Kungfu Bustle

Saigon is a sweaty, feverish place; a city-sized sauna spawning swarms of rasping, homicidal mopeds, orange-robed disciples of the godheads, and drunken hedonists romping on bed spreads. Arriving at night the neon underworld beckoned the Blade Runner in me, but my visit was short lived. I was due north, destined for the serenity of H?i An, a picturesque mashup of Vietnamese, Japanese and Chinese architecture set on the coastline below a sapphire sky that soars toward the Philippines.

My train departed at midnight. I had the best seat in the house; the bottom bunk of a four-person carriage kitted out with dilapidated hospital beds and rickety air conditioning that clucked as if it was preparing to lay breakfast. At thirty pounds for a twelve hour journey, the idea of paying for a flight and a night in a hostel was laughable. My cabin-mates were two Vietnamese men who flicked me perfunctory nods as they went about their bedtime routines. I soon fell asleep.

The morning light greeted us softly, and I rose to see green and yellow vistas coursing past the window with sunny glee. The men were discussing something in Vietnamese when they looked at me and made to speak. I gestured that I did not understand and the more gregarious one - a chap in his mid-fifties with short jet black hair and a penchant for gold chains - began to ask questions in broken English.

They turned out to be stellar individuals, conjuring plates of food and crates of beer for breakfast like hungry, alcoholic magicians. Insisting I sample all of their wares, by mid-morning - after choking to their delight on a couple of items that had the taste and consistency of blended intestines - I was as stuffed and drunk as a Christmas turkey.

I learned, through a combination of misinterpretations, facial expressions and a rudimentary form of charades, that Dr Bling was a kung-fu champion / instructor (attempts to clarify this were thwarted, as his explanation involved peppering my face with karate-chops).

His friend, an older gentleman with a mullet of grey hair and the countenance of a serious drinker, had only one curiosity; to find out if his favourite pastime of drink driving was acceptable in England. Unable to speak English he repeatedly mimed driving a car while guffawing, saying, "drinky drivingy englandy yes yes?" before falling back on his bed in tears of laughter.

I spent a week in H?i An. It's beautiful. But the train was my jewel, with the two strangers I'll never see again.