When we finally reached Vung Tau, the rain had stopped but everywhere we saw its effects: a host of potholes brimming with the brightening sky’s reflections, and awnings and canopy-covered frontages fat-bellied. All about us water sluiced and dripped, flooding through drains and carrying the street’s detritus to some new destination. A large rat scurried across our path, its fur rain-beaded and shiny. Only the suddenly blue sky offered a semblance of a welcome and we stretched our legs, glad to be out of the car’s confines. A small farmers’ market bunched itself up tight under tarpaulins, and the scrawny hens in bamboo cages stuck their necks through the bars to complain to us as we passed. Some kids splashed each other in puddles, high-kicking spray until rebuked by a passing adult. The curved rim of beach was deserted and the sea itself looked calm, almost motionless. I had assumed Corley had been there before, but it turned out he hadn’t, and I soon discovered his knowledge of the place was based on the stories he had heard when it was the centre for our troops’ R&R. But whatever buzz it once held had long since departed, so what we found was lots of boarded-up dance halls and bars with curiously romantic names or echoes of home. It felt like a ghost town alive only in the memories of the thousands of Americans and Australians who had used it to temporarily escape the conflict. There were a few bars along the front still in business, their customers mostly locals with a sprinkling of Americans, probably employed by the host of private companies who still hoped to make a buck out of development or continued lucratively servicing some part of the military’s ongoing needs. But we had come too late for the party.

One open-fronted bar had music coming from it and we stopped there for a drink and watched three musicians – a guitarist–singer, a drummer and a keyboard player all with tinny little instruments – try to replicate pop tunes they had heard on the radio. We played a game of seeing who was first to recognise the song. When we asked the owner if they served food he shook his head but changed his mind and eventually brought us a simple dish of pork and rice. It started to rain again and we moved further inside so that we were close to the tiny stage. I turned to watch the downpour dancing on the plastic tables outside and the scurry of people for shelter, their heads covered with all sorts of improvised protection. The rain darkened the sky and rendered the sea monochrome. A wind started up, fretting the palm trees and scudding up waves in a sea that had suddenly quickened into fierce motion. Then a young woman in a sparkly bikini, white knee-length boots and a cowboy hat came onstage and took over the singing. A huddle of Americans slapped their table until the glasses bounced and rattled as she sang ‘Rock Your Baby’ and shimmied from side to side then ventured into the audience, teasing and flirting with them but evading their outstretched hands. A couple of them tried to entice her closer with dollar bills but she somehow managed to extract their money without entering their grasp. Corley looked at me and rolled his eyes but we didn’t leave and told ourselves it was because of the rain.