22nd March - Vietnam Chaos, dear reader, is too gentle a word for the scene that unfolded this morning

Posted by parkers travels March 23, 2025

22nd March - Vietnam Chaos, dear reader, is too gentle a word for the scene that unfolded this morning

22nd March - Vietnam

Chaos, dear reader, is too gentle a word for the scene that unfolded this morning aboard our floating microcosm of civilisation. As the ship nudged into port, a kind of primal fervour seized the passengers—a collective mania to escape the vessel’s confines and plunge into the humid embrace of Vietnam. The queue for disembarkation, you see, had metastasised down the entirety of Deck One’s corridor, a serpentine monument to British stoicism. Or so one might assume.

Alas, order is a fragile construct. Enter the Stairwell Interlopers: rogue agents descending from upper decks, their faces etched with the audacity of those who believe gravity grants queue-jumping rights. But fear not. The British spirit, though frayed, is not yet extinct. A squadron of self-appointed Queue Vigilantes materialised—umbrellas aloft like the swords of Cromwell’s cavalry—to repel the invaders. Their tactics were unorthodox but effective: a flurry of tuts, strategic side-eyes, and one particularly inspired use of a rolled-up Daily Telegraph, albeit three months out of date.

It emerged, rather pointedly, that the offenders hailed from nations where queueing is treated as a suggestion rather than scripture. A bit like the direction of passage on deck 3. The horror.

Amid the bedlam, mutterings rose like steam. “Bring back the stocks!” hissed a woman in a sunhat that could double as a satellite dish. A sensible proposal, were it not for the ship’s tragic depletion of tomatoes and eggs three days prior. (Rumour has it the kitchen staff are negotiating an emergency airlift of preserved specimens from China—1,000-year-old eggs, perhaps, to lend historical gravitas to the pelting.)

One must marvel, really, at the spectacle. A thousand souls, united by wanderlust yet divided by the sacred laws of the queue. It’s the sort of scene that makes one ponder: if the British Empire had exported nothing else but our peerless line-forming etiquette, might the world not be a marginally more tolerable place?

Then again, where’s the fun in that?

Disclaimer

Please note that our ship has not run out of eggs and tomatoes—But let’s not ruin a good yarn by sticking to the facts!

Saigon Traffic, Triffids, and Ten-Foot-High Mopeds

To navigate the main Vietnamese highways is to surrender oneself to a glorious, ballet of chaos. Trucks barrel toward our bus from every compass point, squeezing it with the precision of a vice, while our unflappable driver—a maestro of the horn and wheel—dances us through the bedlam with the flair of a ballroom champion.

The road north unfurls like a scroll of Southeast Asian splendour: temples of every faith, splashed in riotous hues, punctuate the landscape. Between them, rice paddies stretch out in vast carpets of lush green, a merciful reprieve from the dust-choked roadsides.

As Saigon (still “Saigon” to the locals, despite its official rebranding) looms, the skyline punctuated with cranes and half-built highways—an effort to tame the city’s vehicular deluge, of which it seems to be failing. The gargantuan lorries of the port give way to a seething tide of cars, scooters, and motorbikes, a swarm so thick you’d swear the nation’s eye-watering vehicle taxes were but a myth. They’re not, according to our guide.

The motorbike, it seems, is Vietnam’s answer to the humble bicycle—ubiquitous, indispensable, and often piled with enough cargo to stock a small Argos.

At the Saigon Skydeck, vertigo enthusiasts (a breed to which I emphatically do not belong) are treated to a lift that rockets upward at 7 metres per second. “Thrill-seekers,” I muttered, as my knees quivered at the mere thought.

At street level, danger lurks in every crevice. Kamikaze mopeds, pavements upheaved by Triffid-like tree roots, and a peculiarly local hazard—old ladies flinging dishwater across footpaths with the casual vigour of a Wimbledon serve.

To cross a road here requires either the steely resolve of a Napoleonic general or the serene delusion of someone who’s misplaced their spectacles. The operation is overseen by khaki-clad traffic officers—sentinels, perched like hawks on every corner. Their eyes, sharp and unblinking, scan the chaos with the intensity of librarians spotting a misplaced book. Each officer, I’m told, is equipped with camera implants, a dystopian touch that records misdemeanours in real time.

Unless, of course, the faceless bureaucrats monitoring these feeds aren’t currently slumped over their desks, snoring into their lukewarm tea.

The traffic police can halt an entire city’s worth of traffic with the flick of a switch. One blast of their whistle slices through the din of revving engines, and suddenly, like a conductor silencing an orchestra, all motion ceases. A flamboyant finger-pointing ceremony ensues. You, (meaning us) they gesture, may now proceed.

The alternative to this is quite simple. The trick, is to stroll slowly . Let your pace suggest you’ve all the time in the world. The roaring tide of motorbikes—a mechanised River—will part around you, albeit with the occasional angry honk or near-miss that leaves your soul briefly hovering above your body.

It works. Mostly.

One of our favourite things about travelling through Asia is diving headfirst into the local food scene—soaking up the culture, the atmosphere, and, of course, the incredible flavours. And sometimes, the best meals come completely by chance.

That’s how we found ourselves at Bun Cha Ho Guom, a bustling family-run restaurant packed with locals—not a tourist in sight. Bright, open, and humming with energy, it was exactly the kind of place we love. The menu, helpfully illustrated with pictures of each dish, made our mouths water before we’d even ordered.

The star? Hanoi grilled pork noodles- fragrant with five-spice, piled high with fresh herbs, and served with that unmistakable smoky aroma wafting through the air. The sound of chopsticks clinking and the hum of satisfied diners only added to the charm.

There was just one tiny problem: cash only—local currency only.

No problem, we thought—there’s an ATM on the next corner. Except… it spat out our card. And then our second card. And, just for good measure, our third card.

Undeterred, we offered US dollars—surely that would work? Nope. Politely but firmly refused. Just as we were about to admit defeat, the owner (a woman with a keen sense of pity—or perhaps just excellent business instincts) took mercy on us. With a smile and some determined broken English, she sat us down and walked us through the menu.

And thank goodness she did—because that bun cha No1 ( Hanoi grilled pork noodles) was worth every moment of panic.

Stomachs bursting, we venture once again headfirst into the thronging mass. We meander, each step a new direction.

In the labyrinthine of alleys, life spills outward. Families dine in living rooms cluttered with scooters—priorities here favour horsepower over housework—while shopkeepers pedal iced coffee so potent it could jumpstart a Boeing.

The brew, a layered concoction of tar-thick coffee and sugary condensed milk, arrives with a complimentary iced tea chaser—a gesture of hospitality as refreshing as the air-con in Judith’s silk shop refuge. The dresses there, mind you, cost more than my first car—9 million dong, or roughly $34000 US, for a garment so exquisite yet so unpractical for Scotland. Thank god, l utter.

By afternoon, the heat clings like a wet overcoat. Humidity saps the will to move, leaving one to shuffle over buckled pavements, legs leaden. Yet the city thrums with life—a Saturday party vibe, street vendors hawking pho, and traffic cops whose grins widen as they halt an entire intersection to shepherd bewildered tourists across.

As the afternoon whanes, Saigon’s contradictions linger: a place where motorbikes park in lounges, where tree roots wage war on concrete, and where a policeman’s whistle can silence a thousand engines. It’s mad, marvellous, and magnificently alive—a city that defies order, logic, and occasionally, gravity.

Don’t forget -

Always carry local cash. But if you don’t, hope for a kind-hearted restaurateur who recognises the universal value of a hungry traveller—and US dollars.

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Parkers travels - the diary of the Parker's from Innellan, Scotland

22nd March - Vietnam Chaos, dear reader, is too gentle a word for the scene that unfolded this morning

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