I've been having vivid dreams in Vietnam. Which makes sense, since they're colored by the strange reality that is Vietnam.

I dreamt of rats, porcupines and deer chasing me through Hanoi – an angry stampede through the streets, where the hunted indeed became the hunter. Chalk that one up to the carnival of food stalls that engulf the perfume pagoda, where Vietnamese trek (by cable car) to the top of a mountain to tithe to a tiny altar in a cave to ensure more riches in the new year. After an idyllic river cruise, we deplaned at the far end of the pagoda dock, greeted by an all too graphic display of what the meat is in the local dishes. Rats, arms bent forward, torso charred to perfection, dangling from a fishing line. Same same for the porcupines, distinguishable only because several quills remained intact. But the deer was the true prize. The head and tail in pristine condition – as if keeping those bits of fur clean meant double prosperity for 2013 – with the entire midsection gutted, a bloodied, bare bones slab of carcass so large, so bright red, so captivating, that it seemed to float like a devout monk. We did not eat at these stalls, but the veggie dishes sure went fast in our tour group.

I dreamt that I was an old man, cane bound, moving very slowly across Canadian city streets and being honked at by bicycle couriers, though my face was as 27 as it is now. Clearly an homage to the Hanoi shuffle, a move that one must embrace and committ to fully when venturing onto the motorway on foot. There are thousands of motorbikes, but they don't barrel down as quickly as they do in Thailand. So a slow x-ing ensures that they can dodge, duck, dip, and dodge their way around you with maximum proficiency.

I dreamt of the sweltering Thai beaches where they only sold warm beer and pistachios, and awoke to the crisp mountain air of Vietnam's north west. Thank you overnight train from Hanoi to Sapa and your desert like climate – hot and sweaty in daylight, but glacial when the sun goes down. Air con from hell. Could have also been that evening's lively overindulgence in bia hoi, the daily-brewed 25 cent draft, a good 14 of them, and the three kebabs that followed (authentic Vietnamese cuisine), that surely would defeat any and all hangover symptoms.

I then dreamt of water for the next couple of days (ok more of a binge drinking dream than a Vietnam specific dream, but let's just go with it shall we? (we watched Just Go With It on HBO in our room in Hanoi (first of several tv indulgences on the trip, to be sure) and you know what, it's hilarious)).

I dreamt that i was Liesl's forgotten twin brother, Dusselvid, who had mistakenly been left in the Alps at the age of six and was raised within the rolling hills by tribal women. The only Sound of Music they preferred, unfortunately, was the high pitched drone of “you buy from me?”

I dreamt that I was a billionaire, but lost all of my money in one day because I thought I was donating 1 million to the Red Cross but added three extra zeros by mistake. When a dollar gets you 20,000 Dong, when the colors and sizes of the bill denominations make no logical sense, when menus often don't have prices, when vendors dream up impossibly unfair exchange rates, and when waiters, out of incompetence, overwork, or a keen desire to swindle foreigners, never give you the change you deserve, a small Dong fortune can disappear overnight.

And tonight? I'm sensing something about a pig chasing me, but both of us are in a burlap sack (loaded atop the van midway through our ride to Bac Ha) to a soundtrack of every imaginable breed of dog barking in unison from every corner of town from the hours of 3am to 5am (that being one part dream, and all parts reality).