What's your Room 101?

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You can fly from Hoi An to Ho Chi Minh for about 30 quid – there is, therefore, absolutely no rhyme or reason other than perverse, masochistic, self flagellating budget traveller pleasure for why I decide to get an overnight train instead.

I'm in a sleeper sharing a top bunk of four with a large snoring Irish man and a Vietnamese chap. I don't know why -but I feel drugged (and for once I haven't popped one of my Barbie pink Benadryls to help with sleep.) I end up drifting off about 10pm and not fully gaining consciousness until midday the next day when the Vietnamese man offers me a rice cracker covered in honey peanuts for breakfast to go with my muddy, watery coffee – funnily enough the food cart is on a par with British Rail when it comes to light refreshment.

I arrive and have booked one night in a hostel called MY MY art hostel. It turns out to be down a dingy back alley in what looks like the main backpackers and tourist area of Ho Chi Minh. Although its had rave reviews on Hostelbookers – I can't say the tiny dorms, smell of the deep fat fryer and being woken by loud screeching Vietnamese women does much to recommend itself to me.

There is a “Highland Coffee” on the corner which does frozen frapps for about 2 quid. Not really keeping within the budget but somedays I just don't care. Sometimes I just need a nice, proper coffee and somewhere cool to sit.

Martin and Juan arrive later on in the day - and I agree to meet Martin for a beer that night.

All of the bars and little restaurants off Pham Ngu Lao (the main traveller street ) seem to charge touristy prices. We are accosted at every turn by people thrusting menus and shouting “Happy hour” in our face. I pop into one establishment for the loo and when I return two minutes later Martin tells me that he's already been offered Marijuana, Opium and Lady Boys.

Its hot and crazy in this city. The Vietnamese females - like most asian women – are incredibly loud. They shout and they scream and their children do the same. Beggars come up to you in bars as do hawkers selling books and sunglasses and bracelets. But there is always a secondary something whispered under the breath:

“You want books?”

“No thank you."

“Marijuana?” they ask again hopefully?

This doesn't seem to happen when i'm by myself I hasten to add – but my swarthy Argentinian companion seems to have that look about him even though he doesn't partake.

The next day we leave Juan languishing in his dormitory with a fever (like all men he's a tad melodramatic when it comes to illness and thinks he's been struck down by Malaria.)

And as I have no intention of giving the My My Art hostel any more of my dollars we go in search of a guesthouse room to share. Finally after bartering we find a little street that runs paralell to the main road where you can get a nice double room with a/c and HBO for $10.

This evening we decide to have an early night and order in junk food and movies. Ironically our room number is 101 -like the Orwellian nightmarish torture chamber in George Orwell's 1984 - where each individual is confronted with their own personal worst fears.

Hmmmm I can't say pizza, beer, chocolate ice cream and an insanely beautiful 23 year old Argentinan boy are my idea off personal hell on earth – but hey – guess i'll go with it for now. 😉

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Photos

How "The Bastard" (backpack) should always travel
Why didn't i think of this mode of transport for it at the start of my trip...