Tuesday 11 November – Hue, Vietnam

See and download the full gallery on posterous

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.

Posted via web from the antigob

THE HUNT FOR THE TIGERFEN

Jim meets Alex, together they play dangerously, stalk a mythical beast and form an awesome band. What could possibly go wrong?

This is what I've mainly been working on for six months. It's a book and I'll be posting bits and pieces up now and then.

In this bit Jim's granddad, Charlie catches his grandson and Alex playing around in the farmyard and warns them to watch out for the Tigerfen.

Charlie asked Alex if Jim had told him about the Tigerfen. Jim hadn't. He knew what was coming and even though he'd heard it all before, he wanted to hear it again, so he kept quiet and listened to his granddad tell of the beast that had terrorised the villages of South Holland, Lincolnshire for generations. Nobody knew when it first appeared, Charlie thought it might have been when the Dutch drained the fen, but it was well-known dogs, cats, chickens and other animals were not safe on their own at night. Children were warned not to creep from their beds. But it didn't matter, because the Tigerfen would always be blamed for something and then the men would gather to catch it. Nothing ever came back, only apocryphal encounters in the boggy copses or snatched visions across flat fields. Nobody knew what it looked like, only that it was there, somewhere, out there. Waiting for you to go down and check the padlock on the woodshed at sunset.

'This all happened just before the spring, maybe February? And I'd have been your age Jim. I'd been helping my Dad – your great-granddad – pull up this big dead stump of a tree down by the drain junction. It taken us all day to get it out, bring it back and chop it up. Past the stable we used to have a lean-to made from wriggly tin where we kept all the wood for the winter. People didn't really nick things back then, but you had to be careful and it was a good idea to padlock the sheds. Not that it would have done any good with that old shed. It was so full of holes you could have bashed your way in. We eventually lost it in a big storm. It got blown clean through the yard, past our house and up the street before finally going over the wall into the cemetery. Anyway, my Dad couldn't remember if he locked up so he sent me down before dinner to check. It was just after the sun set. The sky was bright orange and the land, sheds and trees were all mixed together and black with shadow. I didn't like going down there with the light fading, it was always pretty spooky and cold, so I didn't hang around. I came around the side of the stables, looking through the bunch for the right key and there it was standing in front of me, no further than you are away from me now, stock still. Now, sometimes when I try and remember what it looked like, it has long shaggy hair that hung under its belly, sometimes its bigger than a Great Dane and sometimes I reckon no bigger than a Black Lab. But I'll never forget the steam rising from it's muzzle and those big, bright, flaming eyes burning straight into mine. I couldn't move could I, what would you do?'

'I don't know', said Alex, 'Was it the Tigerfen?'

'Who knows what it was, maybe it was the Tigerfen, but that's just a name. I believe there are things that walk the earth we know nothing about', said Charlie.

'What did you do?' said Jim.

'I stood as still as I could and watched its chest flex in and out, as if it just run all the way there to meet me. Eventually it turned round and buggered off into the field at the back there. Of course, I got my Dad and he came out with his twelve bore.'

'Did you shoot it?' Asked Jim excitedly. This bit of the story was new.

Charlie shook his head. 'The sun had long set by then and I don't think either of us wanted to go stumbling around in the twilight looking for it.'

'It was probably just a big dog', said Alex.

'Oh right – one with flaming eyes', said Jim.

'Maybe it was', said Charlie, 'maybe it wasn't.'

'Why is it called a Tiger then?'

'Who can say? But it does go to show that farms are not playgrounds. You two had no right up on those bales. If your Mum caught you Jim she'd have kittens. And I reckon your Mum, Alex wouldn't be best pleased if you went back home with a broken neck. Now go on the pair of you round the front, they've go something you should see.'


I know formatting isn't tight yet. More soon.