d seen it all, something new appeared: a fruit we couldn’t name, a fish we weren’t convinced was real, a snack that looked like it had been invented during a dare. The river slid past, unimpressed, like it had seen this chaos perfected centuries ago.

Pagodas brought elegance, incense, and restraint. Munir Ansay Pagoda offered Khmer symmetry; Ong Pagoda was dense with smoke and devotion; Phat Hoc Pagoda felt calmer — the kind of place that quietly suggests you stop being a nuisance. Shoes on, shoes off, repeat. By the fifth pagoda, my feet were blackened with dust, looking like they’d been through a coal mine rather than a spiritual journey. Enlightenment, it turns out, comes with dirty toes.

By evening, Can Tho dropped the niceties. The streets filled with motorbikes — thousands of them — entire families balanced on a single seat with a confidence that mocked physics. Children wedged between adults, shopping swinging from handlebars, the whole thing flowing forward in cheerful, relentless chaos. Crossing the road became less about looking and more about belief.

We ended the day at a sky bar, sipping a beer above the noise. From the bus bunks to the sky bar, Can Tho had taken us from concussion therapy to beer therapy in under twelve hours. Below us, the city rehearsed, decorated, remembered, and prepared to celebrate.

Can Tho was busy, layered, faintly unhinged — and wonderfully alive.