Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

The Search for Vietnam's Largest Lacquer Artwork, Nguyễn Thế Khang’s 36 Old Streets of Hanoi

2026-10-04T10:00:00+07:00

The story begins in 1996. Before leaving for a month-long journey to Vietnam with 30 other Norwegian teachers, I had searched through books and online sources for hidden stories and overlooked places, an interest born from my experiences teaching Vietnamese refugees in Norway in the late 1970s and 1980s. One name caught my attention: the artist Nguyễn Thế Khang, who had conceived an ambitious plan to recreate Hanoi’s 36 Old Streets in a monumental lacquer work. The day after I arrived in Hanoi, I was welcomed into his home at 47 Triệu Việt Vương.

Khang was 74 years old at the time. He received me politely, but his excitement quickly overtook the formalities. Within minutes, we were standing before sketches for his great project: a vast visual reconstruction of Hanoi’s 36 streets set in approximately 1850, before French colonization. The work was to be created in sơn mài.

The scale was extraordinary. The completed work was planned as 16 large panels, together measuring 1.70 by 10.08 meters. A raised decorative border, filled with motifs illustrating important historical events and characteristic features of Hanoi’s culture, would run around the sides. The work would also include inscriptions in classical Chinese characters and in Vietnam’s old Nôm script. With the frame included, the total size would exceed 22 square meters.

Author Olaf Husby (left) and Nguyễn Thế Khang (right) in his Hanoi home in 1996.

Khang intended to use coromandel lacquerware, a technique with origins in China wherein several layers of black lacquer are applied to a prepared wooden surface. Once the lacquer has dried, the motifs are carved or incised into the surface, then colored, gilded, or inlaid with decorative materials such as mother-of-pearl. The images emerge vividly from the dark background.

Khang unrolled a sketch about a meter and a half long. Soon the table was covered with scenes from everyday life in old Hanoi: city gates, houses, markets, trees, canals, boats, bridges, monuments, temples, and pagodas. In its completed form, the work would show around 400 low buildings and approximately 2,000 people from all layers of society — working, bargaining, conversing, attending ceremonies, or practicing popular forms of religion and devotion. The detail was so extensive that even this vast work required simplification. Hàng Đào Street, for example, had once contained 120 houses; in Khang’s reconstruction, only 25 could be shown.

Reconstructing old Hanoi

The preparation was painstaking. Khang had spent years studying the period around 1850 and collecting information about a world and its customs that had largely disappeared. The tools, techniques, and working practices that once defined streets such as Hàng Bạc, Hàng Đào, and Hàng Bông had faded from living memory. Detailed information about architecture, clothing, and daily life had also become fragmentary.

Khang stressed that the work should be accompanied by a carefully prepared catalogue, placing the historical scenes, the structure of the Old Quarter, and the cultural references in a broader context. Much of his knowledge came from his history studies at Thăng Long Private School, one of Hanoi’s oldest educational institutions. His history teacher had been Võ Nguyên Giáp, later general and commander-in-chief of North Vietnam’s forces. After leaving school, Khang continued to study old Vietnamese and French texts about Hanoi.

Khang's lacquer work up close.

Nguyễn Thế Khang described his own style as neoclassical, though he had no formal art degree. As a child, he became familiar with embroidery and gilding and later developed his skills in modern artistic circles, becoming known for his lacquer and silk paintings. His artistic career truly began after he retired from the Vietnamese postal service in 1980, at the age of 58. At first, he copied Chinese calligraphy, but the rise of Vietnamese national feeling during and after the Sino-Vietnamese War of 1979 led him toward older Vietnamese traditions, especially depictions of folk festivals.

“I will begin the work in six months, in October 1996,” he said as he rolled up the sketch.

But there was one problem: money. The project was so large that he would have to hire assistants. To pay them, he had already begun selling his private works, pieces he loved and had never intended to put on the market. Even that would not be enough.

I was completely captivated. To my eyes, the proposed work was unlike any Vietnamese lacquerware I had seen before. Khang noticed my enthusiasm and asked directly: “Can you help me find funding?”

He had calculated the amount precisely: US$78,200. The sum would cover completion of the work, wages for two assistants, exhibition equipment in Hồ Chí Minh City and Hanoi, media promotion, and the printing of 1,000 high-quality catalogues.

When I left 47 Triệu Việt Vương, I carried with me notes, sketches, photographs, and written material that I could use in my search for support. In Khang’s own English version, the project was titled “The 36 Old Street Quarter of Hanoi in the XIXth Century.”

The search for funding

I returned to Norway in early April 1996 and immediately began looking for financial support. Raising half a million kroner from colleagues, friends, and acquaintances was out of the question. I knew no art patrons with a special interest in Vietnamese art. Norwegian artists’ organizations responded positively but could offer no concrete advice.

Then an opportunity appeared. In 1995, Vietnam’s prime minister Võ Văn Kiệt had visited Norway. At the reception dinner, Norwegian prime minister Gro Harlem Brundtland had spoken of strengthening cooperation with Vietnam and announced that Norway would open an embassy in Hanoi in 1996. Diplomatic relations between Norway and North Vietnam had already been established in 1971.

Nguyễn Thế Khang.

In August 1996, the Norwegian Agency for Development Cooperation (NORAD) announced a funding programme for cultural cooperation with developing countries. At the same time, it was announced that the Norwegian embassy in Hanoi would open during Brundtland’s return visit to Vietnam on October 8, 1996.

Suddenly the timing seemed urgent. I sent all the material on Nguyễn Thế Khang to the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and to Jens Kjell Otterbech, newly appointed ambassador to Vietnam. Since there was so little time to prepare and process a formal application, I suggested that a direct Norwegian grant to Khang’s project would be simpler. It would also be a meaningful way to mark Norway’s new presence in Hanoi.

On September 12, Khang was received by Ambassador Otterbech in Hanoi. Soon afterwards, I received his report. He had presented the project, brought documentation and a large sketch, and had been told that he should not worry about the application deadline. The embassy would contact Oslo, since it could not make such a decision alone. The conversation had been friendly, and the ambassador had promised to visit Khang’s home and workshop.

I felt relieved. The matter, I thought, had reached the right people.

But by then Khang’s ambitions had grown. He had begun planning a private gallery where the work could be exhibited. Property prices in Hanoi were rising quickly, and he believed action was needed. He estimated that US$200,000 would be required to construct a five-story building with modern facilities. It would contain rental space, living quarters, exhibition rooms, a gallery, a lacquer-painting studio, and a handicraft workshop.

Khang regarded the plan as an excellent investment. The building, he proposed, would belong to the Norwegian embassy, while he would supervise and manage it. If he sold the monumental lacquer work, he would repay the investment to the Norwegian government and create a second, slightly different version for a private museum.

That was the last correspondence between Nguyễn Thế Khang and me. I felt I had done what I could. As for investing in Hanoi’s real-estate boom, that was far beyond anything I could take part in. Eventually, I accepted that the project had not received Norwegian support. Little by little, the story slipped into the background.

Panel of Khang's ambitious work.

What became of the work?

Almost 30 years later, as I was preparing to return to Vietnam, the question suddenly came back: What had happened to Nguyễn Thế Khang’s great project?

An online search produced little, but one result was invaluable: an interview with Khang published by VnExpress on February 22, 2001 under the title “The Fate of the Largest Painting of Hanoi.”

After eight years of work and a budget of VND300 million, the work had been completed. Khang valued it at VND1.2 billion, four times the production cost, but because the intended buyer was the Hanoi Department of Culture and Information, he had reduced the price by half.

Completed panels of Khang's ‘The 36 Old Street Quarter of Hanoi in the XIXth Century.’

The painting had been exhibited in central Hanoi during the celebration of the 990^th anniversary of Thăng Long–Hanoi in 2000. After the exhibition ended, it was placed in storage while a professional committee considered whether the city should purchase it.

Opinions were divided. A purchase would recognize the artist’s dedication, but might also provoke criticism from the professional art world. Khang’s artistic competence had been questioned. Some professionals regarded him as an amateur. There was also a broader question: should the work be considered art, or handicraft?

Khang held firm on the price and suggested that he was prepared to sell the work elsewhere, even abroad, if the Hanoi authorities did not buy it. The situation was made more painful by his declining health. He was seriously ill and needed costly weekly treatment. He seemed caught between bureaucratic hesitation and personal hardship, while the fate of his life’s work remained undecided.

A second VnExpress article, published on May 9, 2001, reported that Nguyễn Thế Khang had died during the months of waiting. His family argued that the authorities should respect his wishes and purchase the work. A government representative expressed sympathy and praised the painting’s ability to recreate the atmosphere of the past. Yet the size of the work remained a serious obstacle. There was no suitable place for permanent display.

Searching for the painting

A cafe at 47 Triệu Việt Vương next to Nguyễn Thế Khang's former home.

So this past summer, in Khang’s spirit, I booked a hotel on Chân Cầm Street — the “street of stringed instruments” in Hanoi’s Old Quarter — and began searching for museums or exhibitions where the panels might now be displayed. I found no trace. I would have to search more directly.

Number 47 Triệu Việt Vương, Khang’s home, was only half an hour away on foot. The house number led to a quiet courtyard. Next door was a modest café. When a young employee brought my iced coffee, I asked in clumsy Vietnamese whether she knew the former resident, Nguyễn Thế Khang. I wrote down his name, the words “painting of Hanoi’s Old Quarter, 36 streets,” and made a rough sketch. She opened Google Translate and showed me one word: “Wait.”

When she returned, I understood that she had learned from a neighbor that Khang had a son named Nguyễn Thế Duy. She had neither an address nor a phone number. It was a step forward, but still far from the goal.

Then Trịnh Lan Hương, a creative director in Hanoi, became interested in the search. Soon she was in contact with Nguyễn Thế Duy, who confirmed his relationship to Khang. We visited him after a drive from old Hanoi, where he greeted us with warmth. The family’s artistic talent had clearly been passed on: Nguyễn Thế Duy was an established musician, and his apartment resembled a gallery, filled largely with his own works. Among them were lacquer paintings bearing Nguyễn Thế Khang’s signature.

Nguyễn Thế Khang's signature on one of his many works kept at his son's home.

When asked about the lacquer panels, Duy kept us briefly in suspense, then opened the website of Old Streets Gallery. The entire artwork appeared before us. It was not 16 panels, but 21. The two outermost contained texts; the other 19 depicted old Hanoi in panoramic form, stretching from Hàng Than to Hàng Khay and from the Red River to Hàng Gai and Hàng Quạt.

But where was the original? The answer came quickly: it was on display at Hồng Ngọc Fine Art, 110B Ngọc Hà, in Ba Đình District.

Hồng Ngọc Fine Art, 110B Ngọc Hà - the current site of Nguyễn Thế Khang's great work.

Rediscovery

Stepping into Hồng Ngọc Fine Art on a warm April day was pleasant. The shop made a strong impression, with embroidery, clothing, sculptures, gold, silver, and gemstones. But our goal was near the entrance, beside ordinary souvenirs. On a long wall behind a counter hung the panels, next to a sign announcing “the largest lacquer ware [sic] artwork in Vietnam,” titled ‘36 Streets of Thang Long Hanoi in the 19th Century.’

Unfortunately, the presentation did not do justice to the work. More than 15 meters long, it almost disappeared among large photographs and goods aimed at tourists. The glossy lacquer reflected the shop interior. A wide counter prevented viewers from seeing the work as a whole or moving close enough to study the details properly. Some documents offered supplementary information, including translations of the text panels written in Chữ Nôm.

The current presentation of ‘The 36 Old Street Quarter of Hanoi in the XIXth Century.’

We had rediscovered the artwork, but had our task really been completed? We wanted to contact its owner, who, according to Nguyễn Thế Duy was an art lover who had admired Khang’s work for many years. After Khang’s passing, he convinced Khang’s widow to sell it to him, and he displayed it in his shop. A series of personal events led to him no longer owning the shop nor living in Hanoi. Our attempt to make contact with the current owner absorbed us, but we did not succeed. For now, our questions remain unanswered.

Still, we did not want to leave the story of this unexpected journey — what Vietnamese people often call duyên, or fate — unfinished. The journey became a thread, weaving together my connection with the land and people of Hanoi in particular, and Vietnam more generally.

And perhaps the journey does not have to end here. Now that the story has been told, other doors may open — not only for us, but for the wider public. Our hope is that one of them may lead to an exhibition space more worthy of Nguyễn Thế Khang’s vision: a place where the public can encounter the original work, explore it through digital technology, and learn more about old Hanoi through a carefully produced art book. In the meantime, it remains available for interested visitors able to look past the unsatisfactory presentation and witness a spectacular work of vision and dedication.

Sugar, Ice, and Everything Nice: On the Mekong Delta's Love for Trà Đá Đường

2026-10-02T09:00:00+07:00

The pitcher of miền Tây-style sweet tea is like a boat ride taking me away from the exhaustion of the city back to the memories of my hometown amongst the canals of the Mekong Delta.

It’s a sweltering noon. I’m busy finding my uniform and preparing my backpack for this afternoon’s extra lesson. My midday napping habit has caused trouble for keeping up with the school schedule many times. I rush towards the Honda Cub in the front yard and see that my mom has already hung a familiar plastic pitcher on its side. She shows up behind me as if by teleportation and chastises my tardiness, as usual: “You sleep too much, so I made you trà đá đường to sip on while you go to class to continue sleeping!”

Just like that, pitchers of trà đá đường have quenched my thirst during every humid lesson and indulged my laziness during downtime when I sip while watching TV. It’s also my go-to order whenever my friends and I hang out at a streetside cafe.

Trà đá đường is self-explanatory: it’s made of tea, ice, and sugar. Photos via Facebook page Đồng Tháp Mười.

When typing these memories, I called my mom to share with her my intention. I told her that I would love to write about her pitchers of trà đá đường, about the pitchers we order at cafes, and, above all, about the familiar sweet tea of our hometown. She laughed at me through the video chat: “Oh dear, what is there to write about trà đá đường?”

When I think about it more, I get what she meant. It’s not too bold to claim that trà đá đường is like the lifeblood of delta folks. It shows up in every corner of life, when we’re thirsty, when we’re tired, when our appetite wanes. It exists as an assumed default beverage, so commonplace that it might seem that there’s nothing to discuss or debate over.

Transparency right from the name

Right from the name, this drink is already as transparent and straightforward as can be. “Trà đá đường” is simply made of trà (tea), đá (ice), and đường (sugar). Still, it’s not just any sweetened tea like some believe. There’s no official recipe for sweet tea, but the most popular method is steeping tea leaves really intensely to produce a strong brew with distinctive aroma and tannic taste. Then, add as much sugar as your heart desires. Many might be alarmed by this rather generous amount of sugar, but worry not; the concentrated sugared tea is then tempered by an equally generous amount of crushed ice. In the extreme heat of the delta, the ice will quickly melt to balance out the cloying sweetness of the tea.

A classic pitcher of trà đá đường. Photo via Măm Măm Sài Gòn.

Enjoying trà đá đường has never been a procedural or structured activity: you can take sips, use a spoon, or slurp loudly through a straw. Or, if particularly parched, just put the teaspoon handle across the pitcher opening to stop ice cubes from flowing into your mouth, and then chug. It also doesn’t require a table or special occasion. A pitcher of sweet tea can appear at any time on any surface to do its God-given job: bringing relief to dry throats.

In my opinion, a good trà đá đường should retain the slightly bitter and tannic notes of strong tea, followed by the sweetness of sugar. In one sip, one should be able to sense the faint grassy notes of tea, as well as the crunchy texture of crushed ice and some undissolved sugar crystals.

Of course, these are my preferences based on the best tea pitchers I’ve experienced, but each household, cafe, or person will no doubt have their own set of standards. Some prefer brutally strong tea with minimal sweetness, while others choose to dilute the tea with tap water to increase the drinkable volume. My family only uses móc câu tea by the Thiên Hương No. 9 brand, but my friend’s is faithful to Thái Nguyên jasmine tea.

Trà đá đường in the Mekong “sweet tooth” universe

On the other hand, not all Mekong families are into this tea. A high school friend used to complain to me about the trà đá đường ban at her home, as the parents were deadly afraid of diabetes. They scared her into abstinence by warning her that if she drank this stuff too much, ants would find her at night in bed.

Every family develops its own tea from a range of local brands. Photo via Tạp Hóa Tá Lả Miền Tây.

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing when I heard the story. I still remember her gaze of admiration when she saw me chugging the tea pitcher I brought to class. Sometimes, I even sneaked her some, just as a treat, saying: “I think your mom worries too much. I had lunch at your house, and every dish was sweet. I don’t think we can live without sweetness.”

We realized the unspoken truth behind that offhand claim. Our palates would not be content without sugar. A pot of pepper braised pork, as savory as it is with lots of fish sauce, would not achieve its enticing shine without caramelized sugar. A plate of cơm tấm sườn must be accompanied by a viscous bowl of sweetened nước chấm. Trà đá đường is just one of many ways southern people sweeten our lives.

Many treat trà đá đường as a default way to hydrate. I have yet to reach the level of one pitcher a day, but I have heard of people who are already there — wherever they go, whatever meal they have, trà đá đường must be on the side. To me, it’s not a must-have everyday drink, but after a few days without it, I feel a craving.

Since that one time I let my friend drink my tea, she started asking me to make her some when I came to class. As I watched her painstakingly scrubbing her water bottle to remove any tea trace to hide it from her mom, I couldn’t help wondering who invented this addictive drink that stole the hearts of miền Tây people and pushed my friend into this subterfuge.

A recipe for a tea mix that went viral on social media. Image via TikTok user @nguyenthithaoquyen97.

According to my grandmother, in the 1930s and 1940s, during her generation, trà đá đường had already existed in the Mekong Delta. There is no written record confirming its origins, so my personal theory is simply that, in a land where sugar is so abundant that it appears in nearly every dish, iced tea is no exception.

Where I live, the elders believe that trà đá đường is a very potent energy drink. Just drink it, and you will feel healthy and awake immediately, they rave. Tea does contain caffeine, and sugar indeed gets turned into energy, so trà đá đường was born to be the countryside’s cheapest form of energy drink. Just imagine: after a whole morning laboring away in the field, you hunker down to rest and gulp up a huge sip of ice-cold, refreshing tea. How satisfying would that be? Perhaps, providing temporary relief from the back-breaking labor of agriculture was how trà đá đường first found its way into our hearts.

The delta’s choice of energy drink.

Today, trà đá đường is not beloved by just people who farm, but also cà phê võng patrons, children napping after school, street vendors in markets, ferry workers on a break, and xe ôm uncles waiting at intersections. A pitcher of trà đá đường is present somewhere by their side.

Now, living in the city, I tend to think of milk tea when the word tea is mentioned. It, too, is familiar and relevant to my current environment, yet, there is still a small corner within me for the pitchers of trà đá đường Mom made for me to take to school.

Built for a Painter, This Huế House Brings the Art Gallery Into the Home

2026-10-01T11:00:00+07:00

A recurring problem in home decor for art lovers is finding enough wall space to display paintings and art pieces in the best way to showcase their beauty. As a painter, the owner of the Nala House project in Huế is well-acquainted with this concern, and set out to rectify it right from the beginning by bringing the gallery into his home.

Completed in 2023 by Nguyen Khai Architects & Associates, the house is based on a rectangular plot of land commonly turned into tube houses. However, the architects and owner decided against the well-traveled road and opted to play with the layout by carving out space in the middle for a tiered green space.

Flights of stairs surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass windows connect the ground with the top floor. Beneath, in between, and on the side of the stairs are planters and trees to provide shade for the inner walkways. Five “floating” planters break up the flow of the stairs, giving walkers pauses as they make their way up.

The owner is a painter who wishes to turn the residence into both somewhere to live and to create, as shown by the integration of his studio and art gallery into the upper floors of the house. The walls facing the stairs are outfitted with a network of lights to illuminate the big paintings, and the space is devoid of unnecessary furniture, giving visitors the feeling of browsing artworks in a museum.

While the materials and palette of the house can appear a little sterile, with white walls and a grey floor finish, this neutral combination provides a good backdrop to lift the colorful art pieces up, immediately capturing the attention of viewers.

Have a closer look at the house below:

Photos by Hiroyuki Oki via ArchDaily.

Review: In Lope Dope's Debut Album, a Summery Fictional World Powered by City Pop

2026-09-29T15:00:00+07:00

“Tình ca thành phố vịnh,” the first album by Hanoian indie group Lope Dope, might come out at the end of summer in August, but its wealth of city pop exuberance and tropical cheer is enough to power any listener through the dreary rainy season and upcoming winter.

Lope Dope is a five-person band that initially connected via a large collective of like-minded creatives in Hanoi. Like most musical groups that formed during the pandemic, they struggled with finding a time and space to practice amid ever-shifting lockdown policies, but nonetheless, they persevered, and the first single ‘Vô vị’ (Bland) was officially released in 2021.

Their second release, the single ‘Đêm thành phố’ (City Night) came out in 2022 to enthusiastic reception by listeners and even went viral on TikTok. The momentum allowed them to perform on stage at a few music festivals and youth events to spread their characteristic funk and city pop passion.

In August 2026, Lope Dope dropped their debut record, “Tình ca thành phố vịnh’ (Love Songs From the Bay City), a full-length album featuring nine tracks and one bonus track, ‘Đêm thành phố.’ Albeit originating from Japan, city pop is now an internationally recognized and loved genre all over the world, Vietnam included. A full-fledged city pop album in Vietnam is not unheard of, as Phùng Khánh Linh has done so before with “Citopia,” but if Linh confined the genre to one album, Lope Dope is pursuing city pop and funk full-time, at least for the time being.

The music video for ‘Vịnh người cá.’

“Tình ca” is conceptualized around a fictional city, the titular Bay City, and every song contains narratives, characters, and places that expand on the fiction. Across the 10 songs, Lope Dope creates a tropical world filled with crashing waves, swaying coconut trees, and the ever-present incandescent sun. It reminds me a lot of “Timely!!”, the 1983 album by Anri, in both atmosphere and subject matter, so I am instantly endeared by “Tình ca.”

The album opens with ‘Vịnh người cá’ (Mermaid Bay), the music video for which is an adorable love story between a mermaid and a downtrodden pilot. It’s the song with the most mythological storytelling of the album, setting up both the backstory of the fictional world and the sonic tone for the album. The ending returns to ‘Đêm thành phố,’ the successful hit from 2022 that was arguably the first spark that jump-started this adventure.

The animation for ‘Chuyến du hành vũ trụ,’ a tribute to Georges Méliès.

“Tình ca” has a well-thought-out overarching theme and story that are executed decently. Lope Dope is assured in their vision and stays faithful to it across the tracks — the album’s biggest strength. I could imagine vibing to these sunny tunes while on the bus traveling along the coast in Phan Thiết, Nha Trang, or Đà Nẵng, staring deep into the ocean hoping to find mermaids. The listening experience is seamless, with the tracks blending in and out harmoniously, though this seamlessness is also its shortcoming. The songs don’t differ enough from one another, in lyric content, vocal performance, or melody, so I could doze off mid-trip and wake up not sure which song I’m on.

As a whole, the album is charming, indulgent, and infectiously cheerful, like a summer fling. But, unfortunately, like a summer fling, it also comes up short in depth and emotional weight. Nonetheless, as a debut record, “Tình ca thành phố vịnh” by Lope Dope is a strong showing that demonstrates the group’s personality, vision, and great potential. They not only paid tribute to city pop, but also embodied its aesthetics and spirit well.

To sum up:

Type: Album
Release date: August 2026
Lyrics: Cheerful, story-driven, and earnest
Danceable: Twerking-on-the-beach level
Cryable: No, if anything, it will prevent crying
Karaoke potential: Perhaps, if the lyrics are more available

Score: 68/100

Hà Giang's Thôn Khun Is a Soothing Oasis for the World-Weary Traveler

2026-09-28T10:00:00+07:00

Located in the heart of a valley surrounded by verdant stretches of forest, the little hamlet of Khun retains much of its pristine natural charms. From the enigmatic beauty of the local Bó Mỳ Cave to babbling creeks, Khun is a must-visit destination during northern Vietnam’s sweltering summer season.

Khun is located in Bằng Lang Commune, 8 kilometers away from central Quang Bình District and 95 kilometers from Hà Giang City.

Compared to Hà Giang’s better-known localities, Khun has neither the majestic karst cliffs of Đồng Văn in the east nor Hoàng Su Phì’s terrace fields in the west. Khun, however, doesn’t host throngs of tourists, giving local areas a laid-back, easy demeanor that won’t overwhelm first-time travelers.

Khun is a sleepy hamlet at the foot of a mountain amidst the multitudes of green shades from the vegetation and endless paddy fields.

The humble hamlet, at its core, might seem like any village in the countryside, with stretches of rice fields, bamboo thickets, and stilt houses dotting the vista. Khun is gentle, tranquil, and calming like a maiden enjoying a perpetual slumber under the jungle canopy. This rustic simplicity tugs on the heartstrings of nature lovers like me. Arriving at Khun for just a moment, I found myself losing my grasp on the passage of time, dipping in and out of reality and the call to my past with childhood memories, their vivid colors and sounds.

Experiencing a day in Khun

Much of my time at Khun Hamlet was spent roaming about. I took long strolls on narrow, meandering paths along the edge of the fields, in between luxuriant bamboo bushes, and across crystal-clear brooks. Many stretches are still dirt paths. From afar, the routes into the hamlet seemed to be tiny threads tangled in the thick of the jungle. I made a conscious choice to walk as leisurely as possible to keep pace with the sleepy ambiance here, only stopping to enjoy a melody of hát then or mellow tính tẩu tune coming from uncertain corners of the village.

Palm fronds help to protect local farmers from the sun.

After finishing with the rice harvest, local residents move on to collecting peanuts.

Lychee is also a common crop in Khun.

Standing in the field amid the aroma of fresh hay, I watched puffs of cloud languidly inch past the sky before disintegrating into nothing. In a hurry, the sun sent the last few rays past the curtain of dusk before mellowing down behind the jungle. A lugubrious evening beckoned. Summer nights in Khun are often the time for sporadic bouts of rain. The deluge of water rushed onto the ground, forcefully shaking trees and flimsy structures. Throngs of amphibians began their loud opera sessions. The watery symphony brought me back to days spent in my hometown decades ago. I miss my hometown.

Pathways in Khun are often not paved.

When the morning came, Khun jolted awake. Once again, I phased out of slumber thanks to a cacophony of nature noises, the wilderness’ built-in alarm clock: the cock-a-doodle-doos of local roosters, the quacks of happy ducks, and the ballad of songbirds. I completely forgot to crane my arm to turn off my digital alarm clock like I always do while in the city. Early sun rays snuck in right beside my bed, and just outside the window, heavy clusters of ripe lychees enticed me to get up. Here, just existing and breathing air was enough to fill my being with a sense of palpable contentment.

“Arriving at Khun for just a moment, I found myself losing my grasp on the passage of time, dipping in and out of reality and the call to my past with childhood memories, their vivid colors and sounds.”

Khun is exceptionally green. The tiny hamlet seemed lost in the middle of a valley in between swaths of heritage forest. Greenness cornered the village from four sides. The entire hamlet spans 1,513 hectares, but 961 hectares are protective forest. The forest safeguards the land. The forest has long kept the livelihood of the people safe for generations. It helps maintain the clean atmosphere. Looking outside from the village, it’s not difficult to spot multitudes of palm-covered hills. The fans of palm fronds act like umbrellas for farmers on the field and for buffalo herders. Palms also provide materials for roofing. The people of Khun grow up under the protective shade of palm trees.

Much of my time in Khun was spent on walks through nature.

Exploring the Bó Mỳ Cave

The forest welcomed me into its embrace when I visited Khun. At times, I felt like an innocent doe eagerly gallivanting around the forest. Following the footsteps of local Khun residents, the forest path led me to a natural masterpiece that Mother Earth gifted the hamlet — Bó Mỳ Cave. The cavern spans 2 kilometers, with the highest stretch reaching 50 meters tall and the widest 20 meters across.

In the cave, an underground lake molds itself along the contours of the rock. This acts as a reservoir for many hamlets of the local commune. The water is crystal-clear and refreshing. Some parts of the lake can be quite deep, over 2 meters, so people installed wooden rafts for ease of crossing. This waterbody is also home to many a local delicacy, including cá dầm xanh, a type of regional carp. Because of this region, the cave is sometimes called the Dầm Xanh Cave.

Bó Mỳ Cave acts like a reservoir for many local hamlets.

Setting foot inside the cave felt like entering an alternate dimension. It was cool to the touch, as the inner temperature is almost always 5°C lower than outside. Just looking around, one can’t help being in awe of the nimble hands of Mother Nature, being able to create such a breathtaking sight.

The heart of the cavern featured numerous stalactites in whimsical shapes and forms, fashioned by the movements of wind and water. One might look like a bridge, another resembles a castle, a hand, or even a weaving silk sash hung across the wall. After hundreds or even thousands of years, mineral-rich water droplets fall from the ceiling to crystallize into exquisite stalagmites protruding from the ground. The cave formations rest in silence every day away from prying eyes, but when there are visitors, like me, they come alive with every brush of my flashlight, showcasing a fantastical elegance as if the setting of a magical tale.

There’s no light inside the cave, so explorers should remember to bring along light sources.

After my adventure inside the cave, I let my legs soak inside the outside stream’s chilly water. Perhaps sensing my fatigue, a school of fish excitedly started grazing my feet like nature’s own version of a pedicure. The shallow water outside the cave entrance is so translucent one can clearly spot the pebbles below. These gentle creeks come from the surrounding mountains, flowing in between rock formations to reach the field, nourishing rice fields and peanut plantations, and drenching local childhoods in their cooling water.

The creeks provide local children with a cooling source of freshwater, where they spend most of their summer days frolicking.

The tastes of the valley

Life in the heart of the mountains is unsurprisingly very peaceful. There are only 178 households in Khun, comprising four main ethnic groups — Tày, Dao, Nùng, and La Chí. Khun residents have retained the customs and traditions of their cultures. Along the base of the mountains, Tày people built stilt houses from local materials, especially palm fronds as roofing. Families gather beneath these structures every meal.

Here, I was treated to a diverse range of local dishes like colorful sticky rice, gỏi cá, and pickled meat, all prepared by my host. Right by the wooden walls, weavers are hard at work creating bamboo baskets and brocade textile. Every year, the Nùng community holds ceremonial offering events to express their gratitude to nature, the Dao community undertakes coming-of-age rituals for adolescent boys, while Lá Chí families use rice as a main offering for their own customs, and more.

A banquet platter prepared by Tày cooks.

The Bằng Lang Commune market is assembled every Saturday.

Fish salad, a local specialty.

The end of May brought along a golden hue to the valley. From above, the land is a mosaic of green, yellow, and ochre patches thanks to squares of ripening paddy. The harvest season also casts a joyful mood over the village. In the wind, the fragrance of harvest-ready grains and hay spread to every corner of the valley. Gaggles of children follow their parents to the field to play.

Gold rice paddy coats the valley during harvest season.

A traditional stilt house of the Tày people with a thatched roof.

Inside local houses, created from timber, bamboo, and palms.

Traces of tourism have just started showing up in Khun over the past few years supported by a small amount of homestay accommodations. There are no malls, amusement parks, or cafes; so much of the hamlet still retains its pastoral attributes — truly a place for nature-seekers hoping to escape the chaos of crowded cities.

This article was originally published in 2023.

Sác-Lô in Hanoi: How a Pre-Industrial Vietnam Captivated Charlie Chaplin in 1936

2026-09-27T16:00:00+07:00

About 90 years ago, Modern Times was released. Its title carried a warning. The film railed against the new industrial age and the misery it inflicted on workers amid the Great Depression. Yet a film about the dangers of modernity was being told through an almost-silent medium, nearly a decade into the era of sound. Charlie Chaplin, who wrote, directed, produced, and scored the film, in addition to starring in it, was deliberately resisting Hollywood's shift into the future.

Chaplin's Tramp caught in the machinery of the factory floor, in one of the defining images of Modern Times.

By 1936, Chaplin had spent more than two decades working in an industry that had been in its infancy when he entered it. He had become one of its greatest beneficiaries while repeatedly playing a man who could not keep up with the world it was creating. It was against this backdrop of constant change that he decided to embark on a long journey. His son, Charles Chaplin Jr., wrote in his book about the trip: "His churning mind began to grope for something new and exciting upon which to fasten itself. And he settled upon a visit to the Orient, which had so impressed him when he went there on his trip around the world.”

Paulette Goddard in a publicity photograph for Modern Times, the film she starred in alongside Chaplin before travelling with him to Hanoi.

In February 1936, Modern Times premiered in New York and Los Angeles, in the midst of Hollywood's Golden Age. However, once Chaplin had finished promoting the film, he and Paulette Goddard, his co-star and soon-to-be wife, left for the trip to Asia that saw them land in southern Vietnam, before making their way north towards Hanoi.

Travelling aboard the Aramis, a ship operated by the Messageries Maritimes company, they disembarked in Saigon on the morning of April 13. From Saigon they travelled through Phnom Penh and Angkor, before continuing through Đà Lạt, Đà Nẵng and Huế towards Hanoi. Chaplin and Goddard arrived in Hanoi on the evening of April 29 and stayed at the Metropole Hotel on Ngô Quyền Street, in Hanoi's French Quarter.

Hanoi was entering its own “modern times,” though not the one Chaplin had imagined. The city was changing rapidly, with new buildings, electric trams, cinemas, newspapers, schools and railways reshaping daily life. But this was not yet the industrial world of assembly lines and mass unemployment that Chaplin was satirizing. Under French colonial rule, in the region then known as Tonkin, a new cultural identity and class was emerging along with it.

The Hôtel Métropole, where Chaplin and Paulette Goddard stayed during their visit to Hanoi in April 1936.

Much of the city Chaplin walked through is still recognisable today. St. Joseph's Cathedral, with its towers modelled on Notre-Dame, remains a major landmark in the Old Quarter, while the Hanoi Opera House sits close to the Metropole itself. Across the Red River, Long Biên Bridge still carries trains and traffic, while the red Thê Húc Bridge remains one of Hoàn Kiếm Lake's most recognisable landmarks.

Cinema arrived in Hanoi during the First World War, initially as a new form of entertainment in a city undergoing cultural change. The Metropole hotel played an important role in introducing Hanoians to this new medium. According to Tuổi Trẻ, films were first screened here from June 1916, Chaplin's among them. Four years later, in August 1920, the Pathé cinema opened next to Bà Kiệu Temple, becoming Hanoi's first purpose-built cinema. Journalist Nguyễn Ngọc Tiến, in his book Walking Across Hanoi, notes that Hanoi's first picture houses showed only silent films, with sound films not arriving until the mid-1930s, beginning with All Quiet on the Western Front.

Cinema in the city was divided by class. First-class and balcony tickets cost between 1.00 and 2.00 Indochinese piastres, several times more than the roughly 0.50 piastres the city's working class earned in a day. Second-class tickets cost around 0.50–0.80 piastres, while third-class tickets cost 0.30–0.50 piastres. At those prices, cinema was an expensive type of entertainment for Hanoi's working class, meaning many of the workers Chaplin's film was depicting may not have been able to afford to see it.

The former Pathé cinema, rebranded 'Le Variétés' by 1933, on the corner of Boulevard Francis Garnier — the same street where Chaplin would later stop for drinks at the Taverne Royale.

By 1936, Chaplin needed no introduction in Hanoi. He was known as Charlot (Sác-lô in Vietnamese) across Indochina, after the French nickname for his character The Tramp. Chaplin and his travel group stopped for drinks at the Taverne Royale on the then Francis Garnier Street, which is now Đinh Tiên Hoàng Street, next to Hoàn Kiếm Lake. Hà Thành Ngọ Báo reported that he was signing autographs for fans there, an early glimpse of celebrity culture in the city. On another occasion, he and Paulette Goddard visited the Tây Hồ dye shop on 46 Hàng Trống Street to buy silk, clothes and souvenirs. The street remains a popular destination for tourists looking for similar items more than ninety years later.

Chaplin developed the idea that machinery driven by profit could create misery, after a conversation with Gandhi, and placed it within his own concerns about a changing world. He turned that sentiment into the central conflict of Modern Times, taking aim at industrialization, unemployment and a system in which efficiency and profit came at the expense of workers. His Tramp character was still the familiar figure of hardship from Chaplin’s earlier films, but in Modern Times, the struggle felt more layered. The changing world around Chaplin was becoming part of the character too, giving the Tramp a sense of uncertainty that had not been as visible before.

In an interview, Thạch Lam recalled Chaplin describing the plight of the hero in Modern Times, explaining how a production line worker was reduced to a twitching, traumatized state. Thạch Lam's reply cut straight through it: “In our land, there's no machinery, no factories at all.” The exchange exposed the distance between Chaplin's industrial world and the one he had encountered in Hanoi.

A 'Procession du Génie' passes through Hanoi's Old Quarter, goods carried entirely by hand, in a city still without the machinery Thạch Lam described to Chaplin.

Yet the parallels between the film and the city may run deeper than Thạch Lam suggests. Hanoi satirist Vũ Trọng Phụng published Số đỏ (Dumb Luck) that same year, a book that shows starkly contrasting sides of the city, from the “emergent Francophile northern upper classes” to the “filthy sidewalks of Hanoi's old commercial quarter.” Its protagonist, Red-Haired Xuân, rises through this world not because of who he is, but because of what people believe him to represent. In Modern Times, the machinery of modern life has become so dominant that the individual is forced to perform his role within it, whether he belongs there or not. Both works find comedy in societies trying to manufacture the appearance of progress while revealing how easily the people caught inside the illusion can be discarded.

Saigon newspaper L'Impartial, a conservative publication, described Chaplin's visit to Hanoi as “quiet, serious, slow-speaking and touched by sadness.” It's a description that sits oddly against the Tramp's slapstick, but not against the man who played him. Chaplin's characters often bore the hardships of the world, reflecting some of the difficulties of his own upbringing. The Tramp's vulnerability was therefore not entirely separate from the man playing him, even if Modern Times gave it a new social dimension.

Chaplin (centre, in white) photographed with a group in Hanoi, inscribed to him from the newspaper Đông Pháp and dated April 29, 1936 — the day he arrived in the city.

Vietnam left a profound impression on Chaplin, who said: “In my eyes, this land is vastly different from the places I have previously visited.” In Hanoi, he found himself in a city where that industrial world had not yet arrived in the same form. On May 5, the couple visited Hạ Long Bay, concluding their stay in Northern Vietnam, before boarding a ship bound for Hong Kong via Hải Phòng, continuing on afterwards to Canton, China. It was around this time that the two were reportedly married in secret, though neither ever publicly confirmed it, and no marriage certificate was ever produced.

Chaplin with child actor Jackie Coogan in The Kid (1921), one of his early iconic roles.

Hanoi offered a brief pause from the machinery and noise that Chaplin had spent years putting on screen. Modern Times had imagined a man escaping the factory; in Hanoi, Chaplin found himself in a city that had yet to fully enter the industrial world the film depicted. The irony ran deeper than simple contrast. Chaplin's wealth came from the Hollywood system, itself built on industrialization and mass production, the same machinery he mocked and critiqued onscreen. He had become incredibly wealthy playing a figure left behind by society and modernity, and it was that wealth which now afforded him this peace, in a city only beginning to experience the changes he had turned into comedy. The very system he was going against had paid his way to escape it.

According to Thạch Lam, when asked about Hanoi, Chaplin said “Hanoi is peaceful, very peaceful.”

Saigon's Weather Dude Is Dedicated to Keeping Saigoneers Dry This Rainy Season

2026-09-27T10:00:00+07:00

Why is it raining in Saigon? Because it’s the rainy season. Sure, but if you want to be more specific, you can cite conditions in the Bay of Bengal, more than 2,500 kilometers away. It’s there that the wind conditions form that flow across the Gulf of Thailand, sucking up the moisture that drenches Vietnam’s southern metropolis.

Any Saigoneers who have been caught in a downpour long for a way to know the precise times storms will start and stop. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Such insight about where “the bullet is loaded” for the storms that strike Saigon comes from Del Elson, the Australian man behind the Saigon Weather Facebook page and recently launched Instagram account. The long-awaited answer to Hanoi’s Weatherdude, Del has spent the past several years sharing charts that detail wind speeds and directions along with expected rainfall and interpretations of what effect they will have on the city. While Vietnamese speakers have some choices, such as Đài Khí tượng Thuỷ văn Nam Bộ (Southern Vietnam Meteorological and Hydrological Station), Saigon Weather has emerged as a go-to place for anglophone followers to get answers to what Del says they most want to know: “Is my laundry going to get wet? Do I need to pack an umbrella?”

Visuals that Del shares on Saigon Weather's social media.

With Saigon’s relatively stable year-round temperatures, residents may not be in the habit of checking weather reports. But, particularly during the rainy season and for those in neighborhoods prone to flooding, there is a need for reliable predictions about downpours and tidal levels, especially when phone apps frequently prove inaccurate. Del fills this niche while also offering some fascinating details about weather for science nerds.

Del is himself one such nerd. A mathematician by training and software engineer by occupation, his interest in weather developed naturally. Born and raised near Sydney Harbor, like many of his peers, he grew up sailing. Major yacht races would begin with weather reports, including the opinion of a local expert, which instilled in him a trust and admiration for those able to advise on future wind and rain. After graduating from university in Western Australia, Del returned to the Sydney area where he continued to sail, even purchasing his own boat and joining a local yacht club he described as “a drinking club with a sailing problem.”

Del aboard his boat. Photo via Del Elson

During these years of sailing in Australia, the financial company he worked for outsourced a project to Vietnam, where he met his future wife, a fellow engineer. Before they got engaged, she even joined him for a portion of the year he spent on a sailboat at sea. During those months on the ocean, Del’s safety depended on accessing and understanding weather data. Once he moved to Vietnam to get married and start a family, that ability to turn data points regarding wind speed and direction, surface barometric pressure, and rainfall into reliable guesses about weather conditions proved useful. He explained: “I got more into looking at the local weather forecasts because sometimes when you're in a city, you need to know where it's going to rain tomorrow. And for a city where the weather is very much governed by the monsoon winds, you wouldn’t think it would be that hard to predict the weather.” It wasn’t long until he launched the Saigon Weather page to share his predictions with anyone who might be interested.

Enough of a community of followers has now developed that Del recently held an in-person presentation. He stunned attendees, Saigoneer included, with the fact that monsoons aren’t, in fact, periods of heavy rainfall, but rather heavy winds. It just so happens that the winds often bring with them downpours. And perhaps even more astounding: it's not accurate to say Saigon has two seasons (wet and dry) but rather three. From May through October, Saigon experiences the southwest monsoon, which leaves the city hot and wet, while November through April is the northeast monsoon, which brings cool, dry air. Less known, however, is the southeast monsoon. Not occurring every year and arriving during random months — sometimes April, sometimes November — it brings short, sudden rainstorms in the mid-morning.

A slide Del shared during a presentation to reinforce typhoon's inability to hit Saigon.

Even more shocking than knowing you’ve gotten the number of seasons wrong would be thinking Saigon is at risk of typhoons. It is not. Tropical cyclones are unable to cross the equator, and Saigon is close enough to be protected by the latitudinal safety band. So if you ever see a report suggesting a typhoon is coming up from Singapore, you know not to trust it. Such fake news is occasionally spread online, and sharing it now puts people in danger of government punishment.

Within this atmosphere of pervasive misinformation, Del shares basic, straightforward prognostications: where it might rain, how much, and when, as well as what areas might flood. Ascertaining such seemingly simple information requires synthesizing a massive amount of data produced by weather models that compare current conditions with historical records to make predictions. Complicating the process is that the foremost inference engines are operated by the US, Canada, and Europe, and optimized for temperate latitudes. This means they are less effective for tropical areas, like Vietnam, where wind behaves differently. Thankfully, the models can be supplemented with information provided by weather scientists in Brunei, Singapore, Fiji, and Hong Kong. Doing so allows Del to make localized predictions, something major weather apps do not, which is why whatever your phone says is dubious at best.

An example of a climate model produced by the United State's NOAA via Climate.gov.

Even more problematic than applying weather models designed for cool climates in equatorial locations is a recent degradation of reliable data due to climate change. To have enough historic understanding to base guesses on, “you need like 10 years of good data, usable good data, and it's questionable at the moment,” Del explained. Unfortunately, amidst warming seas and erratic winds, past patterns no longer portend what will happen today, making meteorologists around the world less accurate than before.

In addition to good data, to best predict weather, one needs a high-powered computer. Such processing power filled entire rooms just a few years ago, but can now fit on a tabletop. Unfortunately, that hardware is also valued by AI practitioners, and crypto-miners before them. A desire to churn out videos of people posing in an '80s aesthetic or rapping cats is now driving the cost of such devices upwards of US$16,000. Still, Del plans to purchase one soon, which will allow him to run full models as opposed to piecing together information from select data sets.

Left: Previous computing hardware needed to run weather models. Photo via Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation.
Right: Hardware required today. Photo via NVIDIANews.

By running these models, as well as looking at the local tide charts put out by the local port service, Del will be able to post daily reports. And in the meantime, he will continue analyzing portions of the larger data sets for updates several times a week, work which is already proving helpful. A local astronomy club relies on his information to know which nights will be clear enough for stargazing. Some Saigon cricket clubs also consult him about when they should start their games to ensure they are done before it starts to pour.

A soggy Saigoneer is an unhappy Saigoneer. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

On my way to meet for a coffee with Del, perhaps ironically, it started pouring. As we both sat in the moderately damp state one finds themselves in every September, I asked if he knew it was going to rain. “I did,” he said with a big grin. This ability to remain in good spirits amidst the unavoidable realities of weather seems central to his approach. When asked what we can expect for the rest of the year, he noted that the coming dry season will bring drought to the Mekong Delta; record high temperatures to Saigon in the spring and probably a late start to next year’s wet season. Or as he put it: “A lack of swimming opportunities for boofheads in Bùi Viện.”

Heartfelt, Queer and Wickedly Witty: How Poetry Collection 'Come Clean' Sparks Joy

2026-09-25T15:00:00+07:00

Joshua Nguyen lists himself as many things on his Instagram bio — a writer, a PhD student, a boba snob. He received his MFA from the University of Mississippi, where he is currently studying for his PhD.

He has been widely published and won the prestigious 2021 Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry for his debut collection of poetry, Come Clean. Like his Instagram bio, the collection is multi-faceted. Traditional poetic forms exist alongside a poem about a post-flaming hot Cheeto trip to the bathroom, for example. Yet, it all fits together in a way that is resonant and profound.

To get a feel for Joshua’s poetry, check out one of the many videos of him reading poetry on YouTube. His start in writing began in Houston through the Meta-Four Houston Youth Slam Team which comes across in the rhythm of his poetry. A 2015 video from Button Poetry of Joshua performing his poem 'Christ-like' really embodies this. There are waves of chaotic crescendo in the performance, matched by moments of slowness and intentional silence.

The poetry in his debut collection begins on the title page: "Come Clean." There is a line break between the words which are, perhaps, an invitation to come over and clean something. Or they are a confession, the author coming clean about some secret. Maybe it is instructions for a sexual act, come first, then clean later. Reading the collection reveals the title can be all of these and more. It is just where Joshua’s eye for poetry and pun begins to shine.

The collection is divided into three sections. Each begins with bracketed quotes from songs by Japanese American singer-songwriter Mitski. The song quotes are accompanied by Polaroids of the author, wearing only underwear and engaging in cleaning rituals — kneeling as if in prayer before the bathtub, sweeping a floor with a white dustpan on the ground, kneeling while cleaning a toilet. These photos are somehow simultaneously spiritual, domestic, erotic, and silly. They fit well within the collection. Marie Kondo makes similar repeated appearances throughout the collection.

When pop culture meets lục bát

Joshua's work explores a lot of themes. There is trauma. There is humor. There is food. And perhaps most prominently, there is family. The dedication reads, "for my family," and family is a constant. Even before the table of contents, there is a poem, 'Save Me, Marie Kondo.' It depicts a family gathered around a dying relative. The images are beautiful and haunting. “My father cries a sound / I will never hear again.” There is real grief in this poem. There are other family poems as well. 'My Brother Explains Driving,' 'My Father Explains Unemployment,' 'My Mother Explains Universal Healthcare,' 'My Sister Listens to Run River North for the First Time.' Family members appear in poems even when not referenced in the titles and they are one of the constant refrains the poems return back to.

Another constant is American lục bát, a poetry form of Joshua’s invention. Lục bát is a poetry form most certainly familiar to a Vietnamese audience. It is most famously represented in The Tale of Kiều. The name of the form gives us insight into its rules. Lục is the Sino-Vietnamese word for the number six. Bát is the Sino-Vietnamese word for eight. Thus, lục bát are created with alternating six and eight-syllable lines.

In the notes section of Comes Clean, Joshua sets out the rules for his American lục bát. After clearly explaining the rules, he cheekily adds, “of course, these rules may be adhered to as tightly or as loosely as one would like.” This non-strict adherence to form is what makes reading his American lục bát especially fun. Take for example, the first stanza of 'American Lục Bát for Peeling Eggs':

When you are six or eight,

come in the kitchen, take the spot

to the left of the pots—

still warm from those eggs: bought, boiled

& cooled.

The first four lines alternate between six and eight syllables like one expects in a lục bát. They follow the expected rhyme scheme as well. The sixth syllable of the first line (“eight)” rhymes with the sixth syllable of the second line (“take”). Then the eighth syllable of the second line (“spot”) rhymes with the sixth syllable of the third line (“pots). In the notes, the author notes that it is this “[the] internal rhyme that helps to drive the poem forward.”

What makes Joshua's American lục bát so wonderful to read is the spots where the poem breaks from the form in unexpected ways. In the stanza above, the last line is clearly not six or eight syllables. Yet it feels complete and right. Through breaking form, the poet has created something new, fresh, and delightful.

There are poems that feel like they hark back to Joshua’s beginnings in poetic performance. 'Marie Kondo Is My Hero: A Lesson on Clothing' feels like a poem aching for performance.

this does not spark

joy but more so this

is the only shirt i have where the sleeves

are shorter

The poem continues, spreading out across the page, some words massively spaced out, guiding the reader on the pace of the poem and where to let the words breathe. Then, in the poem’s final section, a paragraph beginning:

"& & & 2010 a a again all an angeles are as as as as be be black blue board boxers brother bunk bed but but but can can can can’t carpet circuit coach collapse…."

This section works through most of the letters of the alphabet, building to utter cacophony until the words fade from black to gray on the page. Then, only two columns remain on the page, one on the left, one on the right. The left one, a list of colors. The one on the right, people. These, too, are in alphabetical order.

Many of the poems deal with sexual trauma. Many also deal with humor. This seems right. It fits more with how trauma persists throughout life, how it isn’t just limited to the event. And similarly, how a life with trauma is not only a life of trauma. There are also moments of joy and curiosity. The collection portrays a well-rounded view on life as a whole.

Some of the poems are hard to read because of their rawness. However, it is their beauty that makes them worth visiting. 'Wisconsin Has a Place in My Heart & I Just Want It to Let Go' addresses trauma directly:

Thomas tells me that trauma is trite.

That to open up wounds is to bleed yourself out.

Snow, in Wisconsin, blocks the front door of my cousin’s house.

The poem goes on to show the speaker pinned underneath their cousin. It collapses until a singular bracket before opening back up again, slowly building up. The poem is quiet and solemn.

'Bunk Bed,' a prose poem, depicts the speaker, thirteen years old, receiving oral sex from a much older girl. The pain and discomfort of the speaker is clear. The collection’s titular poem, 'Come Clean,' calls back to these incidents. It re-examines them through memory and addresses a new incident — an unwanted happy ending massage paid for by an uncle while in Vietnam.

The author also intersperses this conversation of sexual trauma with Asian identity and Asian American identity. 'After I Was Mistaken for the Stripper while Delivering Barbecue to an All-White Bachelorette Party' is one such instance and an example of how Joshua often adds humor to terrible experiences. It starts: "If I had a stripper name, it would be pork loins. Marinated in my mother’s seasoning, I am mostly bone, but my butt is meaty. My neck is long, but you can still love me, if you want to brisket."

The simple act of verbing “brisket” allows for the continuation of the meat metaphor and a hilarious play on words with the word “risk it.” It’s hard not to laugh reading it. The poem ends:

Is this what being a sacrifice smells like?

Twenty-six jewel-studded cowboy boots circle me,

tongues glistening in the spur of heat.

The concrete imagery here at the end of the poem is also wonderful. The focus on the boots brings us into the speaker’s eye, showing us their head is down. It makes the reader feel the discomfort of being unfairly and unwantingly objectified. The fact that the cowboy boots are jewel-studded is an all too perfect detail placing us clearly in the South, perhaps Texas.

'Exhaustion [But Every Time Leela Rose Kisses a Random Asian Man in the Street, a New Stanza Begins & the Amount of Words between the Boxes Increase by One]' is another example of a poem dealing with sexual assault and Asian identity. This poem directly references a disgusting incident where Leela Rose, a white Internet personality, forces herself upon Asian men in Japan. She believes she is somehow helping them by showing a white woman that finds them attractive. The incident rightfully was heavily criticized online and even spurred the writing of a HuffPost think piece.

There is an understandable and justified anger in the poem about the incident. This is amplified by being in a collection dealing with the ramifications of sexual trauma. As the title says, the words between the boxes in each stanza grow. Like many of Joshua's poems, this allows the language to grow in volume.

This is one of the most powerful poems in the collection in the way it cries out in rage and pain. The poem itself is like a reaction video. It is so intimate and raw it feels as if the reader is sitting next to the speaker, listening to their pain, witnessing a relived trauma, only able to watch.

Joshua also seems interested in the more banal parts of life. 'Speak Quotidian to Me' is a list of aphorisms — some funny, some sad. Each one is a fascinating meditation on its own, but as a list they vibrate off each other, leading the reader through a journey of highs and lows. Here are three:

Threesomes are only allowed in the kitchen with permission from Táo Quân.

Pack underwear for a trip like you’re going to have diarrhea everyday.

The amount of empty cognac bottles in the house determines how many ghosts return your calls.

'Self-Portrait as the Hand Towel Which Hangs Above the Toilet' also examines the seemingly normal or quotidian. It does something magical that is true art. It takes the simplest of objects and turns it on its head in a way that forever changes the reader’s relationship when seeing that object.

As the title states, the poem is about a bathroom hand towel. However, it is not an ordinary bathroom hand towel. It has dreams and aspirations. The towels talks to us, the reader. It tells us “No, it was not my choice / to do this type of towel work.” And later, “Yes, I gaze at the most vulnerable: / the backs of long strained necks, the backs of skulls that haven’t been held, / the back of ears that never listen to my advice.” The towel admits to feeling “lonely.” And in a beautiful poetic turn, it reveals its aspiration to be a kitchen towel. The turn is unexpected. It is the type of poem that makes us feel sorry for our own bathroom hand towels. It makes us wonder, what do our hand towels think?

Joshua Nguyen performing 'My Father and I Trade Bedwetting Stories.'

The collection is interesting in that many of the poems use traditional or neo-traditional forms. There’s a haibun, a ghazal, and a duplex, a form created by Jericho Brown. There are also poems that are stunningly experimental. Among these is 'Google Calendar for My Imposter Syndrome.'

The poem shows a week of the speaker’s life, painstakingly planned out, in the form of a screenshot of a Google Calendar. It gives deep insight into the life of the speaker. There are sections on when to work out and when to call their mother. Beneath the titles for many of the activities are descriptions.

On Monday, the speaker has to attend “Intro to Grad Studies” from 6 to 8:15pm. It’s described as “How Not To Sound Stupid Talking About Dead White Men.” On Tuesday the speaker has set aside two hours at night for “Comments For Other Poets Who Are Better Than Me.” On Thursday, there are four hours set aside for “Thesis Hours.” Layered directly on top of this four-hour slot are other activities the speaker will do—“Sweep” “Vacuum” “Mop” “Organize Your Organizers.” It’s clear the speaker will not be working on their thesis.

There is a neurosis to the planning, an attempt to use scheduling as a cure for impostor syndrome. There is also a sense of deep self-consciousness. It’s also very relatable.

These more experimental poems are a welcome addition to a collection so interested in form. They are not incongruent, but instead, lend to a greater poetic world that Joshua is creating with his mix of contemporary takes on traditional forms. The collection is a huge success with a profound resonance. While it tackles many difficult subjects, it does so with such nuance and beauty that the poems ache to be read, not just once, but many times over.

This article was originally published in 2021.

For those in the US, the book is available through the publisher, The University of Wisconsin Press, as well as independent bookstores including Square Books, the bookstore in Oxford, Mississippi, where the author lives.

The Story of Cà Mên, Vietnam’s Living Fossil From the Wartime and Subsidy Eras

2026-09-25T12:00:00+07:00

During lunchtime at work, I spot a few aluminum cà mên that my coworkers bring from home to keep their lunch warm. Cà mên was once an indispensable item in my family too, but now it’s rarely used; it's limited to the few occasions when my grandparents or parents pack lunch for the kids.

Cà mên still lives at hospitals, dangling from the hands of visitors carrying nutritious food to their ill loved ones. The appearance of cà mên could be an optimistic sign of recovery — perhaps someone’s appetite has returned? Inside cà mên, portions of homemade porridge or warm phở bought from a regular eatery have become a crucial part of Vietnamese patients.

Though I don’t use it often, it is still a familiar sight to me. It reminds me of the time of my parents and grandparents, as something they remain close to like a default routine, firmly rooted in unforgettable historical episodes. Cà mên has encapsulated both the poverty and wealth of Vietnamese life for years.

Cà mên’s historical origin

Cà mên is an early ancestor of the heat-insulated lunchboxes of today. It consists of a few separate compartments made of aluminum, stainless steel, or even plastic. Each “drawer” holds a separate part of the meal. They can be firmly stacked on top of one another and then secured by a lock for transportation. Depending on the region, it’s also known as cặp lồng, cà mèn or gà mên. Cà mên originated from “gamelle” in French, which in turn was based on the Latin “camella,” referring to a cup or bowl. French-style cà mên was produced starting in the mid-19^th century, becoming popular on battlefields across the world, each location using a slightly different variation. It’s possible that the French introduced cà mên to Vietnam.

An aluminum cà mên used by French soldiers during World War II. War veterans in Vietnam also kept a cà mên with a similar design. Photos via Marna Militaria.

During the French occupation of Vietnam, cà mên was a mainstay at cơm tháng eateries in Saigon. Cơm tháng, literally “monthly rice,” was a service offered by local rice stalls in which one could pay to eat for a whole month. In an ad in the newspaper Trung Lập Báo, Vi Tiên, an eatery offering Central Vietnamese-style meals at 42 rue Amiral Courbet (now Nguyễn An Ninh Street), promoted a takeaway option with meals stored in cà mên. The sight of French housewives biking with a cà mên to deliver meals to their husbands and blocking a bike race appeared in Vịt Đực, a satirical newspaper from 1938.

Cà mên was a major part of mealtime during French rule. Images via the Journalism Archive of the National Library of Vietnam.

Cà mên also played a part in soldiers' lives in Vietnam, but in this manifestation, it was often painted over or wrapped in fabric to prevent reflected flares from exposing the troop’s location. It was used to store rations for long stretches of time, heat up food, and as bowls.

It was this versatility that helped military-issued cà mên remain in Vietnamese civic life, especially the thick and enduring type that arrived from the Soviet Union as aid. The generic aluminum cà mên, in contrast, sold at nationalized stores was often thin and could warp easily with one drop.

Cà mên on the battlefield, 1973. Photo via TTXVN.

Similar to Vietnam, a number of Asian territories with colonial histories also incorporated western war food containers into daily civic life. In India, these containers are called tiffin, and the food they contain is transported by a network of delivery people called dabbawalla. During colonial times, British colonialists used the word “tiffin” to refer to a light meal eaten to abate the tropical heat in India. Today, across major cities, lunchtime dabbawalla fill the streets to deliver meals to workers in a diverse range of tiffin containers. The containers are marked by colorful signs for ease of distinction. They are delivered around noon from rice stalls or home, and then collected when work ends. This word is also used to refer to tiered containers in Malaysia and Singapore, popular due to the ability to separate rice and soupy dishes.

The subsidy economy in cà mên’s meager meals

If nowadays, answering the casual question “what’s in your lunchbox today?” is quite an easy task, this would be redundant and dispiriting during the subsidy period, because the content of every cà mên would be the same: destitution.

In the planned economy era, a meal with enough rice — never mind meat or vegetables — was a dream of many Vietnamese. According to historian Đặng Phong, in March 1978, Hanoians could only purchase 4 kg of rice a month each; the rest was sweet potato and cassava. The demand for market rice was sky-high, and subsidized rice was constantly running short, too cheap, and of low quality. Most people bought it for cheap to resell in hopes of bartering for homegrown rice from the countryside. Farmers and wholesalers shied away from selling to the state because of low profit margins. The total amount of food yield and donation in 1979 and 1980 even decreased compared to 1976.

Queuing for rice in 1985. Photo via ZNews.

The subsidy-era cà mên was so scantily filled that, when you accidentally dropped one, nothing of value would go to waste. Writer Đỗ Phấn recalls: “The rice, mixed with noodles, congealed at the bottom of the cà mên like a cake. It rolled out dozens of meters on the street and stopped.” The meals were often rice mixed with corn, adlay, and noodles; the side dishes rarely appeared, mostly boiled vegetables, broth, salted peanuts, or pickled fire-cracker eggplants. Sometimes, if there was a sick person in the household, the cà mên could contain a takeaway bowl of state-subsidized phở — meat-included for better-off families and meatless for the poor.

“Hanoi in my meager cà mên,” poet Thanh Thảo writes in Hà Nội – nhìn về phía tôi (Hanoi — look at me). In this era, civil servants usually biked to work with a cà mên on their handlebars. This image is so entrenched in the collective memory that people packing lunch to work were humorously called “cán bộ cặp lồng” (lunchbox officer). It followed them to work and then back home, like a reluctant accessory. It also bears witness to the sly office tradition of bringing ingredients to cook at the company’s electric appliances to save money.

Cà mên on a bike during the subsidy era. Photo via CGvDT.

Opening up a cà mên is like taking a glance at the realities of life at any given point in history. The cà mên content reflected the quality of life of the average salary worker. In the issue published on March 17, 1988 of Lao Động newspaper, a report discussed the wage of healthcare workers. It referenced a moment when a doctor showed the journalist their cà mên, which contained “barely any rice, a morsel of vegetable, and a few braised peanuts.”

Before Vietnam opened up the economy to outside products, buying basic household necessities wasn’t easy. Military-issued items like cà mên were thoroughly repurposed because they were very durable. Household goods became a big-ticket item, so cà mên was frequently given as a wedding gift, alongside basins, thermos, textiles, etc.

After Đổi Mới, the livelihood of Vietnamese gradually improved, yet cà mên remained a mainstay at casual rice eateries. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the four- and five-layered cà mên of the cơm tháng place portrayed in the film Quán Kỳ Nam. The content is still classic home-cooked dishes: braised pork, tofu in tomato sauce, fish canh chua, stir-fried veggies. But when they are kept in the hidden compartments of cà mên, every meal is a surprise. Though I had already eaten before the movie, I still felt that secondhand sense of hunger seeing a mouth-watering meal on screen inside cà mên.

Cà mên is used to serve cơm tháng in Quán Kỳ Nam.

The sets of cà mên used as props in Quán Kỳ Nam are made of anodized aluminum, with ornate motifs on the side. These designs mirror those of traditional cà mên seen in Thailand, which could potentially be their original source. In Cambodia, ornate cà mên is called chan srak, often used to contain altar offerings and gifts for monks during the Pchum Ben Festival.

Across our history, from wartime to the subsidy era, cà mên has encapsulated many hardships. When life improves, cà mên is still patiently hibernating in a corner of our kitchen, waiting for its next mission. Cà mên has been the companion of countless hands during the early mornings, as they prepare food and package a little flavor from home to improve rushed lunches at work. Opening up the cà mên to be surprised by the dishes of the day is still a much-anticipated ritual for many, and I can’t help feeling wistful when I happen to spot a cà mên dangling from a handlebar on the street, even though today, cà mên no longer carries within it the signs of an impoverished time.

On Searching for Rươi Vendor Street Calls, Hanoi's Harbinger of Autumn

2026-09-23T11:00:00+07:00

Embedded in the street call of rươi vendors is the conjuring of autumn, when delectable cuisines from across the land of Vietnam come together on a dinner table.

Rươi vendors’ calls, similar to the prized worm itself, only appear for a brief time during the fall, particularly from the 9^th to the 11^th month on the lunar calendar when, as the owner of Hưng Thịnh, a famous chả rươi store in Hanoi, described: “The sky is above and the rươi are wiggling below.” Rươi is the Vietnamese name for palolo worm, an unsightly, two-inch-long sea creature that's the key ingredient of chả rươi, an omelete dish with tangerine peel, herbs, minced pork, and of course, chunks of rươi.

The seasonal appearance of rươi has been well-documented in Vietnamese literature. Vũ Bằng, a renowned journalist and writer, wrote fondly about the call of rươi vendors in a chapter specifically dedicated to rươi in his book, Miếng Ngon Hà Nội.

Đương ngồi ở trong nhà bỗng nghe thấy những người đàn bà lanh lảnh rao: Ai mua rươi. Ai mua rươi ra mua!” người ta bỗng nghe thấy lòng tưng bừng như có muôn đoá hoa hé cánh và người ta vội vàng chạy ra cửa gọi mua: “Rươi! Rươi!” / As one sits in the house, one suddenly hears the clear and high-pitched call of women: “Come and buy rươi!” The call sparked thousands of blooming flowers' pedals, and one would sprint to the door: “Rươi! Rươi!” to attract the vendors.

Vũ Bằng's depiction of the call of rươi vendors evokes the cultural imagination of Hanoi as an abundant culinary feast. The notion that plump and fresh rươi is mere footsteps away from the door of your home paints an all-too-comfortable picture about how a subset of Hanoians used to live. But all of that seems to be a memory of a distant past: the vivid and high-pitched sound of rươi calls in past Hanoi seems to have disappeared.

Live rươi sold in big duct-taped boxes. Photo via AFamily.

On a Saturday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours walking through Thanh Hà Market, Ô Quan Chưởng and Đồng Xuân Market to retrace the sound of rươi calls in the hope that I might find some insights into where this call has gone. I secretly wish that the rươi that I encountered looked a bit more like sandworms from Frank Herbert's Dune. However, instead of gigantic, tube-like and having impenetrable armour, the rươi that I saw at wet markets and food stalls were tiny, flat creatures at the mercy of Hanoian ladies’ swift hands. Out of the box and into the frying pan. They are certainly not the most attractive creatures on Earth.

In a distinctly Vietnamese cardboard box with blue duct tapes, the rươi specimens collectively wiggled their six-centimeter slimy bodies on top of one another. It must be some sort of bizarre joke from mother’s nature that their colors are subtly reminiscent of bàng leaves, with fiery red and a dark shade of green; and that their bodies are covered in miniature hairs that bring to mind those of rambutans.

Despite rươi being one of the less visually engaging critters, chả rươi and rươi vendors alike could not help but urge me to take photos of the rươi. The cashier at Hưng Thịnh told me to point the camera toward the rươi box, not forgetting to highlight the worms' freshness, plumpness, and “good-for-publication-ness.” Some vendors at Hưng Thịnh markets also proudly advertised that many young kids like taking photos of the rươi. Other rươi vendors were even under the impression that I approached them to make content for TikTok.

The people I met on my walk seemed divided as to whether or not the vendors from Vũ Bằng's writings still roam the streets of Hà Nội . The first seller I spoke to, a lady at Thanh Hà market, didn't recall hearing the sound of rươi vendors on local streets for the longest time: “Nowadays, people only sell rươi in stores. It’s rare to find street vendors these days.” She tucked her hands behind her back shyly when I asked if she could replicate the sound of rươi vendors, but then she smiled and happily hummed: “Ai mua rươi ra-à mùa.”

Is there a distinction between a rươi vendor and a poet? In a single call, the vendor manages to use consonance and alliteration — the “m” in mua, mùa, and the “r" in “rươi,” “ra" — to create a rhythmic effect in her call. By playing with the accents and modifying stresses with “ra" and “mua,” she infused music into her call. Simple in its effect, yet complex in its undeniably rich cadence, the call of rươi stands out among the eclectic corpus of Hanoi sounds.

While I was more than happy to hear the sound for the first time on Hanoi streets, I also wondered why it was that the call for rươi has gradually disappeared. Her theory was that the demand for live rươi is no longer as high as before. In the olden days, rươi vendors would carry their gánh across neighborhoods after their main session at the market to showcase the leftover rươi to local families, enticing homemakers — especially the women of the households — to purchase them in time for dinner preparation. It’s hard to imagine that happening nowadays with the changing social landscapes of Hanoi.

That afternoon I arrived in Hưng Thịnh, a famous chả rươi spot in Hanoi. Here, for VND75,000, you can get the bigger portion with rươi visible on the surface while the VND45,000 option tastes more like your standard cutlet. As she scooped out delicious, sizzling pieces of chả rươi from the hot oil onto a plate, I struck up a conversation about street calls. Unlike the lady at chợ Thanh Hà, she offered a different perspective on rươi vendors: “It’s not so much that rươi vendors and their calls have disappeared,” she said. “It is because they only appear on specific roads near the Old Quarters, where there would likely be more customers willing to buy rươi and process the rươi themselves.”

While walking across Đồng Xuân Market, I did pass by a rươi street vendor, đòn gánh on her thin back and bamboo baskets full of rươi before and in front of her, but she was passing by in silence. All around me, the noises of construction drills and motorbikes filled the atmosphere.

My brief search for the sound of rươi vendors’ calls ended up a meditation on what tiếng rao really means for Hanoi, for Saigon, the rising cities of Vietnam that are constantly negotiating between rubbles of its past and the high-rise buildings of the present. As the soundscape of urbanity — full of unattractive, dull, deafening noises — pervades our daily lives, the nostalgia of tiếng rao reminds us of a distant era when our hometown was more intimate and poetic.

This article was originally published in 2023.

Kem Vi Bổn's Popsicles Anchor 70 Years of Saigon's Summer Memories

2026-09-22T13:00:00+07:00

Saigoneers have always been blessed with a thriving ice cream scene, perhaps an inevitable perk of living in a city that’s rarely not scorching hot. Amid a thriving scene of inventive gelato and soft serve flavors, one frozen treat place has stood the test of time for nearly 70 years: Kem Vi Bổn.

The first time I tasted Kem Vi Bổn was nearly 20 years ago when I was still in school, and I can confidently say that, after trying it just a few days ago for this article, the taste has remained unchanged. The shopfront has been renovated, and the ladies who run the place might look a little older, but it’s astonishing how the menu and recipe have stayed consistent throughout the decades. I guess if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

The Vietnamese language uses “kem” as a catch-all term to refer to all frozen desserts, but the products that Kem Vi Bổn is best known and loved for are actually popsicles. They also make a selection of ice cream in tubs. Available popsicle flavors could change depending on the day, but are usually in the range of mung bean, black bean, coconut, taro, durian, and kumquat.

At VND4,000 per kumquat pop and VND7,000 for the rest, this is likely to be the cheapest dish you will be able to purchase in Saigon these days. Are the popsicles the best thing you will taste in the city? Absolutely not, but boy do they give the most bang for your buck. What’s more, the ladies here are so sweet and considerate: they saw that our ice-pops were melting after being photographed in the sun, and offered to exchange them for new ones from the freezer.

Every flavor is made from simple local ingredients, prepared simply. Admittedly, to a tourist or visitor not having grown up with these ice-pops, they can taste aggressively plain, but, if you want to partake in a piece of Saigon culture, this is one of the cheapest ways to do so, for a refreshing outcome. My favorite is still kumquat after all these years, though to me, it looks and tastes more like Tang orange juice than tắc.

Kem Vi Bổn was founded by the family of Lý Vĩnh Đạo and Võ Thị Hai in 1958. Đạo’s father, Lý Thân, learned how to make ice cream when he was living in Cambodia. When they relocated to Saigon, he opened up a shop and taught all the children the family trade. A few sons and grandchildren even started branches across the city over the decades, but today, only the OG shop has managed to endure.

According to Thân, “bổn” means lifeblood, like in “bổn mạng” and “vi” means “because.” He named the shop as such to remind every household member that it is the family’s livelihood, something to maintain and preserve.

Kem Vi Bổn

19 Nguyễn Huy Tự, Tân Định Ward, HCMC