Eating Snake in Da Nang – How Vietnam Bit Back

"Hey you! What are you looking for? Taxi? Maybe a cute girl?"

A local guy materializes from an alley. I had planned a quiet night of Vietnamese potato chips and bad hotel Wi-Fi. The universe had other ideas.

Caption: Cheers to courage and to always say yes to an invitation: toasting with snake blood somewhere deep in Da Nang. “We are blod brothers now”. Photo: Frank Hansen

The Invitation I Didn't Refuse

"Hey you! What are you looking for? Taxi? Maybe a cute girl?"

It’s a humid, dark night in Da Nang 20 years ago. I’ve spent the day sightseeing and I’m on my way back to the hotel, cradling a bag of snacks I don’t fully understand. I’m seconds from potato chip bliss when he appears.

"Hey you! What are you looking for?"

"Nothing," I reply politely, hoping he’ll lose interest. But no. Taxi? Girls? Party favors? He got the full menu. I try a bit of social judo—an excuse so odd he surely can’t deliver:

"I want to eat… snake."

A showstopper, surely. But no.

"OK! Let’s go!" he says, patting the back of his scooter like it’s a throne.

And off we go.

Snake Ride of the Slightly Regrettable Kind

Let’s be clear: I was in no shape for adventure. It was my first night in Da Nang, pitch black outside, and I had just said the dumbest thing imaginable to a strange man with a scooter and enthusiasm.

But pride, as we know, has led many travelers astray. I climbed on.

No footrests. I cling to the rear handlebar, legs forming a desperate V. The scooter shakes like a discount washing machine. Insects smack my face like tiny winged bullets. No people. No signs of human life. Only darkness, doubt, and a curious duo drifting deeper into the night.

I genuinely think: This could be it.

I have just enough time to think this might be my last night on Earth — and that, if so, I’ll be remembered as “that Norwegian guy who died in the jungle hunting for a snake meal.” I can already hear the news reports in my head, and picture the comments from living rooms back home: when you're dumb enough to hop on the scooter of a stranger you met in a Vietnamese alley late at night, what else can you really expect?

But after 20 minutes of what I’ll call nervous reflection, we arrive. An actual restaurant—with plastic chairs, fairy lights, and a pond view. Vietnamese music blares. I'm alive.

The Menu from Jurassic Park

The menu reads like a zoologist’s fever dream: Turtle. Lizard. And of course—snake.

Snakes on the Menu:

King Cobra (Rắn hổ mang) – mythical and pricey

Green Tree Python (Rắn lục) – jungle jewel

Water Snake (Rắn nước) – beginner’s slither

Rat Snake (Rắn ráo) – the house wine of snakes

What I’m about to step into isn’t just a culinary curiosity — it’s the raw and unfiltered theatre of survival. The primal ritual of life and death, tooth and scale. A moment balanced on the edge between predator and prey. To eat, or to be eaten.

Into the Belly of the Reptile House

They wave me toward the back. Suddenly I’m in a dim room that smells like old leather and anxiety. Boxes everywhere. Hissing in the dark. My new friend rests a hand on my shoulder—reassuring, or a warning?

"You must watch their reactions," he says wisely. "Lazy snake, bad snake. Look for strength. Color. Muscle."

He snaps his fingers. Boxes open. One by one, serpents writhe.

My friend gestures like a man who’s done this before. He’s the snake sommelier. I’m the jittery noob.We settle on a 1.6 kg fat python. In a hammock nearby swings a woman who turns out to be the slayer-in-residence. She rises, grips the snake with practiced ease, and—well—nature takes its course. She killed the snake with nothing but her bare hands and the kind of casual efficiency usually reserved for swatting flies or changing TV channels.

Caption: Negotiations underway. Dangerous food. Photo: Frank Hansen

Caption: She killed the snake with her bare hands — calm, precise, and with the grace of someone tying their shoelaces. It stung a bit to watch, sure. But let’s be honest: ethically, it’s no worse than that Friday night pepperoni pizza we all pretend not to think about. Photo: Frank Hansen

Caption: Dinner prep, jungle edition. The staff stretches the snake like a yoga instructor on a deadline, tapping blood into shot glasses and removing the essentials — all with a slight smile, as if he knows the tourist is currently rethinking every life choice since breakfast. Photo: Frank Hansen

The Heart of the Matter

One of the staff took over, calm as ever. He stepped on the tail, stretched the snake out like it was no big deal, tapped the blood into shot glasses, and placed the still-beating heart on a small plate — like it was just another item on the menu.

"For you, my friend."

An hour ago I was preparing for snacks and streaming. Now I’m holding a snake heart like it’s communion.

"It will make you strong and brave," says the waiter.

"And your wife will be very happy," whispers my new friend, pumping his fist in a way that needs no translation.

So I eat it. Of course I do.

Then we toast in snake blood. A circle forms. Everyone gets a glass. Everyone drinks. Everyone ends up with a blood mustache.

Caption: One hour ago: potato chips and chilling plans. Now: a still-beating snake heart on a plate. The twist and turns of life is like snake. Photo: Frank Hansen

A Long Meal

Dinner is surprisingly tasty. Snake soup, snake spring rolls, snake stir-fry, and grilled snake skin—chewy, like heroic chewing gum.

We drink rice wine mixed with snake blood. My friend grows talkative. He has a son who boxes. Can he bring some meat home? Of course. Snake, it turns out, builds courage.

Dinner ends with jokes about the “second ritual”— looking for ladies. Naturally, snake has a bit of a reputation as an aphrodisiac. I’m not sure if that’s because the creature bears a certain resemblance to the male anatomy — assuming you're feeling generous — or if it actually does something mysterious and hormonal once it hits the bloodstream. But that may be a story for another time.

Caption: yup, it got messy! A table full of snake dishes, cigarette packs, rice wine, local beers and the unmistakable chaos of a night that went way off-menu. Frank Hansen

Next morning

We were, to put it politely, several rice wines past sober when we stumbled out of the restaurant. The next morning, I was woken by a knock on the door — apparently, somewhere between the snake heart and the blood toasts, I’d agreed to let my new friend give me a grand tour of his world.

We both looked like we'd slept in a washing machine full of regrets, but things perked up the moment I was back on the scooter, wind in my face, legs flying out in that now-familiar V-formation, clinging on like a mildly hungover koala. Our first stop, as declared with great pride by my new guide, was what he claimed to be “the strongest coffee in all of Vietnam.” A bold statement in a country where the average brew could probably strip paint. Then back alleys, noodle shops, daily life—the real Vietnam.

The man I had, in all my suspicious traveler wisdom, pegged as a scammer turned out to be a genuinely kind soul — and a surprisingly good friend.

Lesson learned: sometimes the guy in the alley isn’t trying to rob you… he just really wants to show you where to eat snake.

Caption: One of the activities my new friend lined up was a trip to a local fishing village, where we tried our luck in the iconic Vietnamese basket boats. Now picture being mildly hungover, bobbing around in a giant woven bowl. Not for the faint of stomach. Photo: Frank Hansen

Final note with a quote from Alex Garland in The Beach:

“So never refuse an invitation, never resist the unfamiliar, never fail to be polite & never outstay the welcome.”

Cliché? Maybe. But some clichés have clearly been places.