Britta probably didn’t realise how right she was about the song before she decided to leave us. I arrive shortly before nightfall. Seven taxi drivers communistically share the driving of my trolley. It takes ages for them to realise that my will to take the bus is stronger. None of them speak English.
Nevertheless, I arrive quickly and my first impression is that the Vietnamese love twinkling lights. Everything looks like a Christmas tree and twinkles. Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh. Merry Christmas and welcome to real communism. My hostel is in the centre of the city. Everything around me is like an anthill. A hundred thousand motorbike riders, honking horns and smog. Off into the night immediately. A new country, destination one is clear as always: food.
I’m immediately on the road with a colourful group. After the first cash machine, I’m a dong millionaire. As we are all millionaires, everyone wants to sell us something. Everyone. Mums with children, old grannies, taxi pushers. Saying no never helps.
The lowest value today was three times before the will is respected. The restaurant menu says: “Vietnamese food. Not as fatty as Chinese and not as spicy as Thai.” I’m delighted and dive in. The rest of Thailand is still rumbling inside me.
A hot pot comes burning to the table. Fruit salads, meat, drinks. Arrived. After dinner, I take a quick spin around the neighbourhood. The Vietnamese are also Michael Jackson fans. The same teasing face rags everywhere again. A hundred thousand pubs, like red light without red.
The bright lights of the big city. Grim-faced olive-green military Smurfs standing around everywhere. They find me less funny than I find them, but I’m also behind the camera.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.