Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Short Story Collection 'Gills' Pieces Together a Raw and Complex Portrait of Saigon

2026-05-22T09:00:00+07:00

Saigon’s landscape looks dramatically different from how it did three or even two decades ago. As the country’s economic powerhouse, Saigon has seen rapid urban development: new highrises like Landmark 81 and the Bitexco Financial Tower that now define the city’s skyline, new urban infrastructure like the Ba Son Bridge and Saigon’s first metro line, as well as the city’s expansion into areas like District 7’s Phú Mỹ Hưng and District 2’s Thủ Thiêm. If the west has long viewed Saigon under the shadow of war, it is clear that such a rigid frame fails to contain the Saigon of today, whose entropic inner life seems to constantly overflow; with motorbikes onto sidewalks, loud honks through windows, and rainpour over Saigon’s riverbeds.

Tuan Phan’s newly published short story collection Gills: and Other Stories primarily takes place in the backdrop of this Saigon. A set of 10 short stories written in unassuming and measured prose, it is his second book following his memoir Remembering Water, where he, as an adult who returns to live in Saigon, reflects upon his childhood departure from Vietnam as a refugee and his family’s subsequent returns.

Tuan Phan. Image via author website.

In line with the themes of his first book, a significant chunk of Gills center the lives of Việt Kiều. Such stories dwell in the space of the in-between and serve to capture the brushing encounters between those who have left and stayed, between memory and reality, past and present, strangers and family.

In the opening story ‘At the Bánh Mì Stand,’ the owner of a bánh mì stall named Khanh converses with a hungry and jetlagged Việt Kiều who has just arrived in the hours before early dawn after a long flight. His second story, ‘The Việt Kiều Casanova,’ also features a Việt Kiều, though this time a vulgar womanizer who visits the same gift shop every week with a different girl. In ‘Short-Term Rental’ — the only story to take place outside of Vietnam — a Vietnamese American teenage boy visits his father in Houston over the holidays, where he navigates the fractures left by his parents’ separation, as well as the increasing disillusionment with the American dream. And in ‘Photographs,’ narrated in the second person, a Việt Kiều visits her aunt who repeats stories behind photographs she has kept of him and his father, who, in his last visit, told the same stories “almost word for word.”

As is perhaps clearest in this last story, there is a certain kind of nausea to many of these moments, where a spiraling abyss opens up between worlds that reveal their distance precisely via their proximity. Yet, in others, one feels surprisingly comforted by the fact that the misunderstood, wandering gaze across such seemingly irreparable gaps is, at the very least, returned.

It would be a mistake to define Gills as solely a meditation on the experience of the Vietnamese diaspora, for the focus of the greater part of the collection lies elsewhere: namely, the class-ridden social fabric of Saigon.

It would be a mistake, however, to define Gills as solely a meditation on the experience of the Vietnamese diaspora, for the focus of the greater part of the collection lies elsewhere: namely, the class-ridden social fabric of Saigon. The stories that depict this occur in the overlooked folds of Saigon’s socioeconomic order. In ‘A Clean Record,’ for instance, we see the struggles of an elderly man navigating a system of openly corrupt, Kafkaesque bureaucracy, seeking to acquire appropriate paperwork in order to begin driving for Grab. If the old man represents the economically precarious in Saigon — who live in informal, “illegal” homes, who make a living by working in a gig economy characterized by low pay, unstable income, and harsh working conditions — other stories offer glimpses into the other end of Saigon’s socioeconomic order. ‘Selling Sài Gòn,’ for instance, tells the story of Trang, a luxury apartment realtor dating a moneyed yet unambitious boyfriend, who has to navigate the murky waters of having to close a deal with a famous celebrity client named Liêm, who is clearly bent on using his leverage to get with her. In bringing together stories set in widely different settings across Saigon’s socioeconomic strata, Gills offers a damning portrait of Saigon’s class hierarchies in which multiple realities, each absurd in their own ways, co-exist with one another in unsettling and maddening ways.

Nowhere is this more viscerally rendered than in ‘Reusables,’ the most dramatic and gripping of Tuan’s stories. Set during the COVID-19 pandemic, it tells the story of Lâm, a recycler in need of money to treat his dog, who has accidentally swallowed something he shouldn't have from a pile of junk in District 7. Upon being persuaded by his friend Tèo, together they embark on “find[ing] new owners for” (Tèo’s euphemism for stealing) condenser units sitting idle by a BMW dealership in “Korea Town” — a plan that turns south upon being confronted by a celebrity named Liêm (presumably the same character from ‘Selling Sài Gòn’), who, it turns out, had previously been mired in controversy for ripping off flood victims. Indeed, there is something quite bizarre about the whole scene, where we find Lâm’s economic despair juxtaposed against the eerie tranquility of the neighborhood that is arguably Saigon’s most affluent. It is here that Tuan becomes most explicit with his critique of the class-stratified order of contemporary Vietnam:

The fact was, and the fact always was . . . in this long pandemic, it’ll be the already rich bosses, the ones that run dealerships, the ones that get kickbacks and bribe money for construction projects needing their signatures to begin, the ones that buy BMWs for their kids to wreck, that’ll not only survive this lockdown but get even richer. [...] And it’ll still be the little people like me and Tèo, the grandmothers selling grilled corncobs on the street or the homeless kids hawking lottery tickets, that get fucked. Every fucking year. Forever into infinity.

In a well-known passage from his Theses on the Philosophy of History, the German philosopher Walter Benjamin critiques the ugly underbelly of what we call progress. In offering a reading of Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus, a monoprint of an eccentric angel figure, Benjamin reimagines Klee’s angel to be “the angel of history,” who, though desperate to gather and restore history’s wreckage piling before him, is helplessly swept forward by the ceaseless “storm of progress.” The story of Lâm is the story of those who have been left behind by a vision for progress that is as idyllic as the picturesque scenery of Phú Mỹ Hưng — for Lâm too stands before history’s ever-piling wreckage — except that he, unlike Benjamin's angel of history, has to sift through it for reusable scraps.

The book cover

Tuan’s collection takes its title from one of its stories, ‘Gills,’ which stands out from the rest as the only magical realist piece. It tells the story of two siblings, Liên and Tú — children of a loving mother and a crass, abusive father — who one day discover gills just below their ankles after the water recedes from flooded streets. In this engrossing reimagination of Saigon's monsoon season, the two children revel in their ability to swim through the city during its submersion under rainwaters — that is, until their father finds out and eventually devises a way to exploit their peculiarity.

Reading ‘Gills,’ one cannot help but contextualize the story within the planet’s ever-worsening ecological crisis, especially given that with it, extreme flooding will only become more common. Yet, it is unclear what exactly is to be the takeaway from the story (which of course is not in and of itself a problem). In an interview with Texas Tech University Press, Tuan describes ‘Gills’ as a “hopeful story,” a yearning for the younger generations to “have the capacity to be resilient.” Here, however, I find it difficult to agree with the author, for hope and optimism seem naive in the face of the global capitalist economy’s unwaning consumption of fossil fuels. Resilience implies coping, and coping implies that we have no choice but to accept the ecological crisis — and that, we cannot accept.

What opens as a fleeting snippet of an interaction by a bánh mì stall at early dawn expands, story by story, and slowly crystallizes into an intricate and dynamic portrait of contemporary Saigon.

I thus find that the most compelling reading of ‘Gills’ is not as an allegory of the environment, but rather as a kind of literalization of the different and uneven ways that the residents of Saigon move and breathe through the city and its spaces. It is a theme that runs through the broader collection, which is perhaps why I find ‘Gills’ an oddly wonderful title for the book. ‘A Clean Record,’ for instance, ends with the elderly man stuck in traffic, suffocating in the heat and diesel exhaust. In ‘Reusables,’ Lâm walks his dog through a lusciously green golf course in District 7, which he is able to access only because of the lockdown. In ‘Selling Sài Gòn,’ Trang moves through a world of luxury apartments that literally exists in a different atmosphere, skyhigh above the rest of the city. In many ways, Gills makes obvious what we all intuitively understand: that what we singularly call “place” is in no way singular, but rather a pluralistic formation of different material and phenomenological spheres — a beautiful thing, no doubt, were its contours not drawn so brutally by class.

In many ways, Gills: and Other Stories reads like an exercise in world-building. What opens as a fleeting snippet of an interaction by a bánh mì stall at early dawn expands, story by story, and slowly crystallizes into an intricate and dynamic portrait of contemporary Saigon, within which different smaller worlds recursively overlap, collide, and coalesce. In this sense, there is something special about reading the collection in Saigon, where the reader may find themself subsumed into exactly such a confluence of worlds — specifically, of the text in front and the world around.

Against a backdrop of Vietnamese diasporic literature that often overlooks the complexities of modern-day Saigon, Gills feels like a breath of fresh air.

Whale Worship: Exploring the Role of Whales in Vietnam's Coastal Lore

2026-05-22T08:00:00+07:00

In 1799, the ferocious Tây Sơn army forced the first Nguyễn Emperor, Nguyễn Ánh, and his troops to flee to the sea. While making their escape, a great storm engulfed the retreating army. As their ship’s mast shivered and the hull shuddered, threatening to break it into splinters, a great whale rose from the depths. It lifted the emperor's boat and carried him and his men to safety. To thank the animal, Ánh bestowed upon whales the official title of "Nam Hải Cự Tộc Ngọc Lân Thượng Đẳng Thần," which was shortened to Cá Ông, or “Lord Fish.”

This story, apocryphal as it may be, is not the only such tale of cetacean rescue in Vietnam. Indeed, people up and down the country's coast tell modern-day stories of whales saving stranded fisherman. Mùi, the caretaker of a whale graveyard in Phước Hải Village near Vũng Tàu, for example, told me through an interpreter of a time in 2016 when a whale saved his life. He had been out drinking with a friend and on his trip home, their boat capsized. As the waves pushed him beneath the surface, he thought he was about to die. Suddenly, a large whale appeared under him and supported him on its broad back, shifting and rolling as Mùi lolled and floundered in the current. When eventually the whale steered the elderly man to the safety of another ship, it came as no surprise to Mùi, as he is a devout worshiper of Cá Ông.

A painting featured in Vũng Tàu's whale temple.

The silent guardians of the ocean

I first learned about Vietnam’s whale worship tradition thanks to a single-sentence caption on a photograph that had been entered in a national art contest. I’ve always been enamored with these ancient, intelligent and spectacularly foreign creatures and was curious to learn more about a religion devoted to them. Some of my friends who are native Saigoneers said they were vaguely aware of it, but didn’t know the particulars nor anyone that actually practiced it. The internet offered some information, but to get a better understanding, I needed to venture to the sea.

I traveled about 20 kilometers from Vũng Tàu through a small town and down a construction-ravaged coastal road to a stretch of sand near the sea. After passing beneath a welcome banner, I arrived at a large sand field dotted with mounds topped by tombstones. This rather remote spot is a whale graveyard, one of dozens in the country.

A woman arranging offerings in the whale graveyard in Phước Hải Village.

A woman — who was placing flowers, fresh fruit, glasses of rice wine and lit incense at each grave — paused to talk with me. She explained that she comes from a family of fisherman, and leaving offerings at the graves of the Ông lụy (whales that have washed ashore) and praying to Cá Ông at the site’s temple help to ensure prosperous catches. The fishermen usually work far out in the open ocean in international waters near foreign coasts, so giving offerings also helps to ensure safe journeys.

Mùi, the old fisherman who was rescued by a whale, has managed this graveyard for the past seven years and explained that whales don’t just physically intervene to safeguard against drowning. He recounted an instance of local fishermen working illegally in Indonesian waters. Foreign authorities had appeared in the area and the men were certain they’d be arrested. They shut off their lights and began frantically praying to Cá Ông. Miraculously, they evaded capture and continued on to a very lucrative catch. Mùi stressed that while whales were instrumental in defeating Chinese invaders centuries ago, they are not nationalistic. Rather, they will rescue anyone in need. For example, Mùi recently heard a story about a whale saving an American ship and bringing it to Russian shores. He also added that praying to Cá Ông can bring one good health and luck in finding a husband or wife.

Cá Ông as mortal beings

During her extensive research on whale worship in central Vietnam, scholar Sandra Lantz encountered numerous tales similar to the ones that Mùi shared. For example, around 1950, a man named Ly was fishing outside Phan Thiết when an unexpected storm threw his small ship into peril. He quickly began praying to Cá Ông and sprinkled salt and rice into the water as an offering. Within five minutes, the storm retreated, hovering ominously nearby. A whale then came to his boat and shepherded it to within sight of a nearby mountain and safe anchoring.

Lantz also found in her studies a belief that Cá Ông helps fishermen who perish at sea by returning their souls to shore. If the men’s souls can't make it to land, they will forever wander the open ocean as ghosts, but once brought ashore they can attain eternal peace.

Science offers an alternative to acts that are interpreted as instances of cetacean altruism. During storms, whales face difficulties navigating waves and benefit from leaning against boats, using them as steadying fulcrums. Even with the assistance, sometimes the efforts to stay afloat exhaust the animals to the point of death, upon which currents drag their corpses into the shallows. Similarly, whales will often fight predators not out of any devotion to people, but out of instincts to protect their own young.

The Phước Hải graveyard is home to more than two dozen mounds of varying sizes, each containing the body of a whale that has washed ashore near the tiny village. Each year, as many as 20 whales end up on the beach in the area. In whale worship, there is no specific distinction made between whales and other cetaceans such as dolphins and porpoises, and there have been virtually no scientific studies in Vietnam to ascertain which marine animals live in the area. Most of the animals villagers find are rather small — up to 1.5 meters in length — according to the woman I spoke with, so it’s likely that many of them are not technically whales. Moreover, there was at least one tortoise buried in the graveyard, brought in seemingly out of reverence, though not specifically associated with the religion.

A large burial mound in Phước Hải Village whale graveyard.

One grave in Phước Hải stands out from the rest. An enormous whale washed ashore on December 28, 2017. Mùi claims it was more than 10 meters long, while the woman giving offerings estimated it was closer to 7 or 8 meters. As far as anyone can remember, the 10-ton creature was the largest to have ever arrived in the village, and required a crane to bring it to its current resting place. Similarly sized whales have recently appeared on beaches in other areas of Vietnam as well.

Mùi explained that during its long life, that particular whale had saved many ships throughout the area, not just in Vietnam, but in Thailand, Myanmar and even Russia. However, after it failed to save an overloaded ship during a large storm, it committed suicide. Intentional beaching is, sadly, how Mùi claims the whales find themselves on the village’s shores. Having been unsuccessful in an attempt to rescue a human, they commit suicide out of shame or grief, according to lore.

Alter dedicated to Cá Ông at the Phước Hải Village whale graveyard.

Ông lụy are given elaborate funerals typically reserved for humans. People play drums and offer various fruits, meats, liquor, ghost money and flowers. Lantz notes in her research that Ông lụy are placed in bamboo coffins lined with red paper. Before being interred, the coffin is paraded through the streets so people can offer their respects. Whales have even been rumored to visit harbors during these funeral ceremonies to give a final send-off to their deceased brethren. If a whale is too large to move to the graveyard, and a crane is not available, some villages will elect a guardian to watch over the Ông lụy until the meat has rotted off its bones and can be more easily transported.

According to some believers, the first person to find an Ông lụy is bestowed with great luck, but only the elderly should bury one, because a human soul that the whale may have brought ashore might still be restless and seek to inhabit a young body. Each grave is marked with a tombstone that lists the date of burial for a given whale, as well as the boat or person that originally discovered it.

Cá Ông altar in Phước Hải.

Ông lụy remain buried for three years, a period during which locals like the one I met tend to their graves: replacing offerings and saying prayers. Much like humans, the whales receive anniversary ceremonies 49 and 100 days after their initial burials. Once three years have passed, the bones are dug up and meticulously cleaned. Unlike Vietnamese people’s disinterred remains, which are sometimes kept in the homes of family members, the whale bones are transported to nearby temples, called Lăng Ông, that are specifically reserved for whale worship.

Altar base filled with cetacean bones.

Whale mausoleums

I visited the Lăng Ông in Phước Hải, which rests in the middle of the village just a few blocks from the whale graveyard. In one small room, an altar dedicated to Cá Ông festooned with flowers and incense contains two elaborately carved whale statues and the fully articulated skeleton of an undetermined cetacean. A scrum of bones, including at least a dozen intact skulls, fill the altar’s hollow, windowed base. In addition to the altar room, an impressive multi-room structure serves as a community gathering site as well as a place for whale worshipers to pay their respects. A large platform in the center elevates a huge, freshly painted wooden whale statue.

Entrance to the Vũng Tàu temple dedicated to Cá Ông.

The temple is not dissimilar to many located on coasts throughout the country, including one in the middle of Vũng Tàu itself that I also visited. According to its management board documents, the temple was built in 1824, while emperors Thiệu Trị and Tự Đức provided for it with three dynastic investiture decrees in 1845, 1846 and 1850. In addition to two glass cabinets impressively crammed with large whale bones, it also houses an enormous, almost fully articulated whale skeleton and a huge wooden whale sculpture. Several paintings depict whales blurring the boundary between myth and biology.

Thứ Hải, a monk at the Vũng Tàu whale temple.

Thứ Hải, the resident monk at the Vũng Tàu Lăng Ông for the past 20 to 30 years, explained to me that everyone in the area knows the power of Cá Ông and comes here to pay their respects and ask for prosperity. I talked to him beside a wall covered in aging photographs. The sepia snapshots offered glimpses of whale funerals and festivities going back decades.

In addition to the elaborate funerals, whale worshipers hold annual festivals to honor the marine mammals. The three-day events, which take place on different dates in different villages according to the lunar calendar, feature offerings, prayers, boat races, music and, in some cases, theatrical performances. Different communities celebrate in slightly different ways, but each allows citizens to pay their respects to Cá Ông, pray for loved ones lost at sea, and take a break from normal work schedules. People often wear their finest traditional clothing, decorate their boats and place colorful banners and flags around the city.

Like followers of most other religions, whale worshipers believe in a variety of superstitions. Lantz claims many adherents follow dietary restrictions that forbid the eating of Cá Ông’s assistants — swordfish, shrimp, sucking-fish and giant squid — as well as dog meat, because dogs frighten whales. Similarly, fisherman should not wear jewelry made of claws or teeth as those objects would scare a whale attempting a rescue. If a woman enters a Lăng Ông while menstruating, some believe whales may not save her family’s boats.

At Phước Hải Village whale graveyard manager Mùi (left) and his friend Ngọc (right).

I asked Mùi about the particular dietary restrictions and he compared them to Buddhist practices of only eating vegetarian food on certain days of the lunar calendar — some believers choose to follow this, and others don’t, with room for personal interpretations. He did add, however, that people are careful not to offer chickens to Cá Ông. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but theorized it dates back to ancient times when the calling of a rooster signaled people to venture into the fields, which left their villages vulnerable to invasion. Hải, the Vũng Tàu monk, downplayed the idea of forbidden foods or offering requirements at his temple, claiming that whale reverence comes with no such demands.

Whale worship vs. whale protection

The origin of Vietnam’s whale worship remains unknown. Some scholars have proposed it was introduced in the area by 4^th century seafaring Chăm and 10^th century Khmer people in southern Vietnam. Hindu animist beliefs which influenced early Chăm religions may have helped elevate whales to the status of gods in coastal areas.

Buddhism also offers an explanation. According to one legend, upon witnessing the plight of poor fishermen who were dependant on the tempest-plagued South Sea, Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva tore her cassock into pieces and threw them across the ocean. Each piece turned into a whale tasked with rescuing distressed fishermen. Upon noticing that the newly created creatures were rather small and unable to withstand severe storms, the Avalokiteshvara gathered elephant bones from the forest and gave them to the whales. This made them strong enough to complete their duties, and also gave them their Vietnamese name, cá voi — literally: elephant fish.

If whale worship’s past is unclear, its future is equally uncertain. As younger generations move from fishing villages to large cities and abandon their ancestors’ trade, there are concerns that they will also abandon the religion. Additionally, the radical development of Vietnam’s coasts thanks to roads, housing and tourism projects threatens the very structures that support this tradition. Moreover, climate change is shifting local tides and making the graveyards more difficult to bring whales to.

Whale spinal bones at Phước Hải Lăng Ông.

Mùi, for his part, disagreed that cultural and socioeconomic changes could result in the demise of whale worship. He explained that people here are proud of the practice, and even if they are no longer fishing in the village, they learn how to properly honor Cá Ông from their parents, who learned it from theirs and presumably will pass it on to future generations. Hải echoed this belief and professed to not having witnessed any decline in worshipers in the Vũng Tàu temple. Still, it’s hard to imagine the fervor or dedication of current practitioners withstanding generations divorced from ever seeing, let alone being saved by, whales.

While pre-Đổi Mới policies resulted in the shuttering and destruction of some whale temples, Vietnam's leaders have recently taken steps to ensure this unique practice continues. For example, in 2013, the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism recognized the whale festival in Cần Giờ District outside of Saigon as an example of intangible cultural heritage at a national level. Twelve regional festivals in Đà Nẵng received similar recognition in 2016. Perhaps out of respect for the locals’ beliefs, or for its potential as a tourist attraction, Quảng Ngãi Province’s Lý Sơn District has plans to restore a 24-meter-long, 300-year-old whale skeleton and exhibition center with an investment of VND10 billion (US$437,000).

Whale skeleton displayed in Vũng Tàu.

It is easy to romanticize an obscure ancient beliefs and apply modern or idealist values to them. It would be nice to categorize whale worship as a form of nature worship committed to the plight of cetacean species and the biological health of the seas. Nothing, however, suggests its adherents are concerned with, or even aware of, the cataclysmic decline of global whale and fish populations, let alone solving the problem. Mùi claims he has not witnessed a change in the number of whales that wash ashore or a decline in fishing productivity, but his anecdotal observations are hardly definitive, especially in the face of mounting outside evidence. While governments around the world have established hunting moratoriums for many whale species, which has led to minimal increases in populations, their numbers remain decimated thanks to the massive whaling industries of previous centuries.

Perhaps more troubling is the reality that whales, dolphins and porpoises die as a result of the very activities humans request their assistance with. Cetaceans hunt the same fish that people are after, so many of the whales that wash ashore have not, in fact, committed suicide, but instead drowned at sea after becoming tangled in nets.

As I sat sharing shots of rice wine with Mùi, I couldn’t help but be conflicted over whale worship. On the one hand, as a great admirer of whales, I too profess a deep and profound respect for the incredibly intelligent and emotionally astute animals and consider them worthy of our time and offerings. But does the religion not also encourage human’s anthropocentric inclinations at the expense of the natural world? Can a person profess to love and honor a creature while doing nothing to protect it? Should we really want these majestic creatures to kill themselves as acts of penance for not rescuing us? Eight billion humans inhabit this planet, but how many whales remain?

Ultimately, it is not my place to say. After speaking with Mùi, I visited Cá Ông’s altar and lifted a strand of incense while praying for the survival of the whales, a prosperous future for the village, and my own private successes — aspirations that don’t have to be mutually exclusive. The joss stick’s smoke wafted apart in the air, like a whale song echoing into silence as it navigates up from the murky depths.

This article was originally published in 2018.

Opinion: Electric Vehicles Are Southeast Asia's Way out Amid the Global Fossil Fuel Crisis

2026-05-21T14:00:00+07:00

As the Iran war crunches global energy supplies and disrupts prices, Southeast Asian leaders may need to diversify oil and gas supplies in order to protect ordinary people.

However, they must also look beyond short-term remedies and seek to get their countries off the fossil fuel rollercoaster. As well as building out renewable energy generation and modernising the grid so it can handle the new power, the region should be more prudent about importing gas and turbocharge electric vehicle (EV) adoption.

Road transport is a key driver of oil demand in the region, and gas is a core part of several countries’ power supply. The crisis in the Strait of Hormuz is disrupting roughly one-fifth of global oil and liquefied natural gas (LNG) flows. Of the gas exported through the strait last year, 90% was destined for Asia.

Southeast Asia has been a net importer of oil for over two decades. With its population growing, the region’s meeting of its demand continues to rely on a 1990s model: more car and fuel subsidies; more imported cooking fuels; and a continued push to build even more gas power capacity. Yet its oil and gas production has been decreasing.

Indonesia’s oil production peaked in the 1990s, and it now imports 60% of its needs while spending tens of billions of dollars annually on fuel and electricity subsidies to keep prices stable for households. Thailand’s gas production has been declining since the mid-2010s, yet it still generates about 65% of its power from the fuel; and, in 2023, it imported nearly half of its gas supply, according to the International Energy Agency (IEA).

Though the region as a whole has been pushing to produce more gas, largely via drilling, the implication is clear: however quickly countries try to ramp up production, demand on its current trajectory will continue to far outpace supply growth. Southeast Asia is on track to become a net gas importer.

To secure its energy future, the region needs to accelerate the electrification of its transport sector via EV adoption and strengthen its clean energy development, opening a credible path towards energy self-sufficiency.

The impact of EV adoption

People often dismiss the benefits of EV adoption when fossil fuels’ share in the energy mix is still high. But there is another pathway: electrify and open up possibilities of powering the sector through green energy. Even when powered by a fossil-fuel-heavy grid, EVs produce less emissions over the vehicle’s lifetime than conventional cars by avoiding tailpipe emissions once on the road, eventually reaching a “breakeven” point, as research by BloombergNEF has shown.

More importantly, increased EV adoption enables the region to decouple from fossil fuels as the grid cleans up, while gasoline and diesel vehicles offer no comparable exit path. Clean electricity creates a route to both lower emissions and greater energy self-sufficiency.

In 2025, 2.3 million barrels of daily oil use were avoided through the global EV fleet, BloombergNEF estimates. This represents a mere 2% of global oil demand, but is a clear signal of an alternative path.

China chose the EV route partly to reduce its reliance on oil imports, which account for around 70% of its needs. That strategy is estimated to have yielded results amid the Gulf energy crisis. For Southeast Asian countries to do the same, its governments need to increase public and political support for greater EV adoption. They should do this by working with electric automakers to boost EV manufacturing and create local jobs, as well as by establishing charging infrastructure.

Gas as a stable transition fuel?

With Asian LNG prices remaining highly volatile amid the global energy crisis, the narrative of gas as a stable transition fuel is beginning to unravel. The crisis has exposed the risks of rapidly expanding gas’s share in Southeast Asia’s power mix.

Gas has been widely promoted as a stopgap measure to achieve the region’s aims of reducing its coal dependence and CO₂ emissions while it grows its renewable power. Research by the Energy Shift Institute, where I work, shows that many Asian governments count gas as part of sustainable investments. But though gas combustion does result in less emission than coal, when leakage occurs in its value chain it is 80 times more potent as a climate heater than CO₂.

There is also the premium on imported LNG from distant suppliers, which is significantly more expensive than domestically produced piped gas.

Gas is far harder than oil to stockpile, making it riskier for import-dependent economies. This vulnerability was evident during the 2022 energy crisis brought on by the war in Ukraine, when LNG prices surged and cargoes originally bound for Pakistan were diverted to Europe as traders sought to capitalise on higher prices. Similar episodes are likely to recur in future supply shocks.

There will be a place to develop some local resources and stockpiles. As with oil, gas will continue to have a role to play as an energy and industrial material input, particularly in industries with limited alternative technologies, such as fertiliser.

China can again be looked to as an example, with an 8% gas share in its total energy supply in 2023, nearly 40% of which was imported. This, combined with its rapid renewables growth, reveals a clear underlying logic: limit exposure to imported energy while reserving gas for purposes that critically need it.

Continuing to rely on gas imports threatens to lock Southeast Asia into the same vulnerability it is only beginning to reckon with on the oil front.

Its governments and utilities routinely cite high upfront costs as a barrier to building renewables and modernising grids, yet sign long-term LNG import contracts without similar scrutiny. They are also burning through cash during the Gulf crisis: Malaysia’s bill for subsidies to stabilise retail fuel prices for consumers has shot up by over ten times. Meanwhile, Indonesia’s fuel subsidies to keep prices affordable for households and motorists are estimated to cost the state IDR6.7 trillion (US$387 million) per US dollar increase in the price of oil. This raises the urgent question of how budgets can best be deployed to secure energy supply for the region.

Short-term fixes during crises are crucial, but true leadership in establishing a secure energy supply requires long-term visionary goals. Competing government budgetary priorities and the need to secure immediate energy supplies understandably pull attention toward familiar remedies such as diversifying oil and gas suppliers and creating more emergency stockpiles.

But in energy, there are no quick fixes; the key is in pursuing a steady direction. Southeast Asia has yet to fully explore exit routes that can reduce its exposure to oil and gas supply shocks. The 1970s oil crisis sparked the emergence of renewables, and the current crisis may prove equally defining for the world’s energy systems.

Clean energy deployment must be accelerated. The transition will take time, but the starting point is clear: governments need to electrify as much as possible before the next crisis peeks its head around the corner.

Top photo: Electric cars at a charging station in Bali, Indonesia. Photo by Carrot via Alamy.

Putra Adhiguna is the managing director of Energy Shift Institute, an Asia-focused energy finance thinktank.

This article was originally published on Dialogue Earth and was republished with permission. Read the original article on Dialogue Earth here.

A Special 'Doraemon' Episode Taking Place in Vietnam Will Be Released in May

2026-05-19T11:00:00+07:00

After decades of watching Doraemon and his close friend groups adventure to all sorts of strange lands from the deepest trenches on Earth to fantastical planets, fans of the beloved cat robot in Vietnam will finally see our country in the cartoon series.

Japanese television station TV Asahi announced earlier this month that a special episode of the long-enduring children’s series Doraemon will take place in Vietnam, the third foreign location the characters have traveled to after Thailand and Spain.

The premise of the Vietnam episode, titled ‘The Gift Is a Trip to Vietnam,’ revolves around Shizuka’s birthday celebration in May. After she expresses interest in visiting Vietnam, Nobita, as usual, asks for Doraemon’s help to make the trip happen as a birthday gift to her. The plan is derailed once they discover that their go-to instant travel gadget, Anywhere Door, is broken.

The Vietnam adventure will take place anyway, if the episode trailer is any indication, as many iconic destinations and landmarks in Vietnam are shown: the Saigon Post Office, Hội An Ancient Town, the Dragon Bridge in Đà Nẵng, Hạ Long Bay, and more. Dressed in áo dài and wearing nón lá, the characters will need to enlist the help of Translation Konjac, which comes in the form of Translation Bánh Mì, to communicate in the Vietnamese language with locals.

The episode is scheduled to be broadcast on TV Asahi on Saturday, May 23 in Japanese. According to Tuổi Trẻ, it will be available for watchers in Vietnam via the PopKids YouTube page, but an official premiere has not been announced at the time of writing.

Have a look at some screenshots from the trailer below:

Images of the trailer via Facebook page Mon Fansub.

Ngõ Nooks: At Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy, a Broth That Bridges Hanoi Taste and Huế Flair

2026-05-18T13:00:00+07:00

In only three places have I enjoyed truly sumptuous bowls of bún bò giò heo: in its hometown of Huế, in Hội An and at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy in Hanoi.

I still remember how difficult it was to try and find bún bò giò heo in the capital after being spoiled by the meal’s true richness in central Vietnam. It always came down to one thing. In Huế, the broth derives its complexity from boiled bones, trotters and mắm ruốc (Huế-style shrimp paste), before being infused with lemongrass, chilies and cashew powder.

Hanoi’s version just seems watery and thin; in comparison, it was an apparition of flavor. Until I realized — that’s how Hanoians like it! It is common knowledge among Vietnamese that northerners prefer subtle tastes, while in the center and south it’s rich and well-seasoned nourishment that fits the palate.

Thankfully, Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy achieves a middle ground between the two by adapting their recipe to cater not only to Hanoians, but also those searching for a more authentic Huế style, like myself. Though their broth is clear and light and contains pineapple — something that would make my friends in Huế turn their noses up — the richness of the soup remains. Thùy, who owns the shop, is a Huế native and said she achieved the dish’s complexity through prolonged simmering of the bones. What’s more, all the shop’s condiments — mắm ruốc, chilli sauce, shallot vinegar — are shipped in directly from her hometown.

A complete bowl here is topped with thinly-sliced beef, tendon, a firm block of coagulated pig’s blood, a small pig trotter and a knob of chả cua (pork and crab ball). Thuy’s customers rave about the chả cua, to the extent that she fetches more from Huế a couple of times a week in order to keep them fresh. She’s also meticulous with her meat — the beef is always well-marbled and tender. And while I’ve munched on beef loin, brisket and meaty tendons elsewhere, I’ve actually never tried the cut served at Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy: scrumptious and juicy beef cheeks.

In addition to bún bò giò heo, Thùy also serves bánh bột lọc and bánh nậm — two of the most popular dishes in Huế cuisine. Wrapped in banana leaves and then steamed, the former is pudgy, transparent and chewy, with savory shrimp pork fat inside, while the latter is flat, soft, and topped with minced meat and scallions. Although they aren't available every time I order, they are always fresh, and always my favorite.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7:30am–9:30pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 098 697 3578
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: Be

This article was originally published in 2018 on Urbanist Hanoi.

Bún Bò Huế Thu Thùy

18 Đại Cồ Việt Street, Hai Bà Trưng District, Hanoi

Grab a Cold One: The Thirsty Colonial History of Ice Production in Vietnam

2026-05-17T20:00:00+07:00

Walking through Saigon nowadays, you will notice that ice is so omnipresent, it’s part of the scenery. From trà đá, cà phê sữa đá to sinh tố, every drink is consumed with ice in order to combat the intense heat. Before the French brought ice factories to Vietnam, in hot, tropical cities like Saigon, you wouldn’t expect to find ice. Controlling the cold chain is now an important part of our logistics, be it for healthcare or food storage, opening the door for any cuisine to expand with new ingredients. A few centuries ago, however, it was once a thriving business catering to French colonists.

Making ice in a tropical climate

Throughout history, Vietnamese people learned to manage food safety and storage by using the tropical weather as an advantage. Folks focused on fermentation to extend the shelf life of produce; to quench thirst, people either drank hot tea or used clay jars to cool down water by a few degrees.

When French colonists started living in Vietnam, they maintained their desire to live as comfortably as possible, according to their standards, even at the expense of the local people. One of the luxuries they couldn’t bring from home, but dreamt about, was cold beer. While ice trades, sourced from the frozen lakes of North America, flourished in large Asian ports in India, Singapore and Hong Kong, there is no evidence of a Vietnamese harbor importing ice.

While it is highly likely that ice was imported from these regional ports, the lack of documentation indicates that it must have been in small quantities and for special occasions. The absence of consistent ice vendors revealed a market void, which paved the way for a lucrative industry. It was two French brothers, Victor and Gabriel Larue, who noticed the opportunity first. Victor started selling ice as soon as he arrived in Saigon in 1879; he was later joined by his brother, but their method wasn't documented until 1886, when the business scaled up. That year, they imported 140,000 kilograms of machinery to make ice, and built a secondary facility in Hải Phòng.

Saigon - Larue ice factory interior. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

The Larue brothers imported many kinds of machines to their factories throughout the years; whether they were compression or absorption refrigeration machines, the main goal was the same: the process of making ice is a continuous cycle where heat is constantly moved from one place to another. It starts with the compressor, which takes a low-pressure gas and squeezes it into a high-pressure hot vapor. The brothers used ammonia, having imported 15,000 kilograms of it in 1879. This vapor then enters the condenser, where it releases its heat into the surrounding air and transforms into a high-pressure liquid. This liquid then passes through a throttle valve, where the sudden drop in pressure causes its temperature to plummet instantly. Finally, this cold fluid enters evaporator coils, which are submerged in or surrounded by water. Through the metal walls of these pipes, the refrigerant absorbs the heat from the water until the water solidifies into ice.

Business grew quickly: the target clientele was not only restaurants or bars, but also private individuals who were seeking blocks of ice for their homes. The sales process used prepaid vouchers that had to be bought beforehand, requiring a minimum purchase of one kilogram.

The Larue brothers were not the only ice makers in Vietnam. For example, there was an ice factory in Hanoi that was opened in 1886 by an entrepreneur named Berthoin. However, whether due to poor business management or bad luck, he didn’t succeed in lasting long. The price when he opened his business was 10 cents a kilogram (roughly equivalent to EUR2.5 today), which was criticized as too high. He had to cut the price to 6 cents a kilogram two years later. That same year, he lost a lawsuit that he initiated against a competitor whom he accused of selling tickets that were allegedly too similar to his, because they shared the same color palette. The next summer, Hanoi underwent an ice shortage, as Berthoin destroyed his old factory to build a new one. With quantity far outpaced by demand, some people queued for more than four hours to get some ice for their families.

The Larue brothers didn’t miss the opportunity and bought this factory in 1893, expanding their business to Hanoi, near the one they created in Hải Phòng.

Larue ice factory, Hải Phòng - Ice house. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

But maintaining an ice factory isn’t easy. One of the main issues was the quality of the water, which can affect the taste of the ice and, more critically, can create some serious health issues. Indeed, with water drawn from the river where trash was thrown, people were afraid that diseases could spread faster — most notably cholera, which caused many deaths in Asia at the time. In 1895, in Hải Phòng and Hanoi, many customers complained about the ice quality, as red stains could be seen through the blocks, and it tasted rotten. Wells were dug the next year in Hanoi to source better-quality water.

Larue’s success attracted a lot of attention, in particular amongst the brewing sector. The ice and beer businesses have always been intricately linked by the necessity of refrigeration. Specifically, the fermentation process must occur at a constant temperature, meaning that the ability to keep liquids cold is key for good beer. The Larue brothers had already entered the brewing industry as early as 1909, making their own “Larue” beer, which is still sold today.

Larue beer ad in the newspaper L’Information d’Indochine, April 26, 1934. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

Another colonial family, the Denis brothers, who were initially involved in the import/export of goods to Indochina, took the opportunity to merge the two already-linked industries into one and created the Brasserie et Glacière de l’Indochine in 1927. The Denis brothers bought the Larue business, and other breweries like Brasserie Hommel, and instantly became a formidable operation. This company, currently named Brasseries et Glacières Internationales, grew into an international firm with subsidiaries in many French colonies and later, other countries. Today, they are particularly dominant in the African beer market, but remain influential globally.

Outside of Hommel brewery in Hanoi, Tonkin. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

The business of colonists at the expense of locals

Ice-making was always intended to cater to French colonists' desire to drink cold beer, a colonial context wherein their wishes were satisfied at the expense of Vietnamese people. For example, the French relied on exploitative labor and the prioritization of private luxury over public sanitation.

Larue ice factory, Hanoi. Image via Les entreprises coloniales françaises.

Of course, workers in the ice and brewing factories were indigenous people, and the dynamic between them and the colonists was characterised by systemic inequalities. Vietnamese people were seen as a means of labor for white settlers, as illustrated in this article extract from L’Avenir du Tonkin (May 18, 1895) about a French doctor addressing the poor quality of ice and coming up with a solution using “con-gai” (a French word derived from the Vietnamese term con gái, refer to local Vietnamese women):

“Do you want a solution? The con-gai who draw and sell drinking water should wear a white cloth armband bearing, written in ink, the date on which they were issued a water carrier's permit. Europeans should buy their water exclusively from them. Furthermore, these easily recognizable women should be mercilessly locked up when they fill their buckets in ponds or in the stagnant branch of the river. They should simultaneously be hit with a rather heavy fine and be stripped of their authorization to sell water for a period of time, or permanently, in the event of a repeat offense. Finally, the police or the municipality, just as was done for rickshaw fares, should establish a fixed rate for the selling price of a load of water. This rate should be profitable for the vendors, but must not allow the European to be exploited.”

In the process, the Brasserie et Glacière de l’Indochine generated a lot of money: in 1930 it declared a net profit of 329,714 piastre, the equivalent value of around EUR2.3 million in 2025. French settlers got rich by exploiting a cheap local workforce whom they viewed as mere objects, for a luxury — chilled beer — that was almost exclusively consumed by settlers, as noted in this article extract:

“Until now, beer in Indochina has been treated as a luxury beverage. The new brewery being established in Hanoi is targeting a native clientele, of which it is already assured, by planning to offer an inexpensive beer that will likely not be bad at all.” — L'Éveil économique de l'Indochine, November 3, 1929

Household refrigeration developed when foreign companies entered the market after Đổi Mới, which enabled families to store food more safely and for longer. Meanwhile, most of the ice consumed in Vietnam is still made in industrial ice factories. They power restaurants and cafes, which account for most of the ice sold. Ice has historically been linked to the creation of beer in Vietnam, consumed by French colonists, but Vietnam has formed its own ice-beer relationship too: most Vietnamese people today like to drink beer with ice, a local custom that diverged from western conventions. Throughout their history, ice factories have never ceased to expand, paving the way for many creative cold drinks, like cà phê sữa đá with condensed milk — a humble Vietnamese cold beverage that is now conquering the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Édouard Lucas (1842–1891)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbert walking in a forest outside of Huế.

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

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

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

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

Herbert gathering medicinal plants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photos courtesy of Henry Herbert.

This article was originally published in 2022.

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

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

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

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

As a visitor

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

Morning around the numbered blocks.

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

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

As a resident

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hard farewell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cô Chánh

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