We arrived at Ho Chi Minh City (or Saigon as it continues to be known to the locals) a little after 20:00. As we entered the city it reminded me of Hanoi. It was chaos. It was strangely beautiful. The streets were brimming with what can only be described as walls of blood thirsty scooters, and lined with aging French colonial architecture. On the one side were the bland, plain concrete and corrugated iron slum residential flats of the poor. On the other were the shiny, ultra modern shopping centres and plush hotels, whose profits line the pockets of the wealthy.

We passed a restaurant worryingly named “Cat King”. I suddenly noticed the distinct lack of felines on the streets.

No one had actually said as such, but we were now also travelling as a foursome. With Ash and Becca, of whom we met on the Easy Rider tour. In case I never said, they’re both from London. Other than that they were ok.

In case either of them end up reading this: that was a joke.

Anyway, as our bus had left half an hour earlier than Ash and Becca’s, we had around the same time to wait for them. We headed straight for the bakery that was on the same street before taking a seat at a travel agent next to where their bus was due to arrive. I had got chatting, about football, to a slight man who worked there and so he offered us a seat. He was a Liverpool fan. He was also quite clearly homosexual.

Once Ash and Becca finally arrived and following the advice of our trusted guidebook we headed for ‘mini hotel alley’, which reportedly offered the cities best value accommodation and ran off the road we were currently on, just a short walk away. The alley itself was quite narrow and lined either side by well lit signs offering rows of guesthouses and restaurants. Each place had people stood outside ready and more than willing to offer you whatever it was they were selling. We split up in search of the best deal available before, after a few minutes, being approached by a round and slightly abrupt woman.

“10 dollar room, follow me, I have 10 dollar room…” She confidently announced.

It was the cheapest offer we had had up to that point so we duly obliged and followed the round woman to, ‘The Titi Hotel‘. She showed me up to the room. It was on the sixth floor. The sixth. That was 14 flights of stairs. I suffered a bout of vertigo as we scaled possibly the tallest guesthouse in the world. The room was basic and extremely small. We took it.

After dumping our bags we headed back out in search of a good Indian restaurant. We had already decided, as a group, that we would dine on Indian. We were incredibly excited. After deciding on a suitable venue the following 90 minutes or so passed by amid a haze of various curried delights. We indulged on a selection including paneer, dahl and the delicious, Rogan Josh. In my mind, Indians are artists, and lamb Rogan Josh, is their ultimate master piece. I would love to meet this ‘Josh’ character and shake his glorious hand. God bless you Mr. Rogan.

Now, any Englishman will tell you, a good night out consists of more than a few ice cold beers, and a good curry. We had ticked the second box on that list and next up was the beer part. As you stroll around the main tourist area of the city you cannot fail to notice the huge, red, neon buffalo, advertising the buffalo bar, that dominates the area. It looked lively. We wanted lively. We headed towards it. Before we got within a hundred feet of it however we were set upon, from every direction, by a swarm of aggressive Vietnamese PR staff intent on filling their respective bars. They were all shouting at the same time, each shouting louder than the next, competing for your attention. It was like being stood in the middle of the trading floor of the stock exchange.

We eventually made our way to another of the large bars situated across the street from the Buffalo bar. They were advertising 2-4-1 beers in their rooftop bar on the fourth floor. For the record, Saigon centre is expensive if you fancy a night out. Drinks in the bars around here were comparable with any city in the UK. In some cases, even more expensive. With that in mind we overlooked the fact that we were hidden away on the roof and made our way over to the, strangely, candlelit staircase.

At the foot of the stairs I noticed a familiar face stood at the bar. It was Michael, the Led Zeppelin look-a-like from Sapa. Aimee and I went to say hello and were greeted with a vacant, nobody home, kind of look. He had absolutely no idea who we were. We had obviously made another lasting impression.

On the roof there were two televisions, each pumping out incredibly loud and incredibly depressing Vietnamese love ballads. It began as mildly amusing. Quickly however, with each passing track, you found yourself engulfed in the cheesy, whining, high-pitched heartbreak of it all. Whatever possessed them to subject paying customers to this evil is a mystery. A cruel one. We somehow managed to sit through a whole 500 millilitre Saigon beers-worth of it before it finally drained the last breath of life from our souls and we relented, admitting defeat and calling it a night.

We made our way down the 14 flights of stairs, back to earth, just past 07:30 the following morning, having arranged to meet first thing and head out to explore the sights that Saigon city has to offer. Apparently the main sights of the city centre, such as the Ben Thanh market and the Reunification Palace, could all be walked in a day. That was the plan.

After around 3 hours of wondering aimlessly around a few small shops filled from floor to ceiling with tourist rubbish, and a few more hotels and establishments in search of a fax machine (I’ll tell you in a minute), we had made it all of approximately 25 yards from our respective beds in mini hotel alley. You could still see the round lady at Titi’s in the distance. The days planned sight seeing was not progressing well.

So, before we move on I will fill you in on the whole fax machine thing. The story goes something like this:

Commonwealth bank in Australia has our money. We want it. They wont let us have it. Not without sending a fax to apparently ‘confirm’ we are in fact, us. Even though they identified us over the phone. Twice. We therefore need to locate a fax machine that works and apparently the whole of South East Asia combined does not possess one.

At around 13:00 we finally arrived at our first destination of the day, the Reunification Palace. We took a few pictures after deciding against going inside for a look around. To be honest, none of us were interested enough to pay for the privilege. After sitting at the gates and deliberating how to spend the remainder of the day (it was seriously humid and we were, by now fed up of walking), we tentatively (and somewhat optimistically) opted to make our way to one of the public swimming pools for some refreshment and possibly even a spot of exercise.

On route to the swimming pool however, we somehow, incredibly, got sidetracked and found ourselves entering what the sign at the door claimed was ‘Tutti-Frutti’s Frozen Yoghurt Palace’. On the wall at the rear of the store were a dozen or so pumps, each with a label declaring the flavour that it contained. It was pour your own. One of the flavours was ‘Death By Chocolate’. After devouring a bowl of frozen yoghurt, with fruit and a liberal scattering of crushed Oreo’s, suddenly exercise wasn’t quite so appealing.

The remainder of the day, rather than performing laps in the pool, was spent eating and relaxing with a few cool Saigon beers in the various venues down mini hotel alley. There was also the unearthing of a major discovery. In mini hotel alley itself. It was none other than a real, genuine, bona fide, Cornetto. Strawberry flavour. Now, that may not sound like much of a discovery but trust me when I say, in Vietnam, it is. They do indeed have their own version of the famed Cornetto (called Gelano or something like that), but as with most things, it is a poor imitation of the original. It tasted like a small piece of home.

After booking our bus, we were set to leave for Cambodia and Phnom Penh the following day, at 15:00. This was set to be the first overland border crossing of our trip. The first of our lives in fact. We had heard rumours of corrupt ogre-like officials demanding bribes to stamp you in and out of the various countries. We were a little apprehensive, but ready for it. We knew what to expect. At least we thought we did.

Before any battles of will with dishonest border officials though, we had a half day tour booked for the morning. There is one main attraction here in the area of Saigon. One that attracts more visitors annually than any other. One that you wished, in consideration of what it represented, wasn’t in fact there to visit, but at the same time one that you simply cannot afford to miss. This was the one I was most excited about prior to leaving home and that excitement and anticipation had not subsided. I am referring, of course, to the famous Viet Cong tunnels of Cu Chi.

I will begin by declaring that, In hindsight, I regret not making time for the full day tour as ours was more than a little rushed. I would also advise anyone coming here to pay the extra to visit as part of a small, four person group. We opted for the cheaper option and our group, we were told, would be around 16 people. It was in fact closer to 40 and quite honestly a struggle to get yourself within earshot of the swamped guide.

Our first stop on the tour was at a handicrafts warehouse and shop. The guide informed us that everything for sale here was produced by victims of the infamous ‘Agent Orange’ (of which was the codename for a chemical dropped by the Americans during the war). The place was called ‘Handicapped Handicrafts’ and there were, within the large square warehouse, 50 or 60 people hard at work producing items that would eventually be moved next door and offered for sale. Some of the people working there clearly had limbs missing, others however, seemed at first sight at least, to be perfectly normal. Rightly or wrongly the cynic in me was stirring. Whatever the morals behind the workshop though, our stop here was nothing more than a commission based detour and quite honestly, it was annoying. It was eating away at the short time we had at the tunnels themselves, which was the place we had actually paid to visit.

We eventually arrived at the site of the Cu Chi tunnels at around 12:30 and made our way through the subway style entrance, following our guide up towards a wooded area scarred by craters from B52 bombs, dropped in a futile effort by the Americans to dislodge the VC from the area.

Suddenly, and a little confusingly, we came to a stop. There didn’t seem to be anything of note here. Not that we could see anyway.

We were however, in fact standing directly in front of just one of the entrances, to just one of the sections, of the 200 kilometres of tunnels that spread out across the area of Cu Chi. That 200 kilometres is, in itself, just a small part of a network that once stretched to the Cambodian border and included numerous levels as well as living quarters, eating areas and hospitals. It is staggering to imagine people not only creating this complex labyrinth of tunnels, but also living in them. For years.

As we stood scanning the area for a sign of the entrance, our guide squatted and removed a small square lid, camouflaged with leaves and grasses, to reveal it to us. It was tiny, around the size of an average pizza box. Looking at it I seriously doubted that a fully grown person could pass through. I was, obviously, wrong in this assumption, as was proved as I witnessed a hand full of people try for themselves. In order to enter you had to hold your arms up straight, vertical over the top of your head, joining your hands in a kind of pencil formation, holding the lid above your hands. You could then, just about, lower yourself in, closing the lid behind you as you did so. It was an incredibly tight fit.

As we passed through the dense woodland that encompassed the Cu Chi tunnel complex, it was impossible not to notice raised sections of what appeared to be termite mounds, gathered around tree trunks. At closer inspection however, these were not the product of termites, they were most definitely man made. They were chimneys created by the VC soldiers who once called this area and these tiny tunnels home. Chimneys crafted from dirt and linked to the tunnels below in order to allow for the smoke from cooking to be released. Purposefully situated against tree’s, the thinking was that it would conceal them from the view of enemy aircraft passing by overhead. As you looked down from above therefore, you would see the tree. Nothing else. Not only that, the Viet Cong would also cook first thing in the morning. This way, if any smoke was spotted by reconnaissance flights overhead it would appear to be nothing more than early morning mist. It was cunning, and it worked.

A little further on we found ourselves standing before a carved staircase, leading down to a section of the tunnels that, if we wished, we could make our own way through. This particular section had been widened in order to allow for the generally larger build of western visitors. Allegedly. If that was the case I would hate to see the sections that hadn’t.

There were actually two sets of steps that you descended before you entered the tunnels themselves and when you did, by folding yourself up through a combination of hunching your shoulders forward and inwards and crouching to the point of actually crawling, you got some idea of just how cramped they were. I had expected them to be tight but this, this was something else. You couldn’t stand up (obviously). Turning around was out of the question. Moving at any kind of speed was impossible. Even crouching was pushing your luck. To make matters worse it was completely pitch black and, thanks to the tiny proportions, it was also punishing hot. It was enough to convince a number of people to turn around at the entrance and head back out. That’s exactly what Aimee did after having a quick look.

Extremely slowly I made my way along what felt like miles but was in fact no more than about 20 metres. I passed through, in a hunched line, with my head dangerously close to the backside of the person in front and with what I believed, based purely on the accent, was the head of an American man uncomfortably close to mine.

“Whatever you do…” Said the American, in what I placed as a Texan accent.

“…don’t fart!”.

Thankfully for said American, I didn’t. If any bodily gases had been released down there, in that heat, we would have been in some serious bother. As I emerged at the second available exit, adjusting my eyes to the dazzling daylight, I had a new found respect for those soldiers who did not have the option to simply come up when they felt like it, as I did. These tunnels are a symbol of the collective will of human spirit. A testimony to what can be endured if necessary. Having entered only the smallest section myself, I can vouch for that.

The tour was concluded with a look at some of the various traps produced and utilised by the VC soldiers, of which were simplistic but brutally efficient, followed by a brief visit to the shooting range, on which you could (for a price) fire an automatic weapon if you wished. Finally, we were treated to a taste of the VC diet. Tapioca with sugar and salt. It wasn’t too bad. I’m not sure how much boiled tapioca it would take for you to change your viewpoint on that though. Id suggest maybe a weeks worth. Maximum.

Now, as is the Vietnamese way, we were struggling to maintain the planned timeframe, due largely, to departing around an hour later than advertised. This was a worry for us as we had to be back in the city by 15:00 to catch our bus to Phnom Penh. At this point therefore, we were duly ditched by our group and passed along, like the proverbial two-bit hooker, to a short and rather unfriendly guide to join his group. He was in fact a veteran of the American war himself. A former member of the Viet Cong. I wanted to ask him about his experiences but frankly he was a bit of an arse, so I didn’t bother. That’ll show him.

I’m happy to report that, in the hands of the arse and his small rusty bus, following a brief confrontation with a elderly Asian woman, who had gone a touch overboard on the makeup front that morning, bless her, we did, just, make it back in time to catch our bus. And what a bus it was too.

When the Vietnamese sell you a ticket to a “V.I.P” bus, you make sure to keep your expectations in check. They generally involve the transport of livestock, to give you an idea. This bus however, was not half bad. Fully reclining seats - made of leather, no less, and including foot rests. There were no people seated in the aisle on plastic stools. No rolled up carpets or sacks of rice underfoot. The smell of dried fish did at no point pass your nostrils. There was not even the hint of a chicken. It was luxury. I actually found myself feeling a touch guilty for being on it. We’re supposed to be backpacking after all. We should be on that rusty stinking coffin on wheels over there, right? Well, probably, but we’ve been on plenty of them up to now, and I’m sure there will be plenty more to come yet so, for now, we reclined in our spacious leather seats and enjoyed the moment, drifting away on thoughts of Cambodia…