A Very Devon Invasion.

Many have promised or threatened it, depending on your viewpoint, but the first to lurch towards us across the World were a small peace-keeping envoy from Devon. They promised us they would be aboard a flight for Siagon and even went as far as giving us a specific time and date. We found them standing looking sleepy and confused outside Arrivals, trying to fend off the unwelcome advances of persistant taxi drivers, looking upon them as easy prey, though not wanting to get too close in case the drunk one with long hair and a beard attacked.
After a vocal reunion I took Chris and Laura in the relative safety of a taxi, so they could gawp at the chaos of traffic from air-conditioned comfort, while Tim threw Andy onto the back of his bike to treat him to a first-hand experience of the acceleration, braking, weaving and beeping of Siagon traffic before his hands had even stopped shaking from the flight.
Once luggage had been deposited in our flat, that was looking distinctly smaller with the addition of three people, we headed out to show our visitors the bright lights of the tourist district. Tim and I watched their heads swivel this way and that as foreign stimuli bombarded them from all angles and we were able to enjoy the chaos of familiarity through their new eyes.
After dinner and some drunkenness we managed to get to bed reasonably early to tackle their jet-lag and ran back out into Siagon the next morning. We treated them to a breakfast of Pho – a beef noodle soup popular amongst the locals – that with the addition of lime juice is a breakfast worthy of Devon stomachs. On energy fuelled by beansprouts we toured some of the sights of the city, including the tourist factory of Ben Thanh market, where thin arms reach out to prod and poke Westerners, testing whether a sale can be made, and the reunification palace where we stood like dignities on the balcony waiting for our subjects to come.
We left Siagon early the next morning on a small domestic flight to the central town of Hoi An, during which Andy proved his claims that he was scared of flying with the impressive maintenance of a state of complete terror for the entire flight. I thought the addition of a manically screaming baby during the moments of turbulence was a nice touch.
After an unimpressive taxi drive and a confusing haggle over price, which left the driver looking like we had just bought his children for a bag of rice we arrived in Hoi An, a town on the coast which harbours the beautiful architecture of the old town in its centre. Hoi An is famous for its wealth of tailors who will make anything from suits to dress to shoes in a matter of hours, most of whom probably can’t vouch for the quality. The town is best caught at night when hundreds of lanterns line the streets of the old town giving it the atmosphere of a small Spanish fishing village. Wandering the streets gawping at the lights we found a restaurant across the river to sample their seafood. After marvelling at the skills of the woman filleting our fish with chopsticks and watching the pile of flyers offering Western wallets free buckets of alcohol rise, one of which was offered by a sullen Vietnamese boy who relayed English colloquisms such as 'Easy Tiger', 'Cor Blimey' 'Wai ai man' and 'Lovely Jubbly' delivered as if we had insisted he perform like a monkey, we turned to find a middle aged Asian man standing quietly to the side of our table, waiting respectfully for our attention.
This was Mr Chinh. Decked out like a survival expert he informed us that he was a tour guide for Easy Rider, a motorbike touring company. Carried along by Mr Chinh’s enthusiasm we soon found that we had agreed to a two day tour of the mountains, encouraged by a few friendly pats of the boys' thighs.
The next morning we continued to be carried along on the Mr Chinh’s wave of tourism as we paid our deposit, had breakfast at his friend’s cafe and hired bicycles from her aswell.
Free for the rest of the day we rode our bikes through the countryside to the beach where we dropped onto shaded sunloungers in the midday heat.
As Andy took a bear-soaked nap I watched Tim, Chris and Laura play in the sea. I watched as one figure swam out into the breaking waves and I watched as another followed. I watched as one returned and as breaking waves crashed upon the small head of the other. I watched with Tim and Laura as a broken man stumbled from the sea, coughing sea water and looking the colour of seaweed. He waved a limp wrist in their direction and I watched as his rescuers pulled him from the shallow waters he had made it to. Stumbling through the sand, breathing like an emphysema patient Chris collapsed on the sun lounger and took some moments alone with his memories of his near-death experience. I would like to say that we all showed due concern and that no pictures were taken of his slumped figure with hands shaking from laughter but instead I will say nothing except that Chris was pleased to hear that Tim had been swimming out to answer the call of nature and that there was little chance that Chris had been drowning in anything other than sea water.