A special day in Hanoi. July 27th 2010.

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Flanked by stylish, European villas built sixty years ago by the Fench, the broad, tree-lined avenues were already hot and muggy, in spite of the shade and a slight breeze (mostly created by the traffic). The cafes were doing listless business and most sensible people seemed happy just to sit still and relax; the stalls had been set up long ago and the locals were already well settled in. It was only 10:00am. We walked on.

The imposing but treeless ceremonial approaches to Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum were blazingly sunny and even hotter. We approached the main square, a huge expanse with the sombre gray building standing at a far distance; a police man chased a group of giggling school children off the grass, and we took note, walking around the long way. July 27th is War Memorial Day, focussing especially on those who died or were wounded in the many wars Vietnam faced in the C20th. Because of this, perhaps, the queues for viewing the great Leader were immensely long. Although fast moving, the end remained out of sight as we walked and walked to try and join in. School children, squads of soldiers, families and friends: all seemed to be enjoying the wait to see the revered man himself. In the end, dripping and sun-dazed, we gave up, intending to return another, less auspicious day.

We had been woken earlier that morning, not just by the usual clamour of tai chi and martial arts practice, but by crackling loudspeaker exhortations and military folk tunes. This was prelude to a ceremony that took place a little later in front of the war memorial in the little square outside our hotel. Soldiers paraded and laid wreaths; rousing speeches were made; various groups sang patriotic songs, dating back, presumably, to the American War; others danced little tableaux, representing the spirit of freedom and independence in Vietnam. All this was watched intently by a group of well-decorated if elderly soldiers in immaculate uniform, and a knot of serious faced civilians, men and women also of a certain age. Meanwhile, the guard of honour stood at unflinching attention in the full sun. Others, their usual tai chi or yoga or chatting interrupted, watched on intently. As the usual traffic roared past, drivers hooted in solidarity.

All over Hanoi that day, war memorials were decorated with wreaths, flowers. Clearly, the ceremony we had witnessed had been one repeated all over the city.

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