Two rules. Travel light. Don't waste money on sleep.

After three brilliant days wandering Saigon and drinking one or two more Saigon Beers than I'd planned, I climbed aboard the sleeper bus to Nha Trang at eight in the morning. Street-side, those little bottles run about 10,000 to 15,000 VND, roughly 30 to 45p, versus £ 5/7 for the average UK pint these days. More if you live in London. 

I had a mild hangover and a backpack that felt twice as heavy as when I'd packed it.

Nothing a good journey couldn't cure.



 The Rhythm of the Road

I've been coming to Southeast Asia since the 1980s, and I never tire of it. Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam, every country has its own rhythm, its own smell, its own way of getting under your skin. That's why I keep coming back.

If it's your first visit, though, brace yourself. This part of the world can be one hell of a culture shock.

The heat hits first. Not the kind we get back home when Britain has a meltdown over three sunny days. This is thick, tropical heat that wraps around you like a hot, sweaty jumper.

Then the noise. Car horns, scooters, street sellers, dogs barking, music drifting out of tiny cafés, the hiss of woks over naked flames. It never stops.

The smells come next: fresh herbs, grilled pork, durian, diesel fumes, incense outside the shrines, sometimes all on the same street. It shouldn't work. Somehow it does.

If you're expecting neat pavements, orderly queues, and everyone speaking perfect English, you're in for a surprise. You learn fast to slow down, smile more, and accept things happen when they happen.


 The Reality of the Hustle

It's easy to forget Vietnam is one of the last communist states left on earth, because in day-to-day life, you'd never guess it.

There's no red-flag waving, no queuing for bread, none of the grey Cold War imagery people still carry around in their heads. What you actually see is a country working itself to the bone. Shops open at dawn and shut long after dark, three generations often grafting under one roof, street stalls firing up before the sun's even properly up.

Capitalism, in the sense of people hustling to make a living, is everywhere. The politics sit quietly in the background; the hustle is what's in your face.

I've picked up enough Thai over the years to get by, ordering food, asking directions, chatting to locals, no problem. In Vietnam? Not a chance. For the first few days, I kept firing off bits of Thai without thinking. Blank faces. Polite smiles. Wrong country, Tommy.

A smile, some sign language, and Google Translate still get you a surprisingly long way.



 The Pod Life

I'd heard people moan about Vietnam's sleeper buses, that they are too cramped, too uncomfortable, too long. Honestly, they couldn't have been more wrong.

Shoes come off before you climb aboard and go into a little plastic bag, keeping the whole coach spotless. Soft blue lighting ran along the ceiling, private sleeping pods stretching off ahead of me like something out of a sci-fi film.

I climbed into my berth, pulled up the blanket, and rested my head on the pillow. Air con humming overhead, the faint smell of clean linen, the tropical heat shimmering off the road outside, while I stayed nice and cool.

Perfect.

The engine rumbled into life, and Saigon started slipping away almost at once. Through the window, it unfolded like the closing scenes of a film: vendors lifting lids off giant pots of pho, releasing clouds of star anise, cinnamon, ginger, and coriander; scooters buzzing past like angry hornets; women in conical hats sweeping the pavements; office workers perched on tiny plastic stools drinking thick Vietnamese coffee sweetened with condensed milk. A proper iced one costs around 20,000 to 25,000 VND, call it 60 to 75p. Try getting a coffee that good for that money back home.

Then, almost without noticing, I was asleep. The gentle rocking washed away what was left of last night's beer better than any aspirin ever could.



Waking Up in a Different World

Hours later, I opened my eyes, and Saigon had vanished.

A completely different Vietnam lay outside: brilliant green rice paddies shimmering in the sun, water buffalo wandering through the mud, palm trees swaying, tiny villages where kids waved at the bus and old men sat outside cafés watching the world go by.

I slid the curtain back. The window was warm under my fingers. Somewhere nearby, somebody peeled an orange, sharp citrus cutting through the cool cabin air before fading back under the smell of fresh coffee. Nobody spoke. Most of the bus was still asleep. Just the engine, the tyres whispering over smooth tarmac, and the hiss of air brakes at the service stations.

I got off for ten minutes, and the heat wrapped around me like opening an oven door. Grilled pork sizzling over charcoal, fresh rice, strong coffee, and diesel fumes all fighting for attention.

I grabbed an iced coffee, sweet, strong, ice cold, exactly what I needed, and noticed a bloke by the stall knocking back cigarettes at a rate that would bankrupt him in the UK. A pack of Marlboro here runs about 30,000-40,000 VND, roughly £1. Back home, the same pack is somewhere between £16 and £ 18. No wonder half the country seems to smoke like a chimney; it's basically pocket change out here.

Standing there, stretching my legs, I smiled. This is why I rarely fly once I'm moving around Asia. Flying steals the journey. The road gives it back.

By early afternoon, the sea appeared. Just a flash of blue between buildings at first, then suddenly the South China Sea opened out in front of us, sparkling like someone had scattered diamonds across the water.

We'd arrived in Nha Trang.



 Coastal Change of Pace

The atmosphere changes the second you step off the bus. Saigon grabs you by the collar. Nha Trang smiles and tells you to slow down.

A short taxi ride took me to the Odessa Hotel. Somewhere between booking online and turning up, I'd convinced myself I'd paid for a sea view. I hadn't. Didn't matter, the beach was five minutes away, and after hostel bunk beds and shared bathrooms, having my own room felt like pure luxury. Proper shower, comfortable mattress, fresh towels, peace. That'll do nicely.

I couldn't resist it. After dumping my bag, I wandered down to Trần Phú Beach and decided to walk the whole thing.

The promenade runs about six kilometres, curling round Nha Trang Bay under rows of swaying coconut palms, one of those walks where you keep telling yourself "just a bit further" until you've done the lot.

The beach changes character depending on where you are. Near the centre, it's alive: families, holidaymakers, cafés spilling onto the promenade, Russian tourists licking ice creams, Vietnamese families sharing picnics under umbrellas. Every few hundred yards, someone's selling fresh coconuts, grilled squid, or ice-cold beer. A cold one on the beach here typically goes for 20,000 to 30,000 VND, call it 60 to 90p, which buys you roughly a sixth of a UK pint.

The smell changes as you walk, too. One minute it's suntan lotion and salty air, the next it's garlic butter sizzling over seafood, charcoal smoke off the beach grills, or tropical flowers on the breeze.

Kids squeal as the waves chase them up the sand. Teenagers kick footballs about barefoot. Older locals do tai chi under the palms while young couples pose for endless wedding photos against the turquoise bay.

It feels alive without ever feeling frantic.



 Simple Pleasures

The further I walked, the quieter it got. Crowds thinned, hotels gave way to longer stretches of sand, and all I could hear was the South China Sea rolling onto the shore. I kicked off my flip-flops and did the last mile barefoot, warm sand between my toes, sea lapping round my ankles, a breeze carrying just enough salt to taste.

I stopped for an ice-cold beer and watched the world go by. No phone, no deadlines, no rush. Just the simple pleasure of being exactly where I was supposed to be.

Moments like that remind me why I've kept coming back to Southeast Asia for over forty years. It isn't about luxury hotels or ticking countries off a list. It's the small stuff: a stranger's smile, an old fisherman mending his nets, a woman selling mango from a bicycle, the smell of the sea at sunset. You can't buy memories like that. You have to walk into them.

Standing there with warm sand between my toes and the sun on my face, I thought: this is exactly why I travel. Not to tick another country off a list. Not for luxury. To collect moments like this.

Travel light. Don't waste money on sleep. Because you never know what's waiting around the next corner.