Annette Densham Explores Saigon on $27: Egg Coffee, Street Food, and One Regret Involving a Grub

Ho Chi Minh City boasts coffee that could wake the dead, pho that spoils you for life, and a day out for $27 that proves you can have an adventure without breaking the bank.

There’s something freeing about being in a country where you don’t speak the language. It forces you to lean in—to point, mime, grin, and hope Google Translate has your back. In Vietnam, translation apps are less a tool and more a survival strategy. Vietnamese is a hard language to master. After six days there, I nailed only two phrases—hello and thank you. Even then, my tongue mangled the pronunciation. I ordered lunch by pointing and hoping for the best—still not a fan of chicken feet—and asked for directions to the loo that left me doubtful I’d find my way back. You quickly learn that a smile goes further than grammar. Even when you’re completely misunderstood, everyone still laughs, and no one seems to mind, especially if you’re trying to learn the basics.

If Vietnam had a national religion, it would be coffee. Strong, sweet, dark, unapologetic coffee that comes in all forms—hot, iced, blended with condensed milk, or cracked over ice with a raw egg whisked in like dessert in a glass (my new favourite). It’s impossible not to get hooked. Cafés are everywhere—tiny stools on footpaths, neon-lit rooftops, and quiet garden hideaways. They’re where people meet, think, gossip, play games, and escape the heat. The coffee is so good it ruins you for anything instant ever again.

The street food costs less than a can of Coke but tastes like it came from a chef with a Michelin star. Vietnamese cooking is a masterclass in balance—spicy, sweet, salty, sour—all happening at once but never fighting for attention. If you find a cooking class that takes you through the wet markets at Ben Thanh, it’s an experience you’ll never forget. But, fair warning, if you’re vegan, it’s not the trip for you.

Taking a cooking class is an experience in humility and hilarity. You think you can handle a wok until a sixty-year-old woman with the reflexes of a ninja shows you how to roll a rice paper parcel the size of your thumb while balancing a pot on her knee. You’ll chop lemongrass, burn your fingers on caramelised pork, and leave smelling like garlic, fish sauce, and triumph.

It’s easy to get stuck in one place, so I wanted to head out of the city—visit a pagoda, see how people live, and pack as much into my day as possible. But being told the wrong time for my Mekong Delta tour didn’t exactly set the day up for success. Two hours sitting on a step in the humidity can test anyone’s patience. I was fully prepared for a dud day.

How wrong I was.

For $27—less than the cost of lunch in Australia at a local pub—I spent a day so full of wonder, chaos, and accidental bravery that I’ll be talking about it for years.

I visited Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, where gold Buddhas sit serenely while scooters scream past outside. I fed a crocodile, drank egg coffee, and rode the dodgiest bike imaginable around Coconut Island. I joined in a Vietnamese rendition of If You’re Happy and You Know It (yes, I clapped), then made my own rice paper rolls with fresh fish that might just have been caught an hour earlier. I paddled down the Mekong Delta in a canoe, flew along dirt tracks in a golf buggy, hopped two rivers in motorboats, and watched locals turn coconuts into candy—before eating far too much of said candy.

I inspected python and scorpion wine. I didn’t drink it; I have limits. I bought some honey, swung in a hammock, learned that frogs are cannibals (unsettling), and drank honey tea on Unicorn Island while contemplating getting a lotus tattoo to add to my growing body art gallery.

Then came my initiation into a true Vietnamese adventure: eating a coconut grub. It was pulled straight from a split coconut, wriggling just a little too enthusiastically for comfort, then dropped into a dish of fish sauce like it had somewhere to be. Everyone around me cheered. There’s a point on every trip when politeness trumps good sense—this was it. I ate the thing. It didn’t taste like chicken. It tasted... crunchy, smoky, and a bit nutty... and it squirmed on my chopsticks. Not sure I’ll do that again.

I did it all surrounded by people who didn’t speak English. I was the only Westerner on the trip. Yet, somehow, connection needed no translation. There was laughter, curiosity, and a quiet respect that doesn’t need words. As the oldest in the group, I was treated with warmth that felt humbling and heart-expanding.

By the time I stumbled back to the hotel—dusty, sunburnt, and grinning—I realised I’d been given more than a tour. I’d been handed a reminder of what travel is supposed to be. It’s not curated perfection ready for an Instagram post, but the mess, moments, people, and meals that make you see life differently.