Sonny and I are outside a non-descript cafe along one of the many alleyways in this labyrinth of District 3. Four ladies sit in the doorway laughing like drains. To the Western eye, they look drunk but, as it’s only 10am, I’m certain that they’re just having a good time. What’s unusual is that they’re on chairs: almost every woman I’ve seen selling their wares in this ramshackle market, is seated on the floor. Mind you, my chair is so close to the ground as to be almost non-existent: I had not inconsiderable difficulty lowering myself into position and I’ve no idea how I’ll ever get back up again without the aid of a winch.

Sonny says it’s the best place for coffee – none of your machine concoccted rubbish here. The owner proudly brings one cup with a version of a percolator atop. It took some time as he first had to grind the beans; waiting for anything to trickle through takes around another half an hour, at which point I have about a quarter of an inch of liquid to imbibe. It’s exceedingly bitter and Sonny says I need some tea to accompany it. A tumbler of jasmine and something or other flavoured iced tea is produced.I am dubious: it’s been previously instilled that I must not even clean my teeth in the water of this city, let alone partake of suspect ice cubes. I make the mistake of trying to explain this to my guide but he looks wounded and anyway, the temperature seems to be around 40C, and the coffee is so strong, that I swig back the tea.

He reckons it’s the best coffee available, even though he’s not drinking any himself. Wizzo is the coffee beloved by the Vietnamese I’m told. Wizzo, I query? That sounds fun. Yes, replies Sonny showing me a picture of a small animal on his phone. Oh weasel! How does that work then? Well, the weasels eat the coffee beans and in the ensuing process, something incomprehensible happens involving enzymes. The weasel undertakes evacuation and the weasel owners then ferret around in the droppings to retrieve the beans which they grind into an apparently delicious beverage. He shows me another photo: weasel toilet, he exclaims proudly. Shit, I don’t say.

Saigon is a city of 72 million motor scooters. Crossing the road is terrifying. Sonny started by politely guiding me across with a light-handed touch but it’s not long before he’s grabbing my wrist and dragging me over. The trick is, he informs me, to keep walking despite the traffic having priority on pointless zebra crossings. Want to try it on your own, he asks? No thanks, it’s only Day One and I’d like to see the rest of my holiday. It’s the same down the alleys: people selling all sorts of live and dead-but-kicking goods in areas no more than three feet wide with throngs of local purchasers and scooters in all directions.

It’s where the Vietcong used to hide themselves and their explosives back in the bad old days. There don’t seem to be any other Western visitors in these parts. It’s not a place for tourists, Sonny says as we pass by veritable packs of stray dogs. That’s another thing: rabies is rife: don’t touch any animals my instructions warned as yet more fur brushes past. I’m not surprised by the lack of visitors – could be the death of the tourist industry.