You probably know by now that we’re in Raro. We reckon it’s our 15th visit, a sort of home from home. So we know the place and the people pretty well. Actually, we thought we knew everything. But we were wrong. This time we’ve made a find.

There are a stack of good restaurants in Rarotonga, but every now and then you come across something extra special – in this case an eatery where you can feast on the yummiest meal you’ve ever had, bring your own wine and walk away with a bill of just $24 – for two! Yep, that’s $12 a head for the most popular item on the menu, the “Fresh Off The Boat” sandwich.

The “Fresh Off The Boat” sandwich is exactly what it claims to be – a sandwich made with fish caught that day, filleted on the boat at the end of the jetty, crumbed, seared on a hotplate  and served in a soft Turkish bread  sandwich with lettuce and tomato coated in a delicious lime mayo dressing. Unless there’s a queue – and the word is getting out – you’ll wait no more than a few minutes for this food of the gods to appear as you sip your chardonnay under the umbrella at  your picnic table, bask in the tropic heat and look at the sea. And if the “Fresh Off The Boat Sandwich” isn’t to die for, I’ll eat KFC for a week.

Have I missed anything? Oh yes, the name of the eatery and where to find it. Well, look for the sign to the Avana Fishing Club, near Muri. It’s there. And don’t expect a flash restaurant. Your food – and there’s an extensive menu of treats – will be prepared and cooked in a converted shipping container by some very nice (and very attractive) ladies.

It’s the low season here in Rarotonga – sun, sea, sand and no waiting. So if I may borrow from our Aussie neighbours – where the bloody hell are you?

We’re in Rarotonga, which feels like our second home these days, having a busy time doing very little. Hence the ominous silence on the media/political/current affairs front. 

Relax – the Patron Saint of Unpopular Causes will be back with you shortly.

(Warning – bad language may offend!)

In an earlier incarnation, more than a quarter of a century ago, I was contracted by the State Services Commission to media train public servants. With my Fair Go colleague Judith Fyfe – she of the huge, eccentric specs – we put people from pretty well every government department through crash courses on handling the press, radio and television. We enjoyed these sessions and so, mostly, did the participants. But, after a time, we began to notice that the personalities, and even the wardrobes of our students, very much reflected the departments they came from.

So the Foreign Affairs people were witty, urbane and looked as though they’d just stepped out of a Moss Bros commercial.

The Social Welfare people were rather worthy, appeared not to have had time to brush their hair, and their wardrobe must have come from their local op shop. We concluded that this might be deliberately intended to help them fit in with their clients.

The Treasury people, who all had first class honours degrees from Oxbridge, were dressed like university dons and invariably began by making it absolutely clear that they had nothing to learn from anybody, least of all subhuman media whores like us. We enjoyed reducing them to gibbering wrecks during the interviews.

The Police always insisted on wearing their uniforms and sat stiffly erect in the interviewee’s chair, responding to questions as though they were giving evidence in court. ‘I was proceeding in a Northerly direction on the day in question, when I observed two male persons behaving in a suspicious manner.’  This at a speed so slow that even a court  stenographer would have had time to nip out and make a cup of tea.

But it was the people from Immigration who really got up our noses. A bigger collection of jumped up, tin-pot Hitlers it would be hard to imagine. ‘We’, they declared, ‘are the guardians of the frontier. Without our approval, no one may set foot in this green and pleasant land.’ (I made up the green and pleasant land bit, but the rest is true.)

I’m reminded of those sessions every time Judy and I go overseas. And every time I go overseas, I find myself asking the same question: Why do immigration officers world-wide have to be such total arseholes?

Our trip to Vietnam and Cambodia was no exception.  The arrival area in Hanoi is a barely lit hanger devoid of any decoration or furniture other than two desks behind which sit two uniformed apparatchik. Before they have spoken a word you are left in no doubt at all that you are in a communist country. As it happens, they never do speak a word. Like most immigration officers worldwide, they summon or dismiss as though directing traffic – with robotic hand gestures: Come here! Stop! Wait! Step back! Behind the yellow line! Go! Next! They have all been to Grim Scary lessons and have had their smile muscles Botoxed.

There is of course no greeting, no Hello, no Welcome to Vietnam, no expression of interest whatsoever. Even ‘So where do you come from, you filthy lackeys of the corrupt capitalist West?’ would have been nice.  But nothing.

Well, nothing except “Passport!” One might have thought that one of the purposes of examining a passport was to confirm that the passport actually belonged to the person standing in front of you. But the apparatchik’s eyes never leave the table in front of him. You are not even worthy of his glance. Open, flick, stamp, close, push forward, wave away, summon next non-person.

This is the first person you’ve met in the country you’re going to be living in for the next three weeks. These are your first impressions. My god, you’re going to be holidaying with the Viet Cong!

It may take no more than five minutes when you leave the immigration hall to discover that you are in fact going to be holidaying with one of the most delightful, the most charming, the most beautiful people on earth. Immigration officers are rarely good ambassadors for their country.

Our next country was Cambodia. Much the same story at Siem Reap airport as at Hanoi. But the immigration hall is much more attractive and the immigration officers considerably more colourful. About a dozen of them sit in line like judges behind a gently curving high desk. They are in full regalia – brass buttons, braid, epaulettes – a rather fine sight. But which one to go to? You are spoiled for choice. You head for Number 3, but are waved away. Other passengers are variously waved away from Numbers 2 through 10. We all line up behind Number 1.

Number 1 neither speaks nor smiles. Nor does he return my passport, instead handing it to Number 2 who in turn hands it to Number 3, who in turn…  Job creation scheme? Can there really be 10 separate processes involved in checking a passport? I’m finally waved to a chap at a separate desk just next to the exit. There is an eye on a stick attached to the desk.

‘Good Morning.’

‘Good Morning.’

‘You are from New Zealand.’

“Yes.’

 ’I see you in New Zealand.’

‘You’ve seen me in New Zealand?’ (International fame at last!)

‘Yes, I see you in New Zealand.’

When?’

‘When I go to New Zealand one day. Ha Ha. But now I see you when you look in here. Ha Ha.’ (Pointing to the eye on a stick.) ‘Maybe I see you in New Zealand. If I win the lottery. Ha Ha’

We engage in a little more banter before he hands me my passport and wishes me a pleasant stay. A friendly, joking immigration officer. I’m gobsmacked. Can he  be the exception that approves the rule that most immigration officers are total arseholes? I think he can. But I wait ages for Judy who has been given the third degree by some of his colleagues and is visibly upset.

Leaving Siem Reap to return to Godzone was a re-run of Hanoi.  As we always do in these circumstances, we thanked the non-speaking, non looking, non smiling officer profusely. ‘Lovely meeting you. Thank you. Thank you so very much. Goodbye.’ For the first and only time his eyes left the table. He looked taken aback. ‘Grunt’

There are degrees of arseholeness of course. The Americans are probably the most unpleasant, something to do with knowing that you live in the greatest county on earth and, fella, you better goddam well understand how privileged you are even to set foot on American soil.

At the other end of the scale, you get a pretty friendly (and musical) welcome in Rarotonga.

And New Zealand? Well, maybe it’s just because we’re Kiwis returning home, but I suspect that, despite the jumped-up, tin-pot Hitlers of 25 years ago, our Immigration officers are nicer than most. It’s a lottery, mind you. We have our fair share of Hanoi style immigration apparatchiks  as well.  

Lovely guy this time – where’ve you been, what was the weather like, pleased to be back? Welcome home.

Nice. Immigration officers are your first and last point of contact with a country. They have a serious job to do as ‘guardians of the frontier’, but they should also realise that they’re ambassadors for their country so well.

So yes, we’re glad to be back. Until we get to the final luggage security check which, this afternoon,  is staffed entirely by women. Now this is a word that Judy hates  but it is the mot juste in this case and I’m going to use it anyway. These women are bitches. Total bitches. Total lazy bitches. Total fat, lazy bitches. They stand there with their hands at their sides, issuing orders and watching elderly and sometimes frail passengers of both sexes heaving heavy suitcases onto the ramp without moving a finger to help.  They’re a disgrace.

Welcome to New Zealand. Welcome home.

Two questions:

Are immigration officers representative of the people of the country? Not in our experience. We’ve been all round the world. We’ve always liked the tangata whenua.

Then why are so many immigration officers arseholes?

That one’s easy. Power corrupts.

Mr Ngô writes letters. He writes letters in a small, neat hand on almost transparently thin paper. He writes letters for other people, people who can’t write letters for themselves.

Mr Ngô is the Last Public Letter Writer.

Mr Ngô is 80 years old. He is tiny, less than 150cm tall, with bright eyes, a ready smile and dignified, old-fashioned courtesy. He has been working at the Main Post Office in Saigon for 63 years. He retired officially many years ago, but he still comes to work every day. He still sits in the same place and people still queue up patiently for him to write letters in their native Vietnamese, or translate for them into English or French.

His short sight isn’t so good these days. He has to use a magnifying glass to make out words in his worn little dictionaries, soft and fattened with constant handling. Mr Ngô is very precise. The words must be correct. These are letters of importance, of special events, of births, deaths, marriages. You don’t go to a Public Letter Writer on a whim.

This special job is carried out in a special place. The Main Post Office in Saigon is worthy of any European capital. It was built in grandiose French style in the 19^th Century and is one of the most imposing buildings in the city. The Town Hall, you think. Parliament Buildings.  No, the post office. It’s a place you’d be proud to work, even for 63 years.

So if you ever go to the Main Post Office in Saigon, you should try to make the acquaintance of Mr Ngô. It is a privilege to meet the Last Public Letter Writer.

We used to have this weird habit of paying mega-bucks to travel business class, then skimping on our accommodation. It makes no sense. You spend hours in a plane, days in a hotel. We’ve come to realise that the quality of your hotel room dictates the overall pleasure of your trip. The best day is enhanced, the worst day is soothed by a spacious, pleasant room and charming staff.  We don’t want spas, multiple flash restaurants, bars or enormous foyers – we just want a lovely room and somewhere to get breakfast, but hey, we’ll happily wander down the road to the nearest diner if the accommodation’s good enough.

We’ve talked about this trip to Vietnam for years. Other priorities, too much work, bird ‘flu etc have delayed it until now, so we decided to do this properly and in comfort. This is one of the trips where you save and splurge. We wanted comfort to cope with bouts of culture shock.

We started off spoiled rotten.  Our travel agent (Carol of Voyages Affaires) booked our first two hotels and persuaded them both to indulge us. The Ritz Carlton in Singapore and the Sofitel Metropole in Hanoi had us purring. Large, luxurious rooms where we could read, watch the Australian Open and, if we so chose, be waited on hand and foot.  The Ritz had a wonderful harbour view as well.

Good beds are essential – oh! I have to tell you about the bed at the Metropole. This, folks, was a genuine feather bed! It was like sliding into a duvet sandwich. It required turning down the air-conditioning to near-arctic temperatures, but it was heaven on a stick.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so comfortable. I woke myself up during the night just for the pleasure of going back to sleep.

Bowls of fresh fruit, slinky robes, excellent wardrobe and drawer space, spacious showers you just step in to – the shower-over-bath set up just doesn’t belong in a modern hotel – these things all add up to easy travelling.  The Metropole even had a romantic, old-fashioned tub – the sort you see in movies.

Then we were in the hands of our Vietnamese agents, Active Asia. Brian has already commented on our accommodation in Hue – lovely hotel, so little storage space in our room that it started looking like a teenager’s bedroom. Teetering in and out of the bath/shower, hoping not to go for a skate on the tiles.

In Hoi An a change of dates (we discovered we were going to clash with Lunar New Year and therefore total travel chaos) meant we weren’t able to get into our original hotel. We ended up at the Palm Gardens Resort.  The resort was pleasant, the room was an improvement on Hue, reasonably spacious, with a balcony and a good bed.  But in a posh hotel you don’t expect two pages of “Rules and Regulations” – including registration plus $US10 per person for your visitors, and no food or drink bought outside the hotel on pain of eviction!

The first night brought us a karaoke contest at the next-door resort – ear-splitting, off-key renditions of aging pop songs – arrrgh!  We bolted for the town and it was mercifully quiet when we returned.  On our second to last night an enormous generator cut in during the wee, small hours, again from the next door resort.  The management moved us with practiced efficiency and upgraded us.  More space, better bathroom –  yes, it’s space that does the trick. Wished the generator had cut in on the first night!

The 4-star Duxton Saigon should have been a reasonable safe, if unexciting choice. We arrived this afternoon. The de luxe, non-smoking room we were shown to had dirty old carpet, so wrinkled you could trip on it, one bathrobe, only one bedside table, no fruit in the mandatory “welcome fruit bowl”, a strong smell of cigarettes in the barely-adequate non-smoking bathroom. We asked to be moved.  They shifted us upstairs without argument. The room seemed identical – except that was smaller, darker and had one single bed! Tired after a day of travel, we gave in and went back to the first shabby, smelly room.  It this is 4 star, I’m Rachel Hunter.

The problem with these grand, international hotels is that they spend hundreds of thousands on their public areas – the foyers, the bars, the restaurants, the pool areas, the bloody spas – and then ignore the most vital component of a good hotel, the guest rooms. You arrive in a palace and end up in a sad, cheap, little hotel room at a highly inflated price.

What’s making me really ratty is that we seem to be sliding rapidly down the luxury scale as we travel.  It would have been so much nicer to have the reverse experience.

Next time, it’s zoo class travel and suites all the way! I swear it!

Our affair with Vietnamese food began a few months ago in Sydney. Miss Saigon in Balmain East serves food that is not only perfect for Brian’s diabetes, but so yummy that we ate there three times during our weeklong stay. 

Like any good Mills and Boon, this love affair didn’t start auspiciously. I wanted the fresh spring rolls with roasted duck, vermicelli and fresh salad. Two large objects arrived at the table and we looked at them with distaste. I’ve been trying to find a delicate way to describe them, but truly, they looked like turds in condoms. Fortunately we were starving, because nothing else could have persuaded us to taste them. They were delicious, as was the chicken with onion and ginger sauce, the delicate rice and everything else we tried from the menu. I was told by Auckland Vietnamese that the food in Sydney has become “Aussified”, and that the real thing was even better.

So treating Singapore restaurants as a training run, we hit Hanoi with the intention of eating like the locals. The locals, however, seem to squat on kindy-sized stools on the pavement, and we’re too old, stiff and wary to try that. 

Our first night we found “69″ in a converted house in the Old Quarter. More fresh spring rolls for me, deep fried ones for Brian, followed by a couple of local beef and pork dishes and fresh vegetables.  That’s the thing about Vietnamese food, it’s so darned fresh it’s practically still growing; the vegetables are colourful and full of flavour and texture, the salads are crunchy crisp. The northern food is delicate, the spices subtle – the flavour comes from masses of fresh herbs.

Cha Ca La Vong is in a rickety old house, up a set of stairs like a ship’s ladder. It’s been run by the same family for generations. They thrust a card at us stating that they only served one thing – cha ca, or grilled fish - and brought us a couple of local beers, then bowls of noodles, herbs, peanuts and a suspect looking sauce.  This was followed by a charcoal burner bearing a battered little frying pan sizzling with pieces of fish. Into that they threw handfuls of what we took to be more herbs and then mimed how we were to put it all together in our tiny serving bowls when the fish was cooked.  This was one of the truly great meals, and the fish, far from getting overcooked, became more delicious as it got crisper. Yellow grease ran down our chins.  We didn’t care. Climbing down a ship’s ladder after Hanoi beer, however, is not to be recommended if you’re over 17.

On our first full day in Hue, in the middle of the procession of temples, palaces and pagodas, we passed through the edge of a local market.  I love food markets and look for them wherever we go, but our guide became nervous whenever we wanted to deviate from the script, and told us that we wouldn’t like that market, it was just for locals – much better tourist markets on offer. No thanks. But we found a restaurant run by a deaf family which, from the graffiti on the walls, appears to have hosted every tourist in Vietnam. Do-it-yourself spring rolls, wonderful noodles and satays. Far too much to eat.

The next day we set out on our own, the only foreigners in the district. People stared then smiled, children waved excitedly, everyone was happy to stop and pose for a photo. We found the market again after encounters with local “factories” making everything from ironware to headstones, and some chooks on the back of a bike.  Not long for this world, I fear, as they were hauled out and inspected for plumpness.

Getting into the food market proper involved stepping over an open drain with the help of a laughing policeman. His gestures said, “Are you sure you want to go in there?”   I did.

If you’re not very tall, it’s a wonderful experience being able to see in a crowded place. I’m generally looking at the backs of people’s necks. Yesterday I was Irene van Dyk.  Tiny women offered their most exotic wares encouraging us to smell or taste. The fruit, the vegetables, the nuts, the herbs, the fish…mmm…anyone for a jellyfish entree? We were beckoned from stall to stall, our arrival heralded by laughter and shouts.

Some of the women were ancient and as small as dolls. They preened for the camera, crowding round afterwards to admire their photos. Their hands were as tiny and delicate as those of ten-year-olds (yes, Lockwood, you were probably right, but you still shouldn’t have said it!).

Calls of warning as I went to step down into the meat section. Pools of blood and water lay everywhere. They watched hopefully. I pantomimed Victorian horror. Shrieks of laughter, and an encore on demand for those who’d missed the first performance.  Our visit seemed to be the most entertaining event of the week.  It was a bit like being  a rock star.  And the best food market ever.

Today we had more roll-your-own spring rolls for lunch and chatted with an entertaining ex-maths teacher who runs a simple eatery on the road between Da Nang and Hoi An. The country has changed so much, he said. He thinks it’s better:  no more war – at the moment. With thousands of years of conflict behind them, you can understand the wariness. There are still land mines here.

There’s also optimism, and tourists are providing welcome dollars to a struggling economy. Tourism’s still a bit ragged round the edges, but I sort of hope it never gets too smooth.  A certain charm would be lost.

In the meantime, the locals are warm and welcoming, and the food is sublime. You just might want to avoid “International” restaurants catering for tourists.  Oh, and strange little vegetarian restaurants if you’re with an Irishman who hates tofu and is also trying to avoid carbohydrates, and therefore rice and noodles…

You know there’s something amiss with your holiday when you wake up thinking how nice it would be if you were going home. That was first thing this morning.

We’d taken the hour long flight from Hanoi to Hue on Vietnam Airlines the previous day without incident, other than the fact (agreed by all the passengers) that the First Officer who was flying the plane was either drunk or had yet to pass Piloting 101. To be fair, he was OK on the flat bits; it was taking off and landing that had him stumped. People were crossing themselves and praying as we thundered endlessly down the runway on take-off with absolutely no sign of actually taking off.

‘We’re going to run out of runway,’ the plump American lady in the seat next to me said. She had barely finished the sentence than we were in the air. A steep climb was followed by a stomach-losing, roller coaster dive and a collective passenger cry of ‘Wow!’.

Perhaps not surprisingly, there was a general sense of impending doom as we came in to land at Hue airport. It proved to be unnecessary. There were no fatalities resulting from the impact of a massive piece of metal hitting terra firma at a hundred miles an hour or more, projecting the passengers forwards and upwards to the full extent allowed by their seat belts. Judy expressed surprise that the tyres had not burst. ‘Maybe on the next landing,’ I said.’ ‘And what’s the odd dislocated spine between friends?’

Still in shock, we were herded off the plane onto two buses, carefully designed to have precisely the right number of seats to ensure that at least half  the passengers will have to stand, squashed together like sardines in a tin. An elderly middle eastern gentleman, about to be crushed in the closing front door, called out plaintively, ‘Please move down the bus.’ A nostalgic moment, reminding me of my childhood days gallivanting around London on the double-decker buses.

But all’s well that ends well, and we were met at the airport by our smiling Vietnamese guide Lam and driver Viet and whisked off to our five-star luxury accommodation in Hue’s best hotel,  the art deco La Résidence. The educated among you will remember that the French were here.

La Résidence is an imposing edifice beautifully situated on the banks of the Perfume River. Our spirits rose. In the hotel foyer we were greeted by a bevy of charming young Vietnamese women – there appears to be no other sort – who offered us ‘a welcome drink’ before checking in.

My suspicions that all might not be well were aroused when the (charming) receptionist told me that we had been allocated ‘a superior room facing the river’. As a reasonably seasoned traveller I know what a ‘superior’ room is. It is one step up from an inferior room. And so it turned out to be.

Our superior room is on the small side. What space there is is taken up by the furniture. What space there is on top of the furniture is taken up by the television set, standing lamps, fruit bowl, jug, tray with water jug and glasses… You get the picture. There is nowhere to put anything down.

Our superior room has no drawers. There is nothing to put anything in. Well, not more than your undies.

Our superior room has no plugs in any position where you might want a plug. We have free WiFi but nowhere to plug the laptop in and the batteries are rapidly failing.

Our superior room is on the dark side. The art deco wall lights offer no illumination. The bedside lamps can be used to read by, but only if you lie on your side and place the book under the lampshade.

Our superior room has one picture on the wall, a daub of two monkeys swinging in the jungle.

The bathroom in our superior room is … well… depressing.

We are depressed. We have been spoiled by living the high life in the magnificent Ritz Carlton in Singapore and the even more magnificent Metropole in Hanoi. We were upgraded in both hotels. ‘And our Marketing Manager, Ms X, would be delighted to meet you and Ms Callingham for coffee, Dr Edwards.’

(I know – swimming pool socialist!)

To cheer ourselves up we took ourselves off to a vegetarian restaurant for dinner. There were three other diners in the huge outdoor dining room. The ’round beans with soy sauce’ turned out to be just that – round beans on a plate and a small bowl of soy sauce. The stir-fried figs bore no resemblance to figs, either in look or taste. We doused them with the soy sauce from the beans and heaps of chilli. We had another course, but I have been blessed with a kindly forgetfulness of what it was.

Judy, who had been eaten alive by  mosquitoes, expressed a wish to go home. I was unsure whether she meant to La Résidence.

Did I mention that it had been pissing down with rain all day? Or that Lam had told us there would be no good weather in North Vietnam for weeks. ‘It’s the rainy season, you know,’ he cheerily  informed us.

We swigged a lot of brandy and went to bed.

We’ve had a really good day today. But that’s another story.

In Hanoi the sky is leaden, the city grey and misty. We are told it was fine until we arrived.  The first two days it poured.  We were dragged through the teaming rain by our determined guide to admire Ho Chi Minh’s grim mausoleum, and be earnestly instructed at the Temple of Literature, its grounds rapidly becoming a lake. Old ladies gleefully cashing in, offering paper-thin plastic rain capes for inflated prices at every monument. We buy them with gratitude. Soaked jeans, soaked trainers  and increasing misery.  We called a halt. Enough sight-seeing in the rain. Stopped at Shoe Street on the way back for a $20 pair of “Nikes”.

The traffic is insane and anarchic. The energy of the place almost buzzes. Horns blast incessantly, though they appear to mean “I’m coming, look out!” rather than “Get out of  my way!” Cars, buses, trucks, cylos, bicycles and thousands of scooters weave, cross and U-turn in all directions and avoid collision by centimetres. In spite of this, we’ve seen only one minor bump. Two scooters met in a scissors movement, the riders detached their bikes, nodded politely to each other and scooted off. These must be the best drivers and riders in the world. Crossing the road is an exercise in terror. Somehow they flow around you.  

From the gracious old Hotel Metropole, we cross into another world, walking through the Old Quarter of the city. That sounds so simple, and might be if the pavements weren’t blocked by goods for sale and parked scooters.  No choice but to take your life in your hands and walk in the road.  It takes hours to negotiate a couple of kilometres. Streets dedicated to shoes, or toys, or tin boxes, or herbs, or counterfeit money to be burned in Buddhist ceremonies. Fancy sending a few thousand US dollars up in smoke? Tiny shops in which people spend their lives, squatting on the pavement, eating Pho, waiting patiently for a sale.

The food is wonderful, the standard of living in the streets appalling by our standards. But there are relatively few beggars and those we’ve seen have been genuinely handicapped. The people just get on with it, eking out a living, producing beautiful babies – and regarding tourists as an amusing oddity to be exploited if possible and otherwise ignored, though we’ve been handed children asked to pose for photos by their grinning parents. “And yesterday I got a shot of a couple of funny white people in the street…”

You get used to it remarkably quickly. To the dirt, to the grimness, to the chaos, to the noise. It’s been stressful, but instructive.

On to Hue tomorrow.  No predictions. No idea what it will be like.

I like Singapore. I like the city, I like the people, I even like the steamy heat.   When Lee Kuan Yew was asked to name the greatest invention of the 20^th century he nominated air conditioning, and I’ll admit that it’s only the chill relief of stepping into a building or hotel that makes the heat enjoyable.

Our travel agent cut an amazing deal so we’re staying at the Ritz Carlton. Luxury, silence and a wonderful view from our room.  Who can ask for more? 

Singapore is always building. Illuminated cranes etch the night sky, the new casino is set to bleed the locals dry in a few months, but there’s another botanical garden being built with as much enthusiasm and as many investment dollars.

Singaporeans live to eat and shop.  They’re well-catered for. Brilliant food is everywhere and cheap as chips – even the famous Blue Ginger fails to dent the credit card. Orchard Road slides from Armani to Prada to Louis Vuitton. Chinatown is preparing for Chinese New Year, and there is slightly less subtlety – garish reds and golds, accompanied by a joyous sense of expectation. The Year of the Tiger is on the way; good times are coming.

Brian has a love/hate relationship with the city. Everyone’s too happy for his comfort. Gaggles of young people crowd the malls, the waterfront and the restaurants, laughing and chatting with an innocence that belongs in an earlier decade; the already spotless streets are swept nightly by nanny-state machines;  there’s a touch of the British Raj in the discipline and scrupulous politeness. It’s Happy Days, Brave New World, and it makes him uneasy.  Me, I lap up the ease and security of the place, I applaud the pride the people have in their island state – until it slips into jingoism, but that generally belongs in the public sphere, not on the streets where we prowl, eating and shopping with the locals. I try not to think about legal system and its style of justice.

Tomorrow we’re off to Hanoi. I think it’s going to be something of a culture shock!