Idiots in Vietnam (2nd Edition)

Motorbikes, thick as porridge

Ha Noi March 2007 I emerge from Arrivals into the concourse of Ha Noi Airport with $400 in my bum-bag. But the local buttons are dongs, 31,000 to the 1, so I need a Bureau de Change. There isnt one. Theres an INFORMATION sign over there, but no one behind the counter. That smart young bloke in a brown suit, walking across the concourse, seems to have recognised me. At least, hes suddenly started waving in my direction and shouting hello in English. Whats this about? I look round to check who hes aiming at but theres no one behind me. He must be shouting at me then. Does he think he knows me? Maybe hes from Cardiff. He looks a bit like one of the waiters from the Happy Gathering. Blimey, hes coming over. He wants to shake hands! Whos making the mistake? Me, or him? I get taxi, he says. Thats handy. But Ive got to change some money first, I tell him. I need dongs. Come, he says, striding towards the exit. No! I shout; money! dongs! I keep upping the volume. Maybe hes deaf. Ive only got American Dollars, I tell him when he looks round. Dollah OK, he assures me. Dollah velly good. Now hes gargling into his mobile. It all fits. That Chinese bloke on the plane told me they like dollars out here. Wait, the Happy Gatherer tells me when we arrive outside. Now a taxi swings into the kerb and Gatherer tells me to get in the back while he feeds my case and rucksack into the yawning boot. OK so far. But now hes climbing into the front passenger seat. Thats different. Where go? he asks. Im going to the Heritage Hotel, I tell him. Where are you going? I go home, he tells me. I give help. You pay taxi. I get ride.

So were going to divert to the Happy Gathering. The guys a chancer; nothing for nothing. How much? I ask warily. He inclines his head and looks thoughtful. Eight dollah, he decides. I spot a sign; HANOI 21 Km. And theyre going to charge me five quid? OK, well settle for that, I tell him. A hundred-and-twenty-eightthousand dong... Now were at a road toll. You pay, the Gatherer tells me. When I offer the driver a one dollar-note his expression turns from confusion to anger. He waves it aside and gives me a mouthful of verbal scrambled egg. He want dong, says the Gatherer. I havent got dong, I tell him impatiently. You said hed take dollars. The two men sit yodelling at each other for a couple of minutes then, OK, says the Gatherer, driver pay now. Then we go bank. You get dong. Then pay driver. We push on along a dual carriageway amid the din of motorbikes. Traffic pollution hangs like sediment in the humid air. I wonder if these guys pack any unpleasant surprises? Were entering Hanoi now. I relax a bit. But when the bank turns out to be an ATM, I tense again. Ill be in trouble with the wife. She comes from Scotland. She objects to paying interest to holes in walls. I get out of the taxi and approach the machine. This is scary. All the numbers have strings of zeros after them. The ones towards the bottom are in millions. When I punch in 128,000 the machine gets violently sick and spews notes over me. I gather them up and head back to the taxi. I offer money to the driver. He goes unstable and starts screaming at the Gatherer who waves the notes aside. This small money, says the Gatherer. Driver want big money. Looks big enough to me, I tell him, all those noughts. Cents, he tells me. Youd better come and explain, I say, jerking my head towards the machine. Im beginning to feel uneasy. Come to think of it, Ive never been at ease since I met this guy. I pay them enough to stop the drivers palpitations and trigger my own. Im not used to dealing in big numbers. And whats the interest on a string of zeros? Maybe Ive just broke the bank.

*
Ho Lo Prison aka Hanoi Hilton

Its the next morning and Im in a taxi heading for the 5 star, 58, luxury of the Melia Hotel. After I booked the Heritage I saw a report on the internet that it was the worst hotel in South East Asia. So I switched my second night to the Melia. In the event, the 28 Heritage was value for money; clean and spacious. But its in the grot of the suburbs so Im going along with the change. The Melias Central. This is a pukka taxi, with a meter. The trouble is, there are three sets of figures on it... all going up at different speeds. The lowest figure is in thousands. I think the top one is in billions. Its a long journey and the motorbikes are as thick as porridge. The driver doesnt speak any English, only scrambled egg. I offer him 100K 3. He looks delighted. So thats his tip as well. I watch a hotel porter whisking my case and rucksack away. Viet Nam is a Communist country. Its overstaffed. The whole country specialises in inefficiency. The upper-class hotels have a bellhop in every plant pot. An angel, in a long white dress and hat that looks like a halo, hands me a piece of paper with a number written on it. Its not her phone number. Its too short. Pity. I check-in but Im too early. My rooms not ready. Theyll have my luggage in there at noon. Whats the number? they ask. You said the rooms not ready, so I dont know the number. No your luggage number? The lady in white gave it to you. Did she? I dunno. Ive lost it. OK sir. We fix. Five star service, caters for idiots. I collect a map from Reception and head outside for a walk. I like walking. Im a walking person. But in Viet Nam, no one walks. Everyone goes everywhere by motorbike. There are eight million people in Sai Gon, thats Ho Chi Min City, and six million have motorbikes. Thats a lorra bikes in one city. Ha Noi looks to be the same. And all those bikes seem to be on the road all the time. Its like nobody goes anywhere in particular. Just get up in the morning, cock a leg over a bike, and meander round the maze, honking your horn till bedtime. I consult the map. There are two targets within walking distance; Ha Noi Prison Museum; thats the Hanoi Hilton where the Vietnamese kept shot-down American pilots; and the Catholic Cathedral. Outside, on the pavement, reality dawns. A road separates each block from the next. And the roads are no-go areas, rivers of motorbikes with a 20 knot current; every bike doing its own thing. Theyre not in lanes. Theyre all going in different directions on the same patch; half men; half women; honking their horns in fruitless mating calls. Its like an ant run out here; high speed dodgems. It gets worse. The overspill is on the pavement. They come up from behind and whiz past me. The secret of staying alive is to keep walking in a straight line. If you deviate, or stop suddenly, you scramble the equation. Everyone out there respects everyone elses space, when they can guess where it is. The same rules apply crossing the road.

Step off the kerb, close your eyes, and keep going straight, repeating the mantra to yourself... My Space. My Space. My Space. If you stop to cough youll have six-million bikes on top of you. Im a target now. A swelling convoy of trishaws keeps pace with me, yelling for me to leap aboard for a ten dollah tour, with a commen tary in scrambled egg. Motorbike-taxis, one after the other, swerve in front of me, heading me off, urging me to squat on the pillion for a ten dollah roller coaster whirl of engine-revving bliss. When I pause to consult the map, chancers step out of nowhere, applying for the job of personal guide. Its like nobody understands the concept of somebody walking, or the joys of orienteering among flowing streams of hornblasting traffic in the polluted air of a sweltering city. What these guys dont know, is that Im not a tourist. Not a real one. Im on a beeline from Cardiff to Saigon, on a mission to find my way to the Cu Chi tunnels without the aid of a travel agent or guide. Its a budget trip. The plane fare subsidised by Air Miles, and hotels and train tickets booked on the internet. Im the only human involved. I was getting lethargic back there in Cardiff. I needed some action. So I set myself a challenge. Outside the cathedral, a pretty girl in a palm hat tries to sell me bananas from one of the bowls that hang from either end of the pole she balances on her shoulder. When I turn her down she offers to pose for a photo. OK, I take a shot and slip her 20K. Further down the line an old beggar-woman sticks out a bony arm for a handout. Ive been along this route before, many times. If I give 50 pence to every beggar who pops out of the pavement, a few hundred of the worlds poorest will have their only chip butty of the year. The down-side is, that Ill be out of beer-tokens before lunchtime. So heres the dilemma. Did I give that girl 20K because shes pretty, then go and turn the old woman down because she aint? Hmm? I know... I hold up 20K and my camera. The same offers on the table for the crone as for the girl.. She turns it down with a gesture of contempt. I pocket the money and walk away. Maybe thats why shes a beggar. She wont do something for something. Or have I got that wrong too?

Through the window

Another day, another task; board the train for a 32 hour trip to Sai Gon. Trouble is, I didnt sleep last night. A king-size bed in a 5 star

hotel, and I couldnt sleep cos I had Nasi Goreng for supper. Its the best Ive ever had, but it was big. Egg and rice are clogging my guts. Its raining today, muggy as hell. Im sat in the station in a gathering crowd, waiting for boarding time. My tickets in my bum-bag. Ill be in coach 10; compartment 1; berth 1. The tickets were waiting at the Heritage when I arrived. All done by mirrors; couldnt be simpler. Its a piece of cake. Ive no problems. The crowd are all Asians except for me and two European couples. I guess the couples are Frogs. The hotels are full of em. I suppose its natural. This was a French colony once. I seem to be the only Brit left in the world. That tall thin railway worker went over to both European couples as they came into the station and showed them to empty seats. He seems to make a point of looking after Europeans. After a tip no doubt. Everyone heres looking for the main-chance. Hes heading for me now. Its getting near boarding time. The ticket inspectors opened the door that leads to the trains. We get to board an hour before take-off. The thin guys confronting me now. Hes making gestures. I dunno what he wants. Its all in scrambled egg. Uh... he wants to see my ticket. Now he wants me to follow him. Hes got my case and were jumping the queue. Hes heading for coach ten. So hes got it right. Now he wants my ticket. Maybe he wants to see my compartment and berthnumbers, or to show it to the guard or something. Better give him a tip. Ive got two 10K notes here... 30p each. Ill try him with one. If he looks unhappy Ill give him both. Were in the compartment now, four bunks. Theres nowhere for the cases. Itll be a tight squeeze if someone gets in with th eir shopping. The guy suddenly spins round and sticks his hand in my face. Ten dollah! he snarls. Hes gotta be joking. No way, I tell him, ten thousand dong. Ten dollah! he yells. He thinks hes Dick Turpin, but hes just a wanker. Ten dollah? That must be the first line in the Vietnamese English Dictionary. Twenny dong, I tell him, shoving two notes in his hand. Ten dollah! Ten dollah! he screams. Were struggling now; me trying to ram 20K into his hand; and him pushing it away; a strange situation. Suddenly he strides past me. When I turn... hes gone. Jesus. I sit down. That took my breath away... I think this is my bed... Startled by the falsetto voice, I look up. And theres Emo Philips, the American comedian, reincarnated as a tall gangling Chinaman, complete with a medieval bobbed haircut, hovering above me, arms and legs all over the shop. We go outside and check the compartment number. Emos right; its 24. Im supposed to be in 1. Turpin dumped me on the wrong bed then demanded money. People arent the same anymore. I hump my stuff to the right bed. The berths are filling up. Theres a Vietnamese bloke in the bed above me and a middle aged woman in the one opposite. Theyve both got luggage so theres not much room. Now

a girl in her 20s arrives with a total of 7 cases and bags. Were overcrowded, big time. But, on the bright side, the return journey is only Two-million-two-hundred-thousand-dongs 78. For that, I get to Saigon and back, and beds for two nights. So Im saving something like 300 on air, hotel and food bills. And I get to see Viet Nam from top to bottom. Nightmare! The last time I saw my train ticket, was in Turpins hand. He never gave it back. He broke off in the middle of the struggle and strode away. Ive got problems... Yaah! God...! Emos at the door, standing there like a four -legged daddy-longlegs. This guys surreal. He wants a chat. Thats the last thing I need. I just want to sit and worry. My heads in a whirl. I dont know whether Im coming of going. Emo wants me to polish-up his English. He thinks I should go to China and teach it. He says I dont need to learn Chinese. They all learn English anyway. They just need to polish the pronunciation. But teaching Emo is a fulltime job in itself. His voice keeps changing register in mid-sentence, jumping from baritone to falsetto and back in rapid succession. His arms and legs are the same. He scratches his left cheek with his right hand by putting his right arm round the back of his neck. Then he does the same with the other hand. Hes come from Shanghai to Viet Nam, job hunting. He cant speak a word of Vietnamese. And, if he could, what wo uld he do? We have two drivers on this train. They earn 30 a week each. Its a 32 hour journey. And they have to buy their own food. Emo, sunshine go home! The trains well underway now. Its grtting dark and theres the mother of all storms outside. The rain is like hosepipes; lightning exploding in rapid succession. Its like the B42s are back with the napalm, and were the target. Now I realise, my coats gone missing. I go down the train to see if I left it in Emos place, but I didnt. That bastard, Turpin, must have grabbed it. The guard arrives, demanding my ticket. I tell him the tale of Dick Turpin, but he only savvies scrambled egg. He goes away and comes back with two helpers. These trains pull a full coach-load of spare guards and comic-singers. Theres no-end of reinforcements. The men gargle and jabber among themselves, then bring their boss. This guys the bad-cop... like the Jap guard on the River Kwai. No ticket, he raps in English. Off train! Next stop! No messing. I like that in a man. I repeat the tale of Turpin. Off train! Next stop! he orders. I look at the window; black dark; rivers of rain; lightning flashing! The thought of leaving the train on a night like this, lumbered with luggage and nowhere to go, no bed... no ticket... no nothing... in a land full of scrambled egg... is... well... not good. In desperation I fumble in my rucksack and produce a piece of paper with the phone number of Tony Kheim, the guy on the internet who delivered my train tickets to the Heritage. I always carry backup. Phone this man on your mobile, I tell them. They do. He confirms that

I did buy a ticket. It takes the heat out of the situation. But... I cant stay on the train without a ticket. OK. Ill buy another one, I tell them. I fumble in my bum-bag and scrape 500,000 dong together. The boss waves it away. I want... million! he demands. But I havent got a million, I tell him. Off train! Next stop! he barks, in his best concentration-camp English. What about this? I offer my credit card. Pah! he pushes it away. Its Tescos Platinum, I tell him. Hes unimpressed. American dollar? I ask. His eyes light up. Now youre talking, his eyebrows tell me. A hundred and twenty, he says, after a calculation. Thats nearly the return fare. Ive already paid for this bed, I tell him. They jabber among themselves. OK, says the boss, at last, downgrade to couchette, 80 dollah. They know Im no dodger and theyve softened a bit. No, I tell them, I need a bed. Ill pay the 120. They jabber again. OK OK, the boss weakens. Eighty dollah. Keep bed, he tells me. Theres no buffet. A woman comes round with a trolley, doling out food to keep us alive; foul soup; chopsticks; a ton of boiled rice; dollop of soggy pickled-cabbage; fatty pork. Its worse than nothing at all. Vietnamese music blares full-blast from a speaker in the corridor. Its hot and stuffy. I lie on my bed, sweating and gasping for air. I cant sleep. I prowl the corridor in my socks. All the windows are locked. I look for a toilet. Its a squat. I come out with feet stinking of piss. This is it. Im stuck here till 9 oclock tomorrow night. Thats 24 hours away. Time stretches before me like a waterless desert. Theres nothing to do; no one to speak to. Even Emo would be a blessing. But hes on his bed, lifeless, like everyone else... corpses in a mobile morgue. For no reason, I pull the screwed-up dong notes from my back pocket and iron them out. I dont believe it! There, in the middle of the ball... is my bloody ticket. Its tattered and torn, but its real. It must have come from Turpins paw in the scuffle. In the end coach I pin a guard down and tell him the story. He hasnt a clue what Im saying but summons an ever increasing number of assistants. At last Im talking to the guy from the Kwai, through an interpreter who speaks perfect English. It takes a long time and a lot of jabbering. You see, says the interpreter, at last. We have already paid 80 dollah to the government. I frown and scratch my head. Were on a moving train. So, he goes on, if we give you 80 dollah, we lose a lot of money. So what are you saying? I ask. We want you to be very happy, he tells me. So do I, I tell him. So, if we give you 40 dollah, we lose 40 dollah and you lose 40 dollah. Will that make you very happy? Ill be 40 dollars happier, I say.

No... very happy? Happy. No... very happy? This is Vietnamese for dont rock the boat. OK. Very happy, I concede. Kwai puts his hand in his back pocket, pulls out my wad of $80, miraculously retrieved from the government, and deals me 40. So thats me... very happy... The girl with the pile of cases leaves the train at noon the next day. And theres my coat, under the last one. I find an open window, and air; then a European toilet... and people who speak English. Im back on course. A little wiser; a little poorer.

Through the window Im in the middle of the crowd leaving Saigon station. Its dark and Im looking for a taxi. A weasel-faced wanker, in a peaked cap and denim jacket, is pulling at my arm. Taxi, ten dollah, he chants. Taxi, ten dollah. How does he know its ten dollars? He doesnt know where Im going. Theres a taxi rank at the end of the approach; a long line of smart, white, four-wheel drives, filling up and pulling away. These are the boys I want. I head straight for them, humping a rucksack, pulling a case, and fighting off the Weasel. I flag a taxi. The driver ignores me. I try another and another and another... They all ignore me. Its like Im invisible. Maybe the Weasels got the first claim on me. OK. I can sort that. I was around in the days of the Empire. We had ways of dealing with guys like this. I put my face into his. Get lost! I roar at the top of my voice... and give him a push. His face fills with hate. But he slinks away with his tail between his legs. It all comes back to me now. Sometimes it pays to be hated. The taxi-men still ignore me. I dont get it. Even if they cant see me they must see my case. Ah... Maybe they are out in sympathy with the weasel. Theres another guy at me now, in a grey uniform with an official number on it. Hes got more manners than the Weasel. He wants me to go with him. He must be a taxi driver. I follow him across the approach. Oh no... hes loading my case onto trishaw. I dont believe it. Ive landed with Gunga Din. Its not even a decent trishaw, like the posh ladies go promenading in. This is ancient; a single-seater; moth-eaten

and battered. I dont want to know it. But Ive no option. The taxis have rejected me. Rex Hotel, I tell him. Otel, he echoes. No, I tell him. Not any hotel: the Rex Hotel. Hes another chancer. OK, he says. Red otel. Aahh, gerronwithit, I tell him. Rex Hotel, fifty-thousand. No Rex, no money. We start off. Its uphill. Gungas got a load on. Hes struggling a bit. Ive got my feet on my case with my knees in the air and my rucksack under my chin. Hes edging into the traffic. Theres no order on the road. Just swirling eddies of motorbikes, honking horns, claiming their space. But he copes. Hes been doing this all his life; with the same trishaw by the look of things. When traffic lights go green, bikes zoom away on all sides. Gunga stands on the peddles, struggling to get momentum up the slope. The journey goes on and on. I sense hes flagging. Otel! he shouts hopefully as we approach a dingy Vietnamese doss. Rex, I tell him. No Rex. No money. He tries it on, again and again, with every otel we pass. He hasnt a clue what were looking for. Im running out of patience. Im tired; two nights without a proper sleep. I need a shower and a change of clothes. Ive got Vietnamese piss on my socks. I bang the side of the trishaw. Let me off, I yell. Ill find a taxi. No. No. he pleads. Red otel. OK. OK. He shouts to people on the sidewalk. They shout back, pointing uphill. Were going the wrong way up a one-way street now, in the dark without lights, against a solid wall of motorbikes. Its like the M25 is coming at me. Hes behind, standing on the peddles. Im his shield... He sees my problem. He gets off the bike, comes round the front, and starts pulling me, like a horse and cart. He chickens out and makes for the sidewalk. Now hes peddling along the pavement. Ill settle for that. We come to a corner. There! he shouts triumphantly. Rex otel! And there it is. Closed! Boarded up. Dead as a Christmas turkey. I booked it on the internet. Ive been suckered again. Gunga Din sees the problem. He thinks Ill blame him. He shouts frantically to a guy sitting on the steps. The guy shouts back and points. We move on, round another corner. And there it is. A blaze of lights. The Rex Hotel. The boarded bit was the back entrance. A coach has pulled-up outside, disgorging middle class, middle aged Frogs. Gunga pulls alongside and dismounts. Then he misjudges and the trishaw crashes onto its side, shooting me nosediving among the crowd, rucksack and all. The Frogs pause and gaze disdainfully down. Another Rosbeef stealing their thunder. Gunga hops around on one leg crying sorry sir, sorry sir. He can see 50K evaporating. He might be a chancer. But hes hurt himself. And

hes no wanker. Hes worked bloody hard. We agreed on fifty. I give him a hundred. Youre a better man than I am, Gunga Din, I tell him. In the cool of the rooftop bar, the inevitable Philippino musicians murder Western pop music on the corner stage. A couple of aging Frog couples dance to the racket, clapping enthusiastically after every number. One middle aged bloke, a Chirac look-a-like, is swaying and clapping and tapping the table like a star-struck kid. The service is crap. I go to the bar to get more drink. The local hooker sidles up, youre new, she tells me. Not the usual description, I say. She says she runs a massage parlour on the floor below. Do you need a rub down? she asks. Or rub-up? I wonder. I manipulate, she says. I bet you do, I tell her. Shes attractive, in a pale skinned 4 -star well-groomed kind of way. But I prefer the girls outside; pale gold skin and almond eyes; sitting astride their motorbikes in skin-tight jeans; shiny black hair tumbling over their shoulders. Theyre like dainty dolls. And they walk like dolls; little awkward steps. Its like their mothers wind them up every morning; stick em on high-heel stilts; then turn them loose to stagger about till they find a bike to cock a leg over. These girls are wild flowers. Once they master the walking problem theyll take over the world. The hookers a houseplant. I tell her, no, I just need beer. She looks disappointed. Im married, I say. Youre against the rules. The next night she arrives at my table. Can I sit with you? she wonders. Ive told you, I tell her. Im married. Just for a chat, she says. Naah. Youd better not, I say. She looks crestfallen and goes back to her table. I bite my tongue. Its 30-odd pence a pint in here. A double whiskys a pound. For less than two quid she could tell me tales to make my toes curl. Ive booked the trip to the Cu Chi Tunnels for the second day. Thats what this journeys all about. But Ive got my doubts. If I end up with a coach load of Frogs itll be a nightmare. And the hotels full of em. In the morning I go to the foyer and wait for the call. The place is awash with Yanks and Frogs. It doesnt bode good. Then this girl comes up and says, Mr Gregory? I say, yes. And she says, follow me. Suits me. She a wild flower in tight jeans. She takes me to a chauffeur driven car and opens a rear door. Am I the only one? I say when were underway. No, she tells me, there are two of us. Its getting better.

We do the tunnels and the war museum. Shes the best courier Ive ever come across. She walks with her arm round my waist and keeps feeling my muscles and saying wow. She takes me to a Vietnamese restaurant for lunch. I dont eat with clients, she tells me. But youre nice and happy. I want to eat with you. Shes probably winding me up for a tip. But I can stand that. Especially after the meal, when she starts kneading both our stomachs to see which one is the fullest. At the end of the day I follow her up the hotel steps to the foyer. At the top she turns, puts her arms round me, and presses her cheek to mine. Maybe she wants a bigger tip. But it makes an old man happy. In the bar that evening, the hookers back. Can I come to your room tonight? she wants know. I keep telling you; Im married, I say. For you, I do it for love, she tells me. Aww shucks, I cover my eyes with my hand. Its very nice of her. We hardly know each other. Ive still got this marriage problem, I tell her. She plants a kiss on my lips. And then shes gone. Mission accomplished. Ive done the tunnels. Im dreading tomorrows train trip. But hey, Im homeward bound. The funs over for this trip...

Charlie aka Viet Cong

Now you see

Now you dont

Enter Antonio ... Im on the train now. A colony of Frogs are swarming into the coach. This is worrying. I dont want them in here... But I neednt worry. In walks Miss Saigon. She looks about 19 but she turns out to be 27. She looks a dream as she clambers up and down onto the bunk above me. A woman in her 30s is in the bottom bunk across the way. Shes nice and friendly; wants to share her water; but Ive got my own. I wander into the corridor. The Frogs have got the windows open. Brilliant. Itll be great to have some fresh air in the place. But now the chief guard has come along with a key. Hes pushing the frogs out of the way and locking the windows. Hes a bit of a Hitler, this guy. Five hours later, the train stops and the Frogs swarm away. The woman in the bottom bunk has closed the compartment door and we all sprawl on our beds gasping for air.

Suddenly the doors flung open and a bloke in a khaki shirt and shorts barges in with a massive canvas bag which he dumps between the bunks. I dont believe it... Hes wearing a blue crash helmet. Im Antonio... from der Nederlands, he roars in a foghorn voice, snatching off the helmet and throwing it on the vacant bunk. He points to the bag. Youll have to lift dis on der bed for me, he orders Hitler, who is standing behind him. I have a heart condition. Hitler bristles. He doesnt lift. He shoves Frogs about and locks windows. I get off the bunk. Ill give you a hand, I tell them. Three of us heave it up and shove it on the bunk. Antonio pulls up a shirt sleeve, bends his arm and tenses the muscle, I vos a Marine Commando, he tells Hitler. Now he leans over the bottom bunk and shakes the woman. Im Antonio, from der Nederlands, he shouts. Who are you? She looks bemused and mutters something in scrambled egg. Antonio does the same with the girl above, and gets the same response. Ratatatat! He suddenly crouches between the bunks, firing a heavy machine gun, full blast. Bang! Boom! He roars, lobbing hand grenades onto the bunks. I vos a Marine Commando, he tells the girls, who are now sitting lotus fashion on the lower bunk staring at him, wide eyed. I vos in Curacao. Hes 65 with a shock of grey hair and grey moustache. And hes been on a 2 month cycling tour in the Meikong Delta. Youll have to talk up, he tells me, Im deaf. Its all those bloody hand grenades, I tell him. I lost my hearing aid in the der crash, he tells me. He was in a collision with a motorbike and lost his front wheel. Mudder and daughter, he suddenly roars, looking at the women. Its not very tactful. But its very Antonio. Bridget Bardot, he roars, suddenly realising how beautiful Miss Saigon looks. He dives into the canvas bag and produces a camera. You are der sex kitten, he tells her. I take your picture. Shes posing for him now; combing her hair and preening herself. Hes got something going for him. Swish! A sandal skims my nose in a karate kick. I vos a Marine Commando, he tells me. Ratatatat! Boom! Bang! Hes off again. This guy did 2 years National Service in the 60s and, by the sound of things, hes lived off it ever since. But hes no more a soldier than I am. Hes at his pills now. Von for my heart, he announces. Von for my blood pressure. And von for Diabetes... Bang! he lobs a hand grenade into the corridor. I look at the women. Mad as a typhoon, I tell them. They nod enthusiastically. They dont know the language. But they guess w hat Im saying. Dare vos dis Russian vife in the Meikong, he tells us. Antonio, she tells me. I love you. I love you very much. You must come to me in Russia... And I vill go, he assures us. And I vill give her much umpetyumpety.

The women leave the train at 0700. Antonio produces pictures of his wife and daughter; two attractive women. Theres a postcard from his daughter too. Come back healthy, she tells him. And tell us lots of stories. Hell definitely tell her stories. At 0800 he decides to go a walk down the train. I hear him telling a Vietnamese guy about giving umpety-umpety to a vife on the Venice Express. The guy hasnt a clue what hes talking about. Half an hour later hes back at me. Meet the new girlfriend, he tells me. He pushes a Vietnamese wildflower towards me. He says shes 23. But she looks younger; much younger. He says she has an apartment in Ha Noi and produces a condom. I vill sleep vith her tonight and give her umpety-umpety, he tells me. Its only half-eight in the morning. Hes not had his breakfast yet. And hes already picked up a scrubber. I dont know how he knows she has an apartment, or that he can sleep with her. She doesnt speak a word of English. I think he tells her what he wants. And if she nods or smiles, its a done-deal. She leaves him now and goes to a compartment further down the coach. There are two young blokes in there and she spends most of the day with them, behind a closed door. I have to be careful, Antonio tells me, holding up the condom. I had dis near miss vid a black vife in Africa. I think she had Aids. It vos new then. I had to tell my vife about der girl. Ve both had to have tests and medication. Christ. Its a wonder she didnt divorce you. Oh no, no. My vife understood. I vos just a young boy at the time. And I had been avay on business for a couple of veeks. Oh. Thats OK then. How old were you? Only 35; just a young boy. I nod my head. Theres no answer to that. But it explains his daughters postcard. He wants to know what I think of his new girlfriend. Shes not just an ordinary girl, I tell him. Miss Saigon was an ordinary girl. I point to the top bunk. She let you take photos. But that was all. Ordinary girls dont take you back to their apartments for umpety. He gets another packet of pills from the big bag; takes one; and washes it down with bottled water. Whats that one for? I wonder. Diarrhoea, he tells me. Have you been drinking the water? No. But ven Im vith dis little vife tonight, I might be excite d and get the shits. I nod wisely. Theres no answer to that one either. The girls back at him now. Making pillow signs with her hands against her cheek. He throws me an, I told you so, look, as she takes his hand and leads him away.

I stand corrected. Looks like hes struck lucky. But she takes him to the boys compartment, where hes invited to buy satay and coffee all-round off the food trolley. When he comes back he asks me again, vot do you think of my girlfriend? Shes with two blokes, I tell him. She could be a hooker, working the train. Ask the guards if they know her. He asks Hitler, but gets waved aside. Shes back in our compartment now. Sitting on the lower bunk, cuddling Antonio. He falls for it big time. She suddenly stands up and leaves without giving a reason. Ten minutes later, one of her boyfriends comes and stands in the corridor, eyeing the Dutchman. Theres something sinister about him. They could be setting you up for a honey trap, I warn Antonio. Two men and a girl. Yah, Antonio gets the point. I vill put my things in a safe in the station, he decides. And take only $30 to her apartment. Nothing more. If they pull a gun. Dat is all dey vill get $30. But if they have no gun, I vill destroy dem. Two fingers fly at my face. First, I take out their eyes. Den I chop them. Swish! Swish! His hands fly through the air in karate chops. Den I finish dem. He leaps to his feet and goes kicking down the corridor, like a German soldier whos lost control of his goosestep. Were getting near Ha Noi now. The girls back on the lower bunk, cuddling Antonio. I love you, she tells him in English. I love you. I love you. I love you. He looks at me, wide eyed. I told you, he says. She loves me. She has told me this herself. You heard her. Give me a kiss, he cries, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling her towards him. Yeeeaaow, she squeals and struggles like an angry cat. No kiss! No kiss! she screams. She rises and goes to the door. Goodbye, she calls over her shoulder, with a wide grin. Then shes back with the two boys, who are waiting in the corridor. Vot do you think? he asks, hopefully. Shes taking the piss, I say. He nods his head. Yah. You might be right, he concedes. So I need a hotel in Ha Noi. Is dare room at your place? Dunno, I say. I booked it on the internet. Have you got a double room? he wonders. No way, I tell him. Im not sharing. Im not playing second fiddle to a scrubber. On Ha Noi station I see Antonio being towed away by one of the wankers. Dis man has a hotel, he shouts to me. He vill give me a room for der night. I bet he will, I say, as I go looking for a chancer with a taxi.

The pictures below might interest the historians out there...

Charlies Invisible Chimney... he cooked in his tunnel, around dawn when smoke mingled with the morning mist Now Some of Charlies Toys Step on it...

and down you go to a bed of spikes. or

This one rolls you down and pierces back and front or

With this one you hang with your armpits impaled And then

Theres one that opens like a window or

See Saw Marjory Daw. Then down to the spikes. Then, for your convenience

This one folds like a chair with spikes

And finally

Get out of this under fire... Funny thing, war; the big boys dont always win.