I thought about it while he chained his cyclo to the wall. The narrow alleyway around us teemed with life. A shiny, russet rooster and a naked toddler eyed each other warily. Three basins of moist brown snails and speckled pigeon eggs shared an unoccupied corner. A nearby ice cream vendor was attracting droves of wide-eyed children with his bulbous circus horn. It looked ideal.

I followed Gulik through the parlor, past the family shrine wreathed in incense and offerings of tangerines and instant noodle soup. Up ahead, an old man slowly lowered himself down a ladder and shuffled away. We hauled ourselves up to the second floor.

The midday glare seemed little more than a distant memory in the uncompromising darkness. Gulik led me to a small alcove, separated from the windowless room by a wall of plywood odds and ends. A curtain hung across the door and a thin ray of sunlight crept in through the only chink in the wall. Gulik turned and presented it to me with a flourish.

Before I had time to respond the curtain was once again thrust aside and a young woman stormed in. Without sparing me a glance she marched straight to Gulik, berating him in staccato Vietnamese and flinging her arms, elbows first, in my direction. The gist of the conversation was clear. This was their bedroom and she had no plans to vacate it. Gulik responded meekly with muttered dollar signs, to no avail. She marched us both in goose-step to a filthy corner at the far end of the room. The walls were dank and runny. Rusty pieces of re-bar stuck up at odd angles from the floor. A large, unidentified insect crunched under my foot. It was so dark that I could barely make out a ragged hole in the floor a few feet away. The family toilet.

Gulik recovered quickly and proceeded to point out the glories of my new home. He offered to put up a plastic curtain for privacy and perhaps even whitewash the walls if I stayed long enough. The facilities were nearby and a loving family environment would envelop me like a long lost daughter.

"How much?" I asked.

How much, he inquired diplomatically, was I paying at my hotel?

Ten dollars, I said, for hot and cold running water, sheets and a mattress, a private room and a thermos of piping hot tea every morning.

He nodded happily. "The same."

We shook hands while I promised insincerely to consider his offer. I escaped into the sunlight and fled back to my hotel.