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“Welcome to my town!” the unnaturally buzzing tourguide hoots, “Sit, eat, food of Chau Doc”; Pot noodle.

Vietnamese hoteliers hold passports as ransom. I feel like I have lost a limb.

Designer crash helmets are an ingenious safety stimulus.

All roads lead to fakery.

Even in booking a tour I find myself alone.

((25,000 catfish x $1 wholesale value) – ($5,000 baby fish + $7,000 food)) x 3 fish farms = Rich river farmers.

Reading between the lines of my Mekong tour, I now discover a four hour nap gap.

Saigon would be gridlocked if it weren’t for the fact that mopeds are so teensy.

My samaritan act went unappreciated. I offered a plaster to a lady nursing a crash wound, she took it then asked for money.

Food service is far too speedy. Let me linger in your restaurant!

Unreciprocated smiles aplenty.

Copious rice wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I have nearly escaped the perils of the SEACC (Sout East Asian Canine Community.)

Trusting a bloke on a motorbike with my life has become both normal and strangely pleasant.

As a river dweller, your employment options seem limited to tearing apart coconuts or dredging sand.

My head hurts.

Short journeys impede my reading.

The Vietnam War was bad.

I pledge to invent a new occupation for every subsequent hostel check-in form. My latest is”Socio-Cultural Voyeur”.

Tempted to spend tonight’s airport stay in the ‘Monk’s Waiting Room’.

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