(Insert obvious Robin Williams quote here)

I’m on a bus bitch. Not a particularly comfy one it must be said,

Where I'm writing this from
Where I’m writing this from

nor exciting, nor brag-worthy in any way really, but that’s where I am. Just in case you were curious. This particular brand of “sleeper buses” have pulled off the frankly remarkable marketing coup of naming themselves after

possibly the only activity it is simply impossible to do on one. Painting abstract art, getting headaches, or even writing insufferable blog posts are all wholesome, worthwhile activities, but any attempt at sleeping will undoubtedly be met with abject failure. On the upside, all this means you lucky bunch of sods get a brand new story about all the things that have annoyed me in the past few weeks.

We’re on the way to Hoi An, in the midst of our second 24 hour travel day in a week. To add to my ever-growing list of complaints, I am astoundingly hungry. It doesn’t help that Vietnamese food is so damn delicious. We’ve taken to eating at least four meals a day, simply because it’s too good not to, and so with the rush of the day I’m several thousand calories behind schedule. I can’t remember the names of more than two

Rice paper pancakes, courtesy of this mad old woman and her bucket of fire
Rice paper pancakes, courtesy of this mad old woman and her bucket of fire

or three dishes so every mealtime is a complete gamble, but so far we’ve been thoroughly satisfied a lot more often than we’ve been disappointed. Hannah insists she’s still working hard on a food blog of sorts, but I wouldn’t hold your breath for that one.

Holy fuck what sort of irresponsible parents bring a newborn child onto an uncomfortable night bus! Fuck me. The little bastard just let out a bloodcurdling scream, just in case anyone had forgotten she’s on the bus. It’s times like this you really get a feel for the piercing, penetrating scream evolution has necessarily equipped a human child with. I hate evolution. It really fucked up with this particular loud mouthed brat. I’m sure the parents are lovely people, but I also hate them. Perhaps a trifle unfairly, but then I’m not a fair person, so fuck em. Can you tell I’m tired and mildly irritated right now?

Ricky the bastard
Ricky the bastard

Anyhow, we’ve just spent an enjoyable few days in Da Lat, with most of my time taken up by trying to out-weird the flamboyant Mr Peace, owner, manager and supreme emperor of the hostel we stayed at. As is becoming the norm with places I actually enjoy, I can’t think of much more to write about. Oh, there was another dog that wanted a fight. His name was Ricky, which is far too cool and friendly for a dog that voracious.

Ho Chi Minh/Saigon is, for the record, absolute insanity. Imagine all of the sheep in NZ. Then imagine bringing all of those sheep to Auckland. Then imagine letting them loose on all major roads and equipping them all with riders who only have a vague understanding of how to direct said sheep, and even less of an idea where they are going, but a very concrete idea that they want to get there very fast. This is the motorbike situation in Ho Chi Minh/Saigon, and the only way to overcome it is to forget everything you were ever told about traffic safety.

The bus driver is now skilfully avoiding a stop sign. Scooters and motorbikes come out of nowhere here, it’s entirely up to someone else to be aware of the road and other vehicles for you. Somewhere amongst all these potholes is some tarmac, but nobody seems to be that bothered about finding it.

As compensation for wasting your time even more than usual with a particularly complaint-ridden article, enjoy an unusually large photo album.

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