Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

An Ancient Turtle Named After Bánh Xèo Can Teach Us a Lot About Whimsy in Science

2026-05-15T12:00:00+07:00

Nước mắm — that ruby-hued elixir; that salty, fish-flesh-sweet open secret in your favorite recipe; that indispensable icon of Vietnamese culture and, by extension, identity — owes itself to Commerson’s anchovies. That’s right, if your fish sauce comes from the central region, where it was first developed, the fish pressed with salt to produce it are Stolephorus commersonnii, a species named in 1801 after Philibert Commerson, a white Frenchman. Picture all the hardscrabble village homes suffering under the yoke of colonialism, where one of the day’s few pleasures was a humble meal made delicious by a carefully rationed dash of fish sauce and an ingredient whose name pays homage to their colonizers.

Left: Philibert Commerson. Photo via wikimedia.
Right: Stolephorus commersonnii. Photo via Arobid.

Sadly, naming endemic creatures after foreigners is a convention not unique to Commerson’s anchovies. Scanning lists of animals native to Vietnam yields a great number of western men (it’s always men). Delacour's Langur (Trachypithecus delacouri), Lichtenfelder's gecko (Goniurosaurus lichtenfelderi), Osgood's rat (Rattus osgoodi), and Griffin's leaf-nosed bat (Hipposideros griffini) are all Vietnamese animals, as much as an animal can be claimed by a nation, with names honoring non-Vietnamese.

Left: Delacour's langur. Photo via Orangepopp.
Right: Lichtenfelder's gecko. Photo via Biolib.

Binomial nomenclature, the globally accepted standard for naming organisms, includes a first, “generic” name that identifies the genus and a second, specific name that distinguishes the species within that genus. Unlike common names, which differ across languages (i.e. tiger or cọp are the common names for Panthera tigris), scientific names allow for a precise, relatively simple means of discussing organisms across regions and disciplines. This is particularly important when it comes to plants and animals that may have medicinal qualities or be poisonous. The system, developed by 17^th-century Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus during his ill-fated attempts to identify every living creature on Earth, is currently governed by various internationally agreed-upon codes of rules, including the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature (ICZN).

Binomial, also called scientific names, and their conventions are as messy as one might expect from scientists working before the advent of electricity, gas engines, refrigerators, typewriters or telephones. The second halves of the names often reference physical characteristics, geographical locations, or behaviors to aid in accurately identifying an organism. But sometimes they are simply used as a means of paying respect to individuals. While the science community frowns aggressively on naming any animal or plant after oneself, specific names, since their advent, have been a way to compliment a mentor, peer, friend or loved one. More than one scientist have used them in attempts to woo a woman or land a promotion.

Left: Beyonce's horsefly. Photo via NBC News.
Right: Darth Vadar's isopod. Photo via Pensoft.

In addition to all the names of scientists that appear in the records, there are more playful examples that involve puns and pop culture, such as the Darth Vader isopod (Bathynomus vaderi); a genus of crustaceans named Godzillius; a large-eyed, swamp-dwelling fish named after a Lord of the Rings character (Galaxias gollumoide); and even a horsefly with a golden bum named after Beyoncé (Scaptia beyonceae). Considering the vast number of beetles, worms, fungus and microscopic sea creatures in the world, not just now, but across all time in the fossil record, it’s easy to understand how Diego Maradona has a damselfly (Librelula maradoniana) and Lady Gaga has a wasp (Aleiodes gaga).

Sanqiaspis vietnamensis, an ancient, jawless fish that lived over 400 million years ago, was formally described in 2009. Illustration by Deviantart user avancna.

Let’s return to Vietnam. Because of many reasons including the western origins of the naming conventions, global inequalities that have historically placed western science at the forefront of discoveries, and accepted racism, references to Vietnam are relatively rare in the records, despite the thousands of opportunities. Certain geographical references do appear, including countless annamensis, tonkinensis, and cochinchinensis. More recent examples include Rhacophorus hoanglienensis, a frog found within the Hoàng Liên National Park; a gecko (Gekko badenii) whose name references the Bà Đen mountain where it lives; an ancient, jawless fish (Sanqiaspis vietnamensis); and even our beloved sao la (Pseudoryx nghetinhensis).

Scientists are more likely to name new species after Vietnamese locations, as opposed to individuals, but a few do reference the immense impact of Vietnamese researchers, including Dr. Ngô Văn Bὶnh and Dr. Nguyễn Văn Sáng, who were honored with snakes (Dendrelaphis binhi and Coluberoelaps nguyenvansangi, respectively). Historical figures make appearances as well, including a moth (Marcopoloia leloi) named after Lê Lợi; a beetle (Cyphochilus leducthoi) after Lê Đức Thọ; and an ant (Xymmer phungi) for Phan Đình Phùng. Hồ Chí Minh, meanwhile, received the privilege of having both a spider (Pholcus hochiminhi) and a beetle (Oedichirus hochimini).

Commonly called Bình's bronzeback snake in honor of Dr. Ngô Văn Bὶnh, Dendrelaphis binhi is a rather charismatic critter. Photo via iNaturalist.

I think the names could be doing even more, however, and experts agree. A recent paper from the Royal Society concluded that: “Because the nomenclatural Codes impose surprisingly few constraints on the formation of a new scientific name, naming is one of the most creative acts in all the sciences. The results of unleashing scientists’ creativity have been fascinating, with species bearing scientific names coming from many source languages and with a remarkable variety of etymologies. Scientific names (like the scientists who confer them) can be beautiful, irritating, amusing, poignant, provocative or infuriating. They raise important issues of social justice and equity in the history and practice of science. Finally, they can apparently have a role in directing our scientific attention to study.” If scientific names can make people excited about the natural world, aware of important issues, interested in local history, or proud of their heritage, we should embrace creative naming with great enthusiasm.

A few recent namings give me hope that things are headed in the right direction. A Central Highlands hedgehog was given the name Hylomys macarong, because its front teeth resemble the fangs of a vampire (ma cà rồng), and any use of non-western languages helps decolonialize science and invite young people here to envision a place for themselves within it. Meanwhile, a dainty bird, the Actinodura sodangorum, honors the Södang (or Xơ Đăng) ethnic minority group that lives in the forest where it was found, and promotes Vietnam's multi-ethnicity.

Left: The so-called vampire hedgehog. Photo via Discover Wildlife.
Right: Actinodura sodangorum, commonly called the black-crowned barwing in English. Photo via Wikimedia.

But where is the whimsy? Where is the child-like joy and silliness that accompanies rigorous thought and logic to uphold humanity? It is here: Banhxeochelys trani. Named in 2019, Banhxeochelys describes an extinct genus of turtle that lived in Vietnam 39 to 34 million years ago. Thin, flat, and cracked, the fossilized shells found in the Na Dương coal mine in Lạng Sơn reminded the Vietnamese scientists of bánh xèo, and thus, the entire new genus was named Banhxeochelys (the Greek word chelys means "turtle"). The first, and so far only species within the genus was given the specific name rani to honor Đặng Ngọc Trần, a retired director of the Department of Geology and Minerals, who helped the nation make great strides in geological research.

The shells of Banhxeochelys trani as described in the 2019 scientific paper. Photo via Wikimedia.

An interpretation of what Banhxeochelys trani would have looked like alive. Artwork by Alain Beneteau via Facebook.

A prehistoric turtle named after a delicious Vietnamese meal: could such a whimsical name attract attention to Vietnam’s important and vulnerable biodiversity? Could it inspire hesitant young Vietnamese to dream about their rightful place in global scientific discourse? Does it at least make you chuckle and want to go out for bánh xèo? If even one of these is true, I hope you’ll join me in my desire to see many more such names in the near future. With hundreds of new species identified every year in Vietnam, there are plenty of opportunities.

What Does the ‘Tower of Hanoi’ Puzzle Have to Do With Vietnam?

2026-05-15T11:00:00+07:00

What is the Tower of Hanoi? While this official name might sound mysterious, if you’re an avid consumer of adventure media and role-playing games or just simply a curious former child, it’s likely that you’ve seen or even played this game without knowing what it’s called.

Tower of Hanoi is a mathematical puzzle involving a platform with three pillars and a series of discs of varying sizes arranged neatly from biggest at the bottom to smallest at the top. The objective is usually to move all the discs from the leftmost pillar to the rightmost pillar following a set of strict rules.

A simple animation showing how to solve the puzzle. Image via Geeks for Geeks.

The rules are: only one disc might be moved at a time, only smaller discs can be placed on top of larger discs, and only the disc on top of a stack can be moved. While, in theory, there could be any number of discs — the more discs there are, the longer the solution will take — children’s toy versions often feature from seven to nine discs that are differently colored.

At this point, you might be tempted to ask: what does this have anything to do with Hanoi, or Vietnam, for that matter? To answer this, one needs to trace back to the Tower of Hanoi’s origin, which many attribute to one Édouard Lucas, a mathematician living in 19^th-century France with a fondness for puzzles.

Édouard Lucas (1842–1891)

It’s believed that Lucas invented the game, which became commercially available in 1883. “The Tower of Hanoï - Authentic Brain teaser of the Anamites - A game brought back from Tonkin,” the promotional material for the puzzle reads. The marketing credits the inventor as “Professor N. Claus (of Siam), Mandarin of the College of Li-Sou-Stian.” Read the rest of the text on the packaging below:

This game was found, for the first time, in the writings of the illustrious Mandarin FER-FER-TAM-TAM, which are being published, in the near future, by order of the government of China.

The TOWER OF HANOI is composed of levels, decreasing in size, variable in number, that we have represented by eight disks of wood, pierced at their centers. In Japan, in China, and at Tonkin, they are made of porcelain.

The game consists of demolishing the tower level by level, and reconstructing it in a neighboring place, conforming to the rules given.

Amusing and instructive, easy to learn and to play in town, in the country, or on a voyage, it has for its aim the popularization of science, like all the other curious and novel games of professor N. CLAUS (OF SIAM).

According to an old Indian legend, the Brahmins have been following each other for a very long time on the steps of the alter in the Temple of Bernares, carrying out the moving of the Sacred Tower of Brahma with sixty-four levels in fine gold, trimmed with diamonds from Golconde. When all is finished, the Tower and the Brahmins will fall, and that will be the end of the world!

The name N. Claus (de Siam), of course, is just an anagram for Lucas d’Amiens, with Amiens being the French hometown of Édouard Lucas; and Li-Sou-Stian is an anagram for Saint Louis, the school where he taught. The rest of the promotional text seems to be an exercise in passionate Orientalism, where the author tries to cram in as many eastern references as possible — perhaps in a bid to capitalize on the exoticism of a barely explored Far East in the 1880s.

The illustrations on the original packaging of the Tower of Hanoi game by Lucas. Images via The Puzzle Museum.

Considering the hodgepodge of Asian nations mentioned, maybe it was purely a coincidence that Hanoi made the official name, even though the only scenario where the Tower of Hanoi is related to Vietnam would be if the discs themselves are made of bún chả patties. In Vietnam, most toy vendors just refer to it as “đồ chơi tháp cầu vồng.”

Regardless of The Tower of Hanoi’s origins, its popularity has never waned, both as a children’s toy and as a recreational mathematical brainteaser. The puzzle has appeared in a number of pop culture products, including TV series like Doctor Who and Survivor, and RPG game titles like Mass Effect, Dragon Age, and Genshin Impact.

Huế's Fantastic Herbs and Where to Find Them, Now in Book Form

2026-05-15T10:00:00+07:00

Have you ever walked past a plant and wondered "Hey, I wonder what that could do?"

Such curiosity is what ultimately led Henry Herbert to spend two years writing the new book, Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam. Herbert, who lives in Huế, took a fairly circuitous route to get to this point. "After graduating in the United Kingdom, I went to work as a web developer in London," he tells Saigoneer in a call. This was six years ago, and he quickly discovered that he was deeply unhappy: "I just felt completely devoid of meaning in my life, utterly down, depressed actually. It was a really difficult time in my life."

Eventually he quit, sold most of his belongings, and decamped from London in order to volunteer at farms, initially in South Africa, and then in Columbia. "I immersed myself in that and through working alongside people who are much more knowledgeable than me, learned about plant life and farming," Herbert says. "I'd top that up with courses and intensive reading, but most of it came through experience."

After spending the early part of the pandemic in Columbia, Herbert moved to Hanoi, where he struggled with the stress of a major city for a year before relocating with his wife, Linh, to Huế. "It's a beautiful place," he says. "The nature is majestic and lovely, and there's lots of space to walk around. It was much, much more suitable."

Herbert walking in a forest outside of Huế.

The duo then began volunteering at a series of local organizations including the Lotus Education Farm, and at the same time Herbert launched a Facebook page called Đom Đóm Permaculture in order to share information about the region's native flora. This is where the seeds of the book took root.

"The whole book thing started then because I'd started to learn more and more about wild plants just through working with people," Herbert recalls. "I also have a dog and I'd often take him on walks in the forest, and I'd meet local people harvesting various plants in the forest or in the fields."

Herbert, who, in his words, speaks "decent, not perfect" Vietnamese, would stop and ask people what they were collecting and what they used it for. "My curiosity was to just know more and ask more questions and do my own research," he said. "It took about two years of asking a lot of people, a lot of research, a lot of trying things myself, because I wanted to back up what people were saying with what has been scientifically proven."

The result is a book featuring 203 different species of flora found in the wild around Huế, broken down into annual herbs and grasses; perennial herbs, succulents and cacti; shrubs; vines and climbing plants; trees; and ferns and aquatic plants. Accompanied by color photos, each species includes the local name, any other Vietnamese name and, if available, the English name, as well as details on how to identify the plant, which areas and when to find it, and the traditional medicinal uses it has. There are also chapters on how to respectfully harvest plants in order to avoid taking too much, and how to clean and ultimately prepare a plant for medicinal use.

Herbert gathering medicinal plants.

As Herbert dove deeper into his book research, he realized that most of the knowledge related to these plants and how they can be used had a single repository: members of elder generations. "Traditionally, it would pass down from generation to generation; that's how the knowledge got there in the first place," he said. "But increasingly, that's being ignored. Young people would rather go to the city and earn money or watch TV and not listen to grandma's knowledge."

Herbert had first-hand experience with this, as his grandmother in the UK was a keen botanist: "She loved to teach me about certain plants, and mostly I just remember not really listening and not really caring, and that's increasingly happening. It would be an absolute shame if this knowledge is lost."

While he hopes the book can be a humble contribution to the storage of this expertise, Herbert was also routinely astonished by just how accurate the wisdom the people he spoke to was.

"I'd ask someone what they're using a plant for, and they'd tell me, 'I'm picking this one and using it to wash my skin because of scabies or some kind of infection,' and on multiple occasions I would go back and look the plant up online," he explains. "And eventually I'd be able to track down the scientific name and do a whole host of reading in English and find scientific studies, and it's always exactly what they said it is."

"It's amazing," he goes on, "what they say they're using it for is exactly what it's for, whether anti-inflammatory properties or good for bathing sores on the skin or ringworm. That just absolutely blew my mind, the fact that these people have never read any scientific paper or book, it's just known."

Ultimately, Herbert hopes that Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam can, if nothing else, remind us of the importance of respecting those who came before us.

"I think we often kind of turn our nose up at what we might think of as homeopathy stuff," he says. "There can be stuff that doesn't work, of course, and there can be ineffective treatments, but there's a reason why this has been passed down for generations for so long."

Photos courtesy of Henry Herbert.

This article was originally published in 2022.

You can order a copy of Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam through the Đom Đóm Permaculture page. A portion of the proceeds will go towards Tịnh Trúc Gia, a community for young adults living with disabilities in Huế.

As Thanh Đa Faces Redevelopment, Writer Dạ Ngân Reflects on What Will Be Lost

2026-05-13T15:00:00+07:00

To me, my trip to Cư xá Thanh Đa in summer 1982 was a serendipitous encounter. It was Saigon’s largest-scale residential complex in the first half of the 1970s, with nearly 4,000 separate units housing about 50,000 inhabitants. Cư xá refers to a residential quarter reserved for gainfully employed citizens, with a vision to establish a model community with a high quality of life. Here, in their three-bedroom apartments, civil servants, professors, doctors, and military leaders ranked major or higher lived in pride of being a part of a cư xá like that.

As a visitor

When I visited Thanh Đa for the first time, it had been seven years since 1975. Seven years wasn’t a long time, but the tumult of time had shaken up every corner of life. I could hazard a guess where the people whom I esteemed ended up. A filtering process, both straightforward and subtle, left the laypeople alone in their resignation to have a normal life, while filling in the gaps with more faces from the battlefields and northern regions. The silent lived silently, the eager lived eagerly. I managed to witness first-hand the formation of the rhythm of life here, one that was leaning pastoral in its collectivity: laundry lines hung low on balconies, honeycomb coal briquettes put nonchalantly on the park grass, shirtless men trying in vain to squeeze out droplets of water from taps that hadn’t dried up yet, ladies who wore wrinkly sleepwear to the market or gathered to gossip anywhere their hearts desired.

Morning around the numbered blocks.

Our nephew’s rustic Honda motorbike finally taught us how long Xô Viết-Nghệ Tĩnh Street dragged on that year. It meandered through wards 15, 17, 21, 22, 25, 26, and 27 of Bình Thạnh, and came to a halt at a boat landing as ramshackle as our Honda bike. From then, we would need to travel from Thị Nghè, passing Hàng Xanh, over the Kinh Bridge, and across another 8 kilometers of Bình Quới’s wilderness. Those living on the other side had to coexist with this river crossing if they wanted to access districts 3 and 1. There were few motorbikes; the boat operator nimbly arranged passenger bicycles into rows as neat as those in a bike shop to make room for standing guests. The oil engine quacked loudly as we watched with a mixture of both weariness and amusement. Writer Nguyễn Quang Thân, my husband, quipped in his distinctive self-deprecating humor: “Well, the ruralization of Hanoi was complete, so now it’s Saigon’s lucky turn, but maybe it’s more appropriate to leave Bình Quới as pastoral as it is now.”

Communal life in Thanh Đa is still as cordial as ever.

As a resident

Internal staircases are well-lit, but inhabitants had to make metal cages to protect the light bulbs from theft.

In 2005, we relocated to the south, not because it was trendy, but because Thân’s mother passed away in Thanh Đa, and her ashes were kept at the Thập Phương Temple near Kinh Bridge. From serendipity to a stroke of fate. We endured 15 years in Hanoi — as I see it, just like anyone else who once lived here before 1975. I believe nobody would live with their face craned up into the sky waiting for fallen riches, regardless of which side of history one belonged to. Once we had chosen Thanh Đa to settle down, we found dignity in the labor of our own hands. Back then, compared to the well-heeled living conditions of my contemporaries, 20 years after Đổi Mới, for us, settling down in Thanh Đa was a step into acceptance, peace, and sufficiency. Thân was 70 years old, and I was about to retire.

A hand-drawn map showcasing the initial layout of Cư xá Thanh Đa.

Let’s not delve into how our nephew had to lend us his name on the papers because “only those in a registered household [hộ khẩu] of Hồ Chí Minh City could buy a house in Saigon.” Indeed, those grievous, gatekeeping episodes would only sour the mood for the readers of today. It was only after we had settled in that he could transfer the ownership to us; and only after the unit was in our names could we move the household registry to Saigon, and subsequently start receiving our retirement pension. I can only sigh when I recall those times; it’s not worth our remaining years on Earth to attempt to unravel these entanglements.

We realized that the apartment blocks were more or less tilted and severely water-damaged. During a time when water towers became purely ornamental, and the Đồng Nai River surged with water, Thanh Đa could only access public water at night. This led to the need for rows of plastic water tanks installed on the back balconies of units: one tank for the less well-off and two for the “elites” — it’s no wonder that the buildings started leaning. Small metallic roofs were set up in the back to protect bedrooms from neighborly water leakages; in the front, ground units extended their roofs to allow room for some entrepreneurial activities, to park bikes, and to… prevent cars from reaching deep into the inner walkways — the paths and sewer system’s low quality also contributed to this. Bàng trees were indiscriminately grown for shade, alongside fruit trees like mango and coconut. Their canopies were squeezed in between distinctively Hanoian metallic cages that sectioned off balconies. Our sighs became more frequent because Thanh Đa, to us, had turned into somewhere we loved too much to leave, but too burdensome to stay. Maintenance turned scant from the moment that numbered blocks became stuck in development limbo — you can stay in place waiting for the future, but you can’t sell or transfer; you might be tempted to engage in improper dealings, but risk losing everything when site clearance starts.

Just a short walk away from the blocks is a park that's quite spacious, albeit in disrepair from lack of maintenance.

A hard farewell

We must play by the rules of time, of change, and of in-with-the-new and out-with-the-old. The Bình Quới-Thanh Đa Peninsula is hoped to be an urban point of pride in the future. In Hungary’s Budapest, I’ve seen many old apartments with strong Soviet influence that have stood the test of time. Elevators were available from the get-go, unlike Saigon’s old tenements. There, heritage is something to preserve, to admire — somewhere the elderly like us could languidly coexist with the legacy ecosystem and slow pace of life that were once our own.

Thanh Đa has been neglected, so it can’t be an aesthetic focal point for preservation or tourism. Thanh Đa, in the eyes of urban planners who love planning and megacities, is a patch of golden, diamond land. What would I miss, apart from the roaches and rodents playing tag on the apartment floors and scaring my children, who have all resettled in high-end residences? No, I will miss things that I feel indebted to for the past 20 years. Those special 20-centimeter walls, both thick and cooling, were a blessing from an era when blueprints were carefully crafted, and contractors were ethical and transparent. The balconies in the front and the back. The rooms with many windows to maximize ventilation and minimize the need for fans. The large-frame doors and exit path for the kitchen during emergencies. These are all design decisions made thoughtfully in the hopes that whoever occupies these spaces will feel they are living in civility and generosity.

All will be bygone. Births are followed by perishment. Over half a century, even human bonds will fade away, let alone cement and stones. Some residents have started accepting site clearance orders, hoping to resettle soon — at an oasis that boasts several degrees of cooler climate compared to the heat across the river in Hàng Xanh-Thị Nghè. The tender river branches and strong winds that are impossible to ignore wherever one stands on the Bình Quới Peninsula are both worthy of affection. They’re miraculous and deserve to be yearned for, or to dream of returning to, in one’s quest to settle down for the rest of their remaining time.

I hope that the tamarind tree in front of my apartment — a witness of history for the past half a decade — will stand strong no matter how deep a foundation they will dig and how tall a skyscraper they will construct in its face. The bodhi tree and the kapok tree too, would they survive? The sparrows that crowd the sky, the long-tailed squirrels in their tamarind kingdom, the butterflies, the geckos, and the bees, would they survive?

History is once again contorting its body and calling out for Thanh Đa in this terrifying tumult. Let it.

Dạ Ngân is an award-winning writer and journalist based in Thanh Đa, Saigon. She has published 22 books, including An Insignificant Family, which was featured in Saigoneer's literary series Loạt Soạt. Read our profile of Dạ Ngân here.

Hẻm Gems: Go Back in Time to Chợ Cũ's Golden Days via Cô Chánh's Hủ Tiếu Mì

2026-05-11T17:00:00+07:00

In the memory-scape of children growing up in the countryside like me, there always exists the familiar sight of old wet markets and the mornings we spent there, toddling behind our moms on the hunt for snacks, CDs, and lollipops. In the afternoons, I often tagged along with my grandma to buy meat and veggies, sneaking a toy or two inside her basket. Sometimes, if I was particularly sweet, she would allow us to have lunch there instead of at home.

After years of studying and working in Saigon, I once thought that these nostalgic scenes only live in my mind now, but on a trip to Tôn Thất Đạm’s chợ cũ, I was shocked to find a charming kiosk with the same retro display I remember from my childhood.

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh is located at 69 Tôn Thất Đạm, manned by the titular cô Chánh, whose real name is Huỳnh Thị Dung. She told me that the kiosk was a family heirloom from her uncle, who started selling noodles 60 years ago. When he emigrated abroad, he left the operation in her hands. At first, she kept it simple with just Guangdong-style hủ tiếu, but to cater to local demand, over time, she added more options to the menu, like hủ tiếu mì, wonton, meatballs, etc.

The flavors of cô Chánh’s noodle shop have changed across the decades too. The uncle moved away when she wasn’t a noodle master yet, so every day, she learns on the job by cooking the way she knows how while listening to customer feedback to improve her craft.

Diners have two options: large strands or small strands of noodles. Both share the same chewy texture and eye-catching golden hue. Other toppings like shrimp, fried garlic, fried pork lard, liver, heart, and pork add to the dining experience. Chunks of liver are cleaned properly so there’s no unpleasant smell with every bite. Cô Chánh has been getting her ingredients from the same trustworthy supplier over the years. The vat of bubbling broth in the corner, moderately seasoned and not too sweet, is an undeniable attraction luring curious shoppers to stop by. Each guest can modify the flavors of their bowl in whatever way they see fit with the range of Teochew vinegar and sauces on offer.

Slurping up a few spoonfuls of warm broth, I feel as if I was transported to the noodle stalls I enjoyed years ago. Cô Chánh’s noodles have that “vintage” flavor profile often seen in Hoa Vietnamese kitchens. The wontons are quite hefty with a thin wrapper and a well-season filling, keeping me hungry for more. The meat filling is a touch saltier than that of other stalls, but this balances the taste well in the context of the light broth. Apart from the taste, diners will no doubt feel delighted by the way she presents the bowls. Each slice of pork, each sprinkle of fried shallot, and each shrimp is arranged neatly on top of the noodles.

Cô Chánh shared that she wakes up every day at 4am to start prepping ingredients and usually finishes by 7pm. There used to be a time when this tiny kiosk could feed over 100 patrons in a day, mostly office workers from nearby buildings having breakfast or lunch. Post-pandemic, however, the foot traffic has dwindled. “Now, I sell about 30 bowls at most a day. Some days the revenue can’t even cover the ingredient costs,” cô Chánh sadly explained.

Whenever the kiosk is empty, cô Chánh and cô Gái, a friend who helps out with stall operation, start tidying and washing, before sitting down to chat about every topic in the universe. The chatter greatly contributes to the uniquely cordial vibes of the market, so much so that guests often feel comfortable enough to join in their conversations.

When asked about her kiosk partner, she said: “A long time ago, I was selling noodles, and she was selling sweets right next door. Business was quite bad at the market, so I asked her to hop over to sell noodles with me. Since then, we sisters have stuck together.” Perhaps it was thanks to that stroke of fate that cô Chánh’s noodle shop is always filled with laughter. They work well and play well, never one to shy away from teasing each other to ward off the exhaustion of a tough work day.

Cô Chánh is not getting any younger, so her health has declined somewhat, but she reassured me that she will continue selling noodles no matter what, as the kiosk has been a part of her life for decades — a constant source of happiness during the golden days of a Saigoneer who lives alone.

To sum up:

Taste: 4/5
Price: 4/5
Atmosphere: 4/5
Friendliness: 5/5
Location: 4.5/5

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh

69 Tôn Thất Đạm, Bến Nghé Ward, D1, HCMC

From Kiều's Snowy Skin to K-Beauty's Glow: Delving Into Vietnam's Love for Fair Skin

2026-05-10T20:00:00+07:00

The preference for light skin is widespread in Vietnam. It is discernible from the mere sight of Saigon’s streets during the day, when the majority of riders are covered up — in hoodies, jackets, jeans, pants, and masks — for protection against UV radiation, but also to prevent tanning under the blistering sun. Especially more so for women, light skin is often associated with beauty and social status, so protection against the sun has become more than a health concern.

But when did this preference for light skin begin? On one hand, it is tempting to think that its roots lie within colonialism and white supremacy; that light skin is desired via its proximity to whiteness. But while the sentiment behind such a perspective is not entirely untrue, the history of Vietnam's preference for light skin is considerably more complex. Colonial dynamics certainly reshaped and reinforced existing biases, but the preference for lighter skin predates French colonial rule. And while the same bias no doubt continues to exist today, its manifestation in modern times is also quite different from that of a century ago. Both then and now, light skin signifies social status via its proximity to modernity — the difference, however, lies in the kind of modernity envisaged. While the preference for light skin exists broadly across genders, the standard is considerably less rigid and pervasive for men. As a disclaimer, this piece focuses exclusively on women, largely due to the bias towards women of existing scholarship on the history of cosmetics and beauty in Vietnam.

Perceptions of skin color during colonial Vietnam

In pre-colonial society, the preference for light skin was largely a product of class dynamics. Darker skin signified exposure to the sun under long days of labor, while lighter skin signified upper class privilege and leisure. In exemplifying the beauty that was associated with light skin, the poet Nguyễn Du describes the protagonist of the legendary Tale of Kiều as possessing skin as white as snow.

Under French colonial rule, the preference for light skin continued to persist, but under different terms. Colonialism did not so much create or displace the existing bias as it did complicate and reconfigure it by layering a logic of whiteness on top of what existed before.

The front cover of the Ngày Nay volume published on July 26, 1936.

Cosmetics and the skincare industry is one site in which such dynamics were, and continue to be, most visible. As the historian Christina Firpo explains in her recent book Beauty and the Nation — a thorough scholarly account of the development of beauty culture in colonial Vietnam which this section draws heavily from — mass-market cosmetics were popularized only in the 1920s and 1930s, both in Vietnam and around the world. The boom in the cosmetics industry could be attributed to a number of factors such as the development of new technologies for better and more consistent products, a shift in public perception of cosmetics away from its association with sex work, as well as innovations in transportation which allowed goods to travel around the world. It should be noted, though, that forms of skincare existed in pre-colonial Vietnam as well. For instance, women often used a concoction containing rice powder to whiten their skin, as per Sino-Vietnamese medical tradition.

“Crème Siamoise,” Phụ Nữ Tân Văn, May 16, 1929

Cosmetics gained significant traction in colonial Vietnam because it offered an avenue for self-expression for women. This was significant especially at a time when women sought to challenge traditional gender norms. In addition to challenging polygamy and the expectation of chastity for widows, women also began to reject the idea of arranged marriages and seek out romantic love instead.

Cosmetics during the mid-late colonial era entailed a range of different products: lipstick, mascara, perfume, as well as powder and skincare products such as cream. Together, these elements constituted the aesthetic of the “modern girl.” In reality, however, only elites could reliably afford such cosmetic products, except perhaps for lipstick. Most cosmetics were likely manufactured at homes and local pharmacies. Regardless, the mere advertisement of such cosmetics commodities — most of them European, some Japanese — carried immense social force, for advertisements in newspapers and magazines were powerful sites of meaning-making with respect to gender and womanhood.

The cosmetics industry burgeoned in colonial Vietnam precisely by capitalizing on this appetite for social change with respect to gender norms and a yearning for modernity, as epitomized in the caricature of the “modern girl.” And skincare products were of course no exception to this. In one telling advertisement, Firpo points out, the Swiss brand Tokalon “assured women that men were fascinated by smooth white skin and promised that Tokalon cream would lead men to fall in love with them.” As Khanh Tran writes in a previous Saigoneer article, “well-off women in Vietnam cherished good, fair skin over any painted visage”

‘Tokalon,‘ Phong Hóa, October 26, 1934

Interestingly, even while targeting a Vietnamese audience, cosmetic brands most often featured white European models. As Christina Firpo explains, “In some cases it is possible that the companies simply never converted their original European advertisements for the local market, but it is likely that many deliberately used European models to capitalize on their associations with white prestige.” Firpo points out that even Vietnamese-owned businesses, such as the beauty institute Mỹ Viện Amy, featured French women to promote its products.

“Mỹ Viện Amy,” Ngày Nay, September 7, 1940

While the preference for light skin long predated French colonial rule, the terms through which lightness was made legible were shifting. Lightness was no longer legible only through class, but was now also being read through the lens of western modernity and proximity to whiteness, though, of course, the two were by no means fully separable.

The present

While the preference for light skin persists today, it is abundantly clear that beauty ideals are now increasingly modeled after women of East Asia — especially, of Korea. As NPR correspondent Elise Hu writes in her book Flawless: Lessons in Looks and Culture from the K-Beauty Capital, “the modern Asian face is increasingly defined by a Korean beauty standard, with Southeast Asian women especially looking toward Korea for the latest and most advanced beauty products and procedures.” This modern face is defined by ideals of clear, pearl-white skin, a V-shaped jawline, a high and slender nose bridge, and double eyelids — facial features around which now globally famous industries of skincare and plastic surgery have developed.

It goes without saying that beauty ideals vary among individuals. At the same time, however, the broad enthusiasm for “K-Beauty” in Vietnam is not difficult to discern. One need only look at the leading fashion magazines such as Elle Vietnam and Đẹp Magazine to observe this, where articles and images of Korean stars, such as Jennie of Black Pink, are frequently featured. Behind this lies the significant influence of Korean cultural and economic capital: the soaring popularity of K-pop and K-dramas, as well as the fact that Korean brands constitute the highest share of Vietnam's beauty and personal care market (more broadly, Korea is once again Vietnam’s largest foreign direct investor, as of this year). What set the stage for this shift was Vietnam's integration into the global economy following the Đổi Mới period, in conjunction with the subsequent rise of Hallyu, or the “Korean Wave”' which began in the late 1990s and has escalated dramatically since the 2010s.

Jisoo, a member of K-pop group Blackpink, on the cover of Elle Vietnam's September 2023 issue.

In Vietnam, the ideal skin complexion that so many desire during the decades after Đổi Mới, epitomized by Korean skincare, is perhaps best encapsulated by the word “sáng,” or brightness. The prominence of this word should be evident to anyone who has spent time cruising through shopping malls or surfing online in search of skincare products. It should be said that the emphasis on brightness is not ubiquitous across different geographies — as a start, we can note that the phrase “bright skin” itself already feels awkward in English. In comparing the websites of higher-end skincare brands across Vietnam, Korea, and the US, the same product is marketed differently on their Vietnamese websites, often centering its effects for brightening.

Kiehl’s Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution

Take, for instance, one of Kiehl’s bestsellers in Vietnam. While its English name is “Kiehl's Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution,” on Kiehl’s Vietnamese site, the same product is advertised as a “brightening” serum, explicitly invoking the word sáng. The Korean brand Innisfree’s bestseller in Vietnam, “Cherry Blossom Glow Tone-Up Cream,” again features the word sáng in the SEO product title on its Vietnamese website. To be sure, “glow,” of course means bright too, but the difference is that the Korean name for the product transliterates the word “glow,” mainly for the purpose of manufacturing a kind of scientificity associated with English in Korea. One can find the word sáng peppered throughout the online stores of other major cosmetics brands like L'Oréal Paris, as well as Vietnamese-owned brands like Cocoon. Clearly, there is a kind of craze over sáng within the world of skincare.

Innisfree Cherry Blossom Glow Tone Up Cream

On one level, “brightening” is simply an alias or moniker for “whitening.” But the semantic difference between the two terms is significant and worth reflecting upon. The sociologist Thuy Linh Nguyen Tu writes, “sáng refers not to a skin color, but to a quality, a luminousness that radiates from the skin.” In contrast to a notion of fairness or even softness, sáng signifies a kind of strength that radiates from within, a quality not wholly reducible to the realm of aesthetics. This is evident from the fact, for instance, that sáng can also be used to describe brightness with regards to intelligence or even one’s future. During her visit to Vietnam, she recalls frequently encountering the phrase “sáng, sạch, đẹp” as a descriptor for ideal skin complexion — a mantra that, fascinatingly, echoes “xanh, sạch, đẹp,” a slogan that is oft-repeated by urban developers.

If colonial-era advertisements featured European women to invoke the allure of western modernity, sáng points towards a different set of aspirations. It reflects a yearning for what sociologist Kimberly Kay Hoang calls “pan-Asian modernity”: aspirations for modernity that looks not to the west, but elsewhere in Asia for inspiration, especially as the influence and power of East Asia continues to rise, both regionally and globally, while the West’s is in slow decline. From this perspective, it becomes possible to read sáng not simply as a norm for beauty, but as a reflection of broader ideals for Vietnam’s socioeconomic posture. If sáng signifies whiteness, it is, as Linh writes, “surely whiteness of a different color.”

Trần Thị Thu Ngân on the cover of Harper's Bazaar Vietnam's November 2016 issue.

A comparative perspective of the present day and colonial era shows us the ways in which beauty ideals for skin are both shaped, and made sense of, by forces larger than “mere” aesthetics and beauty. Both then and now, the preference for light skin has persisted through its signification of social status, though the conception of modernity underpinning it has since shifted.

To end on a personal note: I myself am a Korean with tanner skin than most Koreans — a product of having lived in Vietnam for many years — and I feel entirely comfortable with this fact. In writing this piece, I’ve thought about why. Personally, I’d like to think of it as evidence of a rejection on my part of colorism as a form of social bias and discrimination. But if I’m being honest, I think my comfort speaks more so to two things: firstly, my gender as a man, which offers more lenience with respect to standards for skincare; and secondly, my socioeconomic class, in large part constituted by my position within Vietnamese society as a Korean — which places me firmly within the very sphere of modernity that sáng aspires for, thus, in a rather twisted way, making the need to signify it through light skin somewhat obsolete. I am doubtful that I would’ve felt as comfortable with my tan skin had I lived and grown up in Korea, for instance. From this perspective, my rejection of light skin is not a feat, but rather a feature of a deeper issue, of which colorism is one manifestation. Of course skin tone should not determine how one is perceived or judged. But when we say that colorism is a problem, we should be clear-sighted: the problem lies not so much in the fact that skin tone is used as an indicator of status, but in the fact that a hierarchy of social status — organized around rubrics of race, class, and modernity — exists at all.

An Ode to Saigon’s Chò Nâu Trees

2026-05-08T09:00:00+07:00

It’s too cold for chò nâu to grow where I’m from, but we still gave it an English name: dipterocarp.

It’s too cold for chò nâu to grow where I’m from, but we still gave it an English name: dipterocarp. Dipterocarp. Say it. Aloud. Dipterocarp. That subtle folding and fumbling of lip, tongue, teeth, precise flexing of thousands of muscles, tendons, cells? It’s far simpler than the efforts the great tree endures to gather water into its roots and coax it up to its canopy.

When walking Saigon’s streets, one only gets a good look at a chò nâu's drab trunk and a craned-neck view of their leaf-filled canopy 30 meters above. But those fragile upper limbs clutch delicate white flowers brushed with pink accents as subtle as a butterfly’s whispering wing strokes. You’ve just never seen them. It’s as if the trees are telling us: my fragile petals and soft fragrances are not meant for you; you would ruin them with your human attempts at appreciation.

But the trunk isn’t drab. Fissures, flakes, flecked scabs and multi-color scales: a complex crust akin to a river delta rich with sediment, silt, species. Can you really look at one and not recognize the beauty of an algae bloom, a shrimp spawn?

Jean-Baptiste Louis-Pierre was born on La Réunion off the coast of Madagascar to a family that made a fortune off sugar. But the business went bankrupt when the government emancipated the plantation’s slaves, and Louis-Pierre was forced to drop out of school, drifting from one colonial post to another before landing in Saigon, where he introduced European aesthetics by lining the streets with chò nâu he gathered in the highlands to protect pasty French skin and indulge foreign concepts of nature.

White spray paint stencil numbers grace nearly every chò nâu in the city, allowing authorities to identify which ones need to be trimmed for power line maintenance or be removed so their roots don’t undermine pavement construction or burst buried water pipes.

Tree #11: Saigon’s chò nâu are older than telephone wires, older than chainsaws, older than nylon, polyester and penicillin. Older than motorbikes, bubble tea, bánh tráng nướng and selfies, older than airplanes and the defoliants they dropped.

Tree #152: When the districts erupted in gunfire, casings clattered against the chò nâu trunks that soldiers took shelter behind. Their shade was balm to destroyed buildings, bombed roads, ruined bodies. They’re right there in the background of the grainy documentary footage. No one notices them.

Tree #78: Saigon’s chò nâu are younger than wind chimes, younger than fireworks, younger than kites, xích lô, and spit-roasting. Younger than áo dài, rice wine and cồng chiêng, younger than walking alone at midnight, feeling great pity for oneself before looking up and finding solace in the immensity of nature.

Tree #187: In regions that experience regular seasons, chò nâu flower and fruit with great precision, but in Saigon’s Mobius strip-climate, their cycle is chaotic, their branches bursting into bi-winged seeds that twirl down like surreal snowfall perhaps no more than once a decade.

Tree #45: First day of Tet, confetti strewn across exposed roots like music drifting across a peaceful cove. What is a concerto to a coral reef? What is the Lunar New Year to a chò nâu?

Tree #123: Imagine the rings inside this tree. They are nothing like the golden rings the chả cá seller on Tôn Thất Đạm wears because she trusts money on her fingers more than in a bank; not like thuốc lào smoke rings blown in the idle hours at the bus depot waiting to take the long journey back to the highlands; and not like the rings of traffic that circle the roundabout where Trần Hưng Đạo points triumphantly towards the shore his spirit guards.

Tree #7: Mostly water with organic solutes: urea, creatinine, uric acid, carbohydrates, hormones, fatty acids, pigments, mucins, inorganic ions including sodium, potassium, chloride, magnesium, calcium, ammonium, sulfates and phosphates — after seven beers with a long walk ahead, I am grateful for the city’s stance on public urination and honored that some element of my makeup will seep through the soil, slip into the tree’s roots, shimmy up its cellulose veins and nourish so little as the tiny tip of a leaf.

Tree #61: In the same way women no longer darken their teeth, we no longer ferry the Saigon River with poles firm as folk rhythms. Bridges cannot span shores clotted with trees. The stumps’ exposed rings on Tôn Thất Đạm resemble the whorled prints of a fingertip robbed of its ability to feel. I stand beside one and like a phantom limb, feel an ache of abandoned shade.

Tree #154: To grow a chò nâu, remove the tips of a seed’s wing and soak it in water for one–two hours; place the seed beneath a thin layer of sterilized soil; in three–four days the seed will sprout; in one year it will reach one meter tall; for its first three-four years it will prefer shade, and then sunlight for the rest of its life; during its life it can reach 40 meters tall; it will outlive you and everyone you love.

Tree #36: To get at one’s viscous resin, one must bore a hole, and let it slowly seep out, the way a child’s closed fist opens in sleep.

Tree #42: Uses for chò nâu include paint, varnish, glue, baskets, boxes, panels, kindling, printing ink, tick repellent, laxatives, diuretics, stimulants, antiseptics, charcoal, perfume fixatives, teeth-blackening agent and caulk for the waterproofing of boats.

Tree #167: Epiphytes attach themselves to trunks by tucking into nooks. These leafy air-sippers, thirsty mist-drinkers do not harm the chò nâu nor benefit it, and thus are like barnacles to a whale or the average human to society as a whole.

Tree #99: Chò nâu speak in a language consisting of photosynthesis and respiration, roots, rhizoids, sap and pollen. Our translators are horrendously overwhelmed, yet undeterred.

Tree #58: Driven by some absurd childhood desire to own a dinosaur, I recently purchased a bird. A Japanese white-eye. Its vibrant green feathers would put a chò nâu's lust for photosynthesis to shame. After six days of furiously flinging its body against wooden cage bars, it escaped. I watched with happiness. I hope it made its way to the zoo: a chò nâu roost, its only hope.

Tree #211: They did it while the city slept so as to not draw attention that would distract from what they were doing. Hugging the trees was a communion between human and plant, not a statement. The authorities looked on, waiting to intervene, and yet, what wrong was being done?

Tree #103: Hunched against its trunk in plain daylight a shirtless man dozes, a needle beside his arm. What do chò nâu know of addiction? Can we find a parallel in their thirst for groundwater, the way their leaves crave carbon dioxide, their urge to be pollinated?

Tree #121: Authorities transplant a few of the trees that are culled for the sake of infrastructure. No survival rates are reported. Is it not easier to uproot a person? To, as my friend Quế Mai says: “Eat each breeze that comes...learn to grow new buds…shudder to bloom… grow my fruit from my bleeding roots”? Surely as a man born and raised on a landmass devoid of chò nâu, I must convince myself this is possible.

Tree #6: Walking down Lê Duẩn, a summer wind releases a torrent of helicopter seeds — the nutlets twirl down and flop uselessly on the concrete. Unable to take root, their fibrous wings slump like the dorsal fins of killer whales depressed in captivity. Something inside me keels the same way.

Vietnamese Painter Một Quả Tắc Creates an Intimate and Gentle World on Silk

2026-05-07T10:00:00+07:00

Silk is an inherently finicky, demanding medium. Yet from the very first encounter, Quế Hương had chose to embrace its temperament and has devoted herself to it for nearly a decade.

Recently, Saigoneer had the opportunity to visit Quế Hương’s living space, which also serves as her creative studio. Greeting us right at the doorstep were her two feline assistants.

Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

Quế Hương’s love for painting blossomed in childhood and grew stronger as she studied Fine Arts at the University of Fine Arts in Hồ Chí Minh City. While searching for her own artistic identity among various materials, silk chose her, perhaps it was her patience that ultimately won silk over.

When asked about her artist name, “Một Quả Tắc,” Hương explained, “It is just a random name without any particular meaning. Among the larger citrus fruits such as pomelo and orange, tắc is the smallest. And I see myself as still very green and small as well.”

Quế Hương. Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

The journey of a young artist is rarely strewn with roses. Graduating right as the pandemic erupted, Quế Hương faced the crossroads of careers. She even considered setting aside her brushes to find a stable office job. “Thankfully, at that very time, I had the fortune to meet an art collector who bought some of my paintings, giving me more confidence to pursue this path.”

‘Mơn man’ (Caress)

‘Méow’

Looking at Quế Hương’s works in exhibitions or on social media, you'll be immersed in a gentle realm of grasses, trees, flowers, small animals, and youthful maidens. Her sources of inspiration are never far away. They may be self-portraits, the most ordinary moments of daily life, the people closest to her, or, at times, some strange ideas that suddenly take hold in her mind

The two silk paintings currently in progress that Saigoneer observed offer a clear example. One shows a small cat lounging contently across its owner’s lap in a green floral dress. The other captures a pair of cats in a playful tussle. Each painting feels like a diary entry that Quế Hương has recorded and preserved on silk, allowing those memories to endure. Even when they find new owners, the works are likely to evoke recognition or hold personal meaning for whoever takes them home.

‘Mấy đôi giày đã cũ của tôi’ (My old shoes)

‘Hái sao cho em’ (Picking stars for you)

“I’ve never felt bored, discouraged, or wanted to give up on silk painting, because there are still so many ideas I want to explore and so many things I want to paint.”

This persistence has earned Quế Hương multiple awards and a unique place in the art community. In September 2024, she marked a major milestone with her first solo exhibition, “Xôn xao” (Flutter). The show featured 15 paintings with a poetic color palette, creating a serene space where viewers could escape the chaos outside and lose themselves in her dreamy realm and her meticulous technique.

Silk painting ‘Lập xuân’ (Spring beginning) displayed at the “Xôn xao” exhibition.

Learning the silk painting process

By following Quế Hương through each stage of her work, one comes to truly appreciate the intensive care and labor this art form demands.

‘Xoxo’

The silk fabric used for painting is different from silk used for clothing. It is thinner, has a rougher texture, and is usually coated with a thin layer of glue. If needed, the artist can wash some of it away to make the fabric softer. After securing the silk, she builds a wooden stretcher frame of any size she desires. “One time, I made a frame so large it wouldn’t fit in the apartment elevator, so I had to carry it up the stairs. Later, when taking the painting to an exhibition, I had to ask muscular guys to help carry it down the stairs again,” Quế Hương recalled with a smile.

Silk being coated with glue.

Next, she must stretch the silk onto the frame herself, secure it with pins, and apply glue. “During this stage, I usually have to put the two cats away so they don’t run around and get fur on the painting. Even so, while painting, cat hair still easily sticks to it, so once the paint dries, I use a lint roller to clean it.” When the silk frame is ready, Quế Hương selects her idea, sketches, draws the details, and applies color. She mainly uses watercolor, but also incorporates gouache and Chinese ink when needed.

‘Bật một bản nhạc nhé’ (Let's put on some music)

She added: “Silk painters often work standing at a flat table. I used to do that too. It was so tiring on the neck and legs! Luckily now I have this easel that I can tilt, but it still causes back pain and sore knees.” Despite that, because she loves her craft, Hương still paints diligently for hours on end. “When I get too tired, I just massage myself or go to a parlor!”

Finally, Quế Hương mounts a layer of fabric on the back of the painting. It is usually a smooth fabric with minimal texture so as not to alter the structure and image on the silk. Depending on the “mood” of the painting, she chooses light, dark, or neutral backing fabric. “For dark paintings, I’ll choose gray or black fabric. For warm-toned paintings, I use white. I don’t always add backing fabric though. Some pieces I leave as they are, depending on the aesthetic.”

‘Lặp’ (Repeat)

The recent resurgence of interest in silk painting among young people is an encouraging sign. For Quế Hương, it’s not only a personal joy but also an opportunity for this traditional medium to be reinterpreted in more diverse artistic languages.

“I also want to travel more to recharge and gain new inspiration. Besides that, I hope more people will get to know me as a silk painter,” Quế Hương said, her eyes sparkling as she looked out toward the sunlit balcony.

Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

To learn more about silk painting and Quế Hương's art practice, visit her Instagram @motquatac.

Saigon Commences Metro Line, Major Administrative Hub Project in Thủ Thiêm

2026-05-06T11:56:02+07:00

Municipal authorities in Hồ Chí Minh City are moving forward with a number of infrastructure projects that will majorly transform the peninsula in the future.

Over the long holiday weekend on April 29, Saigon broke ground on the Bến Thành–Thủ Thiêm Metro Line, which will take passengers from the central interchange at Bến Thành Market to eastern regions of the city. The interchange has already served the existing Line 1 and will also link to the Bến Thành–Tham Lương Line that stretches northward.

A cross-section of a station of the Bến Thành–Thủ Thiêm Line.

The line serving Thủ Thiêm begins at Bến Thành, running along Hàm Nghi Boulevard before crossing the Saigon River to Thủ Thiêm, where it will snake along Mai Chí Thọ to the terminal in Bình Trưng (Thủ Đức City). Six stations are based underground: Hàm Nghi, Tố Hữu, Cung Thiếu Nhi, Bệnh viện Quốc tế, Bình Khánh, and Thủ Thiêm.

A map showing both the first (yellow) and second (teal) phases of the line.

Most notably, Hàm Nghi Station will be Saigon’s deepest at 33 meters underground as the line will need to travel beneath the Saigon River. On the other end, the last station is planned to be a meeting point for other transportation modes, such as a high-speed North-South train and an upcoming metro line linking Thủ Thiêm and Long Thành International Airport.

On the same day, the city also commenced construction on the new administrative hub on a 46.7-hectare plot of land in Thủ Thiêm. The ambitious project, expected to cost nearly VND30 trillion (US$1.12 billion), is designed for administrative, cultural, and civic functions for the city.

The design of the administrative center.

Components of the new hub include a 30-story administrative center, a 2,000-seat multi-purpose amphitheatre and convention center, and a central park and central square.

Ho Chi Minh City is accelerating efforts to form the Thu Thiem urban area as its future financial and administrative hub, with the launch of a VND29.6 trillion (US$1.12 billion) central square and administrative complex, one of four major projects expected to shape the long-planned new urban center on the city’s eastern bank.

Have a look at some renderings showcasing the new administrative hub below:

The central park next to the administrative center.

The performance arts and conference center.

A corner of the park.

The central plaza.

Images via VnExpress.

The History of Saigon General Hospital, the Clinic Funded by a Doctor's Generosity

2026-05-04T11:00:00+07:00

The Saigon Hospital at 125 Lê Lợi was originally built in the late 1930s as the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie. The French named it after French doctor Théodose Déjean de la Bâtie, who devoted his life to treating members of the Vietnamese community.

While the wealthy Chinese communities set up their own well-appointed hospitals in Chợ Lớn from as early as the 1870s, medical facilities in Saigon during the first half century of colonial rule were provided almost exclusively for the use of European settlers.

During that period, Vietnamese people living in Saigon had to travel to the Chợ Quán Hospital for treatment, or alternatively to visit the tiny Thị Nghè clinic of the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres, which, according to one government report, “compensated, to some extent, for the lack of an Hôpital indigène in Saigon.”

The need to create a hospital “specifically designated for indigenous people” in Saigon was taken up at the turn of the century by Dr Théodose Dejean de la Bâtie (1865–1912).

A former director of Chợ Quán Hospital who developed a pioneering programme to improve standards of maternity care, Dejean de la Bâtie was elected to the Colonial Council in 1900 and lobbied vociferously for the government to provide more civilian doctors for the treatment of local people.

In April 1903, using his own money, Dejean de la Bâtie set up “a clinic on the rue d’Adran [Hồ Tùng Mậu], behind the Justice of Peace,” which offered “free medical and surgical treatment to all Asians who wished to benefit from European medicine.”

Dejean de la Bâtie personally funded the operation of the clinic for nearly two years, but its success nearly bankrupted him, and, in 1905, the municipal government took over its operation. In that year, the clinic received subsidies from the Saigon Municipality (1,200 piastres), Cholon Province (300 piastres) and Gia-Dinh Province (300 piastres).

According to a report of 1905 in the Annuaire général de l'Indo-Chine française, “Although recently founded, this institution has given brilliant results and seems to be destined to be of great service. For the first 12 months of operation, the free consultation room was crowded with 3,151 patients of all nationalities. In total, they came here 15,717 times to ask for bandages or medication, or simply for advice on their health. During this period, Dr Dejean de la Bâtie, assisted by his colleague Dr Flandin, carried out 166 surgical procedures under chloroform, 86 under cocaine and 21 under ethyl chloride. The free healthcare services are provided here by Dr Dejean de la Bâtie, assisted by a European nun, an Annamite nun, an Annamite nurse and a secretary-interpreter.

When Dejean de la Bâtie died unexpectedly in 1912 at the age of just 47, many tributes were paid to the man who had devoted his life to improving standards of medical care for local people.

Speaking in 1930, his former deputy, Dr Georges M L Montel, commented that he “cared too much for his patients and didn’t charge fees… It was only when his clinic became such a major undertaking, and his personal resources were no longer adequate to pay for it, that he consented to hand it to the municipality. He had a heart of gold. That’s why he died penniless, and his widow, instead of being chauffeured around in a car like so many other ladies, had to be content to live as a modest teacher.”

Two years after his death, the clinic founded by Théodose Dejean de la Bâtie was relocated to a larger building on boulevard Bonard, the site occupied today by the Saigon Hospital. Known initially as the Polyclinique du Marché or the Polyclinique du boulevard Bonard, it was placed under the direction of Dr Georges Montel.

However the demand for medical services by local people continued to grow, prompting Colonial Council member Trương Văn Bền in 1919 to urge the government to build a much larger Hôpital indigene in Saigon in order to cope with the “alarming growth” in the number of local patients.

Indochina – medicine before 1930.

As annual patient numbers at the Polyclinique du Marché rose from 28,982 in 1922 to 37,957 in 1924 and 45,161 in 1926, the authorities responded by opening smaller clinics at Tân Định (1925) and Khánh Hội (1930),

Finally in 1935, Cochinchina Governor Pierre Pagès (1934-1939) approved plans to rebuild the Polyclinique du Marché as a fully-equipped city hospital.

Constructed and opened in stages between 1937 and 1939, the new hospital cost 185,000 piastres (1,850,000 francs) to build. In February 1938, the Colonial Council decided that it should be named the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie, “in honour of the devoted and selfless philanthropist who was the creator of the municipal polyclinique.”

A “colorized” image of the the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie in 1949.

While most of the funding came from the city government, the Hui-Bon-Hoa family made a sizable donation of 38,000 piastres, securing for themselves the naming rights to the south wing (nearest the market), which became known as the “pavillon Hui-Bon-Hoa.” The north wing was named after Bâtie’s protégée Dr Georges Montel, who had become known in the 1920s for his groundbreaking treatment of leprosy, while other smaller donations were recognised by the naming of individual consulting rooms and operating theatres. A marble plaque was posted in the main entrance lobby, bearing the names of all donors and benefactors who had contributed to the construction.

A CFTI electric tram passes the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie in the early 1940s.

After 1955, the Polyclinique Dejean de la Bâtie was renamed the Saigon General Hospital (Bệnh viện Đa khoa Sài Gòn). Since that time it has continued to function as one of the most important hospitals in the city.

However, in recent years the fabric of the building has become badly degraded and, in an article in Người Lao Động, the hospital was described as “seedy, dirty, with inadequate service and bad management.” The same article quoted a leader from the Hồ Chí Minh City Department of Health as saying: “It has all the necessary facilities and a convenient location, but the performance of the Saigon Hospital is very poor....This situation must be resolved. The Department of Health is considering whether the entire hospital personnel should be reorganised or the hospital should be closed completely.”

The Saigon General Hospital today.

This article was originally published in 2015.

Tim Doling is the author of the guidebooks Exploring Huế (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2018), Exploring Saigon-Chợ Lớn (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2019) and Exploring Quảng Nam (Nhà Xuất Bản Thế Giới, Hà Nội, 2020) and The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam (White Lotus Press, 2012). For more information about Saigon history, visit his website, historicvietnam.com.

How Soy Milk Symbolizes an Imagined Vietnam of My Childhood in France

2026-04-29T15:00:00+07:00

I still remember vividly the anticipation running through my veins, when I saw a waiter bringing me a glass of sữa đậu nành, every time my family took me to one of the many Vietnamese restaurants of the 13^th arrondissement of Paris, the city’s renowned Chinatown. It was a neighborhood I was bound to get dragged to as a French kid with a Vietnamese parent, whether I wanted to or not. For me, this glass represented the quintessence of typical Vietnamese drinks during a good meal: one of the rare glimpses into the daily customs of my ancestors’ culture.

The dishes in those restaurants were good, but I was used to eating them at home, cooked by my grandmother. They were already part of my usual experiences, and as such, didn’t evoke the special feeling of Vietnamese authenticity, not like sữa đậu nành. I can recall restaurants’ over-the-top decorations, and customers shouting, one louder than another. In the midst of it, I only focused on my drink: it tasted mild, but with a slight earthy note. More than anything, the coldness shielded me from the heat of the meal, which I couldn't wait to devour.

A Vietnamese restaurant in Paris with al fresco seats. Photo via Noodlies.

Soy milk isn't the only drink offered there, and there are versions of it everywhere. From cans at the store around the corner to homemade soy milk, the quality might differ depending on the restaurant, but it’s always on the menu. This is why I was certain that soy milk was the go-to drink for any Vietnamese person when eating out: the real taste of Vietnam.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Saigon to discover that the first restaurant I went to didn’t offer sữa đậu nành. Was there a shortage at the moment? Did I stumble upon the only restaurant without soy milk? I quickly understood the reality of the matter: the ubiquity of soy milk was an imagination of my own. Baffled by this realization, I looked to see what everybody else was really drinking when the server approached me: “Is trà đá ok?” Everywhere I went, tea was the de facto drink for Vietnamese food, and soy milk was nowhere to be found. Trà đá's role here is what I thought sữa đậu nành would be.

Hot soy milk, among other flavored milks like mung bean and corn, is a beloved beverage in Đà Lạt. Photo via Vinpearl.

Since then, I’ve had opportunities to get my hands on soy milk, be it in higher-end restaurants or special soy milk stalls in Đà Lạt style, a city I have yet to visit. However, the taste is always different from the ones I drank before setting foot in Vietnam. I was eager to find the representation of a country that only existed in my mind, only to realize what I sipped tasted like… soy milk. It was good, but the distinctive taste of getting closer to Vietnam was absent.

Maybe soy milk was just a me-fantasy, not even an experience all French kids with Vietnamese background have. What I have come to accept now is that this mythical “Vietnamese taste” I longed for is not locally present: if I go to Paris now and order one of these glasses I’ve had so many of, I know it won’t feel the same anymore. It was never about milk, nor was it about Vietnam: the Vietnamese daily life I thought I could peek at via the bottom of those sữa đậu nành glasses lit an interest in a side of my heritage that had felt far away.