Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Voọc Cát Bà: The Endangered Primate of Karst Land

2026-04-20T10:00:00+07:00

Imagine being born one color, and growing up into a very differently hued adult.

Such is the life of the Cát Bà langur (Trachypithecus poliocephalus), or voọc Cát Bà, which lives on the island of the same name off of Hải Phòng. The Cát Bà langur is one of the rarest primate species in the world, and they can only be found on their home island.

The Cát Bà langur is one of the rarest primate species in the world, and they can only be found on their home island.

According to the Cát Bà Langur Conservation Project, which works to protect all biodiversity on the karst-strewn island, there are currently as few as 76 individuals — down from nearly 3,000 in the 1960s, a population that has been decimated by poaching and habitat loss in the decades since. The conservation project closely monitors the voọc, who live deep in the national park, and any new births are announced on Facebook.

A newly born voọc Cát Bà is a striking sight; their fur a bright, uniform orange that stands out from the grey limestone and green foliage of their environment like an unexpected ray of sunshine on an overcast day. As the young langurs grow, their coat turns black, with the exception of their cheeks and neck, as well as the crown of their head, which turns into a golden-white tuft. I sometimes wonder how this fairly dramatic transformation impacts the langurs: do they recognize their color change? Do they wish they had stayed orange?

At this stage, I can’t actually remember when I first learned of the Cát Bà langur, but over the last few years they’ve become quite possibly my favorite of Vietnam’s many wonderful and often critically endangered endemic animal species. In early 2019, I visited the island and spent time with the conservation project, though I didn’t actually see any langurs — which didn’t come as a surprise.

The closest I’ve come to seeing an individual is the two rather frightening taxidermy specimens at the run-down, minimally informative museum at Cát Bà’s national park. I do have a voọc sticker on my desk, so a youthful primate is always looking at me, but at times I feel odd liking an animal that I’ve never actually laid eyes on so much.

Video by Fauna & Flora International

But given their appearance, and the fact that they are found in only one spot, why doesn’t the voọc Cát Bà have a more prominent image in Vietnam? China, for example, has its pandas, a headline species that has received immense conservation investment even though they prefer not to mate and have a wildly inefficient diet.

Now, voọc aren’t quite as goofy as a panda: if it snowed in their enclosure at a zoo, they wouldn’t slide down it for footage tailor-made to go viral. Unfortunately, they also don’t fall under the “charismatic megafauna” label — in fact Vietnam has almost no megafauna left — so they don’t act as an umbrella for large-scale conservation efforts that benefit the entire ecosystem, the conservation project’s amazing work aside.

I’m taking this opportunity — with no actual power — to nominate voọc Cát Bà as Vietnam’s national animal, which is currently the water buffalo, an ungulate that is neither endemic or endangered.

To be sure, we don’t need more tourists flocking to Cát Bà to see langurs, as well over two million people already visit every year, and Vietnam’s finest purveyor of cable cars, Sun Group, opened their latest sky-car rope-a-dope contraption, linking the island to a major highway, last summer.

As a symbol, however, I think the langur would be outstanding. Their unique appearance would surprise many who are unaware of their existence, though the critically endangered red-shanked douc langur of Đà Nẵng (voọc Chà vá chân đỏ) also competes here. This would simultaneously highlight a rare positive conservation story for the country, as the Cát Bà langur population is slowly growing after bottoming out in the 2000s with only about 40 individuals remaining at the time.

Did you know?

The Cát Bà langur population is slowly growing after bottoming out in the 2000s with only about 40 individuals remaining at the time.

Overall, this would be an aspirational move: the chances of you seeing a voọc in the wild are infinitesimal, but perhaps that’s the way it should be. Vietnam could use their furry visage to raise funding for conservation work, and what child wouldn’t a bright orange baby langur stuffed toy, but let’s leave them at peace in the rocky forests of majestic Cát Bà.

Considering the fact that humans almost wiped them out, it’s the least we could do.

The chances of you seeing a voọc in the wild are infinitesimal, but perhaps that’s the way it should be.

Photos courtesy of the Cat Ba Langur Conservation Project.

This article was originally published in 2021.

Far From Vietnam: A 1967 French Anti-War Film Grapples With Its Own Contradictions

2026-04-18T21:26:38+07:00

French cinema experienced a creative renaissance in the 1960s with arguably the most influential movement in its history, the French New Wave. Intellectuals within this movement strived for new techniques to tell stories in ways never seen before. Most of them were socialists who were against the American war in Vietnam.

While the filmmakers were often at odds with the general public on many topics, in this situation, both sides' views were aligned. French society viewed the intervention as aggression against Vietnamese people’s right to self-determination. After the escalation in 1965, public opinion was strongly on the Vietnamese side. Therefore, when Robert Bozzi, a Parisian gallerist, organized an operation to send medicine to Vietnam with the help of many artists, it was rather surprising that local cineasts were silent.

Bozzi pointed out the matter to his director friend Chris Marker, who then decided to create a project for Vietnam. Always seen as separate from his contemporaries because his works resemble those of an essayist rather than a director, Marker might be less famous than some of the most renowned directors of this period. He would progressively work on the relationship between political engagement and art throughout his filmography. Loin du Vietnam (Far From Vietnam), the cinematic work that was born of this initiative, is no exception.

The film poster.

Loin du Vietnam is hard to classify. Marker gathered a group of more than 150 cineasts, intellectuals, technicians, and historians to work on the film voluntarily, including Joris Ivens, William Klein, Claude Lelouch, Agnès Varda, Jean-Luc Godard and Alain Resnais who served as directors with him. At first, the project was intended to be a cohesive piece of work from every participant, but it evolved into an 11-chapter movie released in 1967. A militant essay criticizing the US intervention in Vietnam, it goes further than simple political commitment and mixes fiction and documentary to offer different perspectives on the event, going from historical review to personal, intimate thoughts.

War of the rich against war of the poor

The entire film's perspective on the war is established on the outset via an opening voice-over sequence:

“On one side, the United States of America, the largest military power of all time. Since 1965, the start of the escalation, the Americans have thrown over a million tons of bombs on North Vietnam, more than those launched on Germany during World War II. A country whose 200 million people spend more on wrapping paper than 500 million Indians spend on food has many resources to give its army. Every morning in the gulf of Tonkin, the aircraft carriers of the 7th Fleet are filled with bombs. It’s a war of the rich. On the other side, it’s the war of the poor, that of 17 million North Vietnamese and their compatriots in the South who fight for their independence. They are the poorest but not the weakest. They are the least in number, but not the most alone.”

Still from the film showing Vietnamese soldiers.

The contrast described here is even more striking in the images: the US, armed with boats filled with rows of bombs, dominates the hostile environment of the sea with metallic and mechanized power. After this shot, the Vietnamese blend into the fields with their clothes covered with leaves, trying to use their surroundings as an advantage. The message is clear: the scale of the war is not balanced. But the stakes are where the true fundamental unfairness of the war lies, as stated shortly after the previous quote: North Vietnam fights to claim “the right of the poor to create, for progress, a society based on something besides the interests of the rich,” whereas the US fight to “show the world that revolutionary struggle is a dead end.”

The disparity of resources, which emphasizes the cruelty of the one-sided aggression, is illustrated by Joris Ivens, who had just released an acclaimed documentary on North Vietnam at the time, in several chapters of the film. In the first chapter, entitled ‘Bomb Hanoi,’ he shows footage of the shelters people in Hanoi have learned to develop in response to the incessant bombing. Buried along the roads, the cement tubes were mass-produced using casts in wooden molds, designed to be accessible shelters that civilians could find easily and quickly in case of sudden raids. Ivens captured the unexpected serenity found on Hanoi streets, acknowledging that “by living with them, one becomes calm like them. And certain of victory.” The unbothered will is poignant, even more so when one realizes that this is the calm before the storm, which is the next shot. The loud sounds of the sirens interrupt the tranquil atmosphere, and everybody seeks refuge in the shelters. And yet, amid this chaos, some are still confidently walking through the streets.

Boys playing beside solo sidewalk bomb shelters, Old Quarter, Sommer Mark, May 1968.

The original footage captured by Ivens shows the power imbalance, like a modern David and Goliath. Even though the opposition has overwhelming power, resilience is the key to victory. The parallel with the myth is pushed even further by the voice-over: “On the American side, the same ignorance of the adversary. American society has a principle: the poorest is always the least equipped. Poverty can be the basis of moral strength superior to the rich aggressor and America doesn't understand this.”

War as a spark of polarized reactions

To emphasize how the conflict was relevant to citizens around the globe, Loin du Vietnam features footage from outside Vietnam. William Klein effectively offers a perspective of the war by manifesting it through people’s emotions. A renowned street photographer, he adopted direct cinema aesthetics, which entail hand-held cameras and portable sound systems to capture the raw emotions in different live demonstrations.

William Klein

As the only US citizen of the group at the time, Klein had the opportunity to travel there to film without being asked too many questions. His footage of the demonstration on Wall Street on May 1, featured in the second chapter entitled ‘A Parade Is a Parade,’ offers nuanced perspectives to the project. It was originally an anti-war parade in the famous New York financial district, as can be read on the signs of demonstrators walking the picket line: “The rich get richer, you get drafted.” But Klein goes further, and true to direct cinema’s aim to represent reality, he stands in between the demonstrators and the crowd of traders gathered for the occasion, who boo the protesters before screaming “Bomb Hanoi” in unison.

More than just a figure behind the camera filming both sides, Klein was also an instigator, provoking heated debates, as shown in the last chapter of the movie called ‘Vertigo,’ which focuses on the famous parade led by Martin Luther King on April 15, 1967. This was one of the biggest demonstrations for peace, gathering more than half a million people from various socioeconomic backgrounds to march from Central Park to the United Nations. This variety gave the director room to spark discussions, some of which were very heated. Klein decried the war through the initiation of debates, trusting that, because the war is so unjustified and absurd, his ideas would eventually prevail.

Photo shown in the movie, taken during the April 15, 1967 anti-war demonstration in New York.

Manichean war in a complex world

While it’s represented as an unjust American intervention against the self-determination of the Vietnamese people, this war is embedded in a complex geopolitical situation. The film acknowledges this history in the didactic fifth chapter, ‘Flash Back,’ which starts with the First Indochina War. The chapter doesn’t shy away from how French colonialism precipitated and contributed to the US’s imperialist involvement. The parallel between those two imperial aggressions is shown historically: documentary footage and a voice-over bring up important moments of colonial history in Vietnam, but end up in comic strips fighting each other. This technique is clearly inspired by the Situationists, whose influence was at its peak at the time of the movie. The Situationists were a political group merging avant-garde artists and far-left militants. Their particular aesthetic, called le détournement, involves using footage of comics, ads and movies and changing the context to protest against capitalist societies and the effects of over-consumerism.

Situationist International using the détournement, text by Raoul Vaneigem and image by André Bertrand, 1967. Sarcastic comic image used to address culture as a commercial product in capitalists societies.

This connection to a niche political movement serves as a reminder that the movie is directed by a group of French intellectuals and self-described Marxists outside of the general public. While their perspectives represented an undeniable part of the western opinion on the American War, they didn't reflect the whole of it. Most of this group was already against imperialism during the era of French colonization and the First Indochina War. Amongst the average French layperson, anti-war views only started becoming more popular during the decades of the American War in Vietnam.

In January 1948, a survey included the question “What were the most important events of 1947?” and so few French respondents were aware of the Indochina War that it was grouped in the “Other” category — which amounted to 6%. In 1966, however, when queried about the American involvement in Vietnam, 41% of the people disapproved, four times higher than the 10% that showed approval.

The film becomes more ambiguous in Alain Resnais’ chapter ‘Claude Ridder,’ which portrays a fictional French bourgeois intellectual performing a long monologue about his struggle to support Vietnamese people. This character, meant to be despised, speaks his mind in brutal honesty about his contradictory feelings. He’d love to support the Vietnamese people wholeheartedly, but cannot fully put himself in their shoes. For example, he explains his turmoil about the war by drawing an inevitable connection with his past experience in World War II as a member of the Resistance against Nazis:

“The Germans were monsters, no visceral problems. I still feel a kind of animal panic when I hear German spoken. Then I remember the last days when suddenly, near a small village, we ran into an American armored division. The Jeeps, the heavy artillery, the tanks, chewing gum, 1944. We were rather happy to see them arrive. After all, we had no ammunition, I owe the Americans my life. I will always love them. Until the end of time, I’ll continue to kill Germans and love Americans. Except the Americans are the Germans of the Vietnamese. Everything gets complicated.”

A still from the ‘Claude Ridder’ chapter showing Alain Resnais’s fictional character, who can also be found in his movie Je t’aime, je t’aime (1968).

He feels that, as a French person, it’s almost hypocritical to protest after the long history of colonization, that it’s futile to just “protest” from the other side of the world, while people give their lives in battle. He also feels that it's reductive to focus on the Vietnam War while a lot of other people also face violence and aggression. All of this piles up into an overwhelming sense of being ill-equipped to address the issue that his intellectual morals can’t disregard, and creates visible uneasiness towards a situation that should be simple.

This character can be seen as a fictional mirror of the directors, and a stand-in to voice their dilemma: they want to capture the war truthfully, but in order to do this, they need to take a step back and look at themselves picturing the war.

Letting the war ‘invade’ us

The fictional representation of bad faith created by Resnais raises the question of the role of the outsiders, full of their own biases, in a war, and how art can tackle the complex subject. This necessity in maintaining a critical distance to wonder about the role of everyone in the conflict is what leads to the deepest layer of the movie. Godard tries to answer this question in a chapter called ‘Camera Eye,' where we can exclusively hear him reflect. The footage feels at first even more off topic: it is mostly him behind a huge camera, and we almost can’t even see his face. The topic is clear: as a French director, why is it important to protest against the American war in Vietnam?

Jean-Luc Godard

Godard begins his monologue with what he would have filmed, if he could have gone there: he wanted to describe how a cluster bomb impacts a naked body or the effect of defoliation on humans, and more. However, the director was not able to go there to execute these ideas; he tells us he asked Hanoi for authorization, but was refused. He is very humble about it, yet we can feel a touch of pain while he explains that he agrees with this refusal, because his ideology was still vague, and more than anything, falsely generous. It cannot come from the bottom of his heart, as he hadn’t experienced it: “It seemed difficult to address certain topics, to speak of bombs when they don’t fall on your head.”

Building on this idea, he chose to “let Vietnam invade us.” This means seeing it as a symbol, “Vietnam” here is not the country, but a more general image of resistance. The “invasion” means realizing the importance of the conflict, and that it’s not alone. Many other countries are facing imperialism, and Vietnam is a synonym of resistance when the director quotes Castro about the importance to “create two, three, many Vietnams.” It also implies creating a Vietnam inside each one of us, and resisting the oppression that applies to us: for Godard, it was against the economics and aesthetics of American cinema which he deemed to have corrupted the global cinema landscape. As a cineast, he viewed “being invaded by Vietnam” also to involve talking about it and picturing it in movies. Which is why he told us about mentioning Vietnam in his other works, to diffuse Vietnam — the symbol of resistance.

Fan footage of a Fidel Castro interview used in the movie.

This movie is 11 chapters long and offers many different perspectives on one of the most prominent conflicts of the century. Its original run in the few cinemas that agreed to screen it was cut short by protests orchestrated by an armed far-right group, followed by numerous bomb threats. Since Loin du Vietnam was restored about 10 years ago, the film has remained under the radar, almost impossible to watch. Now, 60 years after it first aired, the war in Vietnam has been extensively covered in media products from a wide range of sources. However, the clarion call against aggression in Loin du Vietnam is just as relevant today as it was in 1967. More than a simple documentary about the Vietnam War, it provides deep reflections into global oppression and how its affect our society at large.

Loin du Vietnam (Far From Vietnam) is available for viewing in full on YouTube.

How Saigon's Free Water Coolers Quench Thirst and Spread Kindness

2026-04-17T10:00:00+07:00

In recent years, stories about climate change's impacts on the lives of Vietnamese people have been increasingly making the news.

According to the Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, Vietnam is among the six countries most severely affected by climate change worldwide. In rural areas, extreme weather often manifests as natural disasters such as floods, while in urban areas like Saigon, prolonged heatwaves pose the greatest challenge.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As the dry season sets in, city dwellers find themselves battling record-breaking temperatures. Heat rises from the asphalt, blending with vehicle exhaust and musty fumes from narrow alleys to form dense and suffocating clouds of air.

In response, people rush to air-conditioned cafes and shopping centers, seeking refuge from the relentless heat. Those who must venture outside wrap themselves in jackets, masks, or hoodies. But not everyone has the privilege to easily escape the scorching sun.

Photo by Cao Nhân.

Among those most affected are informal workers in urban areas. Jobs like construction, street vending, motorbike taxi driving, or garbage collection often lead to prolonged exposure to the scorching sun.

The Vietnamese Ministry of Labor has advised outdoor workers to rest in cool places and stay hydrated to prevent heatstroke and reduce body temperature. While scientifically sound, these recommendations overlook the harsh reality that shade and clean water are often luxuries for those working outside.

Unassuming water coolers and messages of kindness. Photos by Cao Nhân, Trinh Nguyễn, Paul Christiansen.

A day’s worth of bottled water can cost as much as a light meal and is cumbersome for those constantly on the move. Yet access to free, clean drinking water is limited.

Fortunately, much like mushrooms sprouting after the rain, “grassroots” water sources have appeared during dry spells in every corner of the city. Bearing friendly messages like “Free drinking water” or “Cool water for travelers,” stainless steel containers and insulated buckets dot the sidewalks to serve as mobile wellsprings.

Anonymous benefactors. Photo via VnExpress.

Operating on a beautiful principle of “those with excess give, those in need take,” kind-hearted benefactors fill these stations with iced tea, filtered water, and sometimes even snacks. People can stop by to quench their thirst and cool down for free. There are no thank-yous, no observers, just thousands of silent exchanges happening daily.

This heart-warming practice is not new. In the rural southern regions of the past, residents would set up leaf huts, water jars, and coconut ladles along the roads. Travelers and neighbors could stop to rest and refresh. While the jars may now be replaced with modern materials, the spirit of local generosity continues to flourish.

Clay jars were often used to collect rainwater for daily use and to offer refreshment to passersby. Photo via Phụ Nữ Online.

In response to the severe heat, the city government is piloting more public water stations. Until then, these unmarked containers will continue their humble legacy: providing water and support to ease the hardships of daily life.

Free water pitchers provide blue-collar workers with much-needed refreshment. Photo via Dân Trí.

This article was originally published in 2024.

An Homage to Mỳ Quảng and Its Branching Family Tree Across Vietnam

2026-04-16T14:00:00+07:00

Mỳ Quảng’s reputation has spread across Vietnam and even abroad, yet few are well-informed about its origin story and the land it hailed from.

Editor's note: This article uses “mỳ Quảng,” the common way Central Vietnamese refers to the beloved noodle dish.

Mỳ Quảng, the Hội An port and a link to the world’s noodle map

From the 16^th to 18^th century, Hội An was once a busy and prosperous maritime trade center in Đàng Trong, under the lordship of the Nguyễn Dynasty. At the time, ships from all over the globe commingled in Hội An to exchange goods and services. Chinese merchants brought with them techniques to make fresh noodles and dumplings, while Japanese artisans introduced udon and soba to the seaport.

Central Vietnamese during the period managed to learn how to make noodles from traveling merchants and adapted the technique to local ingredients, such as rice flour. Hội An noodles, therefore, turned out to be more supple with a gentle rice fragrance.

The result was “Quảng Nam mian” or “mỳ Quảng.” Spelling “mỳ” with a “y” instead of “i” is a Quảng Nam quirk. Locals use the difference to distinguish between noodles made of wheat (mì) and of rice (mỳ). From a mix of East Asian techniques and local produce, mỳ Quảng has turned into a Quảng Nam staple, beloved both at home and wherever Quảng Nam residents migrate to.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm

Even right at its home region of Central Vietnam, there are a number of notable variations such as Đại Lộc-style chicken mỳ Quảng, Kỳ Lý style in Tam Kỳ, Đà Nẵng style, and, of course, Hội An style. Phú Chiêm style, however, is one of the most well-known editions that has transcended the region.

It hails from Phú Chiêm Village, Điện Bàn Commune in the former Quảng Nam Province, the quaint community known for traditional noodle-making artisans. Throughout history, every day, hundreds of vendors travel on foot to sell freshly made noodles to eaters in Hội An, Tam Kỳ, and Đà Nẵng. The contrast between their petite frames and the heavy load of noodles they carry on bamboo yokes always surprises me, not to mention their unique street calls promoting mỳ Phú Chiêm.

During the unearthly hours when the sun is still deep in slumber and chilly winds tease the skin, houses in Phú Chiêm Village are already lit and steamy. Household members, efficient like parts of a machine, are busy setting up packs of noodles to be delivered when regional buses make their first trips of the day, each person taking a task: making a fire to heat up the pot of flavoring sauce, dividing the sauce in tight bottles, and prepping bags of toppings, noodles, garnishes, fresh herbs, rice crackers, lime wedges, etc.

Around 3am, the pitch black village roads are clamoring with motorbikes heading to the national expressway. The bus careens to a stop, and everybody starts loading the goods on. This is the main means of transport for noodles vendors to travel to the city and town centers to sell mỳ Quảng.

Mỳ Quảng Phú Chiêm is rustic but memorable. It starts with a ladle of steamy broth, wafting a sweet aroma of crab paste and củ nén in the air. In the bowl rests a bundle of pearly white noodles, tender and soft from the rice grown right along the Thu Bồn River. Peanut oil, củ nén, a touch of smokiness from the rice husk kindle tablets at the noodle workshop — every smell sings of local flares. On top of the noodles are slices of caramel-colored pork belly, simmered quail eggs, and scarlet shrimps. The warm broth ties everything together with its seafood-forward essence.

The best bowls of Phú Chiêm noodles are eaten alongside greens grown at Trà Quế Village, or a smattering of wild plants picked straight from the yard, like baby chards, bean shoots, culantro, cilantro, banana blossoms, etc. Their freshness contrasts with the crunchy, nutty roast peanuts and shards of crackers. Depending on how one likes their noodles, a number of condiments are on offer to boost up the flavors, including lime, chili jam, and fish sauce.

The adventures of mỳ Quảng in distant lands

Whenever a Quảng native relocates to a new land, they carry along a strong bond with home, so it’s no surprise that mỳ Quảng will eventually show up in Quảng enclaves across major cities in Vietnam. Finding ingredients that match the classic version of mỳ Quảng is always a tough task, so cooks often incorporate whatever nature offers them at new locations to produce regional varieties of mỳ Quảng. Along the coast, seafood like prawns, crabs, fish, squids, and jellyfish are popular. Further inland, pork, beef, chicken, and duck are more prevalent. In places where paddy fields make up the main biome, you will witness the inclusion of baby clams, eels, frogs, and snakeheads. It is thanks to Vietnam’s biodiversity that has greatly contributed to the local adaptations of mỳ Quảng.

In Nha Trang, for one, mỳ Quảng is both seafood-forward and decadent thanks to the addition of coconut milk. Southerners visiting this coastal city might mistake it for hủ tiếu, as the noodles are yellow, dry, and chewy like those in hủ tiếu mì. The protein toppings include pork, quail eggs, and slices of golden fried fish cakes. The most distinctive feature, still, is the broth: apart from the usual umami from simmered bone, the main flavor is nuttiness and richness from coconut milk and egg, respectively. Moreover, Nha Trang’s mỳ Quảng is enjoyed with lots of water soup broth, instead of Hội An’s minimal but concentrated seasoning sauce. The Nha Trang version is accompanied by roasted peanuts, lettuce, bean sprouts, and herbs.

Even though Phan Thiết is also a coastal province, the mỳ Quảng that emerges from here is famous for its duck and pork usage. Most surprisingly, there are two prominent styles that are equally appreciated in the local food scene: one leans closer to the Hội An style, often eaten in the mountain areas of Đức Linh and Tánh Linh; the other has flares from the South-Central Coast, best known as mỳ Quảng Phan Thiết.

Two types of noodles are used for mỳ Quảng in Phan Thiết: a rice-based noodle akin to phở and a wheat-based noodle. It’s believed that the latter arose in the local cuisine thanks to the culinary influence of Chinese immigrants in Central Vietnam in the early decades of the 20th century.

The seasoning sauce in mỳ Quảng here is brightly vermillion from annatto oil. Phan Thiết also enjoys mỳ Quảng with a bowl that’s filled to the rim with broth. Topping-wise, there are pork knuckles, thighs, and duck legs that are braised until tender. On top, each bowl is garnished with peanuts, chili jam, lettuce, diếp cá (fish mint), and húng lủi (water mint).

Away from the sea, mỳ Quảng also follows Central Vietnam immigrants to the hilly neighborhoods of Đà Lạt. There, mỳ Quảng has also become a part of the tourist food trail.

In Đà Lạt, the broth extracts its main flavors from tubers and dry shrimps. First, the shrimps are ground finely and stir-fried with alliums, then cooked with jicama, onion, carrot, chayote, and daikon to produce the stock. On top of the noodles are pork slices, lettuce, rice crackers, and peanuts.

Hitch-hiking with Central Vietnam immigrants, mỳ Quảng spread across Vietnam and settled down with numerous adaptations depending on what nature offers regionally and the palate of local eaters. Wherever it ends up, however, doesn’t change its core identity — human connection. Central Vietnamese rarely eat mỳ Quảng alone. If they’re heading outside for mỳ Quảng, a few friends are almost always tagging along, and if someone decides to make it at home, the result will be a giant vat enough to feed a small crew.

A Brief History of the Saigon-Mỹ Tho Line, Indochina’s First Railway

2026-04-13T10:00:00+07:00

Inaugurated on July 20, 1885, the Saigon–Mỹ Tho line was the first railway line in French Indochina.

Originally conceived as part of an abortive grand Mekong Delta railway network, the Saigon–Mỹ Tho railway line had a long and difficult birth, marred by bitter disputes between the contractor and the colonial authorities.

Workers take a break from construction.

One particular bone of contention was the failure of the Maison Eiffel to compensate for track subsidence on marshy ground, leading to problems with the access ramps of its three metal viaducts at Bình Điền, Bến Lức and Tân An.

The Tân An railway bridge seen in the late 19^th century.

In 1888, the colonial authorities withdrew the franchise from the original operator, the Compagnie des Chemins de Fer Garantis des Colonies Françaises (CCFGCF). The line was subsequently managed by the Saigon tramway operator Société Générale des Tramways à Vapeur de Cochinchine (SGTVC) until that company’s demise in 1911, after which it became part of the Réseaux Non Concédés, the network of railway lines operated directly by the Government General of Indochina.

Throughout its history, the line’s original 20kg/m rails were never upgraded, rendering it unsuitable for anything other than lightweight rolling stock.

The Vaico steam engine.

During the 1930s, when competition from road transportation began to impact seriously on passenger numbers and revenue, the authorities responded by substituting Renault ABH-2 300hp diesel railcars for locomotive-hauled passenger trains.

A Renault ABH-2 on the Saigon–Mỹ Tho line.

During the First Indochina War, the French military began using the branch to move men and equipment in their campaign against southern revolutionary bases. On several occasions, Việt Minh forces responded by inflicting serious damage on the line’s track and bridges, but on each occasion repairs were carried out swiftly and the line remained open for the duration of the conflict.

By the 1950s, the road network in the Mekong Delta had expanded significantly. Lacking investment, the dilapidated line was increasingly unable to compete with faster trucks and motor coaches. With losses mounting, the South Vietnamese Department of Railways (Sở Hỏa Xa Việt Nam, HXVN) opted for closure. The last train from Saigon to Mỹ Tho ran on June 30, 1958.

However, that wasn’t quite the end of the story. The railway track from Saigon to Chợ Lớn (km 6) and Phú Lâm (km 8) remained in place after 1958 and continued to function intermittently as a local freight spur until at least 1970.

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.

Hẻm Gems: At Bún Thang 50, Unexpected Hanoi Flavors in a Phú Nhuận Corner

2026-04-12T15:00:00+07:00

When I was growing up in California, every couple of months, plastic containers of sliced fried egg, chicken, and chả lụa would line the kitchen counter. This medley of ingredients would usually mean bún thang for dinner — which, in turn, signaled that the dinner was a special occasion.

Back then, the chicken broth's sweet, slightly gingery scent didn’t emerge for the mundane; it only filled our household on birthdays or the last days of school. I was always excited to see those containers, and would snack on the spongey strands of egg omelet before they garnished the bowls of rice vermicelli. The sparing presence of bún thang in my mom’s meal rotation wasn’t unique to bún thang itself: every Vietnamese soup she cooked was coveted amongst our household’s meals of largely non-Vietnamese cuisine.

The family behind Bún Thang 50 migrated to Saigon in the 1970s.

My mom and dad were both born in Saigon but raised in the US. The youngest of each of their families, they left the city as toddlers and ended up in different parts of Southern California. I thus have the distinct experience of being a child of immigrant parents who, oftentimes, don’t fit the archetype of immigrant parents at all. They didn’t teach me to speak Vietnamese; they’re pretty culturally liberal. Most nights, we’d have pasta, rosemary chicken, steak and mashed potatoes.

A clear broth and a variety of diced toppings are the hallmarks of bún thang.

Bún thang was, somehow, one of the few Vietnamese dishes that subverted my preference for western food. The piping-hot chicken broth is clear and light, flavored to taste with mắm tôm, crushed ớt, and a hearty dose of black pepper; and every spoonful is perfectly composed of noodles, egg, and chả lụa. It’s something that I’ve only ever had at home. While I’ve since expanded my palate to embrace Vietnamese food of all kinds, bún thang is still perhaps my favorite — even if by virtue of comfort alone. So when I moved to Saigon for the summer, thrust into a sprawling, unfamiliar city, I knew I had to look for bún thang.

I found it at Bún Thang 50.

The simple kitchen of Bún Thang 50.

Tucked away in a quiet street of Phú Nhuận, this restaurant is one of the rare places in Saigon that specializes in bún thang — making it easy to discover through a quick Google search. The thing is Saigon residents probably aren’t searching for bún thang very often.

As a second-generation Vietnamese American, my patchwork exposure to Vietnamese food was uninformed by geographic specificity. Only recently did I realize my naivete about Vietnam’s geographically varied cuisine, and that a Hanoian dish like bún thang, for example, might not have a foothold in Saigon. I had no idea it was peculiar for it to be in the repertoire of my Saigon-born mother. When I asked her about it this past month, she said that the recipe was passed down from her mother, who is also from the south. My grandma's memory is fading, so we might never concretely know the origins of bún thang in my family, but my mom suspects that my grandma learned the recipe from my grandpa, who is from the north.

A quick blanch of the noodles and then the toppings are arranged neatly on top.

Unsurprisingly, Bún Thang 50 is operated by a northern Vietnamese family. They moved to Saigon in the 1970s and opened the restaurant in the 1990s. It has the intimate feel of a family-owned shop: the dining space borders what is presumably their living room; the small plastic cups provided for complimentary tea are cutely, childishly decorated with cartoon flowers.

I wandered into the shop at around 9am during my first few days in Saigon, eager to participate in the brilliant norm of noodles for breakfast. The tables aren’t crowded, but a few women cycle in and out, devouring their bowls before getting on with the day.

Fried omelet, mushrooms, chicken meat, and chả are the main proteins.

While the menu offers other noodle soup options, the titular bún thang is likely the primary draw. I order a bowl of bún thang Hà Nội (VND40,000). In the open kitchen, the vendor assembles it from a row of metal containers which are reminiscent of the plastic containers that materialize in my own home. She ladles in the chicken broth.

A light lunch with elegant ingredients.

Soon, the bún thang — along with a plate of fresh herbs — arrives on the metal tabletop. The toppings each occupy their own satisfying little sections of the bowl, with a bright green pile of rau răm at its center. A squirt of mắm tôm and several chili slices later, the bowl is ready to be mixed and eaten.

Mắm tôm, chili sauce and lime are available should one feel the need for more flavors.

In my mind, bún thang is a dish that’s only made by my mom; I’ve always been baselessly skeptical if any other version can taste the same. Indeed, Bún Thang 50’s bowl diverges from what I’m used to in some ways. Its toppings include wood-ear and shiitake mushrooms — traditional bún thang ingredients that eluded our family recipe. The noodles here also stand out thanks to the shop’s addition of crispy, chewy bits of pork greaves, and the unmistakably northern touch of dill in the shreds of chả lụa.

A touch of dill in the chả distinguishes this topping from others.

For me, this bún thang at once echoes the soul-soothing, celebratory dish I so anticipated seeing in my childhood kitchen, while sprucing it up with new flavor and textural deviations. The mushrooms and pork greaves are a welcome reprieve, balancing the otherwise purely soft mixture of egg, chicken, and chả lụa; the broth is a bit stronger and fattier than my mom’s. This bún thang, then, is both a taste of home and an exciting reminder that I’m somewhere else entirely.

Bún Thang 50 is open from 6am to 9pm.

Bún Thang 50

50 Hồ Biểu Chánh, Ward 12, Phú Nhuận District, HCMC

'Making a Whore' Is Both Less and More Revealing Than Its Reputation Suggests

2026-04-12T14:00:00+07:00

For the first time, Vũ Trọng Phụng’s novel Làm đĩ is available in English. Originally published in 1936, the novel has been translated by Đinh Ngọc Mai under the title Making a Whore and was released last year by Major Books, an independent publishing house dedicated to making Vietnamese literature more available for the English-speaking world.

The highly prolific writer Vũ Trọng Phụng is perhaps best known for his satirical novel Số đỏ, or Dumb Luck — a scathing critique of westernization, or “Europeanization,” and the rise of the bourgeoisie class in colonial Vietnam. Many Vietnamese are no doubt familiar with Dumb Luck, as an excerpt of it is featured in the official literature curriculum for Vietnamese high schools. He was praised by the historian Peter Zinoman in the introduction to Making a Whore as “widely considered twentieth-century Vietnam’s greatest writer,” and his literary influences on future generations have far outlived his own short-lived life, which tragically ended at the young age of 26 due to tuberculosis.

At the time of its publication, Making a Whore was highly controversial amongst critics and intellectuals, the debate having been whether Phụng’s novel “should be denounced as pornography or praised as a bold contribution to science and sex education.” For readers today, nine decades after the novel’s original publication, the debate may strike as a bit silly. Making a Whore is neither as sexually explicit nor raunchy as some popular novels of today, nor is the novel really that informative when it comes to offering practical sex education. Nonetheless, the novel offers us acute perspectives into the fascinating discourses on gender and sexuality of late colonial Vietnam.

Image via Facebook page Mộng Tình Lâu.

In his own introduction to the novel, Phụng explains that the purpose of his novel is “to urge moralists and parents to care for their children’s happiness and to pay attention to what corrupt prejudices still consider dirty: that is, sexuality.” As one of his more widely acclaimed novels, the new translation marks a major step forward in expanding the horizon of English-language readership and scholarship on Phụng and his complex views on sex, gender, and colonial modernity.

The story

Making a Whore begins with two friends — the narrator and his longtime friend Quý, who has come to visit — embarking on a night out in town and eventually ending up at a licensed brothel. There, the hostess asks them to wait in a room for their prostitute to arrive. To their surprise, the prostitute who arrives is none other than Huyền, a girl that Quý had obsessed over in high school, who was adored by everyone for her beauty, her seemingly innocent yet sophisticated mannerisms, and her noble family background.

The two friends thus abandon their original purpose for coming to the brothel entirely and begin inquiring into Huyền’s life, their central curiosity being how a girl like Huyền, “well-groomed, well-behaved, well-raised, the daughter of a judge, the niece of a doctor,” could end up in such a place. “How come the Creator let such a marvel of nature fall from grace without batting an eye? How did society let someone go off the rails without a shred of regret?” asks the narrator.

What follows is Huyền’s story told in the form of a novel manuscript within a novel, structured into four chapters: “Puberty,” “Into the World,” “Married Life,” and “Debauchery.” As Huyền’s life progresses through the respective stages, her “sexual crisis” increasingly spirals out of control. Despite the fact that, by the very structure of the novel, readers follow Huyền’s story already well aware of its ending, the sequence in which Huyền’s life unravels is alluring at every turn. The novel is highly accessible, relatively short for its genre, and its tone and style rather straightforward and blunt. On some level, the novel’s plot — as well as its characters — at times feels a bit absurd, but that is part of the novel’s charm. For it is through such absurdity that Phụng satirizes the “sexual chaos” of late colonial Vietnamese society.

Repression and westernization

Who or what is to be blamed of Huyền’s corruption? For Phụng, the answer is two-pronged: the lack of proper sex education for adolescents and the influences of westernization.

Reflecting back on her life journey, Huyền remarks, “puberty, a rotten environment, and unsavoury company, all fused into a flawed education system that eventually threw me to the wolves.” Seemingly drawing on Freud’s notion of the “return of the repressed” — whose psychoanalytic theory greatly influenced Phụng’s novel — Phụng urges readers to understand Huyền’s sexual “perversions” later in life as the direct effects of her repression conditioned by her improper sex education and adults’ stigmatization of the topic of sex. As a child, deeply curious about her mother’s pregnancy, Huyền asks how babies are born, to which her aunt answers “through the armpits,” only before her father aggressively disapproves of her question and orders her to go away. Without proper sex education, and fueled by the burning lust typical of adolescence, she is left to explore her sexuality via other means: physically, through masturbation; and theoretically, through a book on the “science” of sex. The irony is that the adults themselves — responsible for the intense shaming and stigmatization that conditions such repression — freely indulge in bodily and material pleasures, often in plain sight in front of their children, and often in morally corrupt ways, as in the case of Huyền’s own father, who engages in adultery.

But it is not just the lack of sex education that is to blame. For Phụng, it is also westernization and its culture of materialism. In one telling moment, Huyền remarks that, in some sense, her “corruption” began with “a pair of white trousers” — which at the time, was considered the hallmark of a “modern” woman’s look. According to Huyền, what began as an insignificant pair of white trousers opened the way for a slippery slope of increasingly western and liberal ways of socializing, all of which eventually resulted in debauchery, corruption, and prostitution. As Phụng summarizes his views succinctly:

The meeting of East and West on this strip of land has strongly influenced our material lives. What could be more absurd than having accepted the new lifestyle, which includes theatres, cinemas, modern clothes, dancing houses, perfumes, and waxes, which are conditions that make humanity more and more SEXUAL, but at the same time not recognising the need to propagate the issue of education about SEXUALITY, in order to teach future generations how to sex ethically, to sex honestly, and to sex in a way that will not cause harm to your race?

Here, it is worth noting that the title Making a Whore is a significant departure from the title that English-language scholarship had traditionally used, To Be a Whore. In Vietnamese, the verb làm can mean both making and to be. The change in the verb is significant in that it reflects Phụng’s general attitude towards the sexual corruption of late colonial society, as demonstrated above. For Phụng, a “whore” is not something that someone simply chooses to be, but rather “made” by factors larger than any one single individual.

Analytical failings

While Making a Whore certainly contains elements that were ahead of its time — such as, importantly, its refusal to depict prostitutes as simply flat-charactered victims, as many others during his time had — his novel also contains key analytical flaws that are worth highlighting.

The Vietnamese-language cover of a previous edition of Làm đĩ.

The first centers around “corruption,” a concept that organizes and structures the entire novel. But what does that word really entail? What specifically makes an act “corrupt”? Part of what is so difficult in trying to determine what Phụng means by “corruption,” or his theory of sexual morality, is that he seems to draw from a hodgepodge of various disparate influences. As Peter Zinoman notes, “Ideas drawn from Freud, modern sexology, and traditional and neo-traditional Sino-Vietnamese discourses about sex commingled in his thinking, making it difficult to attach a meaningful label to his approach to this issue.”

For instance, the “educational book” that Phụng reads in lieu of proper sex education relies on the theory of yin and yang to denounce masturbation as obstructing harmonious equilibrium. “Those who perform the act will think it is identical to copulation, but in fact, copulation between men and women requires the harmony of yin and yang to facilitate blood flow and prevent hygienic mishaps. In the case of masturbation, only yin or yang energy is present; therefore, blood flow remains obstructed.” What we thus have is a concept of “corruption” that seemingly resists a coherent framework. Is masturbation corrupt in the same way that debauchery is corrupt, or even in the way that prostitution is deemed corrupt?

But on some level, the amorphous quality of what is meant by “corruption” may be precisely the point. “Corruption” is perhaps best understood not as any analytically well-defined, objective category, but rather as an expression or reflection of Phụng’s own ideals for Vietnamese society. Ultimately, it is more useful to grasp the term not for what it means, but rather for its ideological function — that of policing sex and gender specifically under a kind of civilizational anxiety.

If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

The other major way in which Making a Whore is analytically confused is in its treatment of materialism. As discussed, Phụng directs much of the blame of Huyền’s said “corruption” — epitomized by her prostitution — to materialism, as a force of westernization. But here, Phụng fails to differentiate between the two distinct concepts of “materialism” and capitalism — the former of which should be understood as the cultural and ideological manifestation of the latter. Without revealing too much of the novel, while materialism does indeed lead Huyền to act in increasingly “corrupt” ways, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is not corruption via materialism per se, but rather economic necessity. In other words, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is the economic system of capitalism — which, through the brutal violence of colonialism, expropriated and dispossessed the population at large, foreclosing conditions for relatively self-sufficient subsistence. Or more specifically, what is responsible is capitalism paired with an existing structure of patriarchy that severely curtailed women’s socioeconomic freedoms. If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

Making a Whore is analytically messy and full of tensions and contradictions. I outline this, however, not to dissuade readers from picking up the book, but because I think that what makes a book like Making a Whore such an engaging and fascinating read is precisely its multitude of tensions and contradictions, and the ways in which they reveal much about its own time. In this sense, the analytical flaws in the book are the direct product — which is to say, a critical perspective into — an extremely dynamic and formative time in Vietnam’s national history when deeply difficult and important questions were being debated and unfurled in real time: a time when gender norms were clashing intensely against notions of modernity, a time when the independence movement was fractured across nationalists and communists who disagreed on the subject of capitalism. If there is a reason to read Making a Whore, it is not for the answers it offers to the questions it raises, but rather for what it reveals about the very terrain or horizon in which such questions were being raised and debated.

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 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. There, 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 a 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 a 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.

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.