So, we were dumped at a junction in the middle of nowhere...and two old duffers ferried us to My Tho. It's a fairly nondescript town, with a couple of ferry terminals to other dirtier, less salubrious areas. More of that later. It's off-season, so not many Westerners about. The Rough Guide let us down again, and left the Colonel fairly apoplectic (his words, not mine), with their recommendation. Two cockroaches, and open vents full of mosquitoes drove us to another hotel. Stuff dumped, we naturally went in search of beer. Nowhere was open for food, bar one place on the corner with no-one there. We ordered whatever she was making, as long as there was none of the fly-ridden meat she had on display anywhere near it. Turned out to be delicious, for only 25p (the soup, not the fly-ridden meat).
On leaving, we were passed by a portly chap on his scooter, who slowed to a crawl and just stared at us, mouth agape. No sooner had his engine sound died away, than it returned...he had doubled back for another look, and sailed around the next corner looking over his shoulder at us. This is how John Merrick felt popping out for a pint of milk, no doubt. I think the last time the old fella has had seen a white man with a crewcut, he was probably running through a jungle and shooting at him.
We wandered back to the hotel, and could hear music from the roof of the tower next door. Deciding on (another) nightcap, we got a lift up. As the doors opened, the two barman went "Wow!' We couldn't stop laughing. Anyway, The Colonel began to regale them with tales, and actual video, of life back home in Leyland, near Preston. They mentioned Manchester, and he was off on a rant about how Wigan had beaten City the previous evening. I sat, head in hands, as he spluttered "Izaki...80th minute penalty...we was all over them..." They looked nonplussed. And not because they didn't understand him, naturally. Wigan Pathetic.