The train has colonial high backed slatted wooden seats.

We pass pagodas, hens picking across marshy morning glory fields,Thang Son, the mountain where Ho's body was hidden during the war, and mist. Grey-worn silk-skinned water buffalo with carved curved wooden yokes plough the rice fields. Westerners do not use this trainline. Everyone is helpful. We are travelling to Phoung's family house in Phuto Province. We have permission. I have searched my rough guide but there is no mention of this province which is 130 kilometres Northwest of Hanoi.

We drive past banana trees, flooded rice fields and muddy tracks. The light has gone. We are greeted by Phuong's father and stepmother and Bien's father in the family house. We sip tea in the front room sitting on large dark carved wooden chairs. Above the ebony lions with giant tusks protruding from their foreheads is the photograph of Uncle Ho. Above this is the altar to the ancesters.  Chickens have been killed for us. On top of the chicken pieces is a cluster of irregularly shaped yellow soft balls. They are reserved for me.

'What are these?' I had not thought what eggs would be before they were eggs. I should try them, but after the uncertainty of leaving Hanoi, the exit from the floods and  the long train journey I do not feel like trying embryonic  pre-eggs. I want to unpack. I am feeling disorientated and exhausted.  Our gracious hosts do not speak English. Myself, Peter, my nephew, my brother  are the only foreigners who have entered this house. Phuong translates. We have many toasts of rice wine, a potent spirit.  To Vietnam and its future, our friendship, the good health of my family and friendship between all nations. To my absent brother, whom they have come to love, and to the hope that we will return to Vietnam, perhaps forever. Each toast is accompanied by clinking of glasses and downing the small glass of spirit in one go. I had thought that this toasting that we have encountered before was a lighthearted, late night tongue in cheek activity but now I realise its seriousness. As all the dishes on the table are shared, so too is the drinking a communal activity. It appears that one does not raise a glass without proposing a toast. 

Bien's father fought in the Vietnam war. He spent years attaching explosives to American boats, swimming underwater for long distances at night. He asks us quietly

'What do you feel about communism?

He wants to communicate with us with some urgency. Phuong translates.

'When I was fighting in the war I hated all Westerners but now I realise that the war created this hatred. Now I know that and I am proud of the relationship our family has with your family. I am proud that you are eating here with us and I hope the relationship between our families and our nations will last forever and that we can build the future together.'

The grandfather clock ticks. I can hear Cicadas outside and toads croaking. I cannot speak.