Ha Noi - Cau Treo

At breakfast I bumped into Dorothy, the Dutch woman I first met in Nha Trang, which proved how narrow the tourist trail really is. I think Vietnam is especially susceptible to this because of the thin, snake-like geography of the country, but it still reminded me how much people are creatures of habit. The cities dot the spine of the country like sweets laid on a path for greedy children, and we hungrily follow.

She was sad because her month's holiday was ending and she was going back to working life. I was sad because today was my last in Vietnam, and, thinking of my arrival in Laos, I was anticipating similar feelings to those I'd felt when I'd arrived in Vietnam. That is feeling like an outsider and not connecting with people. I knew there'd be new people to meet, but I didn't want to start from square one. I wanted to see the people I'd begun to form relationships with, but that was impossible. Now it seems like one of those perennial paradoxes of the human condition. We're happy with familiarity --- it gives us comfort and a sense of belonging --- but at the same time we're always craving new stimulations. Striking the balance between these two competing drives is one of the hardest things to do, I believe.

We said our goodbyes and I nipped back to the hotel, stuffed my backpack with yesterday's gifts and headed to the post office. The bustle of the place helped me to cast off my gloomy thoughts. One of the staff taped up the box I'd inexpertly packed and my box of goodies began its long voyage home. Two months by ship along God knows what route. I had no idea if the package would make it.

I checked out of the hotel still with six hours to kill before the bus left. After the last overnight journey, I decided I would prime my body for the ordeal by having a massage first. The receptionist snapped her fingers and one of the men dozing on the couch jerked awake.

"Take this guest for a massage," I imagined she said, my Vietnamese still ropey. "The finest parlour we know. No sleeze, just beautiful female masseurs with honeyed fingers and the most relaxing oils," she continued in my mind.

After weaving through the chaotic, droning streets of the Old Quarter and being led up to an ill-lit room with a wiry man standing next to a dentist chair in the middle the room, I reassessed her words as:

"Take this guest for a massage. Somewhere awful because he didn't tip."

The wiry man indicated I remove my T-shirt and proceeded to pummel my body from the waist up. Thankfully my fat reserves shielded me from the worst of his blows. I think his last job was with the secret police.

After grabbing my bags at the hotel I hobbled round the corner to the travel agents and sat on the curb waiting for my ride to the bus station. The sun had gone down but the air was still warm. The streets were alive with chatter and flaming decorations and the smell of street food. I felt like I was leaving a place where I'd barely scratched the surface, countless lives and stories hidden just round the corner.

Somewhere to return to one day.

My ride arrived and ferried me across the city.

We slowed up near a metal husk of a bus. Surely that couldn't be the luxury, air-conditioned, reclining-seat coach the travel agent promised could it?

It was.