The Road to Khe Sanh. (First Person).(Short Story)

THE PULL OFF Highway 1 and head west on a side road leading to the village of Sen near Kim Lien. We are on our way to the house where Ho Chi Minh was born. Our young guide, Mr Quang, glances at the map from time to time and feels obliged to explain that he and the driver are not quite sure of the route. No one has asked to come this way before. But not to worry. They will find it. The unspoken assertion is that the Open Door Travel Agency can handle situations like this. It can be relied upon.

The road becomes a strip of bitumen flanked at first by banana trees, then by an array of she-oaks. A kiln with a smoking chimney stack sits alone in one of the adjoining fields. The peaceful rural scene is suddenly disrupted by an overtaking mini-bus with a honking horn. It surges past, much to the annoyance of our driver, still honking. A sign on the rear door reveals that the operators of the pushy van are working for the Marie Stopes Birth Control Clinic. Quang takes a hurried look at his map as if not quite sure what other visitations await us in this part of the world. Everything is fine, he declares. It is all okay. Sally and I in the back seat exchange glances.

We reach the village at 11 a.m., which proves to be closing time for lunch. After a few rapid exchanges, Quang manages to persuade the guide at the kiosk to open the gates again. She does so, reluctantly. We walk into a compound of small, thatched-roof houses, surrounded by carefully tended gardens; a lived-in village in other days, no doubt. In conformity to the local requirement we buy a lotus stem to lay on the Ho Chi Minh shrine. At this hour of the morning we are the only visitors.

The local guide--a middle-aged woman dressed in a pale green suit--takes us first to the house owned by Ho Chi Minh's grandfather. She embarks upon a lengthy family history the essence of which seems to be that the great leader's maternal grandparents lived in this district and were reasonably well-to-do. Their daughter married a poor but studious local boy--Ho Chi Minh's father. The newlyweds were living here when Ho Chi Minh was born. Soon afterwards, the young father decided to travel south to pass his exams, with the result that Ho Chi Minh was brought up and educated principally at Hue. He came back to his birthplace here at Kim Lien as a famous man in the 1960s, but as the village was in the war zone by then he could stay for only five minutes or so.

Quang appears to be affected by this tale. He has been down Highway 1 many times, we understand, but Kim Lien is new to him. He presses the local guide for further details, nodding attentively. Excusing himself, he heads back to the car in a rush. He persuades the driver to leave off polishing the shiny vehicle, and gets him to open the boot. A moment later, to our surprise, he is back beside us with a video camera in one hand. He points it at this and that, as if our visit to this village has suddenly become a highlight of the trip.

The local guide conducts us to another thatched-roof hut. Here we are handed lighted joss sticks and told to place our lotus stems in front of the shrine. In the next hut we are shown the small, austere room where Ho Chi Minh was born. The guide is unable, or unwilling, to say whether Ho Chi Minh has any surviving relatives in these parts, although it occurs to me (hence my question) that she, with her rather frail appearance, resembles the famous political leader. My thoughts run on.

WHEN HO CHI MINH became the first President of the Republic of Vietnam in 1945 he remarked: "I was chosen President because I had nothing: no family, no house, no fortune, and only one suit of clothes--the one I am wearing." This was a reminder that for three decades, spent mostly abroad, he had devoted all his energy to the cause of international communism. He had received Marxist indoctrination in Moscow, founded the Indochinese Communist Party in Hong Kong, and by various clandestine manoeuvres had set up the Viet Minh league in Southern China. His one suit of clothes was a patchwork of many disguises.