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The most sacred shrine in all of Vietnam contains not a single Buddha, incense stick or offering. It is the ugliest shrine in the country. In fact, it doesn't look remotely Vietnamese.

I refer, of course, to the hulking mausoleum that contains the earthly remains of Ho Chi Minh. Here is where every schoolchild, war veteran and patriot comes to pay hushed respects to the father of their country, now splendidly embalmed under glass.

Ho himself would certainly have loathed this fate. He was a man of simple tastes, and wished to be cremated. “Not only is cremation good from the point of view of hygiene but also it saves farmland,” he wrote.

Still, the old guy looks pretty good for someone who's 118. He looks wise and kind – just the way he does in his portraits, which hang in a place of honour in every North Vietnamese home. Uncle Ho, they call him fondly.

But if the man who united this country 33 years ago is more beloved than ever, to the younger generation, the wars he fought are ancient history. “We don't care about history or politics – just about being Western,” says Nguyen Huu Duc, who is 26.

Duc is our guide to Vietnam, both the old and the new. He has spiky hair and doesn't get along with his father (“too old-fashioned”). He and his friends admire America – its personal freedoms, its technology, its cheekiness and material success. They devour its pirated movies and its counterfeit name brands. They speak the universal language of consumerism. Their little sisters wear Barbie Fashion backpacks. In one home where we had tea, the customary portrait of Uncle Ho faced off against an enormous Disney poster, featuring Mickey and Minnie.

And the kids aren't alone. Outside Ho's mausoleum, we chatted with an old war vet who was blind in one eye. He's only a cyclo driver now, but when he puts on his medals and uniform he gets respect. He lost the eye when the Americans bombed his supply convoy on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. “How do you feel about the Americans now?” I asked him. “I have no quarrel with them,” he said. Even to the fighters, the war is ancient history.

Money helps. After the war, times were hard. The southern soldiers who had fought with the Americans were sent off to re-education camps, and the Communists' ruinous economic policies kept everybody poor. But eventually the government decided to emulate the Chinese and liberate the economy. Today, it is growing at a blistering pace.

Compared with the Cambodians or the Burmese, in fact, the Vietnamese are rich. Even peasants have motorbikes and TVs. “A few years ago, my mother had to pay two pigs for a television,” Duc says. Now, a television costs only half a pig. The current hit is a talent show called (in rough translation) Vietnam Idol.

As for the capitol, Hanoi still has its charms. There are, as yet, no Starbucks or McDonald's. And there are many exquisite temples – as calm, serene and peaceful as they must have been 500 years ago. In the Old Quarter (the best place to stay), every tiny storefront is chock full of goods, from coffins to herbal remedies to shoes, plus anything that can be made of silk.

But this is not the city of 10 years ago, when people made their way by bicycle through the Old Quarter's narrow streets. These days, most Hanoians ride motorbikes, and they all use their horns. En masse, six or eight abreast, they are terrifying. The only way to cross the street is to plunge bravely into traffic and keep going, without making eye contact. The sea will part miraculously around you, according to rules known only to the Vietnamese.

And while the street food is good – take a seat on the sidewalk, those low plastic chairs only look as if they're for children – the city also has dozens of high-end restaurants, sophisticated art galleries, craft stores and clothing boutiques.

Another change: Hanoi is swarming with Westerners, mostly from Europe. It's not nearly as cheap as it used to be, but you can still get a decent hotel room for $80 or $90 a night. And if the service people's English is imperfect, the service is can-do.

Duc calls the tourists the Potato People, because the word “tourist” sounds like the word “potato” in Vietnamese. Also, we are large, white and lumpy. Vietnamese people are slender, lithe and graceful. The high-school girls in their enchanting ao dai dresses are a timeless picture of feminine beauty – their traditional costumes marred only slightly by their motorbike helmets, which are now mandatory.

RICE FIELDS AND DOG MEAT

Although we are potato people, we are not entirely soft. To prove it, we've arranged to go trekking in the hills, where we'll stay a few nights with local families in their villages. This is a great way to see the countryside close up.

It's true, I've sprained my knee and can barely walk, but Duc assures me it will be no problem. He gets on his cellphone and finds a guy named Duong, whose name is pronounced Zoom. Duong has a motorbike, and will be my personal chauffeur.

We head off to Mai Chau, a spectacularly scenic valley a few hours from Hanoi, and leave behind the paved roads, the traffic jams and modernity. Down in the hollows, women in mollusk hats are planting the rice fields. The rice shoots are brilliant emerald in the sun. We also pass tribal women wearing indigo-coloured headdresses. Far below us, down a muddy track, is the village where we'll spend the night.

North Vietnam is home to dozens of ethnic tribes, and this Hmong village has enough authenticity for anyone. The Hmong women wear huge, elaborately embroidered skirts, and the little girls are taught to sew as soon as they can hold a needle. The families live in dark, two-room wooden houses – one big room for sleeping, and one small, smoky room for cooking. Strands of soot hang from the kitchen's rafters. I try to make conversation with a couple of the older girls, but they just giggle and point at my comical red toenails.

Duc thinks the Hmong are backward. They don't care much for education, and they aren't very clean. Their diet is quite basic – rice, celery root and sugar cane for the kids to suck on, plus a bit of dog sausage. He smiles merrily as we gag. “Dog meat is very good!” he insists. We eye the cuddly puppies rolling in the mud with wariness and pity.

But the Hmong village hasn't been entirely untouched by progress. Some of the houses have satellite dishes. Beneath their swirling skirts, some of the women are wearing plastic Crocs. A store at the end of the