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Vietnamese people in white collar jobs have complete confidence in their bureaucracy ... an absence of doubt that only Communism could create. Or Germany.

Sometimes it feels like you are constantly being dealt a hand of random rules. If you ask about a particular rule, you will not be given any further detail or explanation. The other person will assume you didn’t hear them the first time, and restate the rule verbatim. Then restate it. And restate it. And restate it. Until your exasperation has been emulsified into compliance.

“Sorry sir your form is using blue pen.”

-- “Oh. OK. But it's OK then?”

“No. You must use black pen.”

-- “You won’t accept this form because I used blue pen?”

“Yes. No. You need to use a black pen. This is blue. I cannot process this.”

“But why?”

-- “Because it is blue.”

“No. I mean. Why can’t I just use blue pen? Why black?”

-- “Our policy is black pen.”

“But I used your pen. The blue pen. That one." [Points] "Over there. On the counter. The counter with the forms." [Walks over and picks it up] "It is attached to the counter with this red string." [Points at the side of the pen] "It has your company name on it." [Puts it down and walks back.]

-- “But that pen is blue. You need to use black pen. Next to it.”

“But WHY?”

-- “Because it is black.”

“Oh. OK Kevin."

And Buddha Help You if you make a mistake on a form, not matter how minor, and attempt to cover it up or cross it out. Because you will never get away with it. It would be easier to wriggle your way out of murder charges. The minute you make a mistake, tear it up and start again. You have killed the form ... so the quicker you can destroy the evidence the better.

People with only a smidgen of authority will apply their rules strictly. Parking attendants are the worst. When you park downstairs at work you will be given a paper ticket. The tickets are flimsy and non descript and generic. Like entering a school raffle for a Xmas hamper.

Just. Don't. Lose. It.

If you lose this ticket you will be forced to wait in a little office for half an hour until the supervisor arrives. He will sit you down, smile and offer you iced tea before gently interrogating you. You gently sip the tea and answer his questions, you gradually realise that this may be the Good Cop. You will provide your passport number, home address and phone numbers. You show him your business card, which he accepts with both hands. The little finger nail on his left hand is perfectly manicured and long, while his left nails are filthy.

You are then told that his manager will now need to come down.

Bad Cop arrives soonafter. If you had been offered a cigarette, he would have knocked it out of your mouth as he swooped in and down into the only unoccupied chair. Bad Cop tells you that your bike is going to be impounded. No questions. He points across to a roped-off area of the car park where you can see a few bikes already sitting there glumly, yours now included, like teenagers on detention. Bad Cop tells you that you need to come back tomorrow with a photocopy of your passport, a photocopy of your driver's licence, a completed form (which he hands you) and a copy of the registration papers of the bike. If the bike is rented, you need to come back with the owner of the place where you rented the bike. You ask if that is necessary, and he simply repeats all of this again.

You tell him that all his staff know you, most of them by name. That you park here every day.They wave to you when you arrive and leave. The key you're holding even fits the ignition. You have a business card with an address at this building. Bad Cop will have none of it.

Later, if you explain to a local about this lost ticket drama and the silly rules and effort involved they look at you incredulously while you're telling them the story ... you start to think they’re on your side, you tell them more and more ... then when you finish you get a “Why did you lose your ticket?!? You shouldn’t lose your ticket!”.

The same happened when R had his iPhone snatched out of his hand while sitting on the street texting. Someone drove past while the passenger leaned out of the window and grabbed it. When R was at work the next day and recounted this to a local, they said "You shouldn't send sms on the street. You should be more careful." This in a city with bugger-all crime.

People in decent jobs do not try very hard, if at all, to “sell” their product either. For example, if you walk into a fancy motorbike shop and you will be either ignored or gently stalked. But at no time will anyone offer to help you understand what you’re looking at, or (Buddha forbid) persuade you to buy it.

Outside the tourist areas, or markets with flowers, people will not attempt to sell you their product ... an absence of marketing that only communism could create. Or an engineering degree.

These learnings became relevant when I finally decided to join the Hanoi Club.

First up, I walked up to the reception desk and asked if someone could show me around. No problem. The main drawcard for me is the gym. They also have a driving range, a swimming pool, upstairs they have a restaurant, some meeting rooms, the occasional patch of threadbare carpet and some boarded up corridors. There is a crap library that smells of granny and a mini cinema. There is also a rusty speedboat that you can hire, no questions or licences asked.

They are also incredibly inflexible. You need to pay your yearly membership up-front and there are no refunds. As we were slowly walking downstairs I asked her about this policy:

“Is there any circumstance where I would get a refund? What if my job makes me leave Hanoi after 3 months, can I get any money back?”

—“No. No refund.”

"What about if my mother dies. If I pay you today for 1 year and my mother dies tomorrow and I need to leave, do you give me the money back?"

—“No. No refund.” [Genuinely smiles.]

“OK. Do you don’t care if my mother dies?”

—“No” [Genuinely smiles again.] "One time we had a man who paid for 3 years membership. After 1 month his family had a very bad car accident and he had to leave Vietnam. We did not give him any money back. 3 years. 3 months. No refund.”

“That’s a lovely story, Sharon. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

She nodded and smiled back at me as we descended the stairs and walked back to the desk. As I shelled out the dosh I winced, caught myself, and tried to make it look like a smile.