Opinions about the rights and wrongs of the war in Vietnam and the achievements and failings of the prevailing regime, remain as divided now as they were during the conflict. There are, however, two clearly identifiable outcomes, the pursuit of which has ensured an almost continuous state of internal conflict and international warfare throughout that country's history.

Since the ancestors of the contemporary Vietnamese began to settle in the land there has been a constant battle between rival ethnic groups to attain dominance and an on-going struggle by all parties to resist invasion and annexation by a never ending array of Asian, European and American powers.

A recent assignment in Vietnam gave me an all too brief opportunity to visit Ho Chi Minh City and the southern oil port of Vung Tau. Although my contact with the people was minimal, I gained an impression that whilst, as yet, they may not have freedom as we would define it and may not be as fully united in spirit as they are by force of decree, they appear to be happy. Despite the meagre assets of the nation and limited possessions of its citizens, the Vietnamese are not beholden to any foreign power for their ownership.

The Singapore Airlines Airbus flight to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) was smooth and on time and I was fortunate, I later discovered, to have missed exposure to the delights of Russian technology in the shape of air Vietnam's Tupelovs with their inadequate sound insulation and uncertain scheduling. But my luck was soon to turn and both the Russians, in the first instance and their technology in the second, were to feature strongly in the subsequent fall and resurgence of my fortunes.

It was the Vietnamese rainy season and the absence of airconditioning in the arrival area accentuated the steamy heat. Strong smells emanating from the grating in the floor did nothing to improve the welcome nor to persuade potential new recruits to consider a career with their sewerage treatment department. The queues were moderate and despite the amount of paperwork involved and the lack of any automation to assist them, the immigration officials were making steady progress in processing the in-bound passengers. Then it happened!

The Russians are coming!

I cannot recall a previous occasion when I had been closer to Russians than the several hundred metres that separated their guard tower from the perimeter fence on an Eastern European frontier. Suddenly, those of us with an Anglo-celtic predisposition towards orderly queuing together with some disciplined Dutch and unusually restrained French, were beset on all sides by parallel queues of Russian men and women, loaded with hand-luggage that was better suited to camel-class travel and brandishing fist-full of forms that they could neither read nor complete.

For the next two and a half hours we witnessed Vietnamese officialdom and its Confucian best and discovered how true it was that they hate the Russians, despite their comradely support during the American war, because they see Ivan as rude and mean. Unfortunately the boorish behaviour of these Russians oil workers returning from home leave on the Monday Aeroflot flight (you have been warned about Monday morning arrivals) caused the officials to adopt a generally belligerent attitude to all incoming foreigners.

A bicycle built for two or three or four?

It was a relief to escape the airport even to step into the oven-like interior of the client company’s car, which the driver has carelessly left, as though needing a solar recharge, in the tropical noonday sun. So much for Noel Coward and his somnolent natives.

The roads into town were awash with tides of bicycles, mopeds and the occasional car. The crumbling European Villas smeared with green fungal growth were more reminiscent of Graham Greene’s Saigon than a contemporary Asian city. Most striking of all were the charming women who were cycling along wearing traditional elegant trouser suits conical peasant straw hats and long elbow-length gloves. They certainly added that certain sense of “Je ne sais quoi” out in the rain amongst the jostling throng of overloaded bicycles, pedal-powered taxis and motorbikes.

To Vung Tau and back!

The journey to Vung Tau by car was an experience in itself. As the crow flies it’s about as far from the city as the mouth of Port Phillip Bay is from Melbourne. But, because the road detours constantly to cater for the sweeping meanders of the Mekong River across its delta, it takes at least three hours to get there.

Our driver made a good job of threading his way through the rush hour traffic with visibility greatly reduced by driving monsoon rain. He seemed quite unperturbed by the disconcerting sight of on-coming bicycles and trucks on our side of the road and managed to negotiate all of these challenges with calm determination and without a scratch. Had I not experienced this peculiar form of highway “chicken” on the roads out of Bangkok, I would have been a nervous wreck by the journey’s end.

Both along the road in Vung Tau itself, I was struck by the absence of the banners and challenging slogans that were the norm in communist China when it was at the same stage of development. It was evident that almost twenty years of communist control in the South had completely failed to dull the Vietnamese appetite and aptitude for commercial enterprise.

Outside even the meanest shanty, tables and chairs invited the paying guest to sample the cuisine and by the sea, former French Colonial Villas and dilapidated “R & R” hotels were being given extensive face-lifts in anticipation of a new influx of affluent locals and tourists. A rash of restaurants specialising in good seafood and even massage parlours testified to the resilience of the oldest hospitality professions.

All the rugby you can take!

The hotel selected as the workshop venue was distinguished from the others in the town by its relative cleanliness, possession of a generator which kicked in when the power failed and the two middle-aged Australian men who managed it.

The food was a curious mixture of influences: Superb French style baguettes at breakfast; a limited range of Vietnamese dishes and surprise! surprise! the full Aussie Truck-Stop menu complete with tomato sauce and just stopping short of “your four n twenty pies” (but there were two offerings that purported to be pizzas and pasties!)

The rooms were very basic. Catching tinea in the shower was the least of one’s concerns and teeth cleaning was only to be undertaken with bottled water. The airconditioner rattled and hissed close to my ear when lying in bed, but the alternative of sleeping in silent steam bath increased my tolerance for its night long cacophony.

A speculative sampling of the TV offerings produced another surprise. Instead of propaganda or heroic Vietnamese historical drama I was amazed to find myself relaxing with replays of the 1990 British isle, four-nations rugby union championship. A rapid review of all available channels produced the same result-endless, wall to wall rugby! This was an addict’s paradise in the most unlikely place.

Upon entering the bar, which was complete with pool table, dart-board and TV monitor playing - yes you’ve guessed it - the 1993 Winfield cup rugby league final, to the obvious satisfaction of the clientele.

The mystery was solved! One of this hotel’s specialities was catering for oil-rig crews in shore leave and as the majority of those present (the Russians not yet having grasped the finer points of rugby - although a friend of who works for Mars tells me they are into tomato sauce in a big way) were of course fellow antipodeans doing what comes naturally after work and especially when far away from the influence of their womenfolk.

After some discreet enquiries I discovered that you could choose from a range of some hundred video tapes by calling reception desk and that they guaranteed to cater for your every taste as long as that was connected with either code of rugby. Clearly not a preferred destination for Victorians on leave and the AFL should give up trying to include Southern Vietnam within its recruitment zones.

From Russia with love?

Dining out in an open-air seafood restaurant was great fun and even the sight of a monkey cavorting around the kitchen did not deter out intrepid company of ex-pat diners. Nor did it cause us to doubt that what we were eating was what the menu claimed it to be.

The staff were cheerful, accommodating and expert at making up prices as we went along with our various selections. Copious draughts of cleansing ale made the hot night, chillies and occasional mosquitoes more than tolerable.

At the close of the workshop we were delighted to hear that we could return to Saigon more directly (but not necessarily more safely) by taking a hydrofoil up the Mekong, almost to the door of the Floating Hotel (previously moored in Townsville to house barrier reef visitors) where most ex-pats reside due to the shortage and speculative cost of available housing.

This is where the Russian influence returned - this time, to improve my lot. The hydrofoil turned out to be a dilapidated but serviceable vessel which had plied its youthful trade up and down the Volga River. It made much shorter work of the return journey than the serpentine car ride and once we had entered the river mouth the danger of capsizing in the open sea, disappeared. The trip gave me brief but continuing opportunities to see how the fisher people lived along the banks of the river and in numerous villages along the myriad of canals and by-waters. A hell of an area to administer and police let alone to fight a guerrilla war in.

The day ended with a luxurious shower in the hotel, a superb dinner at the Vietnam House Restaurant and before going to bed a quick check of the TV. The appearance of Police Academy 2 confirmed that we were once more beyond the sway of Australian cultural influence and back within the American Imperium where rugby alas, has no place.

A good job well done!

On the next day, my client group was still happy with its work and I set off for the airport wondering whether it would be easier to get out than it had been to get in. As we approached the airport my attention was drawn to a petrol tank that still bore the US Army star on its side. Perhaps it was portending the hoped for return of Uncle Sam, bringing development dollars and the latest technology.

Exit arrangements presented no problems and as I took my ease in the lounge I was pleased to see that no Russian had turned up “to see me off!” What about the workshop! How did it turn out? Oh well, it you insist, it was just a matter of getting members of different Commonwealth tribes to unite under and Australian corporate flag.

Although still separate and distinct as individuals they were working as a team and like their Vietnamese host, whereas once they were divided, now they are one.