Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Iris Sa Phượng Nguyễn Paints Feminine Complexities by Subverting Familiar Symbols

2026-11-15T11:00:00+07:00

Iris Sa Phượng Nguyễn's works transport visitors into a world perpetually the colors of twilight. Her debut solo show, “Where Shadows Breathe,” curated by Đỗ Tường Linh, presents a new mythology inspired by Vietnamese womanhood. Surreal and dreamlike, her works portray convenings of women and their trusted companions: storks, ducks, flowers and plants, in imagined spaces that defy the orders of objective reality. Each of her scenes carries an allegorical story, like a fairy-tale book or a document of ancient wisdom. The paintings rest within silver, glittery wooden frames, meant to evoke starry night skies or rippling moonlit waters. Wooden planks curve like streams, where Iris Sa’s painted ceramics float.

I am rarely ever so touched by paintings, but my visit to the exhibition was different. I was astounded by Iris Sa’s unique visual language and the totality of her fantastical world. I jumped at the chance to speak to the artist in mid-October, right after her first public conversation. Iris Sa dove into painting headfirst, without any formal training. What she did have in abundance was the courage to explore deep within herself, and an unapologetic dedication to her artistic desires.

Exhibit view at “Khi bóng tối thở” (When Shadows Breathe)

Iris Sa started painting at the end of 2022, when she was still a fashion student at a private academy. For a class exhibit, she designed a garment with the Henri Matisse prints she was obsessed with at the time. She also made four 50-by-70 paintings to supplement her installation. These works may seem modest in size compared to those adorning the walls at Mơ Art Space, but they allowed her to learn her way around painting on canvases.

“I always liked painting, but never thought I would ever pursue it,” she said. By the start of 2023, she was taking adult painting lessons at a small academy named Artpink, and making her first sketches. Iris Sa seemed to leap past any uncertainty or reservation that could plague a beginner, let alone one without any formal, official training in the form. Those first sketches led to the paintings that are included in her debut show, Where Shadows Breathe. “Everything felt natural. I love working with large canvases,” Iris Sa remarked gleefully. “I love a challenge, and a chance for exploration.” She divulged that gradually, she skipped sketching altogether: “If I had an idea in my head, I would immediately start painting on canvas. I find it more enriching than sketching. It's like I'm building a house from scratch.”

Exhibit view at “Khi bóng tối thở” (When Shadows Breathe)

Iris seemed sincerely amused by how much she gravitated towards large canvases from the start. I personally was more in awe. Venture into the vast blankness of an empty canvas, and filling it with colors and shapes until a world takes shape requires a full-body commitment. I imagine her, brush in hand, crouching and soaring in her studio, wielding her whole body to paint as if choreographing dance. I imagine her last brushstroke completely engulfing her in a reality that was once only intuition.

Throughout our conversation, I realized that the relationship between inspiration and creation, for Iris, is not a one-way street. Her paintings usually start with an emotion; sometimes it is a hunch she has for a painting, sometimes it comes from reminiscence. This spontaneity allows her to act on a thought or sentiment before it arrives at any rational recognition. Sometimes, she has to constantly motivate herself to finish a painting before the emotion becomes too heavy to dive into. There were some paintings that, once finished, she struggled to look at again. Others, she could not stop looking at, pacing back and forth in front of, in disbelief that she went through an experience so intense. Painting, for her, is a means of both processing and release. She may emerge from them as if from a portal, unrecognizable to herself once having crossed to the other side.

‘Giữa da thịt và giấc mơ’ (Between flesh and dream)

At the center of her painting is usually a woman, her protagonist, bearing an animal mask. The woman is usually either pregnant or holding a newborn. Her belly is often swollen, her hips expanded, her breasts full. For Iris, a woman in pregnancy is sacred. It is a state of anticipation and continuation; the image already carries momentum forward into the future. By including such a figure, she imbues the work with a sense of hope that may distill any heaviness that inspired the scene in the first place.

The association with pregnancy in the paintings also invites a sense of mythology on the paintings. They resemble origin stories, primordial and organic, as if dated from a time before clothes. The women absorb fully what surrounds them through their skin, and they become one with the elements. In their nudity, they are fluid, slipping in and out of human form, dissolving any boundaries separating them from animals and nature. The motifs of storks and ducks, however, ground us in the Vietnamese cultural imagination. Iris shared that they were animals from her upbringing, familiar creatures in Vietnamese rural scenes. She chose them because they were already cultural symbols in their own right. “They feel simple and unembellished, nothing too luxurious or too idiosyncratic or artsy. But they also feel intimate in their essence, and I think it is just enough. I like simple images that I could add onto as I paint.”

‘Sự nở rộ thiêng liêng’ (Sacred Bloom).

The play between the strange and the familiar is where Iris Sa’s paintings hold the most intrigue. Storks typically embody a notion of womanhood characterized by sacrifice, patience, and concern for others’ well-being at the expense of oneself. In many ways, we have come to expect representation of these traits in any depiction of Vietnamese women as well. They, storks and women, must be pure, gentle, and industrious. This symbol, however, occasionally fails to account for the complications of womanhood. Women are expected to take on both the physical labor of making a living and caring for children and elders, and the emotional labor of anticipating others’ needs, swallowing any complaints, and being delightful company in both domestic and social contexts. By matching women to a symbol, society takes for granted their agency.

However, in Iris’s paintings, agency is at the core. She not only portrays women in command of their actions, but also in command of making their worlds. For instance, the scene ‘Sự nở rộ thiêng liêng’ (The Sacred Bloom) is crowded with women with their babies lounging amongst blooming lotuses. Lotus, too, symbolizes purity in Vietnamese culture. Here, the lotus centerpiece feels closer to fecundity, the joy of abundance and the revelry of feminine company. While referencing Vietnamese motifs like lotus or stork, the painting also resembles a Renaissance scene, perhaps of the Roman goddess birthing Diana and her nymphs.

Iris also has agency on her mind when she imagines the viewers of her paintings. I, similar to many visitors, inquired about the masks worn by almost all of her main figures. “I like the idea that the women I paint do not emote in a specific way. Once adorned with the mask, no one could tell if you're sad or happy. I want them to exist in this space of uncertainty.” I find this insistence on privacy to be quite powerful. As viewers, we are asked to hold our judgement in suspense; the masks allude to public instances where women rarely get a say in how they show or hide feelings because others’ expectations for proper conduct may take precedence.

She added: “I do not want to dictate these emotions to the viewer. I grant them the right to decipher these women's emotions via their own emotions. If you are looking at this painting, and what is unfolding makes you sad, then you feel like the woman is sad. If the scene excites you, then the woman looks exuberant to you. I want the viewer to experience those emotions themselves directly.”

‘Gương huyễn mộng’ (The mirror of illusions).

Iris was pleasantly surprised that visitors have found the exhibit to be quite healing. They are able to detect the trace of intensity in her paintings, but the world she created healed them instead of replicating any harm. I asked Iris if she herself had experienced any reflection on femininity and womanhood that would have been impossible without creating the work. l. She recounted harboring a lot of emotional conflicts before, including being plagued by nagging dissatisfaction. She felt as if she lacked a thorough understanding of life, questioning endlessly the facts of her family, the endurance of women around her, and her past. She was anxious and guarded, her worries and fears barring her from truly empathizing with others at times. Her painting process gradually calmed these agitations and stabilized her emotions.

As she started painting depictions of women in compromising states, in hardship or even misery, she came to understand that people may have their own rationales for staying or leaving situations. Painting widened her horizons and enabled her to put herself into their shoes and imagine their dilemmas. This horizon also includes the perspective of men, who may also be faced with tough choices. “I no longer harbor that aggression; I am able to release it. With greater understanding comes greater love and compassion for others, because I may witness these hardships, but I am not going through them myself,” Iris Sa concluded.

She also walked away with more compassion for herself. “I used to put myself into rigid boxes regarding what I deserve according to what I can achieve. But all women have the right to be loved, and I should love myself as well. I looked back and was able to make peace. It may not seem grand, but it is another step towards maturity for me.” I think there is something universally recognizable in Iris Sa’s search for peace and reconciliation via an expressive pursuit. Just as she might not recognize the product of her own mind after finishing a painting, art may take us to a strange place where we can examine the conditions of our reality. Regardless of the conclusion, art arms us with the courage to imagine a kinder existence. Artistic processes may be solitary, but their impacts canbe collective. Before changes are possible, new worlds can be found in art, with artists serving as companions in our aspirations.

Exhibit view at "Khi bóng tối thở" (When Shadows Breathe).

These days, Iris Sa says she looks forward to returning to her everyday life. This means, going to her daily fashion job, and resuming painting after a month’s hiatus. This also means enjoying early morning walks around the West Lake, and continuing on her endless quest for knowledge and inspiration. She has been reading more about other Asian cultures and the way they are intertwined, seeking new images and resonances. I am thrilled to see what Iris conjures next, as she departs from her own stories and weaves in others, potentially many millennia and lands away.

Photos courtesy of Mơ Art Space.

One Nation's Beloved Cá Lóc Is Another Nation's Horror Movie

2026-11-13T15:00:00+07:00

America has been losing its shit over snakeheads. All summer long my algorithm-led newsfeed has been alerting me to ominous headlines including “‘Horror movie’ snakehead fish that can slither on land invading Missouri amid fourth sighting,” “Voracious, invasive ‘frankenfish’ reeled in from Delaware River at Easton,” and “Snakehead Fish Found in Georgia: ‘Kill It Immediately.’”

Movie poster for Frankenfish (2004). Photo via IMDB.

This is nothing new. For decades, American media has been trumpeting hyperbolic reports of the dangers of snakehead and their potentially catastrophic impact on local ecosystems. Since the start of the millennium, fear-mongering missives have claimed the insatiable import is able to breathe air, walk on land and will stalk and attack pets and humans, to say nothing of their impact on fellow lake and river dwellers. Between 2004 and 2006, Hollywood even released three low-budget horror movies about them.

I first learned about the fish species from the 2003 non-fiction book Snakehead: A Fish Out of Water by Eric Jay Dolin. It details the fish’s 2002 release into a Maryland pond and the ensuing chaotic coverage of its potential proliferation in American waterways which was even referenced on popular TV shows including The Office and The Sopranos. Ponds were drained, waterways scoured and fishermen put on high alert to kill any specimens they found. Officials warned it could be an invasive disaster on par with zebra mussels in the Great Lakes or cane toads in Australia.

Image from a Vietnamese cooking video for steamed cá lóc. Photo via Bếp Vợ Nấu YouTube Page.

While snakeheads indeed remain a detrimental species for wildlife officials to manage with occasional individuals being identified and eradicated, they have not yet lived up to their horror movie depictions in America. Still, what a surprise to move to Vietnam and discover snakehead, or cá lóc, served with great regularity. From fermented cá lóc in An Giang to braised cá lóc in Bến Tre to steamed cá lóc in Đồng Tháp, I find it everywhere. Ubiquitous throughout miền Tây, where it is native and extensively farmed, I’ve had it grilled, deep fried, dropped into porridge, stuffed in bitter melon and served in hủ tiếu. Decidedly a southern fish, it is nonetheless available throughout the country and even one of several white fish used for preparing Hanoi’s popular chả cá Lã Vọng. And despite all this, I’ve yet to talk with someone here who is aware of the associations its English name has in my home country.

Bánh canh cá lóc (left) via Mia and khô cá lóc (right) via Dân Việt.

Not the cá lóc you think it is

For breakfast this morning, I enjoyed a bowl of bánh canh cá lóc here in Saigon. The flaky, meaty chunks of flesh bathed in a peppery bath complimented the chewy noodles for a fresh and light breakfast. While eating, I began to arrange this article in my head. I initially expected to linger over the theme of invasive species. I planned to compare how cá lóc lives harmoniously in the Mekong Delta’s murky rice fields, opaque lotus ponds and brackish rivers, yet causes calamity in America is similar to the story behind crayfish (tôm hùm đất). Wildlife officials in Vietnam have recently had to remind people that crayfish, often imported via China, is banned in Vietnam because of the potential for the shrimp-esque crustacean to get loose and outcompete native species. Yet, crayfish are perfectly common in the US and don’t threaten other creatures in its ecosystem there.

Photo of an invasive northern snakehead, or cá lóc Trung Quốc, captured in American waterway. Photo via US Fish and Wildlife Service.

I abandoned plans of exploring this theme of invasiveness immediately once I delved further into cá lóc. There are a lot of cá lóc in the world; more than 50 species spread across Asia and Africa. The one currently setting Americans on edge is the northern snakehead (Channa argus), native to Northern China, Russia, South Korea and Mongolia. Vietnam is not home to these cá lóc Trung Quốc.

Matters of species get more complicated when taking into account regional names for the same type of animal. In the south, the fish is called “cá lóc,” but known as “cá quả” in the north and “cá chuối” and in the central region. These terms can be used as a catch-all for different species unless further specified, which it rarely is on menus or product lists. But I promise not to let another Natural Selection feature devolve into an unpsooling of tangled naming conventions.

Illustration of cá lóc đồng or striped / common snakehead (Channa striata) via Wikimedia.

To keep it simple, know that Vietnam is home to numerous snakehead species including cá chuối hoa, or blotched snakehead (Channa maculata) which is native to northern Vietnam; cá chòi or dwarf snakehead (Channa gachua); cá lóc bông or giant snakehead (Channa micropelte); and cá lóc đồng or striped / common snakehead (Channa striata). These latter two are extensively farm-raised in the delta, with cá lóc đồng being the most common to encounter; when you see cá lóc on a menu or captioned in a photo, it is most likely referring to one of these two. And as I recently learned when speaking with a street vendor selling grilled cá lóc, locals arent necessarily aware which variety they are selling or that there even are different species of cá lóc.

While sharing a common ancestor, each species of cá lóc has evolved over time to fill different ecological niches. Cá lóc bông, for example, can grow up to 1.5 meters and weigh 45 kilograms. It is an apex hunter able to feed on even carps and ducks. Meanwhile, cá chòi often measures less than 28 centimeters and subsists on insects and tiny fish. Other than the obvious differences in diet, larger snakeheads tend to build nests near the water’s surface while the smaller ones are mouthbrooders, meaning fertilized eggs are kept safely in a parent’s mouth until they hatch. Regardless of the incubation method, parents defend their offspring ferociously, leading to their reputation as aggressive.

A fish fit for celebrations and sustainability

Photo of cá lóc being dried for sale. Photo via Báo ảnh Dân tộc và Miền núi.

An exciting element of southern Vietnam’s culinary landscape, cá lóc is also an important part of the nation’s economic growth and stability. Despite fluctuating prices, they are particularly vital sources of income for impoverished households. For example, they are integrated into initiatives in the Mekong Delta to advance more sustainable agriculture and land-use practices. Because they are easy to raise and popular as a food good that can be dried and stored, local officials encourage small-scale fisheries to supplement other income sources and protect against fluctuations in other commodity prices. It’s difficult to recognize them being raised in any specific body of water, but travelers to the region will frequently notice them being dried in the sun. Saigoneer was able to witness this first hand when we traveled to Long An to observe a WWF-implemented Climate Resilience by Nature project that saw farmers abandon the year’s environmentally ruinous third rice harvest and instead use the land for other small-scale business endeavors, such as farming cá lóc.

Photo of a farmer in An Giang feeding the cá lóc being raised in a pond formerly used to grow rice. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

While eaten throughout the year, on Ngày vía Thần Tài or God of Wealth Day, cá lóc takes center stage. On the tenth day of the first lunar month, people will witness the fish with a stalk of sugarcane stabbed through their throats being grilled on sidewalks and in markets all throughout Saigon. In addition to buying gold and burning votive paper to honor Thần Tài’s birthday and hopefully usher in a financially prosperous year, citizens feast on cá lóc.

The precise reason for the association of cá lóc with Thần Tài has been lost to time. Some theorize that it represents a rare extravagance held over from more impoverished days. Others claim it was selected because it symbolizes Thần Tài’s love of nature. Or maybe, others say, it simply is Thần Tài’s favorite food.

Cá lóc being grilled and sold for Ngày vía Thần Tài. Photos via Dân trí.

Whatever the specific reasons, the city absolutely turns out for cá lóc on the holiday. Astounding reports of its popularity fill local media every year. In 2022, one local vendor claimed to have imported 3,000 cá lóc from the Delta, totaling five tons for the day alone. To accommodate the leap in demand, shops call in dozens of extra employees and work around the clock. Predictably, the prices rise on this specific day, reaching VND250,000 for an average-sized fish weighing between one and two kilograms in recent years.

Vietnam’s common cá lóc and the dreaded northern snakehead, while different species, closely resemble each other in size and general appearance. And before I knew the difference, I would walk amongst the stalls of skewered cá lóc on Ngày vía Thần Tài, marveling at the idea of Vietnamese welcoming good fortune by dining ravenously on a fish that keeps Americans up at night. The cultural divide seemed stark. Perhaps, I thought, the clichéd adage “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” could be changed and abbreviated to simply “one nation's cá lóc.” But after learning about the many species that are casually called snakehead and how Vietnam’s cá lóc is an important income source that is even exported to America and sold under alternative names, the phrase should be “one nation's cá lóc is another’s white grouper.”

From the Mekong Delta's Chiếu Cói, 100 Đốt Creates Accessories for Everyday Fashion

2026-11-13T14:00:00+07:00

For many Vietnamese, chiếu has always been a familiar part of the home, having grown up with these huge mats in the middle of the living room during family gatherings, afternoon naps, and evening hangouts on the hottest days of the year. Mundane and rustic chiếu is present in countless daily moments of the Vietnamese family as a clean surface to sleep or sit on. Could chiếu cói serve an alternative function in the modern age?

Chiếu is a household item traditionally made of cói grass. The stalks are woven into a large, foldable mat that can be unfurled on the ground to provide space for resting. Nguyễn Huỳnh, the founder of Vietnamese brand 100 Đốt, set out to bring these rustic mats into new markets, uplifting the Mekong Delta’s chiếu artisan villages.

Prior to 100 đốt, Nguyễn Huỳnh spent a number of years working in architecture, marketing, and communication. He also operates a cafe chain. While the ventures span different disciplines, they share Huỳnh’s vision to integrate traditional elements into modern-day Vietnam. Similarly, 100 Đốt is a continuation of that vision.

“I picked chiếu because it’s a material from my childhood and my hometown where I was born. Each grass stalk and weaving pattern carries the touch of our craftsmanship from veteran makers,” he shares. 100 Đốt was born in March 2026.

Nguyễn Huỳnh, the founder of 100 Đốt.

The brand name is a reference to a folk tale called ‘Cây tre trăm đốt’ (The Bamboo Tree With 100 Segments), about a magical bamboo tree that can be assembled and disassembled with a spell. While Nguyễn Huỳnh is the mind behind the brand’s idea development, each resulting bag is born of the labor of many people.

100 Đốt was launched in March 2026.

Huỳnh and the team often go on field trips to artisan villages, not just to place orders, but also to sit down for a chat with villagers and observe firsthand the different steps of production.

Real-life experiences have helped them understand the concerns and mindsets of traditional chiếu makers. By following the production process closely, they can learn the physical limits of the material to make adjustments in the design process.

100 Đốt products

An example of this feedback is how the team experimented and succeeded in developing a layer of water-resistant material to coat the grass mat to boost its durability. Thanks to this protection, chiếu handbags can withstand humidity and mold better.

Right now, 100 Đốt is using two main types of source materials: chiếu made from lác grass of Định Yên Village (Đồng Tháp) and chiếu made from uzu grass of Tân Châu Village (An Giang). The former retains the well-known traditional patterns of chiếu, while the latter is thicker with bolder patterns.

A fan, bag, and hat from the brand collection.

The raw grasses might come from different species, but both go through a rigorous treatment process. Grass bushes in the field are washed and dyed before being woven into mats. Nguyễn Huỳnh formed a partnership with local weavers instead of opting for industrial materials as he wishes to stay close to his roots. “Tân Châu is my hometown. When I founded 100 Đốt, I was hoping to return to that place to begin my new journey,” he shares.

From the field to the sewing machine

When chiếu mats leave the village for the workshop, that’s when the transformation begins. The production team needs to make sure that the grass threads stay secure during the sewing process. They’re combined with leather, zippers, and other metallic components to become the modern-looking bags with a touch of the familiar surface of chiếu.

100 Đốt’s collections also take inspiration from local cultural images, such as the roof of community temples in the Mái Collection, or the curvy seashells in Sò Collection.

Bags made of uzu grass chiếu

“I am the happiest when I see how excited the uncles and aunties are upon seeing the end products. They’re happy that chiếu now has new functions, because that means they can grow the business more and remain in the trade. It’s how I know 100 Đốt is on the right path,” Huỳnh explains.

100 Đốt might have started in fashion, but he has bigger aspirations to expand it into a creative project rooted in Vietnamese culture instead of specific product genres. In the future, Huỳnh hopes to collaborate with many other craft villagers across the nation to bring about new things — like items made from pottery, jute, bronze, fishing nets, or other indigenous materials. “Each material encompasses its own history and stories worthy to be told,” Huỳnh says.

Mái bag on stage at Vietnam International Fashion Week.

Photos courtesy of 100 Đốt.

6 Saigon Eateries With Rare Cuisines to Expand Your World Culinary Experiences

2026-11-10T14:00:00+07:00

In Vietnam’s history, Saigon has always been a city of dynamic immigration, where people from across the nation arrive every day to seek better opportunities for work, study, and to settle down. As Vietnam becomes more open to the world, this attraction has extended to other corners of the globe as well.

In Saigon today, not only can you get a little taste of Vietnam’s most obscure regional cuisines, but at times, even the rarest of world cuisines, right within walking distance or right inside your hẻm. Saigoneer has never taken our city’s spectacularly cosmopolitan food scene for granted, and as we eat our way across town, we are constantly amazed by the culinary wealth of Saigon.

Korean, Japanese, Thai, Indian, and Cantonese restaurants have integrated so well into the local food map that they have become mainstays, but the six Hẻm Gems featured in this list celebrate much rarer cultures that elude even metropolises in countries more developed than Vietnam. We’re very proud Saigoneers to be able to sample their food and spread the word of their brilliance to you, dear readers.

1. Ethiopia | Sara Ethiopian

Ground Floor, B-00.01 Sadora Building, Mai Chí Thọ, An Khánh Ward

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

I first discovered Sara Ethiopian before the pandemic at a basement of a hẻm house in the Bùi Viện area. The titular Sara Alamerew runs the place with her husband Berhanu Demissie, both of whom are some of the most effervescent, welcoming people I’ve ever met. After a few years of closure, the place reopened last year at a new location, but the food remains as sublime as ever.

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

The menu presents a glimpse into Ethiopian cuisine with key ingredients that might seem familiar to the Vietnamese palate: chicken stews, vegetable stir-fries, and various cooked grains. However, the preparation and spice usage will surprise and delight anyone with an open mind and adventurous tongue. Absolutely unctuous doro wot — the chicken stew in question — being soaked up by tangy, spongy chunks of injera is a highlight of the meal.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

2. Soviet | CCCP

48A Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm, Tân Định Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Although not part of the Soviet Union, Vietnam maintained a close relationship with the country throughout the 20th century. Many Vietnamese students were sent to the union to train and study, and Soviet cultural products were commonly enjoyed in Vietnam during periods when western influences were banned. A small population of Vietnamese today still maintains some nostalgia for the Soviet days, a niche that CCCP can fill neatly.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Decadent, preserved, and sharply flavored: the Soviet food at CCCP is perhaps the most distant from what the average Vietnamese is used to. The slices of salted pork fat and various types of cured fish will be the most interesting to try here, though if one’s palate is shyer, they can opt for the grilled skewers or medovik, a type of honey cake that’s just rich in every bite.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

3. Nigeria | Baby African

965/102/3 Quang Trung, An Hội Tây Ward

Photos by Cao Nhân.

The first time I tried the mesmerizing food of Baby African was 10 years ago, and the fact that it still exists amid today’s pernicious economy is a miracle. Over the past months, more options for Nigerian food have popped up in town, but, having sampled them, I personally think that Baby African is still the OG that tastes the best. It’s such a shame that it’s so, so far away — deep in the suburbs of Gò Vấp. If the restaurant were closer to downtown, I would eat there every week.

Photos by Cao Nhân.

Baby African offers a range of soups and stews typical of West African cuisine, but the shining star is without a doubt jollof rice, followed closely by fufu and egusi. The rice platter comes with a choice of chicken, beef, or fish; fried plantain slices; and a slaw. This rice is wondrously flavorful, and I would go as far as claiming that it makes Vietnam’s rice treatments to shame. Because Vietnam produces great rice cultivars, our cuisine focuses on keeping them plain to enjoy with savory dishes, but jollof’s complex and harmonious use of spices elevates the grains to a whole new level.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

4. Tibet | Om Momo

11/2 Street No. 57, An Khánh Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

In Vietnam, mentions of Tibet often appear in discourses of historical or spiritual natures, but almost never culinary. Luckily, we now have Om Momo to rectify that shortcoming. Founded by creative-turned-restauranteur Tsering Tashi Gyalthang, the place brings a slice of his childhood to a secluded, calming corner of District 2. The menu is fairly comprehensive, but the real treat is its range of fantastic homemade momos. I could go in, order a momo-only meal, and leave happy and sated.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Momo is a style of dumpling that originated from the Himalayan region, including Tibet and Nepal, but has since spread to the Indian subcontinent and abroad. At Om Momo, the dumplings come with different fillings like chicken or beef and a range of colorful sauces — my personal favorites are the lamb dumpling and yellow sauce. For a more memorable experience, order the Tibetan butter tea; think milk black tea, but sugarless, buttery, and a little salty. Om Momo uses cow butter instead of the traditional yak version, which I think is for the best.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

5. Indonesia | Ayam Penyet Vindo

24 Điện Biên Phủ, Tân Định Ward

Photos by Nguyên Lê.

If Thai, Malaysian and Singaporean cuisines are relatively well-represented in Vietnam, food from the rest of Southeast Asia is very hard to find. Ayam Penyet Vindo is pretty much the only eatery in Saigon featuring Indonesian cuisine, but luckily, it’s doing a sterling job at representing Indonesia. Started by a Malaysian-Indonesian friend duo, this quaint restaurant focuses on ayam penyet, Indonesia’s national dish of smashed fried chicken slathered with flavorful sambal.

Photos by Nguyên Lê.

Judging from Vindo’s halal menu, Indonesian food is quite similar to what we’re used to in Vietnam, with some spice-forward quirks. The smashed, marinated chicken rice is a must-order, but the menu also has some delightful specials like chicken satay skewers and chicken rendang — both shining examples of how Indonesia manages to combine the richness of peanut and coconut with the zest of aromatics.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

6. Egypt | Cleopatra

295 Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, Bàn Cờ Ward

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

While Ammar, the owner of Cleopatra Halal Restaurant, is Egyptian, his place brings to the Saigon food landscape a number of Mediterranean and Western Asian classics. At first, he had another job, but his journey with food was kick-started by nothing other than the COVID-19 lockdown. Stuck at home without a job, Ammar began cooking, initially as a way to save money. He also sent meals to friends, who instantly recognized his talent in the kitchen.

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

Anyone looking for a halal meal in Saigon will be happy here, and those who have sampled Middle Eastern food in the past will feel right at home with Cleopatra’s offers like hummus, falafel, and shawarma. The must-order item on the menu, to me, is the rice with chicken plate. The chicken is grilled to produce crispy skin, though the meat is fall-off-the-bone tender, retaining an enviable level of juiciness. The rice has absorbed all of the stock, spices and chicken fat, becoming plump, separate grains of decadence.

Read our long-form review of the place here.

Fly Over Vietnam in the 1930s via These Rare Black-and-White Shots

2026-11-09T08:00:00+07:00

What if you had a time machine and traveled 90 years into the past with a drone?

First, you'd probably have to explain the advanced technology that allowed you to pilot a tiny machine at remarkable speeds through the sky. But once you convinced people you weren't a sorcerer or a technological genius, you'd be able to take some pretty amazing pictures of the rapidly changing Vietnam.

Alas, we don't have a time machine. But these photos, taken in the 1930s from an airplane, do a good job of re-creating the experience. Taken by an unknown Frenchman, they reveal Saigon without a skyline, Vũng Tàu with no Jesus statue, Quy Nhơn when it was just a small fishing village, and in general a lot more green space in Vietnam's cities and countryside.

Take a look at the photos below:

Saigon's Majestic Hotel.

Indochina Bank in Saigon during construction.

The former Saigon Chamber of Commerce, now Diên Hồng Hall.

Downtown Saigon.

Former Charner Avenue and Tay Commune Palace, now Nguyễn Huệ Street and the HCMC People's Committee building.

The former GMC building, which became the now-demolished Tax Center.

Saigon Teachers School (center) and St. Paul's Monastery (left).

Former Grall Saigon Hospital, now Children's Hospital 2.

Chữ U bridge and Tàu Hũ canal.

Tàu Hũ canal.

A section of Rạch Giá.

Cần Thơ city.

A riverside villa in Cần Thơ.

Mỹ Tho High School in Mỹ Tho.

Bạc Liêu.

A large home on the coast in Bạc Liêu.

Biên Hòa City.

An area surrounding Biên Hòa.

Trị An waterfall in Đồng Nai.

A panoramic view of Vũng Tàu.

Núi Lớn mountain in Vũng Tàu.

Bà Rịa salt fields.

Hớn Quản rubber plantation in An Lộc.

A forest in Đắk Lắk.

Oderra hunting camp in Đắk Lắk.

Lắk Lake in Đắk Lắk.

Đà Lạt's Palace Hotel.

Po Nagar tower in Nha Trang.

Quy Nhơn citadel.

Quy Nhơn city.

Photos via RedsVN.

Hẻm Gems: At Den the Bar, Making Friends Is as Easy as Finding a New Favorite Drink

2026-11-08T16:00:00+07:00

At Den the Bar, you first come in for a drink, maybe stay a little longer to chat, then come back to catch up. And before you know it, you've become a regular, made a few friends, and sometimes even end up as part of the next generation of bartenders. For over 10 years, Den has become a place where human connections, creativity, and knowledge sharing matter more than fancy bottles. And behind it all lies a slightly bigger ambition: changing the way bartending is seen in Vietnam.

A little bit of everyone

One could easily walk past Den without realizing it's a bar. In a quiet little alley in District 3, one house stands out, painted entirely black. Pop, rock, or whatever the customers fancy that night drifts outside, along with laughter and singing. Red-and-black graffiti covers the rolling shutter, while Quang’s vintage red motorbike practically blocks the entrance, almost as if nobody wants you to come in. Squeeze past it, slide open what might be the heaviest door in all of Saigon, and welcome to Den!

The inconspicuous door to Den

The first person to welcome you is a giant Halloween witch, followed by the Queen of Hearts holding a “Drink Me” sign, both drawn in chalk on the wall. Vietnamese lucky money envelopes swing in the air every time ice rattles inside a shaker. Now, if you adjust your focus a little and look past them, you'll spot a Russian version of Tom and Jerry cartoon playing on a loop on the wall, and right next to it, on the second-floor mezzanine, a gigantic Christmas tree.

Take a seat at the counter, and while you're served water in a tiny glass, try to spot all the different objects hidden here and there: Christmas baubles, a warming eye mask, a huge pink hair comb, dozens of board games, cameras, garlands, drawings, and a bit of everything and nothing. Above the shelves full of bottles, a wheel decides your happy hour fate: 10%, 15%, or 30% off your cocktail… or, if you're unlucky, 25% more.

The black wall is a great canvas for doodling.

Despite its all-black walls, Den doesn’t take its name from the Vietnamese word đen, meaning the color black. It is “Den” as in a fox's den, a nod to Alice in Wonderland. As Quang, the bartender, explains, once you fall down that hole, you enter another world.

About 10 years ago, five architect friends opened a bar where artists and architects could hang out. Over time, the place slowly filled up with little contributions from everyone. “I think it was Christmas 2017. The owner and his friends put up a huge tree and these garlands here. Nobody really bothered to take them down,” Quang laughs. “People used to draw and redraw things on the big black wall. Somehow, the Halloween witch became the official drawing.”

Then comes 2020. The pandemic hits, Den struggles and four of the five founders eventually step away. The last one bought their shares to keep the place going.

Today, the place still has a slightly improvised feel. But between the laughter, pop songs, and the clinking of glasses, one sound stands out: Quang's cocktail shaker. In fact, while most of the bar seems to run on improvisation, cocktail-making follows a rather different logic. One that begins with a pretty unexpected question.

What do you hate in a drink?

At Den, there is a menu. Or maybe that's just a legend. I don't think anybody's ever seen it. Instead, Quang starts by asking what you hate. He follows a sort of theory of taste, a circular logic of flavors that complement or oppose each other. By knowing what you dislike, he can narrow down the tastes you might enjoy, including those you don't even know you like yet.

“It's not a regular order, it's a conversation. I start by asking questions to make you curious about ingredients, finding out what you haven't tried yet, and maybe, telling you more about wines, spirits, and different flavors. Through that conversation, I figure out what to make. For me, it improves my cognitive abilities and trains my creativity. For you, it brings more than just a flavor you might enjoy: an experience, some knowledge, something new to discover. It's about experimenting, for both of us.”

Quang's connection with Den started like many others in Vietnam: via Facebook.

Over my many visits, I've been served everything from a super-sour, foamy, bluish floral fizz to a perfectly made lemonade topped with whiskey, a cocktail inspired by berry yogurt, and an amazing creamy tequila-and-coffee take on an espresso martini.

And contrary to what you might expect, Quang doesn't go for expensive or fancy bottles. His spirits are affordable, the garnishes minimal, and the ingredients pretty simple. For him, a cocktail's value depends on what the bartender can do with what they have. Apple and cherry flavors, for example, can combine into something resembling pineapple.

“If I had access to every flavor, it would kill my creativity,” he quips. And perhaps that's the real ingredient in his cocktails: not just what's in the glass, but the person making it and the vision behind it.

Behind the counter

A few days later, I returned before opening hours to hear the rest of Quang's story. This time, the lights are on, and the bar has turned into a classroom.

“My grandfather was a herbal doctor. A doctor heals the body, a bartender heals the soul,” Quang says. Yet bartending wasn't exactly his calling. After working in restaurants and real estate, he started as a barback, carrying boxes and cleaning. That's where he met his Vietnamese-Canadian mentor from Nha Trang who used to ask “What do you think a bartender should be?” The answer is more of a holistic idea: someone who knows how to take care of the entire bar. The customers, the coworkers, the place, and above all, themselves.

The garland stays on year-round.

He explains: “Bartending is a nighttime profession. It can easily get physically and mentally draining if you don't take care of yourself. It might seem shallow, and I can't really explain it, but when I started taking care of my body and mind, I became a better bartender. How can you take care of others if you don't take care of yourself? How can you be creative if you don't let your mind rest?”

Eventually, his mentor quit, and Quang followed a few months later. A Facebook post led him to Den, where he met the actual owner, the last of the five original founders. The two shared a similar idea of what bartending should be. But behind this idea was also a bigger ambition.

The current owner (left) is the last of the original five.

They often look back with admiration at an older generation of Vietnamese bartenders, feeling like somewhere between the business of selling drinks and the art of making them, something has been lost. It's not necessarily a change they want to condemn, but one that they want to offer an alternative to: one built around creativity, hospitality, and human connection.

And what better way to keep that alive than to pass it on?

Next round is on them

From 5pm to 9pm, Den becomes a classroom. The bottles and shakers are still there, but now the students step behind the counter. And they already know the place pretty well, as they were customers first. Phúc, who discovered Den through a friend, was first surprised by the social side of the bar. “I know it's so simple, but it really surprised me. I'd never sat at a bar and talked with people like that. I thought that only happened in Japan,” he recalls.

“I don't teach, I share.”

One evening, Quang shared his vision with Phúc and mentioned that he wanted to train some new bartenders. Phúc asked if he could sign up, and here he is, getting paid to learn something he's become passionate about, with absolutely no professional experience or formal training. “I was just a good drinker,” he jokes. “But I think Quang saw something else in me: curiosity, motivation, and a willingness to learn. He's a good teacher.”

From upstairs, Quang calls out: “I don't teach, I share.”

Some lessons start with something as simple as tasting lemon juice, others with a crash course in oenology. After 7pm, the apprentices join Quang behind the counter, serving drinks, chatting with customers, and becoming part of the very community that first brought them here.

Quang doesn't plan on changing the entire bartending industry in Vietnam. But he hopes to at least show that there's another way, starting with a little community, in a little alley of Saigon. One where the job isn't just about selling bottles or making cocktails, but also about meeting people, sharing knowledge, and building connections.

And somewhere between the Christmas decorations, the never-ending conversations, and the cocktail lessons before opening hours, I think that vision is already taking shape at Den. A place where people come for a drink, and somehow end up finding their people.

Den the Bar

92/21 Phạm Ngọc Thạch, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

How the General Sciences Library's Design Maintains Cultural Traditions via Modernist Language

2026-11-06T10:00:00+07:00

Beyond being a fine modernist building with great functionality achieved through clever master planning and microclimatic strategies, the General Sciences Library of Hồ Chí Minh City also encompasses a repertoire of symbolism inspired by Vietnamese traditional culture, expressed in the language of concrete, steel, and wood.

The front of the General Sciences Library with visible floating roof feature. Photo by Phạm Phú Vinh.

From abstraction of idiographic characters to sacred animals and stylized fences, the General Sciences Library of HCMC is a catalog of architectural designs inspired by a millennia-old culture entering its modern age. From the building's inception, its architects — Bùi Quang Hanh, Nguyễn Hữu Thiện and Lê Văn Lắm — sought a Vietnamese appearance for the project. In an undated report, they presented the main concepts for the project, one of which explicitly aimed for this:

“If placed in the context of an independent nation, it is essential to promote national culture in order to mark a new renaissance. Architecture would be studied with Vietnamese characteristics, both on the exterior and the interior; reading rooms, reception halls, auditoriums, exhibition rooms, and so on would be designed and decorated in the Vietnamese style.”

While possessing uniquely extravagant examples of Vietnamese modernist design, functionality regarding airflow, shade, and heat dispersal remains a priority.

The general form

The project’s emphasis on translating traditional motifs into modernist language can be seen in the general form of the building. Besides being the “archetype” of tropical modernist architecture with micro-climatic elements like double skin, or floating roof, surrounding moat and garden, the architects metaphorized traditional Vietnamese architectural forms into its new modernist expressions.

The General Sciences Library when seen from behind.

The most brilliant example is the floating roof. The concrete beams are exposed under the roof, evoking the bẩy in traditional Vietnamese houses and communal pavilions (đình). The roof’s design is also stylized by a diagonal cut, hinting at the omnipresent pitched roof. The library is thus a concrete version of a traditional đình, a civic structure of climatic comfort and cultural activities.

The building when seen from the front (left) and back (right).

Traditional imagery

The next strategy for bringing historic features into modernist language is the integration of sacred animals and characters into the design of functional elements. For example, the thọ (壽 / longevity) and vạn (卍 / light, enlightenment) letters have their calligraphic traits transformed into structural elements of the double skin. They are interlocked with one another to create a curtain, woven and wrapped around the building’s envelope to provide light and thermal comfort.

Various brise-soleil features found throughout the building.

These characters’ geometry was also studied by the architects to create abstract composition for the interior space. Not only are they decorative motifs, the geometric lines also serve as a light-filtering screen with reinforced structural rigidity.

Carefully designed skylights and accents are eye-catching features when inside the building.

Besides the letters, sacred mythological animals are also included in the designs as decorative fresque. These dragons and phoenix, part of the four sacred animals (Tứ linh) reflecting the construction of the universe, are commonly seen in East Asian cultures. Their compositions were inspired by traditional Vietnamese wood engravings, with complex patterns and sophisticated figures, typically seen in the furniture designs in temples or imperial palaces.

The traditional phoenix seen from Pasteur Street is a identifying feature of the General Sciences Library when seen from behind.

Abstractions

Even though the metaphors are the most recognizable features of the library, its true genius lies more in the creative grammar that the architects adopted to abstract Vietnamese aesthetics. Abstractions stylize and reimagine complex traditional forms to create a modern look through a process of geometrical experimentation. By using pure lines and shapes, the architects managed to achieve visual harmony.

Using industrial materials, rather than recreating traditional architecture, they used abstractions to relate to a particular aesthetic of Vietnamese culture. They captured figures, patterns, and a sense of proportionality, which were extracted and simplified before being translated into functional elements. The geometrical codes of these elements, which include railings and the ground’s surrounding fences, therefore reflect the visual identities of Vietnamese traditional arts.

Gate and tower feature designs.

Its heritage

The General Sciences Library is one of the most condensed modernist expressions of traditional Vietnamese aesthetics, with symbols of philosophical significance. From the thọ and vạn letters incarnating aspirations of enlightenment and eternity, to the sacred figures representing aspects of the universe, the design inherits a traditional Vietnamese metaphysical sense of the world. It also reflects the time period’s optimism and future-oriented mindset that also embraced the past by recreating it as a means to seek new excellence for a different epoch.

Geometric patterns are found throughout the building including banisters on the front stairs.

The design lessons that Bùi Quang Hanh, Nguyễn Hữu Thiện and Lê Văn Lắm have left us weren’t a static and sealed object. It was a creative attitude which later propagated into the popular building practice that generated the mass architectural reserve of Vietnamese vernacular modernism. They provided inspiration for how abstract architectonic transformations could be taken over and reinvented by the general population as a collective knowledge of design.

In addition to serving as a great model for Vietnamese modernist ideas, the General Sciences Library is a popular place to work and study, cherished by Saigoneers today.

This building is a reflection of both cultural and political attitudes in mid-century Vietnam. It was a key period of Vietnamese modernity and its modern arts, as well as Vietnamese post-colonial nationalism, affirming the nation’s independence through architecture. This library was fortunately not alone. Multiple projects — namely the V.A.R building, the VOH Radio Building, the Independence Palace, etc. — provide significant lessons about climatic, aesthetic, spiritual and cultural identity. Unfortunately, they are neither thoroughly documented nor protected.

In the face of indifferent architectural consumerism and the ethical challenges of artificial intelligence about what it means to invent, the protection of these masterpieces is a critical anchor that will help new generations of creators navigate their creativity. A thorough documentation of these works is an essential step in the recognition and preservation of Vietnamese modernist heritage.

Hẻm Gems: In Huế, Cơm Hến Bé Liêm Is Breakfast With a Side of Warm Hospitality

2026-11-06T08:00:00+07:00

One of the small joys in life is having a favorite dish readily available whenever you crave it. Ever since I discovered the little hẻm in Saigon where Cơm Hến O Thu lies, my life has been ever so uplifted by the comfort that, every fortnight or so, I can hop on my motorbike, sit for 15 minutes, and have cơm hến on the table in a blink of an eye for gulping pleasures. Cơm hến is one of my favorite things, so naturally, when I got a chance to visit Huế, the dish’s hometown, there was no way I could miss out on this small joy that packs big flavors.

There is very little you can say about the decoration or interior design of Cơm Hến Bé Liêm, because very little attention has been paid to it — which, in this case, is a good thing, because it means the proprietor cares more about the food they serve than where they serve it. The eatery is located in a convenient spot on Nguyễn Công Trứ Street. The family lives on one side of a nondescript yellow house, while on the right, a semi-open space serves as the dining and kitchen for their thriving cơm hến operation. Walking past a peacefully napping dog and under a verdant vine-covered pergola, you will be greeted by rows of low plastic chairs and tables that have definitely seen better days.

Cơm Hến Bé Liêm is open from 6am, just in time for an early breakfast.

I’ve been Pavlov-ed by Vietnamese street food places so much that I practically start salivating whenever I see light blue plastic chairs, not because I’m hankering for a bite of that greasy plastic, but for the culinary orgasm that they often herald. It was a Monday morning, so the dining space wasn’t crowded. There was an air of subdued routine amongst diners, who were mostly Huế residents catching a quick bite before heading to work — we were the only rowdy tourists sitting on the edge of our tiny stools, humming with anticipation.

Usually, eating in casual street food settings like this, I’m not one to police the attitude of staff. F&B, especially in this economic climate, is back-breaking, hernia-inducing work, so as long as they don’t punch me in the face or slash my tires, we’re cool. However, I feel the need to point out that the people at Cơm Hến Bé Liêm were really sweet and accommodating, especially to a party of seven people of varying ages and dietary finickings. The fact that, according to multiple online reviews, local taxi drivers and xe ôm uncles keep recommending this place to visitors is a testament to its service and the tastiness of its food.

The people who run the place are some of the nicest people I've come across during my travesls across Vietnam.

Like hundreds of other cơm hến eateries in Huế, Bé Liêm serves only the star dish, though one can opt to switch out rice for bún or instant noodles — all for just VND15,000 a portion. On each table, there is a plate of 10 banana leaf-wrapped chả for diners to fortify their bowl if needed; these morsels of pork sausage are chewy and perfectly seasoned, but I personally think they fit clumsily in a cơm hến bowl as they are too chunky compared to the other perfectly chopped toppings. After a few minutes of us sitting around trading complaints about the Huế heat, our portions of cơm hến arrived.

Freshly assembled cơm hến.

Of every step involved in the dining experience, this is perhaps one of my favorite parts: when the food lands in front of me, putting a temporary suspension on the anticipation and hunger and showing off its glamorous bells and whistles. This is the best that any given dish will look on your table, so take it all in, waft the palpable aroma into your nostrils, feast your eyes on the freshness of the herbs, and enjoy it in any other senses because your palate does its job. A bowl of cơm hến is always a visual treat — on a bed of white fluffy rice grains, snippets of different shades of green peek out in between golden puffs of pork crackling and nubs of baby hến. Chopped Thai basil leaves, shreds of yellow young mango, slices of starfruit, and spongy stalks of dọc mùng form a luxuriant undergrowth just waiting for your spoon to dig in.

Made from cold rice and other simple veggies, cơm hến is a surprisingly balanced meal.

Cơm hến can be eaten any time of the day, but to me, it is the perfect breakfast with a balanced nutrient profile to fuel a busy day at work or school: just enough carb in the form of rice for energy, plenty of fiber from a diverse array of fresh vegetables, protein from the clams, fat from pork crackling, and heat from the chili oil to dispel any lingering lethargy. Bé Liêm has managed to evade some common setbacks that can sully the cơm hến experience, like sandy cold rice, clams that are past their prime, or fishy broth. Add in a teaspoon, or half if you’re a wuss like me, of chili oil, some shrimp paste, mix everything together with vigor — and your bowl of cơm hến is ready to be snacked on. I say “snack” because one bowl is never enough for me. My palate yearns for that comforting mix of savory shrimp paste, tingling heat, and crunchy veggies, so much so that I always get two, or even three on a hot day, bowls in one sitting.

Bún hến and cơm hến.

Every Vietnamese dish has a story behind it. Even right in Huế, nem công chả phượng is a living remnant of the grandiose court cuisine that past emperors enjoyed. Cơm hến, however, hails from much humbler origins on the submerged low-tide stretches along the Hương River, especially around Cồn Hến, a patch of land formed by river sediments and the ideal habitat for baby clams to thrive. Leftover rice, hến caught right from the water, and unripe fruits from the backyard are the simple ingredients that have allowed cơm hến to stay affordable and, over time, spread to all corners of Huế, becoming a satisfying snack for anyone, any time of the day.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–until stock runs out
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0795538330
Average cost per person: $ (Under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Cơm Hến Bé Liêm

64 Nguyễn Công Trứ, Phú Hội Ward, Huế

Is It Possible to Feel Nostalgic for Rest Stops, the Liminal Space We're Supposed to Forget?

2026-11-05T10:00:00+07:00

If the long-distance bus is a person, there’s a high chance that it’s a character who’s not very well-liked. Perhaps it’s a rude guy who smokes like a chimney and often yells whenever someone overtakes him. If the bus is female, then it’s a moody princess, especially during long holidays. Countless people queue up in hopes of accompanying her on trips, but she only takes the few earliest arrivals, and will give them a hard time with everything.

What I remember the most about the long-distance bus trips of my life is the brightly lit window frames flashing in the night, and the half-sleepy, half-alert state I was in every time, set to the driver’s greatest bolero hits soundtrack. The scenery outside repeats itself after a while, but I strangely never find it boring. I can peer through the windows for hours, just to marvel at the endless dragon fruit orchards of Bình Thuận or cloud-wrapped houses atop the Đắk Lắk highlands.

With every blink of my eyes, those scenes of nature slowly fade in and out in my mind, tinged with wistfulness. Perhaps rest stops are born of a need to anchor us down to reality after hours spent mesmerized by passing sceneries. In the middle of trips across hundreds of kilometers and a handful of rest stops, sometimes I wonder if anyone ever feels a longing for those temporary rests?

I once read about the concept of a non-place, put forth by French anthropologist Marc Augé, which precisely portrays that feeling of alienation I feel in the middle of a crowded place. A non-place is somewhere you pass by to reach a different place, such as the many rest stops you drop by on the road to a holiday destination. It rarely elicits any emotions in visitors because it’s not their ending, like video footage filled with instructions but lacking sound. While at rest stops, we can satisfy needs without uttering a word, via signage, advertising banners, and visual cues everywhere. The most basic human needs are met: from eating and drinking to peeing and pooping. Our individual identities seem to momentarily fade away as we go through the same need-meeting movements and rituals.

That’s one way to dissect the rest stop through a western framework, but one could try to dig deeper into the archive of their mind, and that non-place might surprise us with surprisingly strong emotions.

Would anyone be able to recall what they did at the numerous rest stops they’ve been through in their life?

When I was in elementary school, I once boarded a bus with my family to the north. Our road infrastructure was not as developed then, so it took us three days to arrive. Throughout the trip, I stopped keeping track of how many times we got on and off to visit a rest stop. However, I can still vividly remember the kids my age who were actually living there. One time, I followed them through the thick throng of people and arrived at a small room. In front were a smattering of footwear. Inside, they were laughing and playing, so I pictured a hidden playground for kids. A while later, those same kids left the room to carry plates of food to the table for guests. I didn’t really understand much about life at the time, so I only noticed how different my summer could look compared to theirs, even though we were of the same age group.

Another aspect that remains entrenched in my memory about rest stops — as a car-sickness sufferer — is the smell. It’s still just as vivid, even in my reminiscence. A mix of diesel and car exhaust lingers on my clothes, my hair, and every corner of the rest stop. Then, there’s the aroma of prepared food from the stalls, especially phở. Mom often ordered an adult portion and asked for a small bowl to scoop some out for me. The smell was never that strong, but in combination with every other element in the atmosphere, it’s become a hard-to-forget experience.

One rest stop that has stayed with me is the one right after the Hải Vân Pass. Below the canopies, the shops were brightly lit and a stream of passengers flowed in and out, but just turn your head to the other direction and the view was completely different. Cliffs, hills, and expansive stretches of foliage filled the scene. In between the wilderness was the soft lighting of small temples, like torches guarding the sacred jungle.

The summer I turned 16, I got a job working at a rest stop after a friend suggested I join them.

Every day, I woke up at 4am and traveled 10 kilometers to work. The workday ended at 7pm, when I made the same trip home. I was assigned the bánh bao, sugarcane juice, and phèn la pancake stations — the latter was the most popular at the rest stop. Bánh bao always attracts customers thanks to its ease of transport, fulfilling meat and dough skin combo, and warmth. Adults nibble on them as a mid-trip snack that they can bring back to their seats, while children adore the fluffy bun and quail eggs.

In addition to shopkeeping, I also wiped tables, arranged takeaway boxes, cleaned the counter, and topped up products in between bus arrivals. I felt as if I was a cog in the rest stop assembly line. Right at 6am, the first round of bus passengers poured into the dining hall. Today was the same as yesterday. Every element functioned as if programmed: buses arrived and departed right on time. We didn’t really need to chit-chat too much with the guests. They came, made a quick purchase, rested their legs for a couple of minutes, and then left forever.

Only after I stepped inside this liminal non-place myself did I start to perceive it differently.

Years ago, I was once on the other side of the counter, looking at the kids who worked at the rest stop and wondering to myself: why didn’t they travel to their hometown like me? Back then, I thought they must have a tough livelihood. To get me to behave, Mom often told me stories about kids who had to start their adult life early, so I only saw them through a lens of childish pity, from a sheltered kid.

The rest stop was actually a meaningful place in my maturation.

Not until I stood there behind the display myself could I understand that the world is wide and more complex than what I once knew, and that perhaps I shouldn’t impose my frame of reference on other people’s lives. Each child was born into a different circumstance, and behind those counters were stories that a passerby like me could not completely grasp. Perhaps, amid the busyness at rest stops, they too enjoyed the little moments of fun too, like that “secret nap room” that I once spotted through the window that day.

As for me, I never saw the summer at 16 as a tradeoff for a more conventional holiday. On the contrary, those three months behind the staff counter in the middle of countless buses have become an invaluable experience outside of school. Once summer ended, I could buy little gifts for my family with my salary.

A rest stop is like a boarding pass of human life: the more times we encounter them, the more we have traveled. As a little kid, I had to grip the back of my parents’ shirts every time we got off in fear of losing them, but as a high schooler, I could stand at a counter on my own, preparing food and marveling at the never-ending stream of strangers whom I would never see again. And as a college student, I once again became one of those strangers stopping by after hundreds of kilometers on my bike to buy bánh bao, rest, and then leave.

Each of us, I think, will experience some milestones of our own at a rest stop. That could be the first long-distance trip, the first time driving across provinces, or a chance encounter. So, if the timing is right, I hope we can take a moment to slow down to notice if one visit differs from the next. I wish everybody a safe trip on their own journey before and after a rest stop.

Experience Cát Tiên National Park's Nature Sounds as Ambient Noises to Relax/Study To

2026-11-03T11:00:00+07:00

Cát Tiên National Park's calming bird songs, insect cries, and rushing waters are now available as a customizable, uninterrupted soundscape for your listening pleasure.

The soothing noises of the beloved southern forest is made possible because of a collaboration between Vietnam Sound Library and MyNoise, an online repository of “interactive soundscapes and customizable noise generators designed to promote focus, sleep, relaxation, and effective sound masking,” accessed by over 15,000 people a day.

The page for the “Cát Tiên” channel on MyNoise

Users can listen to uninterrupted, consistent sounds of the national park's nature and manually adjust levels for nine specific elements, including distant rapids, stream, rainwashed birds, canopy life, and morning cicadas. Several presets, including Forest Depths, Morning Birds, and Forest Heat, optimize the balances for different listening experiences. One can easily imagine them playing softly in a coffee shop that fosters studying and focused work, a spa lobby, or a bedroom on a slow morning when one yearns to escape the city's concrete stage clips.

Of the collaboration, Stéphane Pigeon, MyNoise's founder and operator, explains: “About a year ago, I received a kind email from Vietnam. Khoa, a sound recordist from Saigon, wanted to share his recordings with me. I answered right away, enthusiastic... and then, nothing. Silence for almost a year. Then one day, a beautiful collection arrived in my inbox, together with an apology for the long silence and an explanation. At the time of his first email, Khoa's recordings were mostly urban soundscapes and, in his own words, not quite in the spirit of myNoise. So instead of sending what he had, he decided to go out and record what he felt myNoise deserved. What he brought back is a summer forest in Cát Tiên National Park, in southern Vietnam, one of the richest lowland forests left in the region. I could hear the effort in those files the very first time I played them. They needed very little from me: a distant plane removed here, a few faraway voices there, and the forest was ready to breathe on myNoise!”

Khoa busy at work preparing sounds. Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

Saigoneer recently profiled Vietnam Sound Library, so we are not surprised by the focus or quality of the recordings. Khoa and Thủy, the duo behind the project, have been amassing a tremendous library of Vietnamese sounds to support Khoa's work as a film sound designer as well as a matter of preserving the nation's culture as expressed via everyday audio. When we visited their studio, Saigoneer got a sneak peek at the audios recorded in Cát Tiên, which were ultimately used in the recent movie Nghỉ hè sợ nghỉ hưu ( Meets Hero).

The sounds of Cát Tiên fit in perfectly in an archive that includes ambient noise from waterfalls, Japanese gardens, purring cats, and much more, including albums found on popular streaming sites. Free for personal use, the archive began as a passion project by Pigeon, a signal processing engineer with a strong passion for sounds. Its success has allowed him to focus on it full-time.

Bạch Nam Hải’s Documentary Photo Series Captures Sapa's 7 Years of Transformation

2026-11-02T08:00:00+07:00

From the town to the depths of the misty mountains of Sapa, Bạch Nam Hải embarked on a documentary photographic journey, capturing the essence of local life, the intimate connections between people and nature, and the contrast between the natural landscape and rapid urban development fueled by tourism expansion.

“TRÊN ĐỈNH ĐỔI THAY” (MOUNTAINS OF CHANGE) is a documentary photo series by photographer Bạch Nam Hải, developed over seven years from 2017 to 2024. The photo series captures the transformation of Sapa — a small town and also a tourist destination known for its misty mountains, chilling weather, and vibrant ethnic cultures — amidst the inevitable force of urbanization and tourism development. Images of hotel construction along the hillside, intimate portraits in town and from the mountains, or landscape photos featuring daily lives of the villagers, the photo series captures the reality that the photographer has witnessed, and offers a glimpse into what lies beneath the surface of what tourists usually see — both hidden but also visible all at once.

What began as a 10-day visit unexpectedly turned into a three-week stay. After spending weeks wandering from the town through the mountains, encountering local people and witnessing rapid changes happening across the hillsides, Hải was filled with mixed emotions and thoughts. He decided to revisit Sapa again to continue this photo series, which eventually developed into a seven-year photographic journey. He felt that there was a bigger story to be told about this land and its people, and he captured everything through documentary photography, with the aim of documenting real moments happening in front of his eyes.

Even before the rise of social media marketing and large-scale tourism today, Sapa had already become a tourist destination dating back to the early 20^th century during French colonization. Since then until now, the town has witnessed massive waves of developments, new immigrants, businesses, and large-scale investments. Home to the ethnic minority communities and its misty mountains and cool weather, Sapa has been known for its photogenic destination for visitors who come in search of serenity and a sense of healing in nature, with iconic sites such as Sapa’s central square (Quảng trường Sa Pa), the Sun Plaza clock tower, Mường Hoa Valley, and Cát Cát Village, etc.

To meet the ever-growing demand from domestic and international tourists, new hotels and homestays are continuously being built, stretching beyond the town and reaching the untouched hillsides. In Bạch Nam Hải’s black-and-white photographs, the contrast between the vast landscape against the tough structures of concrete and steel reflects the reality of rapid urbanization and investment. This visual tension brings out a fragile in-between state — neither past nor future, but a present caught in transition and filled with uncertainties — of a town undergoing “work in progress” with nostalgia, and conveying a sense of melancholy for the disappearing natural landscapes.

Anyone who has visited Sapa at least once has likely encountered young children or people dressed in traditional thổ cẩm brocade attire, approaching tourists to sell handmade souvenirs. While many tourists find themselves fascinated and curious, often pulling out their phones to capture the moments, Bạch Nam Hải’s photographs unfold a deeper narrative behind those interactions. It shows that the children are not only selling goods in touristy areas, but they are also navigating a world where tourism has become a central part of their lives. Through both candid scenes and intimate portraits, it feels like the children are compelled to grow up quickly against the rapid changes of urbanization and development. With modern western-looking buildings and natural landscapes in the background, the photographs subtly question the cost of progress and draw attention to the often-overlooked realities of people’s quality of life in this town.

Moving beyond the town, the photographer ventured deep into the mountains, where he found himself immersed in vast natural landscapes and the quiet and intimate rhythms of village life. To capture such close-up and personal images, he spent time walking alongside the locals, engaging in conversations, and quietly observing their daily routines. His photographs captured on the mountains reveal tender and unguarded moments of children smiling into the camera, standing beside their pets, carrying younger siblings, or women carrying large bundles of vegetables on their backs. These scenes evoke a profound sense of nostalgia, a glimpse into a way of life deeply connected to nature. Perhaps, the nostalgia arises from the rarity of honest and genuine human interactions today, creating a sense of timelessness in these portraits that feels both fleeting and enduring.

Developing a long-term documentary project requires a deep commitment, especially when a photographer must return to the same place over time. When asked about how to sustain such a process, Bạch Nam Hải reflects on it from both professional and personal standpoints. Beyond his skills as a professional photographer, he emphasizes the importance of lifelong learning and staying engaged with a community of fellow photographers. He believes the world is full of fascinating moments unfolding every day, but only a few stories we are fortunate enough to encounter, and even fewer carry the weight and message of their time, deserving to be told and shared more widely. For him, it’s about following instinct and documenting reality through the language of photography.

“I noticed that most of the ethnic minority locals mainly move around on foot, so I also made a habit of walking. I wandered everywhere, from the town center deep into the villages. Along the way, I would initiate conversations with the locals, picking up a few phrases in H’Mông and Red Dao languages to chat. Many conversations actually began when street vendors approached me to sell souvenirs. I would gently decline, then casually chat with them — just like how strangers sitting next to each other on a train or bus, end up talking about everything in life,” Bạch Nam Hải told Saigoneer in Vietnamese.

The documentary photo series highlights the ongoing tension between Sapa’s traditional local lifestyle and the rapid expansion of tourism and large-scale investment. Yet, there exists a tender intimacy: moments of daily life, human interactions, and portraits of locals that offer a human counterpoint to the larger narrative of change. The innocent eyes of the mountain children, captured in Hải’s photographs, evoke a sense of happiness at the moment. But as the viewer lingers and places these images within the broader context of Sapa’s rapid development, a subtle sense of concern about the future of this land begins to surface: how can urbanization and economic growth align with the preservation of culture and nature? And more urgently, how can sustainable tourism evolve in ways that genuinely improve the lives of local communities?

More information on Bạch Nam Hải’s “MOUNTAINS OF CHANGE” and his book on the photo series can be found on this website.