Our tour continued from the Air Base to a demolished bridge that once formed part of the Hồ Chí Minh Trail (made famous of course by Robin Williams' “Follow The [Hồ Chí Minh Trail]”). From there we started towards a National Cemetery that held only soldiers of the North (Communism did win after all), when the light drizzle of the morning was replaced with sheets of water. The very rain that Forest Gump described, hitting us from every direction. While we held on for dear life, our guides pushed tired engine and rubber to their limits, and by the time lunch became an option at some sketchy roadside diner, we were soaked. The kind of wet where “soaked to the bone” actually seemed a physical possibility. But as we ate a lunch of – oh, I don't know, what the hell is this? - our moistened concerns were quickly abandoned to focus on the spirited drinking our guides were exhibiting. Something resembling petrol in both appearance and taste was consumed at an alarming rate by our “drivers” while the heavens continued to turn the blacktop into a comedic and fatal “Slip-n-Slide”. By the grace of God and dumb luck we managed to escape in one piece, but not without our guides getting a little too bubbly. Rachel's guide proceeded to get overly “friendly” (advances originally confused as safety measures what with the rain and all, but eventually identified as sexual harrasment) and mine decided to call me Boss for the rest of trip and started playing drunken matchmaker.

Our day eventually ended with a tour of one of the many underground tunnel networks that snaked beneath Vietnam serving both defensive and offensive strategies. Unlike the Cu Chi Tunnels further south that famously held the NLF during the fight against America and the South, these tunnels in Vinh Moc held a village sandwiched between two waring states. As all hell broke loose above and their homes were flattened, the people of Vinh Moc constructed 2.8 kilometres of tunnels up to 23 meters deep, constructing water wells, hospitals and theatres within it's walls. Up to 300 people gave birth, raised families and went about their lives as best they could as their homes remained inhabitable. Considering how claustrophobic we found it to crouch, climb and scuttle our way through the tunnels, it's amazing how people lived in there on and off for five years, at times resorting to lying on the floor to find enough air to breathe.

With our tour guides returning us to the town, we were all thoroughly exhausted. It had been an amazing day, and extremely educational, but we ready find a bed in the next city and relax. So, we did what anyone would do in that situation, we piled into a random minivan inexplicably packed to the brim with strangers. The notion of comfort and safety was so ridiculously ignored that every cubic inch of that bloody van was occupied by someone. Exact count is somewhat hazy.. but I remember it seeming impossible. One “driver”, three or four beside him. Eight or so locals in two rows of facing bench seats who didn't seem too amused that five of us and our accompanying packs (each taking up the space of a small to medium sized child) were now jostling for territory, foot space and if lucky a place to put our arms. We of course found this all too hilarious/infuriating and tried to get comfortable for the entire 2 hour ride, swaying from giddy laughter to heavy sighs of frustration. By the time we arrived in Huế we were beyond exhausted and found the nearest beds. No sorry, scratch that, instead we spent an hour comparing rooms, prices, blah, blah, blah until we found a room identical to the rest for 12 cents cheaper. At some point sleep finally became an option.

Now I can't quite remember how long we were there, nor can I assemble the jigsaw puzzle of memories in my head, so I'll just check my trusty old journal here.. aaaannndd.. great. Yeah, empty. Well there were the boring tasks, eating, doing laundry, breaking into a spare room overlooking the city, and if I'm not mistaken Dawn got run over by a car. Beyond that, and an alarming number of mosquitoes, I did very little in Huế. Not that there isn't anything to see, the Forbidden Purple City and Royal Palace come to mind, but some us were happy to take a couple days off. I believe Steve and Rach ventured out to see some sites, but I'll leave it up to them to correct me. There was a harrowing race between Kyle and I, as we took the reigns of two rickshaws at three in the morning, but that was written up fully in the Huế Times, and there's still a pending lawsuit, so I won't expand further. (I won by the way)

Still nothing in the journal so I can only assume we jumped in potato sacks and hopped all the way to Hội An the following day. Hội An, the fashion capital of Vietnam it would seem, is actually quite charming. Most travellers make a stop here to take advantage of the cheap textiles and tailoring, which excited the women amongst us. The men amongst us were unlikely to be fooled into parting with our ever dwindling funds. Although that might have something to do with the 20,000 baht suits we had tailored in Bangkok. Beyond the clothes, along dusty streets in the old quarter there was stall after stall of gorgeous artwork. After a while in Asia you start you realize that 99% of the art sold to tourists is actually the same pieces copied ad nauseum in every town. Somewhere some poor bastard, who put his heart and soul into, say a watercolour of boats in Halong Bay, is unknowingly displayed in private galleries in homes across the globe. So to see plenty of original work in Hội An was very refreshing. Unfortunately at this point in my travels I was three fingers and a knuckle deep in debt, so purchasing some truly great art wasn't really an option. Nor was the possibility of lugging an eight foot framed painting across half a dozen more countries.

I did, however, find it financially feasible to lock myself away in an unbelievable hotel room for the costly sum of $15 a night. With a massive bed, proper bathroom with [gasp] bathtub, and a massive balcony, that room easily takes the title as my favourite stay in a year and a half of travel. The 300-something dollar a night room in Sydney, the little bungalows by the ocean in Thailand, even the gorgeous multi-million pound mansion in Hampstead some six month later, somehow couldn't compare. I should probably admit to the lingering guilt that came with taking the room for myself, while my travel companions were left to the appalling $13 a night accommodations with private pool, room service, etc.. But I won't.

The three.. four? days we spent in Hội An seemed to last forever. Days were spent shopping for clothes for some, tours for others. Every day was spent on motorcycle, whether it was conveniently running out of gas coming back from a day spent with Dawn at the beach for a good old fashioned leg threading (a process that thoroughly engaged and confused me for about five minutes, until I realized we were being swarmed by every tout on the beach with offers of cigarettes, foot rubs and food stuffs ), or flying down highways without helmets to see a bunch of old temples (which were unfortunately in complete ruins). Nights were similarly spent buzzing down dark nameless roads with a group of Vietnamese who I apparently befriended and agreed to a night of karaoke the following night (which they took me up on by the way, by coming to my hotel en masse, bursting at the seams with Neil Diamond and Elvis Presley). Before that night had ended we had taken the helm of said stranger's bikes and found a bar in the middle of nowhere, after which I took it upon myself to invite about twenty Swedish people to my room for an after party, before realizing what a foolishly ill timed mistake it had been. Somehow I managed to usher them out of our room before too much damage could be done just as the sun was on it's way to work. Somewhere in the background the music of Sergio Mengdingus faded into morning.

It was around this point where all sorts of drama started to unfold in our group and we started to part ways. It started as a trickle in Laos, but was now whipping into a frenzy. It's both unfair, and far too detailed, to recount the particulars of everything, but the progression of relationships within the group were fitting for the most convoluted of soap operas. And it was easy to see the group bond dissolving.

So... Steve-O was the first off as his time in South east Asia was counting down, with a trip to Nepal still waiting in the works. Rachel and Dawn were second out of the gates, followed by Kyle and myself the following day. There was an initial agreement to stay apart, to avoid the Dallas and Days of Our Lives re-runs, however we were all following the same path, so our time apart was never fully realized. So much so that Kyle and I would bump into Dawn and Rach in every town we'd hit. And we'd even track down Steve in Saigon and again in Cambodia, but I'm skipping far too many pages here. Before any Asian Reunions could happen there were still a couple robberies, one attempted, one successful, to endure.

After another long train ride and cab adventure, Kyle and I arrived in Nha Trang, a little beach town halfway between Hội An and Saigon. Comfortably, albeit foolishly, we set up shop in the first hotel we came across. After a quick scrub, we left our luggage in the room and went downstairs in search of grub and whistle wetteners. Having arrived near the witching hour, we were hard pressed to find food within the 15 square meters we were willing to venture, so instead settled on a pair of chairs and drinks. Luckily the woman running the place took pity on us and went into the back and whipped up a couple bowls of Phở . Having finished our soup and first round, we turned our attention to a group of Swedish girls at the next table and struck up a conversation. Of course it was right about then that things got weird in Nah Trang. While I, for some stupid reason, decided to chat away with some sketchy dude from the States, instead of the half dozen cute Swedish girls at our table, Kyle went up to the room to grab his camera. And while I listened to this guy's rough life story (rescued from a life on the street's addicted to crack by a woman's love) between pulls of smoke, Kyle was in our room watching with amazement as the concierge tried to jam our door lock with wad's of paper, so as to return later to relieve of us of our worldly possessions. Kyle eventually muttered something like “uh, yeah, what the hell are you doing?”, to which a response came something like “Oh, nothing Sir..”. This initiated a small argument and eventually led to us grabbing our gear and checking out, a mere hour or so after we had checked in. Luckily we had escaped with all our gear. Unfortunately it was now around 1:00am, and we had no place to stay. But when our new found Swedish friends heard our predicament they graciously invited us to share their massive room with, as luck would have it, two spare beds. So good, Nah Trang drama diverted. Well, not really. Actually far from it.

From there we finished up our drinks, dropped off our bags, and headed to a slightly upscale club on the beach called the Yacht Club, or something there abouts.. The night started off relatively sane as our new little group got acquainted, shuffled our feet and started into the bar. This probably lasted about an hour at which point I wandered off and started talking to some Aussie girls. This kept me entertained for a couple minutes until I went back to regroup with everyone. Somehow, however, it seemed I had lost them. I did several laps of the bar until I was fully convinced I was completely ditched, eventually taking off in a humpf to jump on the back of some random bike (a reasonable substitute for a taxi in Asia). As we whirred off into the distance I realized the only address I had was of the the first hotel that we had abandoned hours previously. So we started a systematic (read: completely chaotic) search of the city, with vague memories of a hotel in some alley, and a serious language barrier. After about 20 minutes of this nonsense a couple of local girls seemed to realize the situation, and one offered to jump on the bike with me and our driver to find wherever the hell it was we were staying.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Kyle was a mere 100 paces from where I had left him, getting better acquainted with one of the Swedish girls on the beach. As his situation had started off quite agreeable, it went south fairly quickly as a cop and/or security guard came tearing down the beach screaming in Vietnamese and shining a flashlight on Kyle and the Swedish girl. Turns out public displays of affection, if you will, aren't too fondly regarded in Vietnam. Somehow he managed to escape without any beatings or incarcerations, and limped back to the hotel. Meanwhile I was in the capable hands of my new found tour guide. Literally. As I tried to explain to this girl where I lived, I realized her hands that had once held my waist to keep her from falling off the bike, had now drifted south to find a new handhold. Probably should have seen that coming, but the woman firmly attached to me was in fact no tour guide, but a lady of the night. Somehow we managed to ditch Florence Nightingale, and in a stroke of pure luck, found the hotel in the alley, which of course happened to be right across the street from the bloody Yacht Club. So as the tragic comedy came to a close, between bows and curtseys, I reached for my dong (Vietnamese currency.. seriously) to realize the trained hands of my brief date had managed to take all the money in my pocket. So my night would eventually end by waking up one of the poor Swedish girls who had so generously taken us in, to ask for a couple bucks to pay my, now understandably irritated, driver.

But with all that out of the way Nah Trang settled down to a slightly saner pace. The next day we woke and traded war stories over breakfast. Shaking our heads over the random existence we were still managing to pull off, we bought some modestly priced local art (that we'd struggle to keep in one piece across the next four countries), and spent the afternoon relaxing on the beach. That night Kyle hung out with the Swedes, and I returned to the Yacht Club where I would happen upon Dawn and Rachel where we started where we left off with the drama. There was a lot of whispered conversations, a sub-par fire show and another display of world's worst, yet smiling, dancers. The night would end climbing over the gates of a guesthouse past curfew, retiring to another sunrise, if I recall correctly, fully clothed. Boots Included.

The following morning.. err afternoon, as Kyle would point out in a huff, we got another pair of weary bikes and ventured up the coast for our second attempt at a “Monkey Island”. Yet unlike the trickery up in Halong Bay, this time it was a complete success. For a full day we were emersed in monkey. The pictures speak better for this leg of the trip, but it's safe to say I was in heaven. I am an unashamed fan of the monkeys (the mammals, not the 60's boy band), heck I spent the better part of my first couple decades acting like one, so it was nice to see them in their environment, living monkey lives, and their little monkey moods. I was in my element, pure and simple. An out of the way excursion well worth the time and money. Not even the guy cradling an obvious monkey bite on his hand could sway my recommendation.

With our fill of robbery, prostitutes, and monkeys, we said goodbye to Nha Trang. And once again said goodbyes to Dawn and Rachel. We tried again to vow to take separate paths, but it was an ultimately flawed plan as we there was only one “x” left on the map at Hồ Chí Minh City. So after another leg of travel, on separate modes of transport, we'd find Dawn and Rachel, doing their best to digest and decipher a plate of something or other, within literally minutes of arriving in town. And on our second day we'd all happen upon Steve at some little random bar. Regardless of any efforts, as meagre as they may have been, we'd never truly be separated for much more than a couple of days until Asia was complete.

Hồ Chí Minh City, previously known as Saigon and for a time the capital of Vietnam, was the final stand for the South's resistance to the armies of the North. After dwindling support from the U.S. eventually ceased all together, Saigon was 'liberated', or 'fell', depending on which side you ask, and the Socialist Republic of Vietnam was born. For us, it would be our last stop in Vietnam. At this point both Kyle and I were frothing at the bit to see the temples of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, so we weren't too anxious to stay in Saigon (and I apologize for reverting to it's former name, but it's still referred to this way by many, country wide, and seems so much more poetic..). While there was plenty to go, see, and do, it was bloody hot and we were dog tired by this point. Our only tourist effort to speak of was a trip to the War Museum, but that alone was the one of the most powerful exhibits I believe I'll ever see. A courtyard containing vehicles of war, littered with warheads, spread out to several buildings with various exhibits. The first was an extremely moving account of the war journalists and photographers who died recording the efforts of the men and women of both sides. I spent most of my time here pouring over each personal account, and staring in disbelief at some of the images they captured. From a historical point of view these photographs are amongst the most powerful in war's filmed history. Unlike Rosenthal's famous picture of the flag raisers on Iowa Jima that, gave hope to the American public, and fuelled a massive war bond campaign during WWII, these images that appeared in colour on the cover of Time, showed the brutality of a war that was being lost in Vietnam. From the iconic image of Kim Phuc Phan Thi running naked, burned by napalm, to the countless victim's of Agent Orange devestating effects, these were instantly more effecting than any book or film could ever, ever, be. Impossible to truly explain how I felt looking at those pictures. Hard to imagine the dedication those photographers had, to stand at the edge of an exploding weapons cache, capturing a sequence of images as the fireball engulfed soldiers. To record the countless and horrible things people did to each other in the name of war, and somehow remain human after it all... Those men who stood along side the soldiers of both fronts deserve just as much recognition as those behind a weapon.