A 5.45am start to catch the flight to Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as the locals prefer to still call it.
At Da Nang airport a little sign pointed out that it’s 9,236km away from London, whilst TV screens looped karaoke Christmas songs. Vietnam is a Buddist country but they still seem to be going crazy for Christmas.
Travelled on the bus to Saigon but stopped off on the way at the Cu Chi Tunnels, where the Viet Cong successfully held out against the Americans (or dirty foreign devils as the guide put it) by living and fighting from a 200km network of narrow tunnels. Overcoming a general claustrophobia I managed to crawl though the tunnels without getting too stuck, and was rewarded with a lump of tapioca for my efforts. Would have preferred a Cornetto.
Back on the bus and made it to the hotel in Saigon, which turned out to be located just off the opera square, in the equivalent of Bond Street in London or 5th Avenue in New York. Having dropped off the luggage we wandered round Gucci in dusty Tunnel Rat clothes, got changed into respectable enough clothes to book a table for Christmas dinner at the Sheraton. We then retired to the upstairs bar of the Caravel Hotel and took in the main square. This bar turned out to be called ‘Saigon, Saigon’, where a couple of American journalists invented the B-52 cocktail. We felt oblighed to try one and immediately a Vietnamese Santa and his elves in miniskirts appeared and gave us a hug – remarkable drink.
After the 3rd shower of the day headed out to support Vietnam in the football against the champions of the last 3 years, and old enemy, Thailand. After a tense match the underdogs won 2-1 and suddenly the streets erupted with thousands of people and motorbikes, all cheering and heading for the centre of town. We strode along the main street with a huge Vietnamese flag and got cheered and waved at all the way, eventually getting separated as most of the girls stayed on the pavement whilst Nicky mounted my shoulders and we strode into the mayhem, instantly becoming celebrities as the tallest combined person there by about 4 feet. The football fans pelted us with silly string, spray snow and handfuls of glitter, so we emerged looking like badly decorated Christmas trees.
As the celebrations subsided we headed down a back street and sat down on the pavement outside an off licence where we discovered the true cost of the local beer, about a half to sixth of anywhere else at 25p a bottle. Got chatting to the owner and his brother and through some inspired sign language discovered they had a daughter at Warwick university.
Getting on for 11pm on Christmas Eve it was time for some dinner so ended up in a very strange but entirely local restaurant where we were given eggy bread and beer, whilst the manager grinned incessantly at having a couple of glitter coated dirty foreign devils in his shop.
