Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

The Surprisingly Global History of Monobloc, the Chair Vietnam Loves and the West Despises

2026-04-09T10:00:00+07:00

In 2024, The New York Times published a list of the 25 most iconic pieces of furniture from the past century, selected by a panel of designers, artists, and curators from the world's leading museums. Unexpectedly, the Monobloc, a plastic chair found in almost every corner of Vietnam and across the globe, had somehow secured a seat.

When the news broke, Vietnamese news sources were quick to jump on the story. The resulting coverage mostly followed a comfortable, recurring motif: a humble object of the streets, long embedded into the fabric of local life, now finally validated by the international gatekeepers of taste! Journalists dutifully cataloged the chair's role in fostering Vietnam’s culinary and social gatherings, noting its constant presence at beer stalls, in family courtyards, and various scenes throughout the country.

Notably, the Monobloc was the only entry without a credited creator. Photo via The New York Times.

Yet, looking beyond the headlines, I found a barrage of conflicting interpretations regarding the chair's inclusion. While most of the designs were celebrated for their aesthetic innovation or the genius of their creators, the Monobloc was chosen for its absolute, relentless ubiquity. There have been millions, perhaps billions, of them produced and scattered across the world.

Sifting through internet forums, I noticed that global sentiment toward the Monobloc was also split into two opposing camps. In many countries, people despise it openly, describing it as an eyesore that clutters the landscape and an environmental blight. Yet elsewhere, particularly in Vietnam, the chair is spoken of with a certain fondness. Here, we quite like it for being cheap, practical, and always dependable.

The local press quickly capitalized on the Monobloc making the list. Photo via VTV24.

How can something so simple be both cherished and disdained? What exactly about it is so appealing to some and so offensive to others? Is it genuinely useful, or merely plastic waste masquerading as furniture? Out of all these descriptors, what is the true nature of the Monobloc?

To find an answer, we have to trace the chair back to its inception, even if its origins are just as murky as the way we view it today.

The Monobloc, as the name suggests, is cast from a single mass of plastic. It is typically made of polypropylene, a thermoplastic that yields to shape under high heat.

The chair first emerged in the aftermath of the World Wars, as nations lunged toward industrialization. At the time, plastic was hailed as the substance of the future because it was light, durable, and did not rely on traditional resources like wood or metal, which had become scarce during the war years.

Amid rapid breakthroughs in material science, designers began experimenting with plastic as a new frontier for mass-market furniture. The hope was to create products that were flexible, inexpensive, and more accessible to the general public.

From left to right, Panton Chair, Bofinger Chair, Universale Chair, Fauteuil 300. Photo via Vitra Design Museum.

This era witnessed many would-be precursors to the modern Monobloc. In 1967, Verner Panton introduced the Panton Chair, famous for its seamless, flowy curves. Over in Germany, Helmut Bätzner developed the Bofinger Chair, the first model molded from fiberglass-reinforced plastic. Around the same time in Italy, Joe Colombo launched the Universale Chair, which featured detachable legs to allow for adjustable heights.

This lineage grew even closer to the present in 1972, when French engineer Henry Massonnet introduced the Fauteuil 300. This model possessed the silhouette we recognize today: slim, equipped with armrests, and very stackable.

But the real turning point was in 1983, when the French Grosfillex Group launched its Resin Garden Chair. This was designed for the mass market with exceptionally low production costs. Crucially, the patent was not copyrighted, allowing manufacturers worldwide to copy and modify it, priming the chair to become an international icon.

On a functional level, the Monobloc is the result of meticulous calculation. The backrest is perforated to drain rainwater for outdoor use. The frame, while thin, is surprisingly resilient, with a curved back designed to cradle the sitter. The legs are reinforced to handle heavy loads and spaced precisely so they can be stacked without warping.

Inside a chair factory. Photo via Works That Work.

According to Witold Rybczynski in his book Now I Sit Me Down, the entire production process takes less than two minutes. Plastic granules are mixed with pigments and additives before being melted at roughly 220°C. This molten mixture is then injected into a mold under immense pressure. Once cooled, the mold opens to reveal a chair ready for use.

The greatest expense in this production line is the mold itself. A single set can churn out millions of perfect copies, distinguished only by color. These molds often cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. For this reason, the Monobloc was always engineered with high-volume manufacturing in mind. A factory can only break even after selling hundreds of thousands of these units.

A beach in Naples, Italy. Photo by Brett Lloyd via Another Mag.

Pragmatic in both design and economics, the Monobloc possessed everything needed to take over the world. From France, it quickly swept through Europe and crossed the Atlantic to North America, populating gardens, cafes, beaches, and weekend picnics.

But this very popularity would soon turn it into a pariah in the western world. Critics, as quoted in Smithsonian Magazine, accused the Monobloc of being “in the worst possible taste” and “cheap, ugly and everywhere.”

In cities like Zurich and Barcelona, local governments have gone so far as to banish the Monobloc from public spaces, treating it as a sort of urban clutter. To certain designers, the chair is the ultimate symbol of mindless consumerism and a grotesque aesthetic that strips a space of its character. And because it is so inexpensive, people often discard a broken chair rather than repair it, reinforcing its image as a disposable item and contributing to the plastic waste crisis.

Two chairs at the Dead Sea. Photo via Elle Decor.

Yet the journey of the Monobloc in the so-called “developing world” offers a starkly different perspective. Far from the contempt found in Europe, the documentary Monobloc by Hauke Wendler reveals a different reality.

Trailer of the documentary Monobloc.

The first half of the film captures the complaints of Germans before moving to other countries to see how the chair is actually used. The further the director travels from his home, the more he discovers that the chair is welcomed and utilized in ingenious ways.

When he arrived in India, he met Harnek Singh, an employee at Supreme Industries, the country’s largest producer of plastic chairs. Singh explained that not long ago, many poor households in India did not even own a proper chair. The arrival of the Monobloc changed that. Cheap to make and easy to produce on a larger scale, it spread quickly across the country. Had even half that demand been met with wooden furniture instead, he said, the pressure on local vegetation would have been devastating.

From top to bottom, left to right: Monobloc chairs in Germany, Brazil, India, and Uganda. Photo via Monobloc documentary.

In Brazil, Wendler traveled to Recife, a coastal city where residents in impoverished neighborhoods rely heavily on waste picking for a living. At local recycling workshops, broken plastic chairs are collected, shredded, and melted down to be cast into entirely new objects. Far from being discarded as waste, these chairs serve as a vital raw material that fuels the local circular economy.

The story takes an even more resourceful turn in Uganda. Here, the Monobloc serves as the primary frame for low-cost wheelchairs distributed by the organization Free Wheelchair Mission. By repurposing this chair, the group has slashed production costs to just a few dozen dollars per unit, a fraction of the price of a standard wheelchair. The simple assembly and readily available parts allowed the project to scale rapidly. By 2019, the organization had provided over 1.1 million Monobloc wheelchairs to people with disabilities across more than 90 countries, including Vietnam.

A Monobloc on a Vietnamese train car. Photo by Chris Hilton via Adventure.com.

A Monobloc wheelchair in Đà Nẵng. Photo via iotilverdensende.

Taken together, these stories seem to suggest that people's relationship with the Monobloc mirrors the condition of their environment. Those in less privileged regions often see it as a precious commodity and a practical solution to their community's lack of resources. Rarely is it a concern whether a chair is cool-looking or what design philosophy it might represent.

Whereas in more affluent societies, familiarity breeds contempt. When basic needs are met, people have the freedom and the financial means to curate their identities through consumption. In such context, the Monobloc is often dismissed as a mere byproduct of mass production. It fails to signal style or personal flair, standing in direct opposition to the ideals of individuality that many strive to project.

This article is by no means an indictment of the western framework, nor is it an absolute verdict on which perspective holds more weight. Rather, it is a mere observation of how our lived experiences can drastically shift our perception of an object that is otherwise deemed universal.

Encountering the Monobloc through these global accounts, I find myself returning to the same question posed at the beginning: what, exactly, is this chair at its core?

The only answer I can offer is a personal one.

As it turns out, as a Vietnamese, I find my idea of the chair at odds with many of the aforementioned notions. I’d even dispute the most mainstream argument that the Monobloc is inherently culture-less, for I can tell from miles away the difference between a white chair by the Sicilian sea and the bright, neon green variety in a local quán nhậu with the quasi-bitten-apple logo on its back, which wouldn’t have been able to exist anywhere in the west due to copyright law.

I’m also immensely grateful for the livelihood it has given me and my fellow countrymen, in many ways. In the small way, I’m grateful for the one singular chair my neighbor has left out on our shared front porch, which no one has bothered to steal, on which I regularly put on my socks before heading out or drop my groceries after breathlessly climbing two flights of stairs.

In the big way, I’m grateful that it has provided stable seating for beer-bellied uncles catching the evening breeze by the canal, blue-collar workers leaning back for a quick nap between shifts, and passengers squeezed into crowded Tết trains when extra plastic chairs line the corridor.

Photo via Flickr.

I’m inclined to be biased, of course, as some of the best meals and best times I've had happened on various incarnations of the Monobloc. So mostly, I’m just really grateful that Vietnam doesn’t yet have a discourse on its aesthetic or social merits, and that here, the Monobloc is simply, wonderfully, a fact of life.

Inside the Covid Memorial Park at 1 Lý Thái Tổ, Saigon's Brand-New Green Space

2026-04-08T12:00:00+07:00

As part of Saigon’s latest initiative to increase green space coverage in the city, a number of abandoned land plots were converted into public parks, including a Covid Memorial Park that’s become a beloved destination for Saigoneers seeking a space to jog, reflect, or just simply touch grass.

The park, officially known as Lý Thái Tổ Park, was open for visiting on February 12 after three months of construction and renovation. It is based on a triangular plot at 1 Lý Thái Tổ Street, bordering Lý Thái Tổ, Hùng Vương, and Trần Bình Trọng streets.

It’s currently under the governance of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as, after 1975, the villas in the plot were used as accommodations for visiting dignitaries; however, this function stopped years ago, so the land and buildings here have been abandoned since.

The plot was the former estate of Hui Bon Hua, a real estate tycoon living in late-19^th century Saigon and the owner of numerous buildings across the city. In the 1950s, the family built a family compound here, comprising eight villas intended to be a place to unwind.

The villas have fallen into disrepair in recent years while the land was sectioned off due to disuse. As construction on the park began, three villas in the worst conditions were demolished while the remaining four were renovated into park amenities like public bathrooms.

Each villa had two stories, designed by French architect Paul Veysseyre, who also designed the Bảo Đại Palace in Đà Lạt, with a blend of eastern and western elements and constructed using imported materials. Even though the influence of Art Deco was present, the villas also incorporated adaptations to fit Vietnam’s tropical climate.

The new park retains the majority of the plot’s heritage trees and adds paved paths and recreational facilities like basketball courts and playgrounds, but the cornerstone of the venue is a circular monument at the center.

The area features depressed steps surrounding a fountain and a striking teardrop-shaped sculpture. The statue is 6 meters tall with a 13-meter-long circumference, made of a reflective alloy. The empty space at the core resembles a heart.

According to famous sculptor Phạm Văn Hạng, who consulted on its creation, the teardrop is meant to symbolize the humanity, kindness, and sacrifice of our pandemic heroes, while the missing heart represents those we lost during Saigon’s hardest-hit periods of the COVID-19 years.

The monument’s nine steps are divided into three main layers. The lowest is engraved with the 12 animals of the Vietnamese zodiac, symbolizing the passage of time. The middle level features footsteps, evoking a journey. And the highest has flower figures of lotus, plumeria, and chrysanthemum, representing continuity and hope.

The evocative monument has become a solemn place for Saigoneers to pay respect to Covid victims by leaving flowers and lighting joss sticks. The steps are also a popular place just to sit and rest while roaming the park.

From Pain and Misery to Confidence and Community: How AnaWorkout Can Transform One’s Life

2026-04-08T08:41:47+07:00

Having gotten a wee lumpy around the middle, In 2020, I decided to start hitting the gym, but I needed a bit of extra motivation to make it there regularly. Luckily, I had a friend, Tu Anh (who also goes by Ana), who was reinventing herself. She became my first personal trainer, and I became her first client. More than half a decade later, she has gone from a fitness hobbyist to a professional, a journey that saw her completely reroute her career path and remake her own body in the process.

By the time she entered her late 20s, Tu Anh had long been aware of challenges caused by her weight. Chronic knee pain and low energy became more common, but she ignored her body’s warnings and those of her doctor as well. For her, food was a source of comfort and way to relax. “I just loved eating since I was a kid and exploring different types of food that were often carb- and fat-heavy,” she told Saigoneer.

Trying new restaurants became a favorite activity and an escape from the stresses of work. Despite sputtering attempts to improve her health, like hiring a personal trainer, consistency proved elusive.

She was so focused on money and developing her career that she never thought about the long term. Tu Anh knew that dramatic lifestyle changes would need to start with her job as working long hours at an agency was both stressful and time-consuming. In 2020, the universe provided the jumpstart she needed to make serious changes.

For Tu Anh, like many others, the Covid-19 pandemic changed the trajectory of her life, and fear proved to be the best motivator. “I had a bad immune system and I easily got sick for long periods of time. I was afraid it would hit me hard. I was afraid to die and didn’t want to die early.” That mindset was shared by one of her inspirations a few notches above her in her family tree. She regularly visited her grandfather, who always talked about eating healthy and doing sports. She remembered his common refrain: “I want to live for 100 years.” He lived to be 102, beating his own ambitious benchmark.

It started with walks, 3–5km per day. “That sounds easy, but Saigon isn’t really a city for walking.” But she stuck with it and, for the first time in her life, was able to find consistency, even adding walks to her work calendar. This also proved to her that through consistency, change was possible, and she dropped 20KG.'

Throughout our conversation, consistency was a central theme of both struggle and success.

It was around this time that she felt fulfilled in a way she never had before, and realized exercise and fitness were more than just a routine. When she got out of bed each morning, she felt good rather than lethargic. It was a feeling of liberation, one she wanted to share with other people.

With her newfound confidence, Tu Anh put a plan in motion. She saved money from her job in the first few years of the pandemic. And she began meeting friends to try her hand at personal training, not charging anything as she learned her craft and figured out how to motivate people.

After about a year, she decided it was time to quit her job and pursue her fitness career professionally. She had plenty of self-doubt, echoed by her family, who found it difficult to accept her leaving a well-paying job. But Tu Anh knew that if she were to find success and long-term health, she’d have to go all-in. She gave herself one year and never looked back.

She slowly built her client base, offering both in-person and online sessions for individuals and groups. She also broadened her knowledge by studying nutrition. Another huge driving force was the community. She sought out like-minded people in Saigon, some who had long been into fitness and others who were just starting their journey, and started a Facebook page, Saigon Healthy Lifestyle. Community has become a central source of inspiration and motivation for Tu Anh.

Community wasn’t a way for her to find clients, however, as Tu Anh instead needed it for consistent motivation. “Sometimes I’m still lazy, but activities with others force me to get out of the house.” Meeting so many different people also made her understand just how different everyone is, from what motivates them to their genetic and physical challenges. Tu Anh says that beyond the personal fulfillment the community has given her, it has made her better at her job by helping her better understand how to tailor workout and dietary plans for her diverse roster of clients.

Intimate community involvement has also impacted her philosophy on how to help clients achieve the best results. She’d seen many people fail by trying to change too much at once, creating nearly impossible expectations that would ultimately collapse. After training over 100 clients, Tu Anh found that beyond gradual changes, the best way to create lasting lifestyle and habit shifts was to identify healthy activities that people either enjoy or that give them a sense of accomplishment, and then build from there, step by step.

She pointed to her proudest accomplishment: working with a client who was over 20kg overweight at 21 years old. Her parents had tried a number of times to help her lose weight, to no avail. After a few sessions, they discovered that weight training was her passion. After a three-month course, her young client lost the rest of the aimed for weight on her own. In a poetic twist of fate, that client has since become a personal trainer herself, and sometimes helps Tu Anh train clients when she’s overbooked.

Five years into her career as a personal trainer, Tu Anh continues to evolve her business. She plans to optimize her time by keeping a few in-person clients, while extending the reach of her message through online group classes focused on exercise and nutrition. Though my tummy is not yet taut, I’ve slowly found consistency in my workout and dietary habits and point to my time with Tu Anh as the starting point for my own healthier lifestyle.

If you’re interested in joining Tu Anh’s community or learning more about her services, you can visit her website.

Vietnamese Indie Studio Skrollcat Announces 'Hoa 2,' Sequel of 2021 Award-Winning Game

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

In 2021, the first Hoa title came out just in time to soothe our pandemic anxiety. Five years later, will Hoa 2 be up for the job in this new era of fuel crisis and global instability?

Hoa is a platform game by independent Vietnamese studio Skrollcat, first released in 2021, featuring a series of puzzles. Players control a tiny fairy that wakes up in the woods and has to navigate the wilderness to find her way home, while befriending other forest creatures and meeting old friends.

The game was well-received by fans, who praised its lushly illustrated art and tranquil soundtrack. It even won Best Art Direction, Best Music/Sound Design, and People’s Voice Best Art Direction at the 2022 Webby Awards.

Earlier this month, Skrollcat announced that they have been hard at work on Hoa’s second iteration, to be available to play at an unspecified date in 2026 on Windows, macOS, Nintendo Switch, XBox Series X/S, PS4, and PS5.

According to the team, Hoa 2 will take the whimsical world of Hoa to a 3D environment, alongside more creatures to solve puzzles with and a range of adorable costumes to collect.

The mellow soundtrack, one of the stand-out parts of the first game, is also returning with new tracks: “Immerse, explore, relax, unwind, all while accompanied by new original soundtracks from the award-winning team behind Hoa 1, recorded live.”

Have a peek at Hoa 2 via the images below:

Photos courtesy of Skrollcat Studio.

How Richie Fawcett's Saigon Sketches Illuminate a Decade of Change

2026-04-06T12:00:00+07:00

It’s been hidden right there in the heart of Saigon for over half a decade.

On one end, neverending, city-wide construction is muffled and ironically forgotten thanks to a veil of sử quân tử flowers concealing its outdoor patio.

On the other end, there’s an open door, one flight of stairs up from an unmarked parking garage guarded by an elderly man, who was confused as to why I woke him from his late morning slumber.

The autograph-covered door into the studio.

“I’m here for Richie,” I say.

“Ahh, Richie, OK, OK,” he nods, reluctantly, motioning me to park outside on the sidewalk.

It’s here on the corner of Pasteur Street and Lý Tự Trọng where one will discover the art studio, speakeasy, and playground known as The Studio Saigon.

It’s also here where one will find Richie Fawcett, sitting on his uncomfortable-by-design DJ equipment box, hunched over his drafting board with black fingerless gloves and a scalpel, tending to his latest rendition of Saigon’s ephemeral skyline. I appear in the doorway, and he stands up immediately to greet me with a smile and a handshake.

Richie Fawcett has spent the last decade creating artworks of Saigon.

I’ve arranged the meeting to talk to Fawcett about his latest book: HCMC Decacity Project, a decade-long art project capturing the changing face of Hồ Chí Minh City from 2013 to 2023.

Archiving history via city sketches

To understand what this book is all about, first, realize that Fawcett is now on his fourth life. Life #1: Student of Egyptian Archaeology specializing in underwater ancient shipwreck photography at UCL. Life #2: Photographer of underground techno night clubs in London and videographer of extreme sports on cruise ships around the world. Life #3: Bartender under former James Bond, Sir Roger Moore KBE in London, and alongside celebrity chef Tony Singh in Edinburgh. Later in 2011, after a year-long stint in Hong Kong, Fawcett traveled south from one Pearl of the Orient to another: Saigon. He had originally only planned to scale up the city’s bar and restaurant scene. Yet, as fate would have it, it was here where his fourth life began.

Remnants of Life #3 live in the space amongst Vietnamese knick-knacks.

Back in The Studio Saigon, the 50-year-old artist from Norfolk, UK is seated to my right on one of his two brown leather sofas in the back bar area, with his latest book open on his lap. Although the book progresses chronologically, our conversation does not.

This book begins and ends in the same spot with the scene that inspired him over a decade ago to start drawing in Vietnam: the view from the top floor window of the Fine Arts Museum across the Quách Thị Trang Roundabout facing Bến Thành Market. Back in 2012–2013 or “the early days” as Fawcett titles them in the book, he starts with a trio of sketches of the Notre Dame Cathedral using pencil on A5 paper — beginning in a similar fashion as his grandfather did using charcoal as a self-taught artist back in the 1930s.

In his studio, Richie shares the story of how this all started.

Call it clairvoyance, a sixth sense, insider information, or just a stroke of luck — he foresaw demolition and felt inspiration. Envisioning the river of time flooding Saigon, Fawcett dove right into the bottom only to resurface a decade later to share his findings. The 150 pages in between recurring plot points feature original drawings of streetscapes, cityscapes, local characters, and panoramic views all captured in the last ten years.

Pens and papers — an artist's best friends.

Paper? French. Hand-made. Daler and Rowney. Aquafine texture. Purchased at a local student art shop.

Ink? Chinese. Preferably watered down from jet black to light grey. Same used by scribes during the Lunar New Year — a period of rejuvenation for Fawcett where the cooler weather clears the city’s sky evoking magical feelings whilst drawing.

Pens? Japanese. Mitsubishi. Somewhere between 0.1 and 0.5. If a pen is wrapped in green tape, it’s fresh. If it’s wrapped in yellow, it ain’t.

Signature stamp at the bottom right corner of all his sketches? Bought by his wife, Duyên, three years in advance. Obsessed with by his son, Harry. “My son loves to stamp everything with different dates,” Fawcett says. The logo — which you can find throughout his studio — symbolizes the shape of the city’s first citadel from back in the 18^th century.

Putting the Saigon skyline on the map

It’s almost unheard of that someone prefers to walk everywhere in Saigon, but for Fawcett, the long walks between lunch and dinner services when he used to work as a bar manager years ago became his muse. Repeatedly strolling along the same streets and around the same districts over and over has granted him the ability to notice not only details of new buildings going up into the sky, but also of old faces on the streets.

A snapshot in the story of Saigon.

“The most honest way is to draw something,” Fawcett says. “When you write a diary, words can be left open to interpretation, but drawing a picture, it’s a snapshot and that's why I wanted to draw what I see accurately. It tells a story chronologically in the right order about what really is going on.”

Over time, his drawings went from using only pencil to pencil plus pen. Then, it went to solely pen and soon to smaller and smaller pen tips and bigger and bigger canvases that require 100-plus hours for a single drawing, such as the one in the Brasserie VietNam in New York City or the mural outside of the British Consulate on Lê Duẩn Boulevard. Fawcett tells me that it had 24/7 armed guard for nearly a year. Meanwhile, his largest piece is a five-meter-wide inverted and LED-backlit drawing at Anan Saigon on Tôn Thất Đạm Street. Chef and owner Peter Cuong Franklin has been a close friend and supporter of Fawcett since they met many years ago.

While the artworks in the book are coffee table-appropriate, some of Richie's pieces could span entire walls.

Peter Ryder, the CEO of Indochina Capital, selected Fawcett to be one of the resident artists of Wink Hotels, effectively putting his work on the window shades of every single room in the hotel chain. “It’s a great match, Richie and I, Wink and Richie, because Wink looks to reflect the modern day Vietnam and Richie and his drawings are very much putting on paper his interpretation of Vietnam,” Ryder said.

An appreciation for the little things

When researching the last ten years of Fawcett’s life and work, I kept looking for the turning point in his story. In the process of documenting a decade of “decay and dazzling disorder,” as he writes in the book, when did things flip?

At what inflection point did the trajectory of his life as a self-taught artist change? Was it two years into drawing when he grew confident enough to finally only use a pen instead of a pencil? Or was it the 2015–2016 period, when the volume of his work dramatically increased? Perhaps, it was in 2018, when he quit his salaried job, got married, and committed to being an artist full-time on his terms, resulting in a visible influx in private commissions?

Maybe, it was throughout the 2020–2021 COVID-19 lockdowns when the subject of his work became more experimental and included drawing other cities like London and Santorini, sketching the insides of a tornado, or crafting portraits of his son — something he only does for himself.

Smiling from above.

After meeting Fawcett, visiting his studio, and speaking with others in his circle, I realized I had been looking at this situation wrong all along: HCMC Decacity Project isn’t just a decade-long art project as the title suggests. This is a decade-long anthology, a retrospective collection of love stories pouring out of Fawcett.

It's falling in love with the rooftops of HCMC, where he first saw the full spectrum of its contrasting elements. Falling in love again and again with the Quách Thị Trang Roundabout, even when he saw the statue’s removal taking place on his way home from one night, forcing him to quickly sit down on the curb under the streetlight and capture the moment in real time. Falling in love with his wife Duyên way back when she would pick him up on her motorbike in the early mornings during Tết and take him to Bình Tây Market — a place, as Fawcett writes, if you can’t find what you’re looking for there, “chances are it doesn’t exist.”

A quick sketch of Tết on the street.

And finally, it’s Fawcett falling in love with being a dad where at his studio he has a workbench set up — just like his dad working as a gunsmith when he was a kid — that way his son can now sit right next to his dad and see him first hand create and do what he loves every day.

“That is,” Fawcett says, slowing down and pausing between words, “the exact childhood that I want my son to have.”

Towards tomorrow

Regardless, for him, time ticking away has always been a motivational driver to get out there and make the most of it.

What’s Fawcett up to now? Will there be a fifth life ahead, and what could it entail? Branching out into fashion, launching NFT collections on the blockchain, and marching on his literal artistic race against time to archive the evanescent nature in Saigon? Regardless, for him, time ticking away has always been a motivational driver to get out there and make the most of it. “There’s no time like the present!” he reminds me over WhatsApp.

As Fawcett sits back down on his DJ equipment box with its red citadel logo and “Keep Calm and Make a Sketch” motto etched below and scoots forward to the table nearby an easel with his son’s drawing, he finally shares his overarching philosophy for this book and future plans ahead. It’s simple. “Best plan, no plan,” he says with a smile.

This article was originally published in 2023.

Ngõ Nooks: At Vietnam's Only Palestinian Eatery, Eating Maqluba and Dreaming of Peace

2026-04-05T14:00:00+07:00

“If you have a heart and you have a mind, you must support Palestine,” Saleem Hammad emphasized as we sipped sweet tea overlooking Hanoi’s Old Quarter from the balcony of his restaurant, Oliva. The dinner we had just finished was delicious, but the visit to Vietnam’s only Palestinian restaurant felt more significant than a simple meal. Learning about Saleem’s journey, his personal relationship with Vietnam, and his efforts to deepen ties between Palestine and Vietnam underscored how cuisine can foster cultural exchange and understanding towards peace.

Oliva's second floor and doors leading to the balcony. The ornate painting was completed by one of Saleem's close friends.

“I’ve brought a small piece of Palestine to the heart of Vietnam,” Saleem explained about his opening of the restaurant late last year. That dream had been a long time in the making. He first came to Hanoi in 2011 to study on a scholarship provided by Al-Istiqlal University in his home nation. During those student years, while serving as a host of various Vietnamese television shows, operating popular social media channels, and his current work at the Palestinian embassy, Saleem has been a tireless voice for Palestine, introducing its culture, history, and current political situation to Vietnamese people while sharing about Vietnamese culture with audiences around the world.

Saleem shows off his iftar: the meal he will eat to break his daily Ramadan fast.

Saigoneer arrived at Oliva during Ramadan, and while Saleem was cheerful when he greeted us at 5:30pm, once he returned from breaking fast at sundown, he was exuberant. In a sign of things to come, he became deeply thoughtful and spoke with profundity when reflecting on the value of fasting. He didn’t like it as a child, but as an adult, he understands it as an opportunity to practice appreciation. Each grain of rice, each drop of water allows him to reflect on his blessings and faith. In turn, he tries to show appreciation to the people around him, noting “getting appreciation means you are alive; you exist.”

Saleem's arrival in Hanoi “was like being slapped in the face from all sides.” He didn’t know much about the country beyond a few school lessons about Hồ Chí Minh and General Giáp when he was awarded the scholarship and had imagined a hyper-developed Tokyo-like metropolis, not the rough-around-the-edges Hanoi where he lived in a dormitory with a gaping hole in its roof and washed dishes with his roommates in the toilet.

Despite the initial shock, it didn’t take long for Saleem to fall in love with Hanoi. “Family and culture is [sic] not different from my home,” he observed after watching daily life around town. People sing together, celebrate football, share fruit from their gardens, and simply express joy to be amongst one another. “There is happiness here,” he concluded.

Saleem during one of his many appearances on VTV. Photo via Reddit.

At first, navigating the city without Vietnamese was “like moving in quicksand,” he said in a typically descriptive turn of phrase reflective of his having studied Vietnamese literature. To better understand the culture and “break the wall to see all around,” Saleem needed to learn the language. His success in this task is evidenced by the smooth Vietnamese he speaks with a crisp Hanoian accent in his popular YouTube and TikTok videos and the proverbs he dropped frequently in our conversation. When asked why he started a restaurant, for example, he switched from English to Vietnamese: “Có thực mới vực được đạo” (you’ve got to eat to think).

“I was poor,” Saleem said when asked how he learned to cook. His mother was the youngest of 12 children, and his father the youngest of eight, meaning there were always hungry mouths around. Surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles in his small village, he grew up interested in kitchen work and started helping at local restaurants from a young age.

From 7am to 2pm, the building is used by a phở shop, while Oliva operates from 2pm until 11pm.

While Saleem enjoyed learning how to make traditional dishes as well as interact with customers (anyone who spends five minutes with him will agree that he is very much a “people person”), his mom was less convinced. “I don’t need your money, I need your degree,” she scolded him once after he brought her the tips he’d earned. He indeed studied hard and achieved the education his mother expected of him, but still found his way back to the kitchen. Saleem makes the majority of the dishes at Oliva, though his wife, who is also from Palestine, helps with some items as well.

Visitors to Oliva may understandably be unfamiliar with what to expect from authentic Palestinian cuisine, though any experience with Middle Eastern food, broadly, will allow one to recognize many of the dishes, flavors, and ingredients. The region is home to thousands of years of human civilization, which featured extensive trade networks. Significant exchange, migration, and influence make it impossible to attribute many items to any singular, modern nation.

The falafel is served with tarator, a creamy tahini-based sauce.

Oliva’s hummus was smooth and rich, the blended chickpeas containing a bright dose of lemon that balanced the beef in the version we ordered. Meanwhile, the falafel was crisp on the outside with a welcome softness inside, which allowed the flavor to stand apart from the texture. Both the hummus and falafel were perfect accompaniments to the fresh and airy flatbread. The most unexpected delight of the meal was the pickled vegetables: crisp, colorful, briny bursts of sour bliss!

Hummus (left) and pickles (right).

Having sampled various Middle Eastern cuisines around the world, I was particularly excited to discover a dish I’d never seen before: maqluba. Arriving at the table with a ceremonial upturning of the pot to tumble a heap of rice, vegetables, and chicken onto the table, the maqluba was the star of the meal. Dating back at least 700 years, the Palestinian dish is assembled in the pot before cooking, with layers of eggplant, carrots, potatoes, and rice absorbing the chicken and eight spices, which need to be sent from Palestine.

The maqluba's pot is overturned at guests' tables and served with chopped nuts.

For conservative Vietnamese palates, Palestinian food should be quite approachable. The maqluba has even welcomed comparisons to cơm gà. One notable difference might be a lack of raw vegetables in the dishes. The situation is easily addressed with a Palestinian salad. In addition to the lettuce, tomato, and cucumber, the pieces of fresh apples contributed a pleasant vegetal element.

Significantly, Oliva is a halal restaurant, meaning that all food is clean, ethically obtained, and free from forbidden (haram) substances, including pork and its derivatives, according to Islamic dietary laws. But even non-Muslims should appreciate halal items because the distinction typically connotes carefully selected and stored items of a higher standard, which results in fresher, more delicious flavors. Considering the nation’s talented cultivators along with the soil and weather conditions, Saleem posits that if Vietnam followed halal rules, it would certainly have the healthiest, most delicious cuisine in the world.

Halal items are a matter of tourism in addition to business. Anyone with a social media account understands that of all Vietnam’s many virtues, it is often food that makes the largest impression on international tourists. This doesn’t apply to Muslims, however, of whom there are approximately two billion in the world. Saleem explained that for them, travel to Vietnam can be a chore of squinting at store packaging and having to forgo the majority of restaurants, from street stalls to Michelin dining experiences, because they do not adhere to or even know about halal restrictions.

Saleem provides explanations of what makes a food halal on his social media channels in Vietnamese to help the country better cater to Muslim visitors, a vast and relatively untapped market for a nation so keen on attracting tourists. When you consider that nearby Indonesia has the largest Muslim population in the world, it's a bit shocking that one doesn’t see more halal restaurants here already. Moreover, learning how to follow halal rules will also open up vast export markets for Vietnamese farmers, producers, and distributors, significantly helping the economy. “Uống nước nhớ nguồn,” (drink the water, remember the source), Saleem said when explaining his motivation to share ideas and information in Vietnam.

Oliva's political message is clear in the restaurant's artwork.

The bridges between Vietnam and Palestine that Saleem builds via Oliva, his social media, and his job at the embassy go both ways, and he wants to transmit important messages home: “As a Palestinian, I miss peace; I find peace here… If Vietnam can do it, so can Palestine.” He seeks support for this peace by explaining the ongoing genocide in his homeland in Vietnamese. Moreover, as an informal spokesperson, his warm and helpful presence helps to humanize their plight. He once again uses a Vietnamese proverb to explain his work: “Ngòi bút có thể thắng vạn quân” (one pen can beat 10,000 soldiers).

Refreshing mint tea to end the meal.

Saleem sat with us for a long time after dinner, pouring tea and sharing stories about his homeland and his people’s simple desires to eat, send students to school, care for their own land, and not fear slaughter every day. Not once did he check his phone, answer a call, or run down to the kitchen. His attention and energy were singular. It’s difficult to comprehend how he could be so generous with his time, considering his many roles at the restaurant, at his job, managing his social media presence, and translating several political works from Vietnamese into Arabic, all while being a devoted husband and member of a large family abroad that relies on him. I asked if he ever gets tired, metaphorically or literally, from speaking so much in support of Palestine. “Never,” he says while admitting that at night he often takes medicine for his throat, “Because words are strong.” I would add that a meal can also be strong, whether its a means of introducing people to a new culture or showing one’s support.

To sum up:

Opening time: 2pm–11pm
Parking: Motorbike out front
Contact: @olivapalestinianhalalfood
Average cost per person: $$ (VND150,000–under 500,000)
Payment: Cash, Card, Transfer
Delivery App: N/A

Oliva

7 Hàng Buồm, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

All Aboard Bus 146, Home of Plushies, Rubber Chickens and a Side of Humanity

2026-04-03T12:00:00+07:00

“Cute” doesn’t seem like a fitting descriptor for any mode of public transport, but a bus in Saigon is driving straight into the heart of Saigoneers for being the quintessence of “smotheringly adorable.”

At Saigon’s Eastern Station, commonly known to locals as Bến xe miền Đông, picking up and dropping off passengers is a daily ritual for bus operators. The terminal, one of the busiest transport hubs in the south, is where millions of residents embark on their daily commute.

For many of these travelers, especially the more veteran ones, participating in Vietnam’s mass transit system, though frugal and practical, is often a cumbersome experience due to the eternal lack of funding and human resources. Instances where buses bypass traffic laws, or where staff harangues passengers, have become the norm and triggered further stigmatization among the public.

But against all odds, a delightful presence continues to defy expectations by hitting the streets with grace. Lovingly nicknamed the “plushies bus” by locals, Bus 146 offers carnival-like rides to counter the gridlock’s chaos and inhospitality with its own brand of kindness.

At 9:30am sharp, the bus departs from the Eastern Station to head towards Hiệp Thành Station in District 12. The Saigoneer crew was greeted by chú Phạm Ngọc Tuyền and chú Phạm Văn Sang — men in their middle ages whose look and voice just exude a fatherly comfort. By striking up a conversation with the two, I learned that they had been friends long before becoming colleagues. Tuyền bought the bus and takes the wheel, while Sang is in charge of selling tickets and keeping the place neat and tidy.

When the pandemic broke out two years ago and the route’s ridership declined, Sang began to have more downtime when the bus arrived early at the station. He would spend his extended breaks and pocket change at the claw machines in the waiting room as a way to unwind after a long journey. But unlike the majority of players who might struggle to luck out, Sang was a master of chance. The machine’s plushie reservoir fell slowly into the conductor’s arms every time he played (VND10,000 each time) and the cuddly toys became decorative trophies with a life of their own on Bus 146.

Sitting at the rear entrance and plucking out colorful tickets for those who just entered, Sang says to me: “It was for my own entertainment at first, but the bus ended up looking prettier with them. The passengers seemed to love the idea too, so I went ahead with it. All of the stuffed animals that I get from the machines I hang here.” Over time, the bus has accumulated more than 100 toy residents that reside at different corners — hanging on the handles, by the window frames, and behind seats. The vehicle’s rigid interior softens where it meets the cushiony touch of a chubby duck or minion, which blithely swung back and forth with every stop and turn the bus makese while dodging a swerving motorbike

Steady in his driver’s seat, Tuyền watched over the steering wheel. Tuyền admitted that he isn’t much of an arcade ace like his long-time partner, but ensured that he is just as “obsessed with plushies.” As far as the man is concerned, having what essentially is a moving castle full of stuffed toys is “mad cool.” It makes the dozen-kilometer-long trips that he takes daily a bit less daunting for him, he says.

Having traveled for some distance, it dawned on me that the ambiance on Bus 146 did in fact feel more amicable than my usual commute. For so many people, taking a bus in Vietnam means enduring wobbly seats and racing to get on and off a vehicle that moves at the velocity of a rollercoaster. But the plushie bus takes its time to enjoy the ride, whether the wheels are rolling or not.

At every station, the duo would come to a complete halt until all passengers, especially seniors, have safely boarded, and welcomed them with pleasantries, a rare commodity in the world of public service. The bus also moves at a relatively slow speed, so passengers can sit back and fancy a view of the curated plushies, rather than holding on for dear life every time the bus hits a pothole.

Most importantly, there is no need to live out an introvert’s nightmare by crying out from the top of their lungs “Please let me get off here!” as the operators have installed a rubber chicken to serve as a makeshift bell. One only needs to “cock-a-doodle-do” from the rear, and the driver would “cock-a-doodle-doo” in response to confirm the stop.

Like other modes of public transport, the majority of Bus 146’s passengers are students, blue-collar workers, and the elderly. Some actually prefer traveling on the bus so much that they have made a point to save Tuyền and Sang as phone contacts.

"Squish squish."

“Some students will call me to ask where my bus is because they want to catch it specifically. I always tell them to ‘take whichever arrives first,’ but they say that they ‘have time to spare’ and wait out for the toys,” Sang recounts. Some of them even gift the bus with more stuffed animals to help sustain the "population."

But Sang and Tuyền are determined to give back by giving the plushies away, both because they like to keep a fresh rotation and because they see the young passengers “as grandchildren of their own.” During rush hour when it’s common to have 40–50 students pour in all at once, Sang improvises by having a raffle. Whoever’s ticket serial numbers match the ones of Sang’s choosing will go home with a toy from the bus. “I want them to make some good memories. So I give them what they like,” he reasons.

But more than just toys and games, I suppose the best memories on Bus 146 are from the kind hearts that operate it. Be it a student, street vendor, or casual traveler, people are treated with respect and human decency that we don’t realize has been missing for so long.

It is the cheery smile that Sang and Tuyền put on their faces; the small talk about just anything they have with passengers; the way the bus doesn’t budge until older riders have been seated; and the “no cussing" policy that the two adopted because they staunchly believe that "people don’t deserve to be bullied just because they are traveling on concessionary fares."

As I bid goodbye to Tuyền and Sang to return to my office, they insisted on dropping me off at a station with shade so I wouldn’t have to stand under the sun. Bus 146’s silhouette got smaller and then disappeared as it merged into the flow of traffic, continuing to attract curious looks from passersby. Perhaps like me, many of them boarded the plushie bus with that same curiosity, only to leave knowing that the cutest things were, in fact, its people.

This article was originally published in 2022.

The Aesthetic Yet Functional Role of Shade in the Genome of Modernist Architecture

2026-04-03T10:00:00+07:00

Since the mid-20^th century, Vietnamese architecture has started to be made from industrial materials such as concrete, steel, glass, etc. This resulted in Vietnamese modernism, a branch of global modernism.

Vietnamese embraced the new architectural aesthetics of the epoch while retaining a taste for traditional architecture. One of the most important, and also the least observable, characteristics is the use of shadow.

Since the 1950s, reinforced concrete has been commonly used in institutional buildings, factories, shophouses, villas, and rural houses in southern Vietnam thanks to its versatility, convenience, and low cost.

In addition to creating a more permanent shelter, concrete offered creative homeowners a new material to compose diverse and abstract facades. Simple architectural elements like planters, brise-soleils, louvers, and pergolas were used to make a new “taste” that extends beyond their function. Saigon is a reservoir of this phenomenon.

Articulation of shadow started primarily to mitigate direct sunlight in living spaces. Thanks to abundant sun rays and frequent downpours, exterior corridors or balconies are omnipresent and indispensable elements in all shophouses, rural houses, or villas. Putting suspended structures over a house to provide shade and block rainfall has created regions of shadow over facades. For example, bẩy — the final overhung beam that supports a roof's extension — in traditional Vietnamese houses, temples and pagodas are hung on columns to extend the roof further, increasing shade in interior spaces.

In vernacular modernist architecture, bẩy has resulted in contrasting extrusions and intrusions on a building's facade. In fact, mid-century homeowners may have considered a facade to be canvas to create sculptural compositions by including various architectural elements, such as louvers, rails and planters.

Besides serving a structural function, these elements have an aesthetic role. Becoming mindful of the stylistic effect of shadow-casting elements like pergolas that provide shade to outdoor walkways, is a special phenomenon emblematic of Vietnamese architectural culture. It reveals the country's ability to conduct architectural experimentation and evolve its style.

The structural combination of beams, posts, louvers, and planters of the 61-63 Võ Văn Kiệt building is a great example of structural design. All of these elements lie over the suspended part of the building to shade the space beneath. But the way light and shade interacts above the elements are also carefully designed as well. The dense row of louvers at the edge, the blander surface of the balcony spreading over the front, and the delicate slices at the beams' ends and the distance between them were de-conceptualized in such a way that their structural framework becomes a sculpture. Viewers cannot separate function from art.

A special talent of Vietnamese builders regarding reinforced concrete is the ability to seemingly hide gravity. For example, the relationship between a planter and the edge beam on which it's anchored are always hidden, so the plants seem to float in the air beyond the facade. This is achieved by controlling or adjusting shades.

Repeating this design over and over resulted in it becoming a trademark of Vietnamese architecture. In almost all homes and shophouses, every floor has at least one planter suspended in front. This means a floating-over-shade effect appears in almost all Vietnamese modernist houses, not to mention other experiments by architects in public buildings such as floating roofs.

Even though the louver, planter, brise-soleil and pergola in modernist architecture may no longer bear imagery of sacred animals, folktales, or spiritual stories as in traditional architecture, its the equilibrium of shade persists. The shade it provides is constant in the consciousness of new compositions.

Common Vietnamese modernist architecture separated itself from global modernism thanks to its instinctual design choices that reveal the carefree identity of Vietnamese architecture.

From the overall to the minute, shade has been at the center of Vietnamese modernist architecture. All decisions during the design process seem to revolve around it. Shade has become a “material” — intangible but adjustable — developed and reproduced. Modernist architecture, therefore, became a new form of craft that preserved and developed a particular taste and aesthetics unique to Vietnamese.

Mostly created by homeowners or contractors spontaneously without any participation from architects, modernist dwellings in the mid-twentieth century have captured Vietnam's personality that shares lifeblood with art, cuisine, and culture. It not only preserves aesthetics but also lifestyles formed in accordance with local environments. The need to respond to sun, rain, and heat has helped balance the role of artistic interpretation and result in a stylistic consistency. Analyzing the result of this craftsmanship helps us investigate better the architectural authenticity of Vietnamese modern history.

This article was originally published in 2021.

Saigon Set to Make Bus Service Free for All to Cut Congestion, Air Pollution

2026-04-02T14:00:00+07:00

Saigoneers without private vehicles might be happy to hear that the city is planning to make the municipal bus system free to ride in the near future.

Just this week, at a municipal meeting on April 1, Secretary of the Municipal Party Committee Trần Lưu Quang announced that Hồ Chí Minh City will remove bus fares in a bid to reduce road congestion and air pollution, VnExpress reports.

At the moment, bus trips in Saigon cost on average VND5,000–7,000 per trip for single-use tickets, but are already free for special groups of riders, including children under 6, older adults over 60, war veterans, and people living with disabilities. Students can ride with fare discounts.

Overall, the subsidy scheme accounts for around VND1.7 trillion per year of the city budget, and it’s estimated that the cost will balloon to VND7 trillion should the policy be expanded to cover all riders. It’s unclear at the time of writing when the free buses will come into effect.

Besides making bus transportation free, Saigon plans to implement a number of upgrades to entice city dwellers to take buses more often, including improving service quality, expanding bus routes, and converting more routes to green energy-only.

According to Tuổi Trẻ, HCMC’s bus network currently has around 2,325 vehicles, 1,082 of which (46.5%) run on green energy, including electric buses and CNG (compressed natural gas) buses. In the first quarter of 2026, that number is expected to rise to 58.4% with the addition of 500 electric vehicles — part of the municipal plan to phase out fossil fuel in city buses completely by 2030.

Saigon has been overhauling its bus network in recent years by allowing certain routes to be privately operated. These include electric-only lines that are run by VinBus and Futa Buslines.

Bạc Liêu-94, Cà Mau-69: In Saigon, a Surprising Reminder of Home Lives on License Plates

2026-04-01T14:00:00+07:00

Once in a while, I bump into a little sliver of my hometown on a random license plate on the street.

Living in Saigon for about four years, I sometimes spend my time driving without a destination in mind.

Passing one street after another, my mind seems to retain just enough clarity to keep the handlebars stable. The pressures and exhaustion of life inundate my mental capacity, turning objects on the street into a blur occasionally lit up by street lamps and scored by the grunts of surrounding motorbikes.

Right in the middle of this thick atmosphere and crowd of multiregional motorists, a number 69 on a license plate caught my eyes. It’s the provincial code for Cà Mau, where I came from. Once, the number showed up behind a rickety Honda Dream bike manned by an elderly man. Once, behind a Vision owned by a student whose backpack bears the logo of my university. Another time, behind a Wave ridden by a Grab driver dashing down the boulevard. Most surprisingly, behind a Mercedes right downtown.

During those moments, my sour mood often vanishes, replaced by meandering thoughts. Who are they? Why are they in Saigon? Do I know them? I have more than once sped up after those 69’s, even though I know that it won’t provide the answers I seek. At least, once I have overtaken them, they would see that I, too, carry a 69 plate — just a quiet signal that we’re hometown buddies amid this strange land.

My 18-year-old would never have cared about that number. He wasn’t in college, not living in Saigon, and didn’t anticipate that there would be a day when homesickness would plague his being. In my memory, the number 69 symbolizes an impossibly peaceful Cà Mau: where the roads are immense and the vehicles drive languidly. Our license plate sneaks into numerous milestones: alongside my mom’s bike when she took me to the barbershop, or to the local tailor to get my school uniforms made before a new school year; behind my dad’s bike when he drove me to the local youth center; and behind my friend’s bike when we stopped at a spicy noodles eatery.

Now, the 69 plate on my own bike takes me to a different horizon, towards foreign destinations. The last vestige of familiarity hangs by a thread on those 69’s I see on the street. At times, I dream that somebody will speed up and shout at me: “Yo! You from Cà Mau?” I would be overjoyed. Even though the currents of life might prevent us from having a chat, I would surely give them the most earnest greeting through my eyes.

I’ve heard many stories of my friends and family bumping into a fellow countryman in the most delightful ways. About half of those would happen thanks to the license plate codes. It could happen in a parking garage when their bikes are right next to each other. A friend started talking to a ride-hailing driver because they spotted that familiar license number on the app interface. Another person found it in the most awkward situation: when they were asked to present their driver’s license to a traffic officer. I realize that those numbers might be the most tenuous link, reminding people of their shared origins in Saigon.

From a long time ago, I’ve learned by heart: Bạc Liêu-94, An Giang-67, Cà Mau-69. It’s not for any particular use, but sometimes, thanks to that, I can learn a piece of someone’s story via their vehicle. Perhaps they are also waiting for a simple greeting from a familiar face just to not feel alone in a strange land.

Wilbur's Vietnam: 1960s Saigon Through the Lens of a Famed National Geographic Editor

2026-03-31T10:00:00+07:00

The 1960s witnessed an unprecedented influx of foreigners into Saigon and Vietnam. From soldiers to teachers to just intrepid shutterbugs, the visits of these camera-clutching characters resulted in a wealth of old photos taken in the city from the early 60s all the way until 1975.

At Saigoneer, we’ve featured dozens of such photo collections over time — captured during numerous occasions of the year and spanning just as many geographical landmarks — but the images below by notable National Geographic photographer Wilbur E. Garrett still remain our all-time favorite.

Garrett was one of the magazine’s most prominent picture editors, whose career-defining works cover historic moments such as the Korean War, Vietnam War and the cover photo depicting the famous and haunting “Afghan girl” by Steve McCurry. Unfortunately, he passed away in 2016 at age 85.

As an avid photographer and picture editor, Garrett’s involvement with Vietnam was prolific: he started making yearly trips to the country from 1960 to 1968. His time in the Southeast Asian country spawned an expansive archive of magazine-quality photos that might not look out of place in any editorial spread nowadays.

In this article, Saigoneer will feature some of the best shots of Garrett in Saigon from trips in 1961 and 1965. Feast your eyes on the famed photographer’s Saigon photos, courtesy of Flickr user manhhai, below:

Al fresco tables outside of the L'Imperial cafe (now Vietnam House restaurant) at the corner of Tự Do-Nguyễn Văn Thinh (now Đồng Khởi-Mạc Thị Bưởi), 1961.

Looking from District 2 towards the Bạch Đằng Wharf and District 4, 1961.

A young couple dashing down a suburban street in 1961.

A temple in Chợ Lớn (left) and famous cải lương performer Thanh Nga in a play (right), 1961.

The Bạch Đằng Wharf in 1961.

A lady in a yellow áo dài, 1961.

Morning on Tôn Đức Thắng Street, 1961.

A lion dance performance in Chợ Lớn (left) and a lady riding a Velo Solex on Tôn Đức Thắng Street, 1961.

Two xích lô drivers taking a nap, 1961.

A freshly constructed Thủ Đức Intersection, 1961.

Praying at Lăng Ông Bà Chiểu in Bình Thạnh District, 1961.

Nón lá smile, 1961.

A bánh mì stall in chợ cũ on Tôn Thất Đạm Street, 1965.

The crowds in a temple in Chợ Lớn during Tết, 1965.

A view of downtown Saigon from District 4, 1965.

A security post where the police pat down two bikers, 1965.

A porter in Chợ Lớn (left) and a roast chicken store in chợ cũ (right), 1965.

The Lê Lợi-Pasteur intersection, 1965.

A group of students practicing judo at the Quang Trung Judo Center on Phạm Đăng Hưng Street (now Mai Thị Lựu), 1965.

Rows of students praying at the Quang Trung Judo Center, 1965.

A suburban neighborhood (left); a vendor using his mouth to water branches of apricot blossoms during Tết (right), 1965.

Rows of bikes and bicycles in a parking lot on Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard, 1965.

The Tàu Hủ Canal, which links District 1, 5, 8 and 6.

Photos by Wilbur E. Garrett via Flickr user manhhai.