🇻🇳 Na Trang — The Soft Edge of Vietnam
After the noise and neon of Ho Chi Minh City, Na Trang felt like a long exhale. The air was softer, the pace slower, and the beach stretched endlessly, dotted with fishing boats rocking like toys on turquoise water.
I’d been on the road with my sister Miriam and her partner James. We’d made it through Bangkok’s chaos, survived Ho Chi Minh’s scooters, and were finally settling into the rhythm of travel — the kind where you stop counting days and start following curiosity.
Our hotel was simple: tiled floors, a fan that groaned through the night, and a balcony strung with drying laundry. Three nights, two kilos of washing, twenty U.S. dollars — all in. The kind of arithmetic that makes backpacking addictive.
The Locals’ Bar
We met Trung and Ti one afternoon while wandering along the beach road — both were local motorcycle taxi drivers in their forties with easy smiles and sun-creased faces. They spoke only a little English, but it was enough for jokes, shared gestures, and mutual curiosity. You could tell they genuinely wanted to make us feel welcome.
That evening they waved us over from a corner table at a small locals’ bar tucked down an alley. The lights were soft and amber; the air smelled faintly of grilled fish. They ordered two-litre jugs of beer for less than a dollar and filled our glasses before their own. The conversation zig-zagged between English, Vietnamese, and mime — laughter filling in all the blanks.
Despite the language gap, Trung and Ti worked hard for our friendship. Every misunderstanding was met with another attempt, another smile, another clink of glasses. By the end of the night, it felt as if we’d known them far longer than a few hours.
The Ride
The following night Miriam decided to rest while James and I accepted their offer of “real Vietnamese dinner.” They picked us up on their scooters just after sunset, helmets gleaming under the streetlights.
We rode through the warm night air, weaving past families eating on the sidewalk, neon shops, and tangled power lines. The main strip disappeared behind us as the streets narrowed and darkened — the rhythm of local life unfolding all around.
We stopped outside a small, open-fronted restaurant with no name, only chatter and the smell of charcoal. Trung grinned proudly. “Real Vietnamese food,” he said, tapping his chest.
The Meal
Inside, the tables were child-sized and the stools barely off the ground. A woman filled our glasses from what looked like a water-cooler bottle. Trung noticed my hesitation and chuckled, writing “35%” on a napkin — rice whisky.
A few toasts later, the dishes arrived: sizzling platters, fragrant herbs, dips, and crisp spring rolls. It was simple but beautiful — the kind of meal that makes you forget where you are, focused only on flavour and company.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me. “What meat?” I asked, pointing to one of the grilled dishes.
Trung paused, smiled awkwardly, and said softly, “Woof woof.”
For a moment I froze, chopsticks mid-air. Then I nodded and put them down gently. He explained, as best he could, that dog meat was eaten only occasionally — mostly for luck or family gatherings — and that it wasn’t common.
It wasn’t a moment of disgust or judgment. It was a moment of learning — one of those instances where travel stretches your understanding of the world, showing that traditions can be shaped by history and circumstance rather than intent.
We shared one last toast, laughed about our mutual confusion, and rode back through the quiet streets — the warm wind washing away the awkwardness, leaving only gratitude.
The Island Tour
The next morning, Miriam, James, and I joined a small group of travellers for a boat tour of the islands scattered across Na Trang Bay. The sky was sharp blue, the sea calm, and the deck creaked underfoot as we set off from the harbour.
The day unfolded like a slow-motion postcard — snorkelling above coral gardens, swimming in the open sea, and eating lunch on deck as the boat drifted between islands fringed with palms.
In the afternoon, the crew tied the boats together and declared it time for the “floating bar.” A man in a rubber ring drifted between us, handing out cups of sweet local wine as everyone cheered and clinked plastic cups over the waves. It was ridiculous and perfect — a kind of sunlit, saltwater joy that only travel can give.
📸 Photo ideas:
Miriam and James on the deck, squinting into the sun.
The floating bar — man in a ring passing wine.
The turquoise sweep of Na Trang’s coastline from the boat.
Reflections
Na Trang wasn’t about temples or bucket-list sights. It was about connection — the small, fleeting friendships that stay with you longer than the landscapes themselves.
Looking back, I realise that trip taught me something fundamental about travel: when you’re young and open, the world meets you halfway. You don’t need a plan. You just need time, curiosity, and people willing to share a beer and a story.
