Our plane lands at 11.20pm, and we make our way past the dour faced Immigration officials. I always tightrope the border of Panic Attack whenever I wait in those ques. Even though I know there is no logical reason why I should be stopped, I keep expecting Gandalf to jump our from behind the counter and inform me: "Yooooou shaall nooot paaaaas!" If you are (as I am) inclined to doubt the sanity of humans and are (as I am, unfortunately) one of that species, you have to doubt your own sanity too, and leave room for the idea that you may have multiple personalities that you are unaware of - that it is not the 24 hours of no sleep and airline food that have left your digestive tract as clogged at the N1 to Pretoria during peak traffic, which the municipality thought would be a super time to kick roadworks into full swing, after a taxi has collided with a bakki (rather, it is the result of one of The Voices that have found it amusing to thrust condoms of Colombian Gold where angels fear to tread).
By midnight we meet the taxi organized by the backpackers, after waiting for Mr S's luggage and trusting that the money exchange didn't rip us off. We all enter Ho Chi Mihn (still Saigon to everyone but the people would make the signs and official city stationary) millionaires. With the amount of sex we were offered over the course of the next week, it is fitting that the currency is called the dong.
The heat slaps us in the face, and even at this hour, the streets still whiff of syrupy chaos. The drive to the hostel shrugs off the dust of exhaustion, and the new city calls to us. We dump our bags and head into the night. First, Mr N is determined to find pho. Tick. Then, we head to the Crazy Buffalo - a bar on the main corner of the backpacker's strip. Tables spill onto the sidewalk and a gargantuan buffalo head of neon lights, puffing its nostrils in light fantastic smoke, looms above the entrance. I suspect that it is really the lair of a supernatural villain in a B rated fantasy series and that Buffy is just around the corner.
A beer feeds the exhaustion, and soon we are all in bed. No one sets an alarm. The air-conditioning is a blessing - until it begins to drip during the night, which sends Mr S to the insomniacs asylum.
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