After waking up at about 9AM, which was certainly earlier than most of the wake-up times I had enjoyed in China (but was certainly due to the earlier than usual bed time I had the night before), I decided that today would be a good day to try and find a copy of the Lonely Planet Vietnam guidebook. Yes, I know that there are other guidebooks on the market, but LP is Aussie, and what can I say? I mike having a little bit of home (albeit it Melbourne-based) in my pocket.

After quickly consulting the internet, and with the help of Google Maps, I had found a bookstore called “Bookworm” in Hanoi, offering second-hand books. Figuring that Hanoi is a common gateway city when entering and exiting Vietnam, I thought I would try my luck there. So, armed with a rough idea of where I was headed (being a list of streets I would need to cross, and turns I needed to make), I started for the door of the hotel. Kim, one of the exceedingly helpful members of the staff here, asked me where I was headed, and when she heard that I was planning a Hanoi version of the crossing of the Great Sandy Desert (not in terms of distance, but I am pretty sure I was running as great a loss to life and limb on some of the street crossings as someone walking across the outback may experience), she instead told me of a closer place and drew it on a smaller map they provide guests.

So, with my revised destination in hand and on map, I started out the door and into the hustle and bustle of Hanoi. I thought the traffic of China had been insane, and in comparison to Australia, it is, but Hanoi was another thing altogether. Crossing the road here isn’t a case of looking for a gap (there are none) or finding a pedestrian crossing (they are there, but seem invisible to all and sundry), but more a case of adopting your best “touch me and I will fucking kill you” expression and then stepping out into the traffic with an imposing presence and a steady pace. Yes, you are allowed to quietly brown your pants whilst doing so, but wait until reaching the (relative) safety of the other side of the road before allowing that earlier expression to transition to the “I need a new pair of undies” one.

Anyway, I set off up the street in search of the bookstore. One of the first navigational issues I discovered was the fact that alot of roads in Hanoi have names for only one or two blocks before changing name and continuing on. So, without changing the physical street, you may be on “Bat Dan”, then on “Hang Bo” and then “Hang Bac”. This can be a bit confusing for someone like myself who is used to streets keeping the same name until the hit an especially large intersection or main road, or in the case of some parts of the North Shore of Sydney, the Planning Department of the local council just decided to shake things up one Friday afternoon…

Walking along the street – and yes, in Hanoi, you walk along the street as the footpath has been translated to something in Vietnamese which roughly means “place to park your motorbikes and scooters, and somewhere to set up all your tables and chairs when running a restaurant/cafe/dental surgery” – I managed to find my own small cha-phrase (which for those of you who are unfamiliar with my new word is a conjunction of “charades” and “phrase” – being a set of gestures which work together to produce a sentence) which I was able to successfully use on all of the Motorcycle Taxi-Pilots (and yes, they are Pilots) who kept asking whether I needed a lift every half block or so.

I finally arrived at the site of the alledged bookstore, and walked straight past it… Then doing a lap of the block whilst re-consulting my map to ensure that I hadn’t gotten myself unknowingly lost before returning at the spot and finding that it was A) a bar and B) under renovations… Well, the hotel gets an A for Effort all the same.

Deciding to make the most of being in an unfamiliar part of the city, I headed off in a randon direction to see what was on offer. Whilst wandering around, I noticed that the moods of western tourists in Hanoi (and maybe throughout Vietnam) is somewhat different to that in China. Firstly they tend to look straight through you – that maybe because they are having a pant-browning experience of their own (see above) looking at the fleet of death machines racing up behind you, or maybe because western tourists are a dime a dozen in Vietnam. Secondly, when you do actually snap them out of that stare, with a “Hello” or “Gday”, it is somewhat rare for them to respond. Yes, I know Australia is unusually friendly in that regard, but still – c’mon people! Just a little courtesy here…

After having wandered for twenty minutes or so (and being hanging for a Coke or something, but not being able to find any places prominently advertising it – yet another difference from China where even doghouses had little neon Coke signs), I came across a Vietnamese guy (who told me his name, but I cannot recall it, so I will call him “Harry”) who actually struck up a conversation with me. Now, the fact that he was that different from all the tourists and all the locals should have gotten my warning bells at least pulled out of the mothballs, but I was foolish and friendly and spoke with him for a while. He mentioned that he had been to Australia and that his sister was planning on going there to work as a nurse. He invited me to join himself and his sister for lunch later that day. The first thought that went through my mind was “I do NOT want to be match-made with a Vietnamese girl by her brother.” The second thought which went through my mind was “Unless she is incredibly hot.” I did, however, get an unusual vibe from this guy which I shook off, but would later prove to have been all too accurate.

But, without the wisdom I now have, I asked for his help to find a Vietnamese Prepaid SIM Card so I had a local number, and then he asked me for it so he could call me to arrange to meet him about an hour later. I did so, and then headed back to the hotel to get my throwaway mobile handset, which I use exclusively for local services.

I got the handset, set it all up, and then started making my way back to the arranged rendezvous spot, using streets which are present in the real work, but not detailed on the provided maps. Must be a plan of yet another local government – don’t bother building new roads, just have a few disappear from the maps every few years and then put them back on again and declare them “New”. Cunningly clever!

I was not far from the spot when I got a call from Harry asking me where I am. I told him I was a short time away, and he said that he would see me soon. I arrived at the intersection we had arranged to meet in, and he arrived a short time later. He invited me to his house for lunch, and suggested that we get a taxi there. This didn’t sound too unusual, so I went along with it, thinking that with the experiences I had in China with meeting random people and doing things which alot of tourists never open themselves up to, this would be interesting.

We drove for quite some time, eventually crossing a bridge over a large canal and turning into a street running alongside the canal. After about 40 metres the driver went to stop and some teenage boys were talking through the windows and trying to open the doors. This was a little unusual, but did not faze the driver, nor Harry, and so I thought nothing of it. Harry had the driver drive down a small alley where he had him stop and we both got out of the cab. Harry led me down another alley and into a house.

When I arrived in the house, I was asked to sit in the living room and Harry offered me a drink. I asked for a glass of water, and he gave me a glass and a bottle of water from the fridge. He warned me that, during my travels, I should be careful to check that the bottle is sealed when buying water in some villages, as they simply refill empty bottles with whatever “clean” water they can find. Harry and his other (older) sister sat with me and we talked about Australia and my journey so far, and Harry apologised that his sister (the nurse) was at Hospital with his mother as she was suffering from a disease of the Bone Marrow.

Harry’s Brother came down from upstairs and introduced himself as Joma. He told me he worked on cruise ships as a croupier and had been able to visit Australia in the past, so he was also interested in where I was from, had been and was going. Harry’s Sister then put on a lunch for me, and insisted that I have some – the food was simple, and not entirely appetising, but it was somewhat edible and I had a small portion (heavy on the rice). Harry made his apologies and said he would quickly go and pick up his sister from the hospital and he would be back soon. Joma told me, whilst I ate, that he had dealings with a number of high-rollers through his work and that he had been dealing at a game the earlier night between a couple of women. He said that one of them had promised him a 5% cut of the winnings in the event they won, but the other lady had won and had only tipped him US$400 (when 5% would have been US$4000), so he referred to her as the “Lady Of No Honor”.

I was being sucked in… In hindsight, I can see all the warning signs here, but at the time, and with a naive heart, I took things at face value… Regardless, here we can all see how big a fool I can really be when put to the test.

He invited me upstairs to show me one of the games he often uses, which he called “Poker 21”. We sat down and he instructed me on the rules of the game quite quickly but thoroughly. Then he started doing tricks with the cards – not tricks like David Copperfield “the card is behind your ear, 60 feet away, whilst I am in a straitjacket and just drew it using my left small toe” kind of tricks, but tricks like shuffling the pack and then managing to deal me four consecutive 21s. And then being able to tell me what the next 6 cards off the top of the deck were. Very impressive. He obviously knew his cards very well, and had been playing for a long time.

He then mentioned that, in some casinos and games, the dealer was able to signal a player with that kind of information and help them to be able to both know what the other player has as well as what the next card was. Again, should have seen it coming… So he taught me the signals and the way that those signals would allow a player to make the best decisions. After a little bit of drilling on this, he mentioned that he used to work an arrangement like this with an American guy a while back, where he setup games and they would fleece high-rollers and split the winnings.

He told me that the “Lady Of No Honor” was meant to be dropping by a bit later, as she was meant to take him out for dinner, and then suggested that I help him get the money she owed him out of her so he could help his mother.

Now, and again, in hindsight, I should have said “No”, picked myself up and walked my arse out of there. It is a hard learnt lesson, but at this stage it should have been clear that something was awry and that people you have just met do not talk about money, especially in this fashion, after knowing someone for almost no time at all.
But, that is hindsight, which required the following to happen to attain…

Being the foolish, and sometimes big-hearted moron that I am (and which most of my mates can attest to me being) I agreed. And that was when I just about tied my own noose.

There was a knock at the door downstairs and it was the “Lady Of No Honor”. Joma hurriedly handed me two US$100 bills, and said that we would use them to start the game. The “Lady” came into the room. She was nothing terribly stunning to speak about, which should have started my mind running already – as it is rare that anything other than a drop-dead gorgeous woman is ever a trophy wife, meaning that, if she really was as rich as Joma said she was then she had to be the brains… Which I doubted. That and he said she was from Brunei, and yet she looked Vietnamese. But, again, this is me going over the story in hindsight – I’ll let it unfold in it’s own course…

Joma introduced Lady to myself and his Older Sister, who initially he referred to as my guide. Then the Lady sat down at the table and Joma told her that I had lost US$5000 to him earlier in the day and I was trying to win it back, and he invited her to play. She, of course (inline with both the story and the scenario), did. So I produced the US$200 Joma had given me and changed them into chips. Joma had Lady act as the House and I was playing against her as the Player. He dealt me winning hand after winning hand – so many in such quick succession that I wondered whether it would start to show that I was being fed good hands. At one stage, I needed to have more chips, and so I changed some VND (Vietnamese Dong) into chips, and the game progressed. With every win, the pot increased in size. Eventually Lady pulled from her purse a brick of, ostensibly, US$50,000 in US$100 bills and changed them into chips. Joma dealt her 20 (and signalled me the same) and he dealt me 21. As I had said that this was the last hand, she went all-in, meaning that there was about US$100,000 on the table. But, then we hit a snag. To get to that level, Joma had been giving me “Credit”, but before Lady was willing to turn her cards she wanted security that the credit was good. That’s where it all went pear-shaped… Sure, the warning signs are there. especially as I am writing it now and giving you the highlights from a couple of hours of experience, but it was not the case when it was happening – not because of the thrill of winning (there was no doubt in it), nor having someone over (it was not a big deal), but, because stupid old me, I did not ask or look around – as was said a thousand times in a little town called Nuremburg – I was just following orders/instructions.

As I (obviously) had no more money on me, and as Joma said he didn’t either, we had to get it from somewhere, and couldn’t let onto Lady that Joma and myself were in cahoots. So we put our cards into envelopes, marked the seals, locked them into a bag, and then locked the bag into a locker. The agreement was that Joma and myself would “go to the hotel and get the money from the safe”. Joma, Older Sister and (the just arrived, and NOT “incredibly hot”) Younger Sister piled into a cab. Being a (misplaced) gentleman, I let the ladies into the cab first but then Older Sister, who I let in first of all, jumped out and ran around to the other side of the cab and jumped in behind me. So I was now sandwiched between the two women (and not in a fun way… nor with women I would want that kind of sandwich…) Warning sign… We then drove across town as Joma (ostensibly again) made a number of calls to people to try and secure loans, all the while telling me that he needed the money for his mother and trying to persuade me to get as much money together as I could. Warning sign (again – but that one I got)… After picking up that something was probably going amiss here, I started questioning Younger Sister about her studies and work – I am no doctor, or nurse, but I know enough about medicine and hospitals to be able to talk at least some of the talk. She turned out not to be a nurse, nor to have studied as a nurse. The story was starting to come apart…

Eventually we arrived at a hotel which had an ATM, and Joma still cajoled me (although I had an inkling that things were going strange) into withdrawing some more VND (about 4 times what I had already “invested”). I made a point to cover my PIN and not to let him see the statements the ATM produced (which, unusually, mentioned my account balance – in China you chose whether to see any advice, and even then no balance was shown). I handed it to him, but he was once again persistent in trying to make me get more. I said, quite forcefully, “No” and all of a sudden he stopped pushing. He then made a call to someone to try and secure more money under terms of 10% interest for one day. At some point he mentioned that he needed the money to pay the interest before getting the loan, which sounded wrong to me, but I assumed that it was a case of bad translation on his part. He said that the guy he was on the phone with to try and arrange the money was connected to drug trades and so would not see him unless he went alone, and so he left me at the Horison Hotel, saying he would be back in 10 minutes.

I waited 20. Then I waited 30. Then I finally admitted to the small, but increasingly loud, voice repeating time and time again – “Luke, you have just been hit by a con artist.”

What were the warning signs? Let me try and capture them all – this lesson cost me quite a bit to learn, so I really want to make sure that lesson is well and truly learnt…

1. Friends, especially new friends, do not mention money that quickly. Especially at any level higher than a “can you spot me a drink” kind of ballpark.
2. If someone starts telling you all about their family drama(s) without it being arrived at through some kind of network of segues or poor topic choices, you are having your heartstrings spliced into a noose for your neck.
3. No-one ever wants to show you a card game for the hell of it.
4. No-one ever teaches you a way to cheat at #3 unless they expect to get paid for it, either indirectly through conning you, or directly through using you in a scam.
5. If you are brought to a house by one member of the family and they then disappear, you have just been dropped off by the Point Man.
6. Never play a card game without limits (it is too easy to have someone “Buy The Pot” on you, as happened here).
7. Never let yourself get surrounded… Ever!
   (Exception made for if you are surrounded by Playboy Playmates or similar. Giggity.)
8. If something feels dodgy, listen to your instincts, pull the ripcord and get the hell out (unless doing so directly endangers your life).
9. A real “high-roller” Lady can afford non-smear lipstick (she left lippy on the cigarettes she was smoking as we played – I was aware enough to see that as being odd, but didn’t see taking me across town to withdraw money from an ATM, which are located everywhere, as strange. What a moron I am…)
10. Always question orders!!
11. If someone doesn’t spot a glaring hole in your story (like when I went from being a poor travelling person to having US$100K in a safe somewhere), they are probably focusing too hard on their own story.

So, there you have it – my first full day in Vietnam, and I didn’t just allow myself, but, in hindsight (again) allowed myself to get ripped off blind. That money would have lasted me a long time in alot of places I have travelled to. Hell, it would have been a full year’s rent for a dorm bed in Xingping… But, I have to try and look on the bright side – maybe the Government’s economy lifeline grant will find me, and it will offset this whole little episode.

After picking my ego up off the floor (although it is still running between my fingers every few minutes, to be honest), I decided that I should head for the safety of my Hotel. Initially, I went to one of the Motorcycle Taxis near the Hotel – figuring I had been ripped off once alreeady today, I will try my luck again with what little VND I have left in my pockets. After asking him how much it would cost, he quotes me 300,000 VND (AUD$30). Did I have “Fuck Me Over” tattooed on my head overnight? I thanked him for “Fucking Nothing”, which attracted a strange “I have no idea what he just said, but it sounded bad, and yet he said ‘Thanks’” expression and headed off on foot.

I walked off down the street from the Hotel and tried to find my way home. After walking for about 30 minutes, allowing the distraction of lunatic motorcyclists and scooter riders to once again numb my mind and silence that little voice continuing to give me shit, I decided that I should try and find where I was on a map. Especially as I had been deep in conversation with, and under the spell of, the thousand-dollar-performance I had been regailed with in the cab on the way to the ATM. Luckily, Kim at my Hotel had given me a map of all of Hanoi, so I managed to find myself on the map. On the opposite end of town from where I started the day, and after having walked half an hour South when I should have headed East/North for half that time.

So I turned around and continued on my way, this time in the correct direction. As I walked I tried to call Joma, who was maintaining that all was still well, that he was just having trouble getting the money together, and that the scam would continue later. He told me to call him later when I got back to the Hotel (which I did, but he did not answer – I also called Harry, who told me that I needed to speak with Joma and also said that his Mum needed “brain surgery” – a slight change from a bone marrow disorder earlier that day).

After walking about an hour (or so) I was within spitting distance of the Hotel… Or it would have been spitting distance if I had not lost the ability to produce saliva somewhere around Tran Nhan Tong… Luckily as I walked down the street (again, and as proven during the day – one of the safest place in Hanoi – safer than houses, and even banks… or at least ATMs…) I spotted a saving grace sprawling across one of the few sections of footpath in all of Hanoi not covered in motorbikes… An Irish Pub!

And what made it better? It was bloody St Patrick’s Day. So after apologising to Fergus – the pet Irishman sitting at the bar – for forgetting that it was St Pat’s Day (he forgave me when I told him I didn’t even know what day of the week it was), I had a beer and just tried to clear my mind of the events of the day.

What can I say? The little… OK, rather large… part of my mind which bathes in black humor is having a field day today. That little voice has gone from “I told you so” to far more creative comments – like “24 hours in Vietnam and you got fucked – but not in the way your mates thought you would”. Mind you, the equally large optimistic side keeps fighting the good fight in return – “At least you didn’t get stabbed or worse”, “Yeah, you got fucked, but at least you can’t catch anything from being swindled”, “It’s an expensive lesson, but a lesson which should serve you well for a long time to come”…

Oh well… I guess every country, and every city, has them – people who make a living out of taking advantage of the good faith which is something which is missed the minute a city decides to just be constantly cynical and cautious. Up until today I had been assaulted once back in Australia (by a drug-affected individual less than a block from home), but never mugged, so I guess I am lucky there too. And after 6 weeks in some very poor areas of the world, I have not had anything stolen from my person and my packs yet… Touch wood! (taps head).

This whole event will not stop me trusting people – I think that to do that would be much like the American, English and Australian reactions to the terrorist attacks of 2001 (and others). It may make me alot more cautious, which is probably a good thing, but it will not stop me (I hope) from trying to look below the surface most tourists seem content in just accepting. I just need to say “No” a hell of alot sooner.

I have to admit, I have been tempted to pick up a sledgehammer or similar from one of the tool shops (conveniently located in the tool plaza in the tool district of Hanoi) and go and find the house they took me back to, but I am sure that I would be bringing a hammer to a knife fight, or a knife to a gunfight, and I am better just living, learning, and writing it off as an educational expense. Mind you, if I see Joma or Harry on the street, I will have no quams in putting him infront of the first truck I can find (and then asking him where his friends are).