Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Hẻm Gems: Wake up Early, We're Getting Hủ Tiếu Cá for Breakfast

2026-10-10T19:00:00+07:00

When I used to live in Hanoi, I always knew that if an eatery only opens for half a day, the food is probably certified, at least by the locals, to be not only good, but excellent. There is something written in the local traditions that specific dishes should be served at particular times of the day.

For example, in every Hanoian’s consciousness, cháo sườn is strictly quà chiều, a cozy snack for the afternoon, although guests still come at any time of the day whenever their hearts desire. In some cases, perhaps the restaurant's reputation has built up so well over the years that the turnout is so consistently immense that they simply run out of stock in half a day. Therefore, you always have to put a certain amount of effort into scheduling, almost as if the meal itself is a special occasion.

Waking up late runs the risk of having no fish for your noodle bowl at Anh Mai.

Now, to a person whose concept of hủ tiếu cá was completely foreign until last Sunday, I do not know if this is a dish for which certain temporal rules apply. I have only discovered recently that a hundred ingredients could be combined with the chewy noodles — pork, shrimp, squid, satay, beef meatballs, even bones, and the list goes on including either with-broth or dry variations. However, there was something about a plain and earthy bowl of fish hủ tiếu that piqued my interest. Hủ Tiếu Cá Anh Mai, which served this dish specifically, came highly recommended online.

The Sunday breakfast crowd.

Online reviews specify that the store would close at around 12pm, so I was determined to pick myself out of bed and get there by 10am, hoping it would not be unbearably crowded. Anh Mai is located on Lê Thị Riêng, one of those rare streets in District 1 that is neither riddled with traffic nor high-rise buildings. Every table was filled, but the great thing was that the owners never seemed particularly frazzled during our visit. Like every good restaurant that has been in operation for over ten years, Anh Mai has their regulars. The woman in Table 4, for example, briefly mentioned to the smiling owner how she was running late that morning and did not have the time to drop by earlier. It was a familiar sight: families with small kids, office workers, and teenagers came in and out every 40 minutes or so.

A big portion (VND75,000) gets you a substantial amount of fish fillet.

After a short wait, our order of three hủ tiếu cá with broth and one dry hủ tiếu were served to Table 0 where we sat. With a generous amount of flaky white snakehead meat, garnished with scallion, pickled radish chopped into minuscule speckles, some bean sprouts, and a splash of soy sauce, my hủ tiếu bowl held the piping-hot soup within like a secret. Upon the very first bite, the fish let me know that it was the star of the dish — firm and moderately sweet in a tenderly seasoned broth.

Dry versus broth versions.

I learned from locals that this snakehead’s freshness was almost unparalleled across Saigon. As my chopsticks sank beneath, ample noodle layers were unveiled. The chewy texture of hủ tiếu seemed to take a step back to let other ingredients shine. No sooner had I thought that was the extent of the experience than a jolt of saltiness touched my palate in the most pleasant way imaginable. Was it from the pepper? I am still not quite sure, but the hide-and-seek game of flavor persisted until the last bite.

For your slurping pleasures.

We finished our meal at 11am and nodded our heads in contentment, even with the VND75,000 per person bill. It was simply worth it. As new customers started to flood in, we quickly parted ways so as not to overstay our welcome. Like every good meal, hủ tiếu at Anh Mai requires one to take their time — waiting, enjoying, and collecting themselves from that enjoyment. It's thus a good thing we waited until Sunday instead of going on Friday like the original plan. While there’s more for me to learn about the customs of eating hủ tiếu from Saigoneers, hú tiếu cá is now for me, perpetually, without debate, a Sunday dish.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–11:30am
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 0906783242
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, Grab Food

Hủ Tiếu Mì Cá Anh Mai

153 Lê Thị Riêng, Bến Thành Ward, HCMC

In MARG1N, a Resolute Return to Print Media That Dissects Southeast Asian Cinema

2026-10-10T18:00:00+07:00

The joy of reading, for most of my life, had been primarily grounded in the joy of learning, feeling, and thinking through words, independent of medium. That is, until college, when I found myself repeatedly longing for Thursday mornings, when the week’s freshly printed student newspaper would arrive neatly folded and stacked, ready to be unfolded and spread over the dining-hall table like wrapping paper. I came to realize then that the joy of reading was not simply about words; it was also about the tactile touch of paper and of the inexplicable satisfaction of flipping through pages bigger than my hands could reasonably manage.

When it comes to the pleasures of the tactile, material dimensions of reading, nothing, in my opinion, surpasses print magazines. Reading a print book offers the soft touch and the wafting scent of paper that digital versions cannot replicate, but even books with the most beautiful covers are inevitably too wordy (or most often, exclusively so) on the inside. Magazines, however, swirl ideas, illustrations, and images alongside the words, all brought together to life by the beat of color. As we become ever more subsumed by a digital world increasingly cannibalized by AI, print mediums like magazines can only become more precious.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

For such reasons, I was elated to recently find out about the existence of MARG1N, a print-only Southeast Asian film magazine based in Cambodia — the discovery of novel magazines in the region is always a delight! For cinephiles in Vietnam and across Southeast Asia in particular, MARG1N will surely be a treasured find, for there exists nothing quite like it for devoted filmheads. Supported by the Cambodian film production company Anti-Archive, the project is envisioned to consist of five issues, with each issue focused on a pairing of two or three countries in the region under a particular theme. The upcoming third issue, titled “Cosmos,” is set to release later this year, exploring the titular theme across the regions of Brunei, Thailand, and Timor-Leste.

The core team behind the magazine consists of three members: filmmaker and editor-in-chief Savunthara Seng (Thara), based in Cambodia; Alyssandra Maxine (Max), based in the Philippines; and graphic designer Sonich Touch, who was previously based in Cambodia, but has recently relocated to Spain. As Max recounts in an interview with Minh Nguyen on Public Parking, the origins of the project trace back to when Max and Thara first connected on Letterboxd, where Max corresponded with Thara about how to pirate Filipino filmmaker Lav Diaz’s eleven-hour film Evolution of a Filipino Family (2004).

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

Given this history, it was perhaps natural that the theme of the first issue, published in 2024, would be piracy, focused on Cambodia and the Philippines. Titled “pirate.lov3r.2024.mkv,” Issue 1 brings together a cacophony of voices and perspectives, from filmmakers, artists, critics, and mourners of DVD stores, presenting piracy as something more than simply “an open secret” — tabooed, given its unlawfulness and illegitimacy; yet open, given its ubiquity. “Name me one Filipino filmmaker whose film education did not involve piracy,” writes Khavn De La Cruz in the opening piece, who describes piracy as “a form of film preservation.” The theme of piracy highlights well MARG1N's general approach to engaging with film not simply as a form of art that exists in the abstract, but as one lives and breathes through dynamic social formations, like piracy markets and DVD stores for instance, for which Phnom Penh, as with the Philippines, is a “notorious haven,” as Thara writes in the introduction.

Issue 2, titled “Traces,” focuses on Vietnam and Singapore. The subjects covered in the second issue are diverse, but all possess qualities shared with that of the trace: spectral, fleeting, fragmentary. In “Regarding Latent Cinema,” Daryl Chong reflects upon unfinished films within the context of Singapore. In “Minor Observations of Trần Anh Hùng’s Trilogy,” Lanah Chu offers fragmentary, bullet-pointed reflections of Hùng’s widely celebrated films, perhaps more aptly described as poetry than prose. In “Cinemas Are Battlefields,” TN Đan goes through public archives in Singapore to present the history of cinema bombings in Vietnam from the 1940s through the 1970s. In “Microbecinema,” Grace Song writes of the parallels between microscopy and cinema as a means to reflect more broadly on microcinemas and independent film screenings. The issue also contains a visual script, a letter, and a comic strip.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

Readers may find the specific combinations presented in each issue as surprising. But as the editors described in their interview with Saigoneer, the pairings are an intentional choice. Rather than pursuing what might be clichéd pairings — such as Thailand and Cambodia, for instance, given the geopolitical context — the MARG1N team tries to bring together countries without significant shared histories in order to “force” histories together in surprisingly productive ways. “When the countries are unified under a theme, we expose how similar we all are, despite very different forms of government and culture,” Thara remarked.

The idea of marginality behind the name of the magazine is core to the identity of the magazine. I sometimes find the notion of marginality to be somewhat tricky. If what is considered marginal cannot but be relational — namely, marginal to some other center or core — who is to say what constitutes such core or center? To what and to whom, to be concrete, is Southeast Asian film marginal? As the MARG1N team points out, certainly to the “West” — especially given the sheer difference in available resources for the film industry and culture across geographies — but also to the “Asian” canon. As Thara explains, “When the West refers to Asian cinema, it’s only a couple of countries talked about as if representative of the whole of Asia.”

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

But even within Southeast Asia and within specific countries, there exist internal dynamics of centers and peripheries, given Thailand, Vietnam, and the Philippines’ status as the “powerhouses” of the film industry within their region. But zooming in even further, Thara explained: “Even in the festival circuit, when the art house crowd refers to Thai cinema, for example, they think of only one name or representative… but it’s not just Apitchapong. The margin is spread throughout.”

Importantly, the magazine also conceptualizes marginality as a mode within film criticism as well. “When we imagine film criticism, we think of a kind of serious academia. We try not to do that because film criticism is also an amalgamation of other things, like poetry, visual essays, photography, collages,” Thara commented. “When combined together, they create dissonances and discourses that make a film magazine a film magazine. What is film criticism? It’s not just The New Yorker or MUBI. It can be more.” Remarkably, in reading the magazine, marginality does not feel as though it merely exists on the margins, but rather as permeating and dispersed across multiple layers, through and through, like dense rings of trees. Key to this quality is the magazine’s sustained attention to marginality in its various forms without, necessarily, the kind of self-marginalization often found in discourses on the subject.

Excerpt from Issue 2, where the focus is Vietnam and Singapore.

During our chat, Max described MARG1N also as a project to produce “cinematic memorabilia.” As one might expect from this vision, MARG1N’s magazines are gorgeous and stunning, with a distinctive style that I would characterize as simultaneously eclectic and dreamy. The MARG1N team emphasized that the visuality and materiality of their magazines are a huge part of their identity and the reading experience they try to emulate, via unconventional formattings of texts, play with fonts, as well as the scattering of images, textured and granular. Indeed, some of my favorite pieces were those that were heavily visual, including Nguyên Lê’s “Season of Changes” in Issue 2, in which he writes about re-tracing scenes from Tony Bui’s Three Seasons (Ba mùa, 1999) in present-day Saigon. Accompanying his commentary are pairs of photographs for each location re-traced: a still shot from the film alongside a photograph of the same place in the present day, taken at a similar angle.

I read MARG1N’s issues in the form of digital review copies, and I can only imagine what it must be like to hold and read the magazines in print, a feeling I dearly miss living in a city where English-language print magazines are difficult to come by. The element of print “completely changes what is written,” Thara remarked, reflecting upon the place of print in the age of AI. As he astutely put it, “the digital almost becomes dated when you really touch the pages.”

Images courtesy of MARG1N.

The MARG1N team have told Saigoneer that a limited number of copies of Issues 1 & 2 will be available at Dogma Collection in Saigon, beginning mid-October. One can find more detailed information about the availability of copies in other parts of Southeast Asia on their website.

Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat, the Saigon School That Taught Marguerite Duras, Norodom Sihanouk

2026-10-06T10:00:00+07:00

Lê Quý Đôn High School (Trường Trung học Phổ thông Lê Quý Đôn) at 110 Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai Street is the city’s oldest surviving educational establishment.

The origins of Lê Quý Đôn High School may be traced back to the École normale indigène, established by a decree on July 10, 1871, but the first school to be established on the current site was the Collège indigène de Saïgon, founded in place of the École normale by a decree of November 14, 1874.

Work began immediately on the construction of the school campus near the junction of rue Chasseloup-Laubat (Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai) and rue de l’Impératrice (Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa), and during the two-year construction period, the school was accommodated temporarily “in the Pagode Barbé and its dependencies,” which once stood on the site of the War Remnants Museum.

Led by its founder Director Honoré Wattebled and a staff of European and Vietnamese teachers, the school initially offered a three-year program for “young Annamites from good families,” the aim being “to provide interpreters and clerks for government offices, machinists for the Roads and Bridges Department, and employees for the Cadastre and Telegraph Office.”

Students who graduated with distinction could be eligible for a generous overseas study scholarship, and accordingly, “every year, a number of the smartest young Annamites were sent to Marseille at the expense of the colony, in order to complete their studies.”

In 1877, the Collège Indigène was named, like the street on which it stood, after the French general and military engineer François, Marquis de Chasseloup-Laubat (1754–1833). By 1879, the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat had 83 students.

Following the closure of the La Salle Christian Brothers’ Collège d’Adran in 1879, the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat was transformed into a secondary school of similar status to the Collège de Mytho. The first French children were admitted in 1880. Soon after this, the buildings were upgraded so that European and local pupils could be segregated in two distinct areas — a “Quartier Européen” for French children and a “Quartier Indigène” for local children, separated by “kitchens, courtyards, covered walkways, washrooms and pools.”

The current school buildings date from this period and feature a design typical of late-19^th-century French lycée architecture, with little attempt at adaptation to the tropical climate other than the peripheric gallery on the ground floor and the overhanging roofs.

The Collège Chasseloup-Laubat in the early 20^th century.

In subsequent years, the number of pupils grew steadily in size, increasing from 180 in 1884 to 200 in 1903, and 290 by 1924. However, by the early 1920s, there were still fewer than 50 European students at the Collège, since “the secondary syllabus it offered was incomplete and young French and Annamites had to travel to Tonkin to complete their secondary studies and take the baccalauréat.”

The absence of a “proper education for European children” in Cochinchina was remarked upon as early as 1903 by Governor General Paul Beau (October 1902–February 1908). “This question deserves our solicitude,” he said, “because it concerns the future of our colonisation.” However, not until 1924 was the teaching syllabus of the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat upgraded to permit the baccalauréat exams to be taken in Saigon.

Another view of the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat from early 20^th century.

In that year, the school also began admitting gifted French and Vietnamese children aged 9–12 by entrance examination to a course of pre-secondary studies at the Collège.

Young educated Vietnamese took an active role in the anti-colonial protests of 1926 and the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat in particular became something of a hotbed of activity. Things came to a head on April 4, 1926, the day of patriot Phan Châu Trinh’s funeral, when students of the Collège wrote ABLF — À Bas Les Français (down with the French) — on blackboards and participated in what subsequently became a nationwide school boycott. “It is unfortunate that our brilliant Franco-indigenous educational secondary institutions have suffered a serious blow,” intoned the newspaper L'Eveil économique de l'Indochine solemnly later that year. “School indiscipline, a basic form of social indiscipline, is completely intolerable.”

Students gather outside the Lycée Chasseloup Laubat in 1947.

In 1927, the Collège Chasseloup-Laubat was formally upgraded to become a full secondary school named the Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat. In November of that year, over 200 local pupils were relocated to the new Collège de Cho-Quan, which was initially established as an annex of the Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat. However, in August 1928, the Collège de Cho-Quan became a secondary school in its own right, named the Lycée Petrus Ký. The first intake of new students at Saigon’s two new Lycées took place in September 1928.

During the later colonial period, the Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat became known as one of the most prestigious in the region and trained many famous individuals, including Vietnamese revolutionary leader Trần Văn Giàu (1911–2010), French novelist Marguerite Duras (1914–1996), last South Vietnamese president General Dương Văn Minh (1916–2001), King Norodom Sihanouk of Cambodia (1922–2012) and historian Vương Hồng Sển (1926–1996).

During the Japanese occupation, the school served briefly as a center for refugees.

Two Vietnamese teachers pictured outside the Lycée Chasseloup Laubat in 1947.

After the departure of the French, the school continued to operate under French management, but in 1958, its name was changed to Lycée Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Thereafter, the student intake was overwhelmingly Vietnamese.

In 1967, the school was transferred to the South Vietnamese Education Ministry and became the Lê Quý Đôn Education Center (Trung tâm giáo dục Lê Quý Đôn), named in honor of 18^th-century Vietnamese mandarin, philosopher and poet Lê Quý Đôn (1726–1784).

Known since 1975 as the Lê Quý Đôn High School, the school remains today one of the principal scholarly establishments of the city.

The former Lycée Pétrus Ký (now the Lê Hồng Phong High School) at 235 Nguyễn Văn Cừ in District 5 stood in for the former Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat in French filmmaker Jean-Jacques Annaud’s 1992 film version of Marguerite Duras’ The Lover.

The former Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat was featured in French filmmaker Jean-Jacques Annaud’s 1992 film version of Marguerite Duras’ The Lover. However, if you watch the film closely, you will see that the school used as a location is in fact not the Lycée Chasseloup-Laubat at all, but the former Lycée Pétrus Ký (now Lê Hồng Phong High School) at 235 Nguyễn Văn Cừ in District 5.

Top photo by Le Quy Don Photography Club via Facebook page Trường THPT Lê Quý Đôn - Phường Xuân Hòa, TP.HCM.

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

Review: ‘Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell’ Is a Soul-Searching Mission in the Lâm Đồng Mist

2026-10-05T10:00:00+07:00

On the pastures of slow cinema where Andrei Tarkovsky, Tsai Ming-liang and Theo Angelopoulos reside, Phạm Thiên Ân's debut feature, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng (Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell), has made its mark as a notable entry for its distinctly Vietnamese vistas, tones and essence.

To see myself crying while watching Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng — which Ân is credited as director, writer and editor — is something I never thought was possible. When the film's lead, Thiện (Lê Phong Vũ), indulges an elderly woman (NSƯT Phi Điểu) in a chat about presence and reincarnation, all I could do was let the tears run. Maybe it was because of Madame Điểu's delivery, a perfect balance between impassioned and dignified that convinced me that everything is more reality than senility. Maybe it was because she echoed my late bà ngoại's belief that a person's return to this harsh plane after they have exited it, should that happen, could be a chance to save others from hardship.

Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell is an expansion of Phạm Thiên Ân's previous award-winning short.

In a way, the newest Caméra d'Or winner Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng is a return. The expansion of the 2019 short film Ân made, 14-minute Hãy Tỉnh Thức Và Sẵn Sàng (Stay Awake, Be Ready) won an award at Cannes as well. Yet, in the Bảo Lộc native's second and lengthier exploration of his world, more details are available. This version of the motorbike crash now specifies who has died, Thiện's sister-in-law Hạnh, and who has survived, Hạnh's young son Đạo (Nguyễn Thịnh). This version now has a proper central perspective, introduced in a tragicomic manner embedded in so many of life's designs — Thiện has to stop his massage session short of its “happy ending” because of the call about the accident.

Phạm Thiên Ân (middle) is a Bảo Lộc native, so he decided to base the story in his home province.

I must admit, explaining this film is not easy. Attempts to simplify and provide clarity can also be means to reduce and demystify it. There's a flow, simultaneously factly and divine, across all these following points, but I have to break it up so it might make sense: Thiện's journey from Saigon to Lâm Đồng Province to return Hạnh's ashes prompts him to relive matters that can make, or even have made, him somewhat aimless and reserved. He finds himself in an environment where faith is strong and the people's investment in it is unwavering. He again sees his girlfriend, Thảo (Nguyễn Thị Trúc Quỳnh), but in the robes of a nun. He also finds out where his brother, Đạo's father, is located.

It's best to enter Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng equipped with the connotations behind the transformation a cocoon undergoes, as well as Ân's implication behind the imagery; he told French newspaper RFI in Vietnamese that the pupa within is “similar to a person's soul.” This is because Ân has really focused on the searching aspect of Thiện's soul-searching. This, in turn, validates how the endpoints of plot threads can be absent or undefinable. It even embeds time's immunity to manipulation to the runtime. Through Ân's vision, I get to see that, while Thiện and Đạo are the film's emotional hooks and the setting's enlargers, its anchor is in the navigating of concepts that humans have understood or have yet to. Perhaps that would explain why when Đạo asks Thiện where his mother is now, Đinh Duy Hưng's camera doesn't focus on nephew and uncle but instead the luminous hands of the alarm clock.

Thiện (Lê Phong Vũ) embarks on a journey to deliver his sister-in-law's ashes from Saigon to Lâm Đồng.

Speaking of the camera, I'm of the opinion that it also does more than its brethren in more conventional films. It doesn't just observe, but also gathers life. Per foreign critics and previews abroad, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng is an Eden of long takes, some featuring the most delicate tracks or pans as if they are imitating the winds of Vietnam's ethereal highlands. But even if the camera prefers to be stationary, it understands that dynamism and energy still exist through other bystanders, sounds and naturalism. Hưng's cinematography seems to be capturing existence as opposed to scenes.

Consequently, it feels apt to call everything that makes up Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng — from technical aspects to its narrative themes — as “vessels” more than “components,” as they seem so willing to become secondary to grander, yet-established concepts. This seems to correspond better with the film's vision and an awareness of a higher power that, the closer to the end of the 182 minutes, I stop rationalizing and just accept. It's not that I have given up, but instead, I'm listening to the film. It seems to be advising me to be humbled by greater forces, named and unnamed or seen and unseen.

Catholic paraphernalia is often spotted in the movie, even though Yellow Cocoon focuses more on spirituality and faith than religion.

Does this necessarily make the film religious in design? Not necessarily, even when figures of Mary, Jesus and crosses are prevalent. In a memorable shot that might also be a nod to Tarkovsky's also nature-rich Solaris, a son of God figurine, submerged, is seen resting beneath brushing grass blades. There's also the feeling that, despite heavenly presences on walls at ceremonies, on shelves, above doors and the like, none of our characters has an overt or devoted connection to them.

This “giving in” nature also allows the illusory to cohabit and gain prominence. In one stunning sequence that epitomizes Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng's dedication to aural excellence, Thiện rouses himself from sleep and wanders around under the heavy rain and darkness. Is this still Lâm Đồng, or a drenched purgatory? A camera that normally stays or trails now moves as if sentient. Is it as confused and exhausted as Thiện? Then comes respite, assuming the form of a tree with white butterflies as its leaves and flowers. Is this a variant of the unburnt bush that Moses comes across? The film doesn't answer this, it just moves on.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng might not appeal to casual viewers due to its long running time and slow pace.

Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng will alienate viewers because of its respectful ambiguity. They might wonder why Ân seems to adore the bumps and sounds along the road that surround Thiện's Honda Astrea more than the ride's point or resolution. They might register the elderly lady's words as, as Thiện was warned, elderly speak. I can't fault them for these interpretations, as the film does not ease itself into the deeper matters that the footage truly represents. Unlike the also lengthy Japanese Oscar winner Drive My Car, that also deals with deciphering one's place in life, everything in Yellow Cocoon, but especially its characterization, starts out as deep and naturally contemplative. In his performance as Thiện, I feel that Vũ shifts between uncertain and passive, as if it's the result of him being ever-prepared for the moment the camera and narrative focus on something else besides him. But when I pick up on the idea that Thiện is meant to be an avatar of Ân, Vũ's acting makes sense. As mentioned earlier, Thiện has been on a search, and not once has life stopped to confirm, deny, explain or guide him after he has gained or lost a thing. With that in mind, what gets portrayed is more human being than dramatic character.

Overall, Bên Trong Vỏ Kén Vàng gives me more confidence to interpret the gray that characterizes life. I hope its appreciators will feel the same, even if they might be hard to find. Aside from being a captivating and heartfelt experience, the film allows me to feel fine to never know where a stream starts and ends; I can just lie in it, with both ears underwater — just like Thiện — and know that there is a flow. Sometimes it's enough, the ability to view much of the world free from absolutes, from what one “do know” and “don't know.” Seeing as reality has yet to open itself to this notion, could this be the hardship my bà ngoại was referring to? If I do return, let me be your hero and break you out of the limitations that are cocooning you.

Photos courtesy of JK Film.

This article was originally published in 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reconstructing old Hanoi

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

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

Khang's lacquer work up close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The search for funding

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

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

Nguyễn Thế Khang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panel of Khang's ambitious work.

What became of the work?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Searching for the painting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rediscovery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transparency right from the name

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

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

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

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

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

Trà đá đường in the Mekong “sweet tooth” universe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The delta’s choice of energy drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a closer look at the house below:

Photos by Hiroyuki Oki via ArchDaily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The music video for ‘Vịnh người cá.’

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

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

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

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

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

To sum up:

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

Score: 68/100

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Experiencing a day in Khun

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

Palm fronds help to protect local farmers from the sun.

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

Lychee is also a common crop in Khun.

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

Pathways in Khun are often not paved.

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

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

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

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

Exploring the Bó Mỳ Cave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tastes of the valley

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

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

A banquet platter prepared by Tày cooks.

The Bằng Lang Commune market is assembled every Saturday.

Fish salad, a local specialty.

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

Gold rice paddy coats the valley during harvest season.

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Del aboard his boat. Photo via Del Elson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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