THE SEYMOUR MONKEY CHRONICLES:

Vietnamese coffee is syrupy sludge that you feel should be consumed with a spoon. It comes in a small cup and the condensed milk is hidden under the brown muck and doesn’t become visible until you give it a stir. A fact only discovered by Rosie after a fruitless conversation with a waiter who seemed to know less English than she new Vietnamese. The food however did the trick and with full bellies of noodle soup and pancakes we caught a cab to Ga Saigon (Saigon Station) for the train to our next stop Nha Trang, a place that I had only known of previously as the starting point for Martin Sheen’s odyssey in Apocalyse Now.

They call the service from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi the Reunification Express and the travel experience depends upon the particular lettered train you get. The “S” class trains are the top of the line and the ones you see in the brochures with TV screens, comfy sleepers and air con.  Then comes the “E” class which are a tad older but still not bad. The bottom of the range are the “D” trains with even the “soft class” seats reminding one of some Spanish inquisitors torture device. As we wanted to travel during the day and arrive at Nha Trang at a reasonable hour we had no choice but to draw the short straw. We consoled ourselves that at least we weren’t travelling on the roof.

The wire grill on the window made you feel a bit like a circus lion in transit between towns - Protection from the rock throwers that like to test their arm against passing trains. It was hot but once we got moving the series of fans on the ceiling made the temperature quite comfortable when it wasn’t wafting turd smells from the WC’s at each end of the carriage.

Our fellow passengers were a mixed bag. First there were a couple of Spaniards dressed all in black like Zorro seemingly oblivious to the beating sun. A couple of seats in front of them were an odd bunch sitting in facing seats. For the rest of the trip Rosie and I speculated on who, what, where and how. We caught snippets of their conversation and were equal parts amused and grossed out. A middle aged Yank and his Vietnamese buddy who looked like he was the bass player in some Saigon Grateful Dead tribute band, with Richard Gere grey locks, beads and jungle greens. My guess was that they were old buddies from the war years – they were certainly the right age. With them were two youngish Vietnamese women that monopolised the attention of the American who helped them practise their English and joked with them like a creepy uncle.

Across from us were a Vietnamese couple. The man slept most of the trip whilst the wife sat and watched and listened to conversations going on around her. In our fantasy game I pegged her as the party informant placed on the train to keep an eye on the northbound capitalist pigs. She lightened up though when Rosie offered her some peanuts that I bought with the last of my Aussie change back at Tullamarine, screwing up her face at the salt – Possibly expecting the boiled variety they sell in the markets that taste like they’d been sitting in the nut bowl for a week.

Rosie struck up a conversation with the Vietnamese lady behind us. Her name was Suong and she was a 70 year old English teacher who was returning to her home just out of Nha Trang, after visiting her doctor sons in Saigon. With Rosie lost in conversation with her new friend I spent the trip alternating between hardboiled crime fiction and watching the paddy fields give way to mountains and then back to more rice. From time to time we stopped at stations to drop off / pick up passengers and at railway sidings to let higher priority trains pass. Whilst we waited small kids played in and under the parked train with barely a glance from their mothers, who continued washing clothes and doing chores oblivious. “Yeah no worries Nguyen go and play with your train set.” After a few short blasts from the train’s horn, to scare the away the kids, we continued on our journey North. There were no bumps on our departure so I guess everyone got clear – Either that or the wheels are really sharp.

It was after nightfall when we arrived in Nha Trang after 9 hours on the train. In November it gets dark early - By 5.30 the suns down. It must have been close to 7.30 when we got off the train and hit the platform with our backpacks. We headed for the exit where a couple of uniformed officials were checking tickets. I fumbled in my money belt for ours but the guard just smiled.

“You need a taxi?”
 “How much?”

I put the tickets away and got out my Lonely Planet to show him a Nha Trang map with the hotel we’d picked out on the train trip circled. The Perfume Grass Inn. The guard said 5 dollars and then another bloke appeared from nowhere and disagreed offering 2 bucks. I thought this second guy was the taxi driver but then the guard lead us away himself to an old beat up station wagon parked on the platform next to the train, we realised that we had out own uniformed chauffer for the evening. It looked like the station was going to have to do without a guard for a while.
 
The vending girls lining the platform laughed when they had to move some of their carts out of the way so that the gate could be opened to let us drive out. Nha Trang is Vietnam’s equivalent of Byron Bay and the improvised cab honked its way through streets still busy but nowhere near as manic as crazy Saigon. But then where is?

The porter appeared at the car door before the car had even stopped rolling. The driver moved to open the back and remove our bags. The trouble was I had the map and two things worried me. The drivers zig zag course had prevented me from tracking our location precisely but I knew that we had driven further from the station than our hotel should have been. The second thing was that the hotel with the very attentive roadside service was on the wrong side of the street.

I knew what was happening. The guide book had made us wise to this particular scam. The drivers getting kick backs from hotels and deliberate misunderstandings that find you dropped off conveniently at the door of another hotel from where you wanted to go. So the game began again. You couldn’t buy a bottle of water in this place without playing the game.

“This is not the hotel.”
“Yes. Very nice hotel.”
“Maybe. But this is not where we said we wanted to go.”

I lied. I told him we had a reservation. That we’d paid already.  I showed him the book again. He looked at the map of Nha Trang as if it was of the dark side of the moon. The porter leant over to add his two bobs worth. We insisted. The driver apologised profusely and pulled back onto the beach road and I tracked his progress back in the right direction. We pulled into a street full of hotels and Rosie spotted the Perfume Inn. We pulled over but not out the front - a few doors down. Another porter materialises at the door. The bags are out in a flash and headed for the foyer of yet another hotel. These guys are unbelievable!  We retrieved our bags and paid our driver. He apologised again - All a misunderstanding. We laughed and walked back down the street to our intended hotel. The guard returned to work at the station no doubt waiting for the next lot of gullible tourists to arrive in town. At least in Vietnam they rip you off with a smile on their face. Even when you have caught them in a brazen lie it is all very friendly.

After all the drama of getting there it turned out that there was no room at the Perfume Inn and the friendly staff directed us across the road to the Blue Star Hotel. It was listed in the budget section of the trusty Lonely Planet and we managed to snaffle an $8 room, all be it one with a toilet and basin located in the shower. Able to do the obligatory shit, shower and shave without moving. Rosie read my mind and called first dibs - Probably a wise move after the dodgy train food.
 
Seafood Hot Pot for dinner - A mini gas stove appears on table holding a pot full of sea creatures of various types. Into it we pop noodles and a wide selection of veggies to cook. Scoffed it down with a few of the local La Rue brews as we browsed through some silk paintings from a street trader. Rosie scolded me for paying too much again.

The comparisons of Nha Trang with Byron Bay are quite apt. The streets are filled with restaurants, bars, hotels and bike rental places. Pissed foreigners and locals in holiday mood bar hop to the backing music of rock classics. Touts hand out flyers promoting happy hours and “Good Shit” at venues around town. We find ourselves at one of these named the “Gekko Bar” for an after dinner ale. We deduce that Vietnamese “Good Shit” translates as two for one drinks, English Premier league on the tellie and hot waitresses in short skirts flirting for tips and one suspects much more.

After finishing our beers and a quick game of Jenga we left the rodents and reptiles of both animal and human variety behind and made our way back to the hotel.