Mean Streets

It was still night when the train pulled into Ha Noi.

Half-awake I stumbled out to the car-park outside the station and waved over a motocycle taxi.

We sped through deserted streets, the pre-dawn air chilling my skin. Nothing looked familiar. I wondered if I was being taken to right hotel. The street lights were few and far between, occasional pools of ugly sodium yellow illuminating broken roads and vermin. Jesus, it's four in the morning and I'm riding on the back of some random guy's motorbike in the capital of Vietnam.

Surreal.

But then any life is surreal if you think about it.

I shook my head and enjoyed the moment. I did get taken to the right hotel. Only problem was the hotel didn't open till seven and I needed to (a) lie-down, and more importantly (b) pay the driver the right fare. You see, I only had whole dollars on me and the fare was much less than that. I knew if I gave him a note he would say he couldn't give me change, so I trekked up and down the street looking for a place to break the notes. Nothing was open. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I gave him the dollar and sure enough there was no change forthcoming.

I guess I was ripped-off but it wasn't so bad. A dollar was a lot for him so he was extra happy, and a dollar wasn't so much for me so I wasn't that unhappy. A perfectly amicable swindle. And maybe he really didn't have change.

The day's second attempted fleecing came when I bought some baguettes and was given four thousand Dong change instead of the correct forty thousand. Luckily I had my wits about me and got the money before I walked away.