We arrived late last night from Da Nang to Hue, a pretty, sprawling town that's home to the best beer in Vietnam – Huda. There's less of the hustle of Hanoi and none of the hassle of Hoi Ann. We hung around and ordered coffee by the river, before walking through the market. And a proper market this time with not a Vietnam t-shirt or fake Ralph Lauren top to be seen. Just odd vegetables and evil smelling river fish full of bones, which we ate with rice before walking up to the Citadel.
When Vietnam had an emperor, this was where he called home. Or at least it was until Ho Chi Minn came along. Then came the Americans and the whole place was levelled in some of the fiercest fighting of the Tet Offensive. You can read about all this in Michael Herr's Despatches, but for a few weeks the VC held onto Hue, flying the flag from the Citadel until the US shelled the place. The biggest casualties were civilians. Now, Hue is a town studded with cafes and restaurants offering tours of the DMZ to the tourists. I wonder what the locals think of it? Perhaps it's water under the bridge, or maybe it's just another way to earn money.
There's still some bits left of the Citadel and although they've been restored to a high standard, there are still piles of rubble and bands of cats running about the place. Outside the palace walls we chat to a kid fishing the moat. He teaches us to fish with just a piece of string, but my historically terrible fishing skills mean I catch nothing. Fish seem to see me coming.
Walking by the river, Tam, a plucky 23 year old skipper persuades us to take a cruise on his broad river barge piloted by his sister. Inside, by the bow is a shrine to an older man. I think it's Tam's dad as his mother had collected our money on the shore.
The tour is a simple cruise up the Mekong and after ten minutes or so, Tam scampers over the top of the cabin and plonks himself down on the gunwale to question us. It's the usual stuff – who are you, were do you come from and what football team do you support. Then he pulls out a letter from his friend Patrick that morning – could we translate it for him. Sure, and before long Tam has returned with a bulky package. As with all interesting things it took a little bit of digging to get the story, but here it is.
Last season, Tam gave Patrick a river cruise and learnt this fifty something from St Louis was a Vietnam veteran. Patrick's letter was an itinerary about his forthcoming tour of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. He wanted to take Tam along. 'Do you have a passport?' I ask Tam. 'What's a passport?' he replied.
I read through the letter, Patrick was promising to pay for food, accommodation and transport. All Tam had to take was spending money and get himself to Ho Chi Ming City sometime in late January. I looked up at Tam and asked just who this guy was.
Tam told us a little bit more about Patrick; he'd been a flight coordinator in the USAF during the war and directed bombing runs on Hanoi. 'He knows many people who died,' said Tam without further explanation. After the cruise, Patrick hired Tam to take him on a moped tour of the DMZ a thin band of land north of the city that stretched from the sea to Laos border. 'He's a big guy,' said Tam, 'We didn't go fast.' Patrick started to cry as they toured the DMZ started crying, so Tam took him to the beach to cheer him up.
What was going on? What was a fifty something man with two grown sons, doing planning a trip round South East Asia with a 23 year old man. I later thought it might be sexual, but I eventually threw that theory out. It just didn't seem right. Maybe it was some deep-rooted self loathing dressed up in fantastic altruism. I say altruism, because in addition to offering Tam a completely unobtainable experience, he was also sending him presents too.
'Look what came with the package,' said Tam fishing out an MP3 CD player and three generic Walmart best of CDs – Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. The young man scours the label before handing it over with a guiding finger – look at this: insurance of contents: $60, cost to send: $20. 'Does he love me?' said Tam. Shit, all I could say was, 'Patrick must care for you very much Tam.'
'Sixty dollars, that's a million Dong,' said Tam, 'Why didn't he just give me that instead?' I try and explain how it was different with gifts, that you had to look past the worth and focus on the sentiment, but he just didn't get it. And why should he? Tam couldn't help but add up the value of things because he really had nothing except this boat – his livelihood – that Patrick was asking him to leave during the height of the tourist season. I look back down at the letter. Patrick signs off by saying he considers Tam his son.
Even my ropey mental arithmetic knows Tam is not Patrick's son. But who knows? Perhaps Patrick did leave a son behind. It wasn't uncommon. Perhaps this is atonement for that, or playing his part in the war. I'll never know. We left Tam wondering out loud whether his Mum would let him take time off to go on holiday.
Back at the hotel, Rambo First Blood was on satellite. That was weird.
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