'MY HEART BELONGS TO SOUTH EAST ASIA' 

Escaping the Heat: From London to Saigon via the Marble City
There comes a point when you've had enough.

For me, that moment arrived standing on the platform at Shepherd's Bush Overground Station with a small backpack digging into my shoulders, sweat already running down my back before the train had even rolled in.

Typical British weather.

The one time you actually want London to be grey, damp and miserable to make leaving easier, it decides to turn into the bloody Sahara.

Perfect.

After months at Birkbeck University juggling essays, creative writing, deadlines and reading lists longer than my arm, I needed to get away. Writing is all well and good, but stories aren't found sitting in a library.

They're out there.

You have to go looking for them.

I've always travelled by one simple rule.

Travel light.

Don't waste money on sleep.

You can catch up on that when you're dead.

Every extra hour awake is another chance to discover something you'll remember long after you've forgotten what day it is.

The Flight Nobody Books
Most people book the quickest flight.

I booked the cheapest.

As it turned out, that meant flying via Turkmenistan.

I'd never even heard of Ashgabat before booking the ticket, so I did what every skint student does—I started reading.

The deeper I dug, the stranger it became.

Ashgabat sits on the edge of the Karakum Desert and holds the Guinness World Record for the most white marble-clad buildings in the world. Founded as a Russian fortress in 1881, it now looks like someone built a futuristic city in the middle of nowhere.

Looking down from the aircraft window, it shimmered in the desert sun like a giant marble mirage.

Even from the airport, it felt surreal.

One day, I'll go back and explore it properly.

For now, Vietnam was calling.

Back Where I Belong
The cabin door opened.

Bang.

The humidity slapped me straight across the face.

Not English heat.

Proper Southeast Asian heat.

The sort that wraps itself around you like a hot, wet towel.

The air carried a strange yet wonderful cocktail of charcoal smoke, petrol fumes, fresh herbs, jasmine, and food sizzling on street corners.

Within seconds, my sunglasses steamed up.

I laughed.

I was back.

Saigon Gets Hold of You
There's something about Saigon.

It doesn't ease you in gently.

It grabs you by the shirt and drags you headfirst into its madness.

District 1 has been the beating heart of the city for centuries. Long before the French built their grand boulevards, this was the Khmer settlement of Prey Nokor. Today, the old colonial buildings stand shoulder to shoulder with glass skyscrapers, temples, rooftop bars and enough overhead electrical cables to wire half of Asia.

It shouldn't work.

But somehow it does.

Beautifully.

Learning to Trust Chaos
Everyone tells you about the traffic.

Nobody prepares you for it.

The first time you step off the pavement, you genuinely think you've made the worst decision of your life.

Motorbikes appear from every direction.

Thousands of them.

Your instincts scream...

"Get back!"

The locals smile.

"Just keep walking."

So you do.

No sudden movements.

No running.

No waving your arms around like an escaped windmill.

Just walk steadily.

Miraculously, the traffic parts around you like water flowing around a rock.

By the third day, I was crossing roads without even thinking.

I almost felt local.

Almost.

Living at Street Level
My base was the SaiGon Gao Hostel, tucked away among the maze of little streets around Phạm Ngũ Lão.

Nothing luxurious.

Nothing pretentious.

Just a clean bed, friendly staff and travellers from every corner of the world swapping stories over a beer before disappearing on their next adventure.

That's another thing I love about hostels.

Everyone has a story.

Some are escaping jobs.

Some are escaping relationships.

Some are simply trying to escape themselves.

The days disappeared as I wandered through narrow alleyways, where grandmothers stirred huge pots of broth while old blokes sat outside drinking thick Vietnamese coffee that could wake the dead.

Every corner seemed to smell of garlic, lemongrass and grilled pork.

Every few yards, another tiny café appeared.

Every few minutes, someone smiled and said hello.

Finding Ahu Foodies
One afternoon, only a couple of minutes from the hostel, I stumbled across a little place called Ahu Foodies.

That's the beauty of travelling.

The best places are usually the ones you weren't looking for.

Covered in hanging plants and tucked away from the noise, it looked inviting from the moment I saw it.

I took a seat outside.

Best decision of the day.

The menu was a mixture of Vietnamese classics and Western favourites. Pho, grilled pork, fresh spring rolls, sizzling beef, noodles, rice dishes, burgers and pizzas.

Normally, I'd be suspicious of somewhere trying to do everything.

Not here.

Everything I ordered was fresh, generous and ridiculously good value.

The beers were even better value.

An ice-cold Saigon Beer arrived covered in condensation for less than the price of a packet of crisps back home.

You could happily spend an entire evening there without worrying about what it was doing to your bank balance.

I certainly managed it.

As darkness settled over District 1, scooters buzzed past like angry hornets while locals drifted in for dinner after work.

Families laughed together.

Friends shared plates of food.

The aroma of garlic, chilli and charcoal drifted through the warm evening air.

You could have sat there for hours simply watching life unfold.

Different Strokes for Different Folks
Of course, District 1 has another side.

There are rooftop bars.

Nightclubs.

Girly bars.

And every few minutes, someone quietly offers you drugs as you walk past.

If that's your thing, you'll never be short of entertainment.

These days, it isn't mine.

I've done enough living over the years to know exactly where those roads lead.

Now I'd much rather sit outside Ahu Foodies with a cold beer, a decent meal and chat complete bollocks with whoever happens to pull up a chair beside me.

You hear better stories that way.

And stories are worth far more than hangovers.

Tomorrow the Road Continues
Three days have disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Tomorrow morning, the backpack goes on again.

The bus heads north to Nha Trang.

This time I've treated myself.

A little beachside hotel with a balcony overlooking the South China Sea.

After a few nights in hostel bunk beds, it'll feel like checking into Buckingham Palace.

A couple of lazy mornings with a decent coffee and the sound of the waves won't hurt anyone.

Then it'll be time to move again.

Because that's the thing about travelling.

You never really arrive.

You're simply passing through, collecting moments instead of possessions.

Travel light.

Don't waste money on sleep.

Talk to strangers.

Eat where the locals eat.

And always leave yourself enough time to wander down the side streets.

That's where the real stories are waiting.

Cheers all x