The plane drops very, very slowly towards Noi Bai. In the distance to the south is a largely indeterminate grey smudge, with the odd hint of a multi-storey building emerging through the haze. As we glide noisily towards the runway, there are what look to be a pair of enormous water-buffalo tethered by the side of a muddy looking paddy. But no: another 100 feet and the reality is two large piles of abandoned tractor tyres. A man looks up from his bicycle and in the next second he is gone as the aircraft comes down onto the rubber- scuffed surface. It is August 2007, and we are in Hanoi.
Vietnam has been an enduring fascination since childhood. The Common Room at my prep school got the daily papers which the older boys used to fillet immediately for the sports pages. Us juniors were left with the dull stuff which bore little relation to our daily lives. There were also the magazines: National Geographic, with its well thumbed pictures of naked natives in the Amazon Basin or Borneo jungle, Look And Learn and Time Life. In 1968, the latter was invariably horrific, the cover usually depicting badly wounded and mangled US and South Vietnamese soldiers piled up on the roofs of mud spattered APCs or on the oily decks of tanks. It was the year of the Tet Offensive, the "Summer of Flames", the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, and the riot - torn chaos of the US Democratic Party convention in Chicago. Those images ignited my interest in politics and history, with one picture in particular standing out. It soon became iconic of the war's terrible destruction and wastefulness; a photograph of a lifeless North Vietnamese soldier, his eyes open and face strangely calm, a body festooned with ammunition, and next to him amongst the detritus, his open and blood-spattered wallet showing the image of his sweet-heart back home.
By the end of 1968, it was obvious that the US was losing. Mounting domestic opposition to the war was leading to serious disorders on the streets of America, inflamed by racial tension. So who were their implacable adversaries, communists to the Americans but "national liberators" to themselves? I could remember the pictures of Ho Chi Minh and the more shadowy Le Duan who directed the war from the North. And could anyone with an interest forget Le Duc Tho, North Vietnam's Comrade "No" who gave Henry Kissinger and the Americans such a run-around at the Paris peace talks? Yet despite the massive US preponderance of military might, the extraordinary willpower of these east Asian people remorselessly ground away at American morale, in spite of their own terrible losses and the destruction wreaked on their homeland. It was, said one American, a time of "destroying a village in order to save it".
Vietnam, re-unified in 1975, is still a communist state which has outlasted the Berlin Wall and the regime of the USSR which gave it support against the Americans. A reform program known as the Doi Moi has brought features of a free market place, and private ownership has hugely expanded to the benefit of the economy as a whole. But the Party is still paramount and the country remains highly militarised. I am nervously excited and have many questions, although a lot are perhaps based on a defective memory of what happened nearly a generation ago.
We go into the airport building, our visas are briskly checked, some more dollars are handed over ("arrival tax") and then we are through. But then we are confronted by the first challenge to any traveller trying to cover a country in ten days - neither of our bags have arrived with us on the plane from Hong Kong. There are many other passengers in the same predicament, a lot of them French tourists, and soon there is a jostling and argumentative scrum around an official counter manned by Vietnamese in military fatigues. The French are getting pretty vexed but are met with curt remarks and impassive stares. We get to the head of our queue and I explain in my school-boy French that we are from Scotland, as if this will magically make things move faster. The almond eyes of the female officer widen just fractionally in interest and she explains in near faultless English that we should go into Hanoi and "wait".
We are met by Ky, our guide, and a small yet dignified gentleman of inscrutable demeanour who will be our driver. This is Mr Tranh. There is some polite sympathy about the luggage, or rather its absence. I am trying to give the impression that I am entirely relaxed about the situation, but Ali knows I get agitated when parted from our "kit" and that I am seething underneath. For her, who is so calm, this could turn the trip into a major bummer, and she rubs my hand soothingly as Ky gives us the briefing. Our journey into town is accompanied by a swarming, hooting mass of bicycles, motor scooters and the famous cycle taxis.
We are staying at the Metropole Hotel, the social centre, really, of the old French colonial apparat in Vietnam. It is where Graham Green allegedly punched out The Quiet American, his somewhat prophetic work about American good intentions coming up against reality, on his war correspondent's typewriter. He had been there in the early 'Fifties before the Vietnamese ejected the French as they would later the Americans. The Hotel has been beautifully restored and we can see a nearby lake and the Hanoi Opera from our balcony. Our room is all glistening teak, gentle ceiling fans, charming lacquer and pottery decorations, abundant flowers and a bed for a lifetime of sleep.
We phone Ky at his apartment and can hear his children hollering and carrying on in the background. His wife has just escorted them on foot back from a school some miles away. Alas, although he has pulled out all the stops, there is no news about the likely arrival of our cases. I can tell he is genuinely embarrassed on our behalves, and that he is a good egg. He advises us to lay in some essentials from the local market a block away from the Metropole. Downstairs we run into the concierge Mr Nguyen (pronounced "Win"). He listens impassively to my tale of woe. "This happens all the time. Do not worry, Mr Cobb. Enjoy some food and drink - take a stroll". I know that there are no more commercial flights from Hong Kong that day, and am fretting that our "kit" may never catch up with us. But Mr Nguyen is already on the case, and barks some instructions down the telephone.
We head off to the market and buy fresh underclothes, some shirts and toiletries. We pass a few hours, drink some green tea and cheer up by munching our way through a bag of prickly pears and rambutans bought from a street stall. Suddenly one of the cycle taxis is beside us, its owner all ingratiating smiles from a mouth of black teeth. His wizened colleague is similarly plucking. We are offered a "tour" and, too tired to resist, climb aboard. The journey takes less than ten minutes and we twice go around the block that we have already circled on foot before being dumped back at the steps at the Metropole. I am ordered to part with $30, which I know will be three day's wages in these parts. Their brazenness is almost charming, and too embarrassed to seek help from the hotel, I hand over the loot. The enterprising "bicycle thieves" head off with derisive gestures and laughs. The next day we will each have a cycle taxi to ourselves for a total of $15 all afternoon.
Mr Nguyen seems almost affronted by my further enquiry about the bags and I am politely but firmly reminded that the matter is in hand. We head to the bar, but despite the enormous care taken over its arrangement and decor, it is almost empty: even the stewards seem to have deserted their posts. We eat a delicious dinner next door, but again the whole atmosphere is quietly subdued. Absolutely stunning waitresses shimmer past in magnificent and embroidered silk ao dais, but they are somewhat humourless in their brisk efficiency. Too tired now for a night-cap, we head up the staircase to our room. Inside are our two cases.
The next day I am beside myself with gratitude: "Mr Nguyen, how on earth did you do it?". I offer a $50 tip, which the concierge accepts with a curt nod before secreting the note in an alcove under his counter, and suddenly I get an insight into why the Vietnamese won the war. Grief or gratitude, despair or delight, it's all the same; for Mr Nguyen, the most important thing was to get the job done.
Ky arrives with Mr Tranh and we head off to see Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum. This is a mock Corinthian monstrosity at the side of an even vaster and unlovely square. The heat is absolutely stifling and Mr Tranh wordlessly passes around bottled water. The queue for what must be the most well inspected cadaver on the planet is astonishing and snakes up and down several rows. There must be well over two thousand people here, but it is the weekend and Ky explains that these scenes are no big deal - a visit to "uncle Ho" is all part of leisure as much as ritual for many citizens. I can see too that there is no shade from the sun apart from a porch no more than twenty metres long at the very head of the line. Everyone is squashed together, but the atmosphere is entirely cheerful as Ky escorts us to the front. I make embarrassed eye contact with some of those we pass, but get only friendly smiles in return. I really am beginning to cheer up.
The noiseless and cool gloom inside is a relief, and we join a line moving at a slow and reverential pace. No one is permitted to linger. All around are youthful but severe looking guards, all armed to the teeth and wearing immaculate white cotton drill uniforms. As far as I can see, we are the only foreigners, and anxious about the correct deportment in front of the most famous, although admittedly dead, revolutionary in the world, I put my hands behind my back. This, it turns out, is a faux pas which I could easily have avoided by simply observing my fellow visitors, and we are immediately confronted by some very angry but silent gestures from one of the guards. I keep my arms by my side for the rest of my time in Vietnam.
We shuffle past the bier with its familiar figure. The wispy goatee is still in place, but Ho's skin is the colour of tallow and he wears an expressionless mask. Outside again, Ky meets us and he is diffident and charming. He is perhaps in his early thirties and has been a guide for five years. He is lucky he says: he, his wife and their two young children have a three roomed apartment in the centre of the city. He modestly agrees to share a photograph of his kids - they look delightful, smiling happily in their white school togs, a scarlet scarf wrapped around each of their necks. They are just about to become "young pioneers". Ky's father was a Captain in the North Vietnamese army, and was among one of the long columns of victorious communist troops waiting patiently outside Saigon for the last Americans to leave before entering the city on the final day of April in 1975.
We head up to Truch Bach, one of many lakes that pepper the urban landscape in Hanoi, and eat a simple lunch in a cafe overlooking the water. Floating on the surface are several pedalos in the shape of white swans and there are a lot of young couples meandering about the pavements. With accommodation at a premium, it is not easy to find some privacy. Ky points out the memorial to John McCain, nowadays a US senator, who was shot down in his A4 Skyhawk at the height of the war and crash landed into Truch Bach. He got a furious reaction: with both arms broken by his late ejection, he was hauled ashore and bayoneted before being dragged off to captivity at the infamous "Hanoi Hilton".
Ali expresses surprise that the Vietnamese would commemorate a formerly hated adversary in this way. I ask how otherwise the Americans are regarded. Ky tells us that American visitors are incredibly respectful when visiting Vietnam and have poured a lot of private money into the country. They sponsor hospitals and cross-cultural events devoted to reconciliation. He himself sometimes escorted US veterans and is aware some of them have even met North Vietnamese veterans who were former foes. President Clinton normalised relations in 1995 and the Vietnamese now accept American contrition as the genuine article. They are the most popular visitors by far.
I mention the scrum of querulous French citizens at the airport and Ky gives a mirthless chuckle. Alas, the French do not seem as well reconciled to their defeat in 1954 as the Americans were to theirs two decades later. Ky says the French tourists occasionally behave as if they were still the colonial masters, perhaps emboldened by the fact that most Vietnamese of a certain age speak French and that it is still in official usage. I ask what second languages the children learn at school now, and he answers that Russian has been well-and-truly supplanted by English. Vietnam's relations with the USSR were complicated, he says. At one level, the Russians provided a lot of military hardware, money and advice. But they were somewhat bullying allies and the Vietnamese leadership came to resent having to ask their permission for the acts needed to secure "national liberation". Their fellow communists, the Chinese were even worse. Piqued by a Vietnamese reprisal attack on their client state Cambodia, which was then under the psychotic rule of the Khmer Rouge, China invaded Vietnam from the north in 1979. A huge army was sent to "punish" Hanoi. The bulk of the Vietnamese forces simply melted away until the Chinese, fearful that they were headed into an almighty ambush set by one of the most combat experienced armies on the planet, decided to withdraw. By contrast, the Vietnamese kicked out the murderous Khmer Rouge regime and fully occupied Cambodia until 1989.
Later we enjoy a leisurely cycle taxi tour around the "old quarter". The sky has darkened over, and the air is now more pleasantly humid. Many streets look dilapidated, but the bustle of activity is intense and unlike the young lovers at Truch Bach, there is no lounging around. Nobody pesters us and I have to admire my "driver's" stamina as he energetically peddles with the overweight carcass behind him. Ali knows of a co-operative where they make amazing and ornate hand-bags, and we take a detour that lasts a good hour. Everyone we meet is polite and dignified but not at all effusive: in fact their reserve is completely charming. We travel back to the Metropole with several new bags.
On our final day we are taken to see Ho Chi Minh's house and the government compound where the politburo met to direct the war. There are few visitors and it is, really, a prosaic experience. There is Ho's bed and eating utensils and there is the bakelite telephone down which he delivered orders or some of his more gnomic apercus. We are evidently supposed to admire his simplicity and his devotion to the people ("peace loving workers everywhere"). But arguably he and his colleagues needlessly prolonged a war long after it was plain that they had won it. As one US diplomat remarked later, "We had to bomb them to accept our concessions".
I start to wander un-shepherded, and round the back of one of the camouflaged buildings I discover a crowd of North Vietnamese army veterans at a get-together. Many are loaded down with medals and there is a lot of chatter and laughter. This looks more like it. I advance with a complacent rictus of delight written all over my face, but before I can take another step I am grabbed by Ky. His face is absolutely aghast and he leads me gently but firmly away. He is embarrassed: I am embarrassed, and I scold myself . My interest in the war is no excuse for this over-familiar assault on some of those who actually had to fight it in the appalling conditions, but whom I don't know from Adam. I realise that Ky has probably saved me from a humiliating gaffe. Ali rolls her eyes and then gives me a kiss of commiseration. Mr Tranh bobs his head silently and enigmatically. We head off to find a beer.
The rest of the time is spent poking around some cultural sites, but really I would prefer to be discussing. We politely decline a visit to a "water puppet" show, which we know to be a bit of tourist kitsch disguised as local "culture" and opt for an excellent dinner at a nearby restaurant. We persuade Ky to make the arrangements and he agrees to join us, although declining on behalf of his wife. Once again, I realise that I have been insensitive - after all, it is late, he has a family to go to and we are just visitors. He really is a lovely bloke: dignified, intelligent, well-informed and attentive to our interests. But there is a sort of unspoken sadness about him, which I have noticed in the demeanour of a number of the folk whom we have come across. It seems the patriotism and endurance of the Vietnamese bears a price which is now hard-wired as a heavy burden in their very genes.
The next day, Ky sees us off for the flight to Hue. He has brought a small gift for Ali from his wife, and is wholly reluctant to take a tip which I am eventually forced to push in his pocket. Mr Tranh, who has not uttered until this point, then steps forward and says in perfect English "Goodbye Mr & Mrs Cobb. I hope you have enjoyed your time in my country. I would very much like to see Scotland one day. I hope you will come back" He gives a small knowing smile to Ky, a toothier one to us, and then they are gone.
