The Worst Hotel in the World

In which we learn that Vietnamese scooters are nippier than they look.

At the outset I should mention that the Vietnamese currency is called the Dong. In the hands of some, this may be an excuse for a stream of puerile jokes, but I shall rise above all that. Any double entendre is all in your mind, you pervert.

So: Mrs G and I are on Con Dao island, arranged at short notice. We scrambled to book a couple of different hotels. Hotel One was a delight. We've died and gone to heaven. Two blissed-out days, food, service, comfort, for about half the cost of the Eastleigh Econolodge.

And then we check into Hotel Two. 

They put our back up early, by insisting on being paid in cash. This puts a severe strain on my Dong right away. But, determined to enjoy my hols, I swallow my pride and follow the chain-smoking attendant to our deluxe beach view room. He throws my bag at the door, and after hovering briefly in the vain hope of some Dong, naffs off.

We use the plumbing, as one does. The plastic piping is all joined with electrical tape, so we're happy to know we won't be electrocuted by the taps. It's spectacularly leaky though; with that and the yellow water, personal hygiene might be a bit of a challenge for a day or two. Luckily Mrs G stole all the wet wipes from the plane on the way in. (If you've never cleaned your teeth with a wet wipe, you haven't lived.)

To be fair, there are some plus points to the room. The ashtray is empty, if not entirely clean; the mysterious brown stains on the sheet are at the foot end; there are sufficient lizards to handle the cockroaches; the wardrobe charmingly evokes an earlier era, when Formica was new; the fridge motor drowns out the pneumatic drills and the barking from the beach (of which more, anon). I plug in the thoughtfully-provided bedside lamp and blow the electrics. Kapow! Never a dull moment.

Ever cheerful, Mrs G pulls out my Dong and helps herself. "I'm off to the beach for lunch," she says, "coming?" We triple lock everything, clasp our valuables to our bosom, pack up the Twiglets, and head out. It's a short stroll to the beach. Intriguingly, where the neighbouring hotel has loungers, our beachfront has dog cages. The dogs look friendly enough so they are probably just mistreated pets, as opposed to, say, lunch.

We find a patch of sand free of rubble and plastic bottles, and pausing only to blow away loose cigarette ends and cotton buds, plonk ourselves down. Crikey, it's hot. I check my Dong for any signs of spontaneous combustion. We consider a swim but given the suspicious-looking pipes heading into the sea, think better of it.

Time for a getaway. We rent a motorbike. The rental lady scorns my proffered Dong; hard currency only. Twelve dollars and thirty seconds of perfunctory training in Vietnamese, and I am in the saddle! Oh yeah. I rev her up, run straight into a flowerbed, and fall off. Luckily I am carrying my wallet, and my Dong absorbs much of the impact. Thank goodness for my helmet. The hotel staff gather to pick me up, and oh, how we laugh.

Once the double vision subsides, and the blood is dry, we take to the road. The island's a hilly 'un, but with Mrs on pillion, and Dong by the million, what could go wrong?