Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Inside Tế Tiêu, Home to Vietnam's Rare 'Land Puppet' Performances

2026-08-21T08:00:00+07:00

Bidding goodbye to central Hanoi, I took the National Road 21B to reach Tế Tiêu Neighborhood, a small community in Đại Nghĩa Township of Hanoi’s Mỹ Đức District. This fertile patch of land by the Đáy River is the cradle of a unique form of traditional folk art: Tế Tiêu puppetry.

As water puppetry (rối nước) is a better-known art form in Vietnam, sometimes, Tế Tiêu’s version is referred to as rối cạn (land puppetry) to differentiate the two.

On the day of my visit, the puppetry troupe was preparing for a show in the afternoon for a tour group, but yet, the temple courtyard was bustling with activities right from the early morning. Someone was busy setting up the stage, another was arranging chairs, while technicians were testing the sound. In a room next door, rows of wooden puppets were hanged neatly, awaiting their turn in the limelight.

The Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe comprises about 20 members, including some who are over 60.

Some time later, troupe members returned from the field. They parked their bike outside and swiftly began changing into their performing costumes — brightly colored áo tứ thân and áo dài with accompanying headscarves. Every day, they are seasoned farmers hard at work cultivating plants in the field, but once on stage, they transform into masterful artists whose every movement is in sync with the actions and emotions of the puppets.

Lão Trượng, the opening character of Tế Tiêu puppet.

“Does someone like me need to announce my presence?” a deep, robust voice boomed out from behind the stage. In front, Lão Trượng appeared in his crimson robe, silvery beard, and measured steps. In water puppet shows, the narrator is Chú Tễu, but in Tế Tiêu shows, the narration is done by an elderly man, the symbol of the village’s most respected generation.

Phạm Công Bằng, an artisan and the leader of the Tế Tiêu troupe.

After the show, artisan Phạm Công Bằng sat down with me to retell the centuries-old history of Tế Tiêu puppetry, a rich tradition that’s not only valuable because of its artistry, but also how it anchors the soul and collective memory of an entire community.

Rối cạn, the cultural root of Tế Tiêu ancient village

In Vietnam, puppetry is closely linked to an agrarian way of life. It is how farmers express their love for life, the nation, and the people; their wishes for a content life; and their faith in kindness. Water puppetry is no doubt the most famous form, but land puppetry, despite being lesser-known, has also existed for hundreds of years.

Getting ready for a performance.

Tế Tiêu, as a region, is a historic land where early Vietnamese settlers founded villages. They cleared jungles to create farms, and established cultural practices. According to local elders, puppetry has shown up here for over 400 years thanks to Trần Triều Đông, a court mandarin. In 1573, he relocated here to form a village, teaching the people to cultivate rice, creating the art of puppetry, and passing it down to community members. Since then, this art form has taken root here as a crucial part of the people’s treasured pastime.

Tế Tiêu puppetry has witnessed many ups and downs too. Wars and separations nearly wiped out its existence, but in 1965–1960, it was slowly restored and thrived thanks to the efforts of veteran artisans like Lê Năng Nhượng and Phạm Văn Bể. From many small groups, the official Tế Tiêu puppetry troupe was formed in 1956. The troupe still maintains around 100 plays today and thousands of puppets controlled by around 20 members.

Interacting with members of the audience.

Artisan Phạm Công Bằng told me, back then, puppetry existed alongside nature and followed the rhythm of the harvest season. A puppetry show wasn’t an ostentatious occasion. Once the harvest was over and farmers had more free time, villagers gathered at temple courtyards on full-moon nights. Before electricity was invented, kerosene lamps and moonlight were the only light sources illuminating those get-togethers. Puppeteers didn’t make a living from performing, they were just farmers entertaining one another. During the day, they worked in the fields, but at night, they retreated behind the curtains to put on shows. That’s why Tế Tiêu puppetry is considered a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, puppetry is still a highly socialized art form.

After hundreds of years, the structure of puppet shows has changed: spectators are mostly tourists while performances are put on at tourist attractions, but that communal spirit is still mostly intact.

An amalgam of many art forms

Tế Tiêu puppetry is the combination of many different artistic skills, including puppet craftsmanship, staging, puppet control, singing, spoken words, and music. What’s more, many puppet plays are directed adapted from materials of chèo, tuồng, quan họ, and hát văn — many other genres of folk performances — to create puppet shows both diverse and recognizable.

There are many steps in the creation of a puppet.

According to Bằng, the creation of a puppet involves many steps all calling for a high level of intricacy. Firstly, artisans choose a suitable type of wood to form the puppet body, often fig or jackfruit. Then, they carve out the body details; specific characters need to look a certain way. Once the physical form is done, body parts are assembled alongside control sticks in a way that produces movements as smoothly as possible. Then comes the beautifying stage when the puppet is painted, drawn on, and decorated to complete the character’s appearance and unique personality. Once that is done, outfits are created for the puppets. Finally, after a few adjustments, it can make its stage debut.

Buồng trò is the stage wings.

The main plays featured in Tế Tiêu puppetry often originate from real-life events and figures, such as historical characters, traditional customs, and spiritual lore. The background could include elements of agrarian life like rice paddy fields, rice milling, field ploughing, areca nut harvesting, water buffalos, and chickens. The source materials can include historical episodes like Thánh Gióng’s resistance against Ân forces (China’s Tang Dynasty) or the story of how Lý Công Uẩn moved the capital from Ninh Bình to Hanoi. Everyday activities like festivals, religious ceremonies, cultural activities, fruit collection, swings, palanquin procession, and wrestling are emulated using puppetry’s dynamic movements and colors. Each trope also carries didactic messaging to spread moral lessons and warn against vices and crimes.

A wrestling scene.

In order to best communicate the message and soul of the play, performers are expected to fully grasp the role of each puppet and the flow of the narrative to use the appropriate movement for each moment. The most common ones are walking, standing, arm-raising, head-turning, holding props, etc. Harder ones consist of emotional expressions, such as fright, joy, or sadness. Together, they form the “life” of the puppet. Mastering this life emulation requires not only flexible control, but also a deep understanding of each play and each character.

An equally crucial component of the performance is music and dialogues, guiding the emotions and rhythm of the play — sometimes it’s urgent and compelling, at times, it’s gentle and reverent. The orchestra accompanying the troupe includes percussion instruments like base drums, snare drums, and cymbals; and string instruments like đàn nhị and đàn tam. Depending on the play, performers would sing melodies from different genres, from common folk songs, spoken poetry, to tuồng, chèo, hát văn, and quan họ.

Nguyễn Văn Thuyết, the đàn nhị instrumentalist in the troupe.

The guardian of Tế Tiêu puppetry

In the field of land puppetry, perhaps the most well-known figure is Phạm Văn Bể, considered by many as a “walking dictionary” of puppetry and the soul of the troupe. Since he was eight, he had already shown great passion for puppets and then spent his entire life with this art form. He was well-versed in every step of the way from puppet making, scriptwriting, staging to instructing and performing.

Bể’s son is artisan Phạm Công Bằng, who grew up amongst the thuds of puppets being carved from wood blocks and the sounds of đàn nhị and drums. “It was his life story that inspired me to follow the family trade,” he shares. Bằng remembers vividly the elation when he held the first puppet he crafted himself in his hands. It was Thạch Sanh of the famous folk story Thạch Sanh–Lý Thông. His first performance took place when he was just 12 years old.

Standing in the stagewings, artisans could hear every laughter, every round of applause.

At the time, despite being the smallest and youngest member, he insisted on joining. Those formative experiences cultivated within him an affection for his ancestor’s lifework. After Bể passed away, the troupe lost a crucial pillar, but to Bằng, the work to keep it going is important as it encapsulates the collective memory of an entire community. “Standing in the stagewings, artisans can hear every laughter and every round of applause. When my hometown’s legacy is introduced to more people, I feel motivated,” he explains.

For someone who’s in charge of the Tế Tiêu troupe’s operation today, Bằng’s biggest concern is how to protect it from obsolescence, so that Tế Tiêu puppetry will continue to exist in the everyday life of villagers, while one day could become a unique tourist attraction for travelers.

How Quy Nhơn's Old Cemetery Slowly Expands up Vũng Chua Mountain

2026-08-20T10:00:00+07:00

You might miss it if you were driving past, but once you walk down a small hẻm off Quy Nhơn’s main Tây Sơn Street, the massive cemetery sprawls in all directions.

Saigoneer had to take to the skies to get a full scope of the unfurling assemblage of colorful graves. From humble plots to ornate, multi-generational mausoleums, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn, or Quy Nhơn’s Old Cemetery, is an astounding collection of monuments honoring loved ones that stretches back into the verdant hills.

Reading the names and looking at portraits etched in stone, one cannot help but think of all the stories buried here: wives that outlived their husbands by decades thanks to war buried, almost cruelly, next to couples that lived together until their 80s; untended plots falling into disrepair beside graves where fresh ash still hangs on placed incense sticks. One looks at the names below which the death date hasn’t yet been added and wonders, How much time do they have left? What will they do with it, however long?

Despite the savage sunlight and unrelenting heat on the morning we visited, not to mention the beauty of Vũng Chua mountain in the background and the nearby sea, it is impossible to not fall into such somber thoughts when visiting a cemetery.

It wasn’t until after we left that our emotional ponderings gave way to logistical ones. What is the story behind such a massive cemetery in central Quy Nhơn? How long had it been here and, considering the encroachment of the developing city, how much longer could it remain?

We went looking for answers and discovered a more interesting history and future exists for the Quy Nhơn Cemetery than we had imagined. Long the burial site of nearby Quy Nhơn residents, the cemetery is also home to the Quy Nhơn Martyrs Cemetery, Trung Cao cadre burial cemetery, and a Buddhist cemetery. Like many cemeteries in Vietnam, it started small, as exemplified by this photo from 1965.

By 1994 the space was full, and the city built two new ones approximately 20 kilometers from the city center: Bùi Thị Xuân Cemetery, which opened in 1997. Later, as that one is also filled, Bình Định An Viên was opened in 2019. Both rest well outside of the city center.

Yet, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn kept growing. In 2000, it was 137,000 square meters, and by 2018 it hit 148,000 square meters, with much of the newly occupied space encroaching on Vũng Chua mountain in the back. This prompted the city People’s Committee to issue a policy that no new or re-burials could take place in the cemetery.

That didn’t stop people, however. In 2019 people could still buy plots upon which a fake grave had been built to secure the space. Depending on the location, these plots go for VND20–40 million. Authorities claim that there are not enough resources to monitor such a large space and families are willing to perform quiet, subdued funerals to avoid detection.

Many people are upset with the policy to cease all new burials in the cemetery because, as they see it, there is available land beneath the mountain. Moreover, a trip to either of the new cemeteries can take 40 minutes each way. Such a distance may represent a mere logistical hassle or a spiritual separation from one’s ancestors, depending on your perspective. Either way, it helps explain why people continue to build in this “full” cemetery.

Ironically, many people who have family buried in Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn have moved away or are too busy to visit frequently. Given this reality and the sheer size of the cemetery, an informal system of paying people to tend to the graves has arisen at Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

Women who stand at the front gates selling fruits and flowers will also burn incense and give offerings for families unable to do so. One such woman who spoke to Người Lao Động explained her role: “Have you been busy with work? It's been a long time since I've seen you burn incense for this grave. Why do you let him lie so cold? He’s probably upset at you. If you don't have time, I'll help you. Here, I help a lot of people for only VND100,000 per grave a month.”

Quy Nhơn’s development has been remarkable in the last several decades, with the population growing from 60,000 in 1965 to 160,000 in 1986 to 280,000 in 2013 to present estimates of nearly half a million citizens. This has simultaneously increased the need for places to inter people, while also making land more valuable and in-demand. Nothing exemplifies this more than the size of and situation surrounding Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

To reach Quy Nhơn’s far-flung airport, one travels through sparsely populated farmland. The rice paddies are dotted with the small graves of those who have tended the land for generations. One wonders how long they will remain here untouched, and what is lost by not having one’s ancestors within eyesight of where one works and sleeps.

Darkroom is a Saigoneer series documenting the beauty and stories of Vietnam and beyond via photographs. If you have a compelling story you wish to share, send us an email via contribute@saigoneer.com.

What Cooking Bún Chả for My Birthday Abroad Taught Me About Vietnameseness

2026-08-18T14:00:00+07:00

“Hot summer night, mid-July, when you and I were forever wild,” Lana Del Rey croons every July 15 to celebrate my birthday. Those melodramatic words consistently evoke three specific elements in my mind: Heineken or Tiger beer cans on the floor; the sweet smoky smell of bún chả and nem enlaced with the rainy air of a darkening Saigon sky; and my friends and family under the LED-lit roof of an iCool karaoke room. Such pillars uphold what I consider the quintessential Vietnamese birthday experience.

Versions of this birthday routine punctuated my summers until July 2024, when I left Vietnam for Canada. In three years of studying abroad, only my second year was unmarked by a visit home. Curious to see if I could confidently call Montreal my home, I decided to turn 20 under the Canadian sun. Being the furthest I had ever been from home, I was more determined than ever to turn 20 the right, Vietnamese way.

The idea of my friends tasting my favorite Hanoian dishes for the first time, whose recipes followed my family south to Saigon, was exciting, but it was the prospect of cooking these meals with them that I dreamt of. In Saigon, grilling bún chả and rolling nem was a family tradition that eventually grew to include my closest friends. It was a rite of passage for those with whom I envisioned a lasting friendship: only the truest bonds survived an entire day of cooking with my family.

In Montreal, I trusted that the same labor-intensive endeavor would enlarge my “family” as it did back home. I tasked friends who did not qualify for the kitchen crew with bringing either Tiger or Heineken beers — cans only. Neither Heineken nor Tiger is a Vietnamese brand, yet these names automatically recall quintessentially Vietnamese moments. Crushed tin cylinders, green and silver or blue and orange, overlay the floors of nhậu joints; the floor of my uncle’s backyard in Hanoi on the night of my grandmother’s funeral. I also knew that I would sing my way into my 21^st year on Earth, as I did every year prior. A private karaoke booth for my loved ones and I to sing songs that only we care for— that was probably what I missed most about Saigon whilst living abroad.

The beer cans that could have been

I had designed the perfect trident: Hanoian barbecue, beer cans, and karaoke would guarantee a perfectly Vietnamese birthday. But each prong of the Vietnamese fork quickly bent to the Montreal winds — the material conditions of my new city threatened, and ultimately transformed, each of my traditions. My bartenders scavenged the city for my beer cans only to return with bottles. I heard the sound of defeat — the unbearable clinking of glass — before I could see it. Such a minor substitution should not cause despair, but my heart sank anyway: bringing Saigon to Montreal might be more difficult than I thought. The absence of cans alone would not make my celebration less Vietnamese.

Bringing karaoke into the wild

But it was more than cans. Orchestrating a karaoke experience that matched my Saigoneer memory was surprisingly challenging. Whereas karaoke rooms populate every crevice of Saigon, in my area in Montreal, karaoke exists only in one bar on the main boulevard. Here, strangers gathered around a small wooden stage facing a small screen hung from above. Under the disco ball, you didn’t have to know others to sing with and to them. One did not choose their songs directly from YouTube, but from a song book. The limited set list, whose latest hits came out circa 2018, was printed in tiny font sizes that drunken customers squinted to read.

Clearly, I was a long way from iCool. In that faraway kingdom, I ruled as karaoke queen as my loved ones smoked and drank on leather couches, under the cooling AC ambience, screaming lyrics projected on a huge flatscreen. This luxury, which I took for granted in Saigon, was far beyond my reach in Montreal. The only similar options were Korean karaoke salons: a private room with mostly Korean or Japanese hits, mixed with the occasional banger from the Black Eyed Peas, would cost me more than any Vietnamese person should be willing to spend on karaoke.

Luckily, my pièce de résistance — a compact karaoke machine — was available on Facebook Marketplace for CA$60. Its vendor lived at the very end of the blue line, which I rarely took. Early the next morning, my roommate and I rode down to a corner of Montreal we seldom saw. After nearly an hour on the metro and another half spent battling Google Maps under the sun, we reached our destination. The vendor unboxed the brand-new device, and the three of us spent nearly another hour trying to set it up. Once that was done, my roommate and I sang Rihanna in this sweet stranger’s living room. The night of my birthday, the cool summer breeze, the dim light of the moon and candles overflowing from wine bottles, and the picnic benches of Parc La Fontaine built a world more intimate than an iCool room.

Bún chả blues began with the meat cut

Our journey to this happy evening was messy, and food was our most grueling obstacle. With the joint audacity of three 20-year-olds, we believed ourselves capable of making nem from scratch for 15 people in an evening. I underestimated the time it would take to transfer cooking skills, which took years to become instinct, to friends who had never tasted, let alone made nem. The meticulous dicing of vegetables, the delicate rolling techniques, even the hunt for jicama, exhausted us. As the sun rose, we labored around my kitchen table, inhaling every final drop of caffeine, rolling our last nem to the rhythm of French rap.

This logistical nightmare became a wholesome, albeit long, night I was lucky to share with friends who cared enough to recreate something they have never known. The traces of our collective effort — rice paper stuck to the table, puddles of spilled water, ground chicken splattered on the walls and counters — would be a pain to clean up in the morning. But that night, I contemplated that mess, which transformed my apartment into my family’s kitchen, with endearment.

With no barbecue equipment, I eventually had to replace bún chả with bún thịt nướng. This was a happy substitution: bún chả’s Saigoneer sibling was more practical but just as delicious. Shopping for the right cut of meat, however, was the most devastating hurdle. To accommodate my friends who avoid pork, I decided on beef thịt xiên. My mom theorized that thăn would be the only one cut of beef that can remain tender after being thinly sliced, skewered, and broiled. I did not recognize it, nor could I find its English equivalent. I Google-translated the word she uttered; I studied beef cuts diagrams online, naming and showing every cut to my mom. Having never cooked nor shopped in English, she couldn’t confirm my intel; having never cooked or shopped in Vietnamese, I couldn’t understand hers. Hoping live visuals would help, I called her again at the supermarket. I showed her every tray of ruby meat; I scanned every tag and read the Vietnamese translations out loud as my mom shook her head on my screen. Eventually, the 11-hour time difference between Saigon and Montreal released my mom from my panic-stricken calls, leaving me helpless in the meat aisle.

My homesickness and perfectionism willed me to prove that I could recreate Vietnam accurately anywhere. So I continued searching for a cut of beef I could not name, across five hours and three grocery stores. My last destination was the Asian supermarket by my old apartment, a 40-minute walk away. To my surprise, the butcher was Vietnamese. I ran to him, hopeful, asking for the cut in Vietnamese. In a mix of French and Vietnamese, he told me he wasn’t sure what that was: having lived in Montreal for 60 years, he had lost much of our mother tongue. Desperate, I begged for an adequate substitute — if language barriers separate us, surely we still share the same food memory? To my dismay, the butcher selected the one cut my mom instructed me against, and I began sobbing between the meat refrigerators. It was now 5pm, meaning 4am in Saigon. I could not reach my sleeping mother now, and even if I could, what would I tell her with my limited Vietnamese?

Resignation washed over me as a dual realization settled: I have failed at grocery shopping and must now surrender to a random tray of meat; and I am living in an Ocean Vuong scene from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. In a passage that I had painstakingly analyzed for my thesis, the narrator’s illiterate Vietnamese mother struggles to buy oxtail to make bún bò Huế in the US. Devoid of the right English words, she jumps from Vietnamese to broken French to body language, ultimately leaving the store empty-handed. Why academically hypothesize about the gut-wrenching relationship between home and language, when I can experience it myself?

Crushing failure reigned temporarily in the wake of my attempts at the perfect Vietnamese experience. My disgraceful shopping led me to question my knowledge of my culture, and thus my belonging to it. Out of options and out of time, my friends and I cooked our misadventures away. We made thịt xiên by cooking the wrong cut of beef the right way — adapting and tenderizing it however we could, just as my mom would have told us to. We drank the right beer from the wrong bottles, washing down our oversized nem; we bastardized the concept of iCool with our version of karaoke in the park.

Circumstances forced us to deviate from my recipes for a quintessentially Vietnamese celebration; the whole thing was a mess. But the mess was laughter, labor, music, homemade food and love. I turned 20 in that mess, and at 22 now, I realized that there are no perfect standards of Vietnameseness except the ones we imagine. Now, two summers later, I look back on this wonderful night only to see my favorite birthday party yet, one that was a loudly Vietnamese celebration in Montreal.

Into Saigon's Charming Hidden Third Spaces in the Shade of Bridges

2026-08-18T10:00:00+07:00

Third place (noun): A space outside of one's home and workplace, where people meet and interact socially.

Where do we go to find a place that feels like home, but isn’t?

Not home, not the office — a third place is a space that stands apart from daily life, where one feel comfortable enough to connect with new people and form new relationships.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg first coined the term “third place,” describing it as a cultural incubator where shared values take root. It’s a space where people can converse with others, express their individual identities, and find a sense of “belonging” through platonic and romantic bonding. The third place manifests in various forms, constantly evolving to fit the fabric of each society, whether it’s a neighborhood bar, a cozy used book store, or even a temple.

Saigon boasts more than 200 bridges.

In Vietnam’s major cities, rapid economic development and urbanization have led to the shrinking of public works and free communal spaces like parks, libraries, or playgrounds — the most natural and accessible third places for people from all walks of life. But human connection is resilient, and informal third places have emerged in the leftover cracks of urban infrastructure.

Workers resting under the Ba Son bridges.

In 2019, Russian photographer Nikolai Sokolov moved to Vietnam from Saint Petersburg. His work gradually shifted from abstract and landscape photography to street photography, drawn by “the people and the life here.” In the summer of 2024, he spent his time capturing everyday moments beneath Saigon’s many bridges.

“I’ve traveled all over Vietnam, and I often found myself sheltering under bridges to avoid the sun or rain. I started noticing that many people were sitting under these bridges, especially in the south. There was something special about them — each came with a different story. One day, a man asked me to take his picture, and from that moment, I knew I wanted to document the lives of these people. Each face, each gaze offered a story. And I wanted to share it.”

The first photo of the series.

Neglected and overlooked, bridges are far from anyone’s idea of a traditional third place, and the commuters who usually use them are passing through out of necessity. But in Nikolai Sokolov’s black-and-white photos, these anonymous bridges (though if you’re sharp, you might recognize them) come alive as tranquil yet vibrant sanctuaries. Beneath rigid concrete structures, rough patches of ground are transformed into playgrounds, gathering spots for friends and family, or simply a place to rest in the midst of the city’s constant motion.

Free-range ducklings, now available at your nearest bridge.

The sweet joy of swinging in the shade on a hot afternoon.

The first rule of cockfighting club is: you do not talk about cockfighting club.

Birds of a feather surely flock together.

“Dude, you cheating?”

Future stars of the national team?

Sisters and best friends.

Just middle-aged people casually flexing spines healthier than yours.

Dressed to impress.

“I already won. No point arguing now.”

Better safe than sorry.

Most definitely a good boy.

The bridge-side tango.

For some, this is the first place.

“What kind of school awards did you get this year?” “I barely passed, uncle!”

You can practically hear the squeak in this photo.

Cigarette smoke and dust.

Who’s coming in last this round?

Follow Nikolai Sokolov's work here.

This article was originally published in 2024.

This Suburban Hanoi House Answers 'Yes' to 'How Many Windows Do You Want?'

2026-08-18T08:00:00+07:00

Do you love the tropical summer? Does bathing in the warmth of the sun spark joy in you? How many windows are enough to solar-power your everyday life? If you, too, are toiling with these existential concerns on a daily basis, perhaps this recent residential project might provide some inspiration.

Saigon-based Inrestudio designed the impressively spacious 100 Windows house for a two-generation family living in suburban Hanoi in 2025. The homestead is to provide enough living space for three family units: two parents and the families of their two sons.

Based on a 639-square-meter plot of land by the river in the capital, the house stands out amid a mish-mash of low-lying homes and factories. The area used to be agricultural land, but has since grown into an up-and-coming small town that’s neither urban nor rural. Therefore, knowing that the town’s urban makeup would likely see major transformations in the future, the architects made design decisions that would hopefully future-proof the home in the face of future developments.

The standout feature that would immediately attract attention is a layer of “loose double skin,” as the architects call it, that wraps around the upper floor. The finish is terracotta-colored stucco, which allows the building to blend in with the roofs of its neighbors. Functionally, the skin could provide insulation and buffer from the heat and cold air of Hanoi’s seasonal temperature changes.

Of course, one can’t ignore the name 100 Windows, because this skin is dotted with a plethora of windows — it is uncertain whether the exact number approximates 100, but we’re not free enough to sit here and count, though any reader can make an attempt and let us know the verdict. These openings are irregularly shaped and placed, creating visual interest while confusing nosy neighbors as to what the actual layout of the rooms inside might be.

Have a closer look at Hanoi’s fascinating 100 Windows house below:

Images by Trieu Chien courtesy of Inrestudio.

Vietnam's First Authentic British Boarding School Opens

2026-08-16T16:26:00+07:00

Lào Cai: the name conjures images of expansive natural fields in the shadows of harsh mountains as well as ethnic minority communities and traditional lifestyles. Many may know that this diverse location challenges people’s assumptions about Vietnam, but few would imagine it is the setting for Vietnam's first authentic British boarding school

Importing England’s boarding school traditions to Vietnam

Before explaining why Lào Cai is a great place for a boarding school, we must define what one is, because outside of England, where they are most cherished, many are unfamiliar. Most simply, students who enroll in a boarding school live at the school while taking classes, with the “board” referring to “room and board,” or food and lodging. But more than just providing meals and a place to sleep, boarding schools provide access to enriching co-curricular opportunities, important social and cultural exchanges, and opportunities for personal growth and group responsibilities within the House System.

While boarding schools developed in different countries, they have been uniquely important in the UK. Since medieval times, British families have sent their children to boarding schools to broaden their academic horizons and experience the world. As Britain expanded its colonial empire, the schools took on increased importance as means of maintaining and spreading British culture and values. Holding an esteemed position within British society to this day, boarding schools have produced several Prime Ministers and many notable politicians, businesspeople and artists, attesting to the diverse success they foster.

It is within this context that Ardingly College Vietnam (ACVN) recently opened its doors in Lào Cai to welcome not only Vietnamese but also international students.

The varied virtues of Lào Cai

Lào Cai’s rugged mountains and scenic countryside are home to unique cultures at the nexus of integration and isolation and slippery histories of people, places and nations that refuse coherent narratives that can be printed on a tourist brochure. This fertile land of contradictions supports ACVN’s educational mission and holistic values. As senior leadership explained to Saigoneer: “Lào Cai transforms ACVN into more than a school—it becomes a hub of experiential, place-based education. The mountains, rivers, and markets are extensions of the classroom, while cultural immersion and outdoor exploration enrich students’ personal growth.”

The clearest way to understand how Lào Cai transforms the school is to look at the ways it is integrated into classroom lessons. For example, in geography classes, students can study the Himalayan foothills and Fansipan peak when learning about mountain ecosystems, climate diversity, and sustainable tourism. Lào Cai’s location on the Vietnam–China border allows students to intuitively grasp how geography shapes trade and migration. And with more than 20 ethnic groups in the area, lessons related to diversity and cultural exchange are natural and accessible. “In a way, the whole surrounding area is our classroom; learning is not confined to the school, so the students have no trouble switching between in and out of the ‘bubble,’” they note.

Beyond the classroom, ACVN’s location allows students to participate in extracurricular activities unavailable in many locations, particularly Vietnam’s cities. Trekking mountains, traversing valleys, or camping in nature affords students experiential learning related to ecology, agriculture, and cultural anthropology. They can collaborate with local musicians and dancers and attend performances that celebrate ethnic traditions, illuminating new perspectives on the place of creativity within society. Finally, student groups and classes can partner with local ethnic communities for service projects and workshops that instill the importance of aid and community while revealing one’s privileged place in the world.

The powerful House System and beyond

Many of the co-curricular opportunities at British boarding schools revolve around the House System that most Harry Potter fans will have at least a loose understanding of. Each residential house and its attendant staff and faculty at ACVN ensure all needs, including space to study and time to connect with distant family, are met while also providing opportunities for personal and social growth via the competitions and challenges that take place between houses throughout the year.

“Traits such as collaboration, resilience, leadership, and respect for diversity are woven into every club and house initiative, ensuring students learn to thrive both individually and as part of a team. The house system, in particular, fosters belonging and healthy competition, while co-curricular activities encourage creativity, service, and global citizenship,” school leadership explained. “Together, they create a safe, supportive environment where students from any country feel included, empowered, and inspired to grow holistically.”

House activities and co-curricular opportunities all allow students to learn about and practice healthy competition, creativity, service, and global citizenship, as they develop into well-balanced and socially adept young adults prepared for diverse futures. “Co-curricular life at ACVN is not simply enrichment; it is a foundation for success, character, and connection in whatever paths our graduates pursue,” representatives note.

The many positive impacts of the house system and co-curricular activities require strong and careful leadership. ACVN faculty monitors students closely to ensure healthy interactions and experiences, with strict protocols in place to maintain a culture where every child—regardless of background—feels valued, supported, and confident to thrive among peers.

Bridging the distances of boarding schools

A boarding school’s ability to nourish children in a rigorous and accepting environment has many positive impacts on a child’s development into a motivated and independent learner, leader, and contributor to society as a whole. Understandably, many families wonder what might be lost in this process. How can parents continue to have a prominent role in their children’s lives if so far away? ACVN understands the importance of remaining connected to families and has established daily catch-up time every evening after students have completed their homework so they can share their exciting experiences from the day. Moreover, families are always welcome to visit, and for those living close to the school, partial board options allow students the best of both worlds, spending three days per week at the boarding school while still spending evenings and weekends with family. A boarding school doesn’t replace one’s parents and siblings, but simply expands the opportunities and sources of influence a child has.

Unexpectedly, because they are less bound by addresses and traffic patterns, boarding schools can be far more diverse than familiar international schools located in a metropolis. “For Southeast Asian students, the location feels familiar and accessible. For students from further afield—whether Europe, Africa, or the Americas—it offers something wonderfully different: a chance to experience Vietnam’s mountain frontier, engage with multiple cultures, and grow in a safe, supportive boarding community,” school leadership explains. “In short, ACVN doesn’t just serve one region—it embodies the idea that international education should be inclusive, global, and transformative for all students, wherever they come from. The school’s setting in Lào Cai amplifies that mission by making the world feel both bigger and closer at the same time.”

Ardingly College Vietnam's website

Ardingly College Vietnam's Email

Phone (028) 38 95 95 95

Ardingly College Vietnam, Intersection of 19/5 road (B9-B10 road), Cam Duong Ward, Lao Cai Province, Vietnam. Vietnam

A Hanoi Duo Crafts Intricate Silicone and Clay Prostheses for People With Disabilities

2026-08-14T14:00:00+07:00

“The products we make are fake arms, legs, noses, ears… from silicone. The value we create is emotional healing, giving our customers confidence in themselves and their lives — the things they lack after surgeries,” Phúc shared while introducing their products.

It wasn’t hard for me to find Phúc’s office, though his space lay deep in a twisted alley of Hoàng Mai District, where the houses seem to be numbered randomly. The enthusiastic “tour guide” I had that day was Hiệp, Phúc’s partner for the last four years.

With a floor space of 12m², the three-story house that they rent serves as an office, warehouse and showroom, as well as a workshop where they create prostheses like fingers, toes, ears and noses for people who have lost such body parts.

Phúc casting a mold for a hand.

Creating prosthetics is not a new thing in Vietnam. There are many factories with modern technology creating a diverse range of products from plastic, silicone, electronics, etc. These products can perform some basic functions like grasping or opening, but aesthetics and personalization are still not important factors.

Hiệp showed me two large plastic boxes containing sample products. At first glance, they looked quite like the costumes people buy for Halloween. He encouraged me to try on a prosthetic finger to get a feel for the material and adhesion of the product. It took me a while to find one with the same skin tone as mine, and Hiệp carefully showed me how to put them on and told me about the requirements of a prosthetic finger: “The most important thing is naturalness: looking natural and feeling natural. Most of our customers are those who have lost a small part of their bodies. The need for functionality is there, but it is not as important as aesthetics. From skin tone, shape, size, adhesion, to small details like nails, fingerprints, curls, etc., all need attention.”

Hiệp painting an ear.

I was most impressed with a jar containing 20 prosthetic noses that Hiệp and Phúc had meticulously created over three months for a girl in Lâm Đồng who was infected with the Whitmore “flesh-eating” bacteria. These noses looked similar at first, all had the fashionable L-line with a bright tone, but upon careful inspection, there were minute differences in hue and thickness.

Phúc explained: “The nose is the center of the face, so if we’re not careful, people will know it is fake. The girl also lives far away, so she only had two chances to come here for sampling and testing. We were determined to create many samples for her to try until we found a suitable shape and tone. Fortunately in the end we were able to make one that fit her well, and it is hard to recognize even without makeup covering the edge.”

Prosthetic fingers are best-sellers. Most customers lose theirs in workplace accidents.

Phúc and Hiệp’s customers are diverse, from those who suffer from accidents at work, at home, in traffic, to those with birth defects. Each has their own wound, but they share the same struggles: low self-esteem and loss of faith in life. I heard many stories that day, not only people’s names, their hometowns, their wounds and how they got them, but also their pessimistic feelings in the past.

About their special products, Phúc shared: “Our high standards for aesthetics and personalization are not just for the sake of beauty, but for the emotional needs. The pain of losing a limb will pass, but the fear and disappointment can follow them forever. Currently, the treatment process at hospitals’ orthopedic wards has barely addressed this issue. We’ve met many patients who are traumatized after their accident and treatment. Some people dare not to see their wounds for months, some run away from their family, some leave their work for fear they can’t fit in again.”

A prosthetic foot requires a natural look, as well as demanding precision to facilitate movement.

Due to the emphasis on personalization, the production process is not fixed. The basic initial steps are measuring and casting molds for the missing parts, then creating the right skin color for the customer. Hiệp explained: “The hard thing is that the skin doesn't have a fixed color, it changes with the weather, human activities, it fades overtime, etc. Furthermore, with clay and silicone, the colors when blended usually look different than the manufacturer’s instructions.” He shared an example: “One time, I was very happy with a prosthetic foot that I made. But when the person put it on, it was a cold winter day and they didn’t wear socks, the other foot was completely white. So the foot I made didn’t match at all.”

Hiệp said that the process from consultation to final product takes at least two weeks, and starting prices range VND1–3 million. But many times the cost for prototypes is five or six times higher than the price quoted to customers. After four years in this field, they have created hundreds of prototypes, a sacrifice for the most perfect product. When they first started, Vietnam did not have any private prosthetic workshops. There was no production process, and materials were rare as well. The duo had to research and experiment themselves. Prior to this project, Phúc had ample experience in silicone shaping, while Hiệp used to work as a testing technician. But when it comes to this particular field, that experience didn't help much.

A customer trying on a prosthetic ear.

Now, their production process is established and they have gained some recognition, mainly through word of mouth. Yet the duo still does everything themselves, from consultations and production to marketing and delivery. When asked why they haven’t expanded the business, Phúc explained: “It’s not that we don’t want to hire more people, it’s just that this work demands a lot of patience and fastidiousness. It is not an easy thing to find a companion who is careful and skilled.”

Talking about this field’s potential, Phúc said there is a high demand in the country: “Although we have only done some basic marketing ourselves, we are always overloaded. I trust more and more people with limb loss will find these products. Because as living standards get higher, more people will need products that can bring mental and emotional values.”

About their vision, Hiệp shared: “Although there is a lot of potential, I think this is not something you can get rich from…Because the handmade process takes a lot of time and energy. I think there will be chances for collaboration in the far future, but for now, due to a lack of workers and materials, Phúc and I will just maintain the production scale as-is.”

To find out more about Phúc and Hiệp’s work, visit their Facebook page.

Photos courtesy of Phúc and Hiệp.

Hẻm Gems: Where Fish Sauce and Soy Sauce Are Not Condiments, but Gelato Flavors

2026-08-13T14:00:00+07:00

Living in central Saigon as a diehard fan of ice cream and all frozen sweets, I fondly remember the late 2010s–early 2020s as the age of abundance. Back in the day, across downtown, there was always a little something for ice cream fans of all preferences.

Stalwart supporters of the OGs might stick to the long-enduring French-styled Fanny, which settled down in a charming old villa on Tôn Thất Thiệp. Østerberg dished out Nordic clean flavors in a nook on Lê Lai, while Ralf’s Artisan Gelato on Đặng Thị Nhu performed an impressive balancing act between traditional Italian classics and inventive local flavors. My hangouts in District 1 would more often than not end in the same way during this time: at one of these old haunts for a few scoops of sweetness.

Flash forward to 2026, and the downtown gelato map has suffered some major losses: after a few shifts in location, Fanny shuttered for good, while Østerberg relocated to Thảo Điền permanently. Ralf’s also moved to District 2 a few years ago, but is currently on hiatus. With quite a number of new players in the scene, Thảo Điền is now shaping up to be a mecca for ice cream, a development I’m immensely sad about, living so far from where all the action takes place.

Sugar Daddy Eatery has moved a few doors down the hẻm since 2025.

During the years of Saigon’s constantly shifting gelato landscape, my family found comfort in the stability of one trusty hẻm gem — Sugar Daddy Gelato, which has held fast to their quaint location on Trần Hưng Đạo, just a short drive from Bến Thành Market, for half a decade until now. The gelateria is a family business, founded by husband-and-wife pair Danh and Vy, but you’ll also likely come across Danh’s mom helping guests pick their favorite flavors as well.

When I discovered its existence a few years ago, the tiny shop was serving up scoops from a narrow storefront that can fit only a handful of seats, but since 2025, Sugar Daddy Gelato has relocated a few doors down to the renovated family home and expanded to a neat dining area with more seats and ample decoration. The interior is predominantly white and brightly lit, with green and stone accents to break up the monotony.

The bright interior of the place.

Danh is the creative mind behind the eatery’s culinary aspect. And yes, he’s well aware of the name’s scandalous connotation, but he told me that it was only selected after the couple welcomed their firstborn and he became an actual “daddy” to an adorable baby boy. Working with a lot of sugar is an indispensable part of running a gelato business, so the “sugar daddy” in question here follows the term’s most literal meaning. The tongue-in-cheek meaning is a happy coincidence that adds a sprinkle of eyebrow-raising curiosity for new guests.

Danh Phan founded the eatery with his wife, Vy.

Sugar Daddy Gelato came into existence in 2020 during the pandemic, but the pair had their start in the F&B world even earlier. Danh studied hospitality management in Las Vegas, and, upon returning to Saigon, opened his first eatery at Bến Thành Food Market, a canteen-like collective featuring many food carts catering to tourists. The first stall was Got Bun, whose menu featured Taiwanese-style bánh bao with novelty fillings; business went well, so they were able to launch the second stall, Bánh Xèo Em Ơi, and the third, Stir Fry. COVID-19 and the subsequent international flight bans put an end to all that, so they went back to the drawing board again.

Mè the bird with Danh's mom. Mè is usually chilling in the cage, but she took advantage of Saigoneer's visit to supervise the operation.

In May 2020, Danh signed up for a gelato-making course, and three months later, Sugar Daddy Gelato was born, alongside the resurrection of Got Bun, at a small location near his family home. The current iteration combines both the sweetness of Sugar Daddy frozen treats and the savory creations of Got Bun into one menu to satisfy both old regulars from the Food Market days and gelato fans — I firmly belong to the latter.

There are 12 flavors at any moment during opening hours.

At any given moment at Sugar Daddy, there are 12 flavors in the gelato display, and finished ones are replaced by different flavors. When the Saigoneer team visited, we were greeted with avocado, tamarind, pumpkin and coconut, Thai milk tea, Earl Grey milk tea, Heal Your Soul (matcha and butterfly pea), strawberry, tàu hũ gừng, passion fruit and mango, vanilla and Oreo, phở, and bún bò. The latter two, in addition to fish sauce and soy sauce, are the most experimental flavors in Danh’s wheelhouse. They’re not unprecedented, if you’ve spent some time sampling enough ice cream in Vietnam, but I love watching people’s facial expressions when I take them here and introduce these unconventional flavors.

According to Danh, the essence of the noodle dishes is infused into the gelato by cooking the herbs and spices in milk — no meat involved. He went through a wide range of spice mixes available on the market to arrive at the current flavor profile. The phở gelato is gently fragrant, with notes of cinnamon, star anise, and black cardamom; while the bún bò gelato reminds me a lot of the lemongrassy oil atop bún bò broth, and the orange-yellow hue certainly evokes its sparkling shimmer as well.

The Saigoneer team is divided on which is better. I have to side with bún bò.

While not in the display yet, Danh was kind enough to let us try the two condiment-inspired buckets as well. The fish sauce flavor is made of kid’s fish sauce for the reduced sodium and tempered fishiness; with added caramel, the flavor tastes like a silky salted caramel gelato with a touch of umami funk towards the end. And finally, the soy sauce gelato — my personal favorite — is a rich, layered combination of Lee Kum Kee soy sauce and just a touch of miso nuttiness. I’ll have to add that there’s also a miso and burnt butter gelato in the rotation that I’ve only managed to catch once, but it was so good I had to buy a takeaway portion. My mom, who doesn’t consume alcohol, is quite into the orange and beer flavor, for some reasons; it is refreshing, but in a zesty way.

Soufflé pancakes is a new addition to the menu.

While the layperson often uses the terms “ice cream” and “gelato” interchangeably and “gelato” is actually just Italian for “ice cream,” there are some differences in technicality. As Danh shares, gelato has lower air percentages and is made from milk instead of cream; both result in a denser, more viscous mouthfeel compared to the fluffiness of ice cream. Gelato is also often kept at a slightly higher temperature, so it’s best enjoyed quickly.

Whether a certain fruit or local treat shows up in the gelato display mostly depends on the season. In the summer, longan, lychee, and durian are bound to make an appearance. Pink dragonfruit was paired with yogurt or pineapple, while a mangosteen flavor is being workshopped at the moment. According to Danh, trips to the local market in search of seasonal fresh fruits are the way he looks for inspiration on what to turn into gelato next.

Apart from the gelato, Sugar Daddy as an eatery also features savory dishes, some of which are remnants of the Got Bun days like five-spice pork bao — which I can personally vouch for. Other options for snacking include saucy chicken wings and crispy tacos. However, the true star of the new menu is the pillowy soufflé pancakes, which will take a while to arrive at the table, but are really worth the wait. Airy pancake bites are paired with caramelized bananas and cream on top.

Fruit tea and honey kumquat tea

Bò kho tacos

Crème brûlée

The ice cream and gelato scene in Saigon has really flourished in 2025–2026. It seems like every few months I would come across an ad on social media for a brand-new ice cream boutique. While I’ll be gallivanting around town to have my share of exciting new flavors, this Hẻm Gems feature seems like a fitting way to pay tribute to a Saigon staple that has been with me through thick and thin, breakups and first dates, in hopes that it will remain on the map to share the love of gelato to many others.

To sum up:

Opening time: 2pm–10pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: 077 864 9404
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Sugar Daddy Eatery

345/29 Trần Hưng Đạo, Cầu Ông Lãnh Ward, HCMC

An Early View of a Barely Developed Saigon in the 1860s

2026-08-10T13:00:00+07:00

Dropping a modern Saigoneer into the 1860s version of the city would be a wildly disorienting experience.

In this day and age, photos of Saigon from the middle of the 20^th century are common. Here at Saigoneer, we've certainly played a role in the proliferation of images from decades like the 1950s and 1960s. Going further back in time, however, is more difficult, largely due to the obvious limitations of technology.

This collection of photographs taken by Émile Gsell, some of which were taken as far back as the 1860s, is therefore a valuable addition to the visual history of Saigon — albeit through a very French lens. Still, these images, collated by RedsVN, depict a city that is largely unrecognizable today, as only the core of what is now District 1 was developed in any way, while heavily urban modern areas such as District 3 and Chợ Lớn were still part of the countryside.

Take a journey in the way back machine below:

Charner Street, which is now Nguyễn Huệ, before its canal was filled in. The crossing road is Ngô Đức Kế Street.

Where the Bến Nghé Canal flows into the Saigon River, seen from contemporary Bến Nhà Rồng.

The same part of town, with the Thủ Ngữ flagpole prominently placed.

Shophouses along Bạch Đằng Wharf, between modern Nguyễn Huệ and Đồng Khởi Streets. Photo taken in 1866.

Norodom Palace in 1873. The building was largely destroyed in 1962 and replaced by what is now the Reunification Palace.

Soldiers at the Ô Mã Citadel, which no longer exists. It was located between the modern streets of Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai, Nguyễn Văn Cừ, Nguyễn Trãi and Cống Quỳnh.

A monastery that is now the Order of Saint Paul on the corner of Tôn Đức Thắng and Nguyễn Hữu Cảnh in District 1.

The Guangdong Hospital in Chợ Lớn in 1907. This is where Nguyễn Tri Phương Hospital now stands.

Life along the Tàu Hủ Canal in Chợ Lớn .

The Thị Nghè Canal looked a bit different over 100 years ago.

The outskirts of Saigon.

[Top image: Where Charner Street met the Saigon River.]

All Aboard the Languorous 35-Hour Train From Hanoi to Saigon

2026-08-07T10:00:00+07:00

The train connecting Vietnam’s largest cities takes 35 hours. Yet even after the first time I finished the trip, I was already coming up with excuses for why I needed to do it again. For me, the journey is much more than a chance for great views and time to reflect. It’s an exploration of life itself.

Every time I take a train in a new country, I’m fascinated by the interactions and activities that occur within the carriages. Somehow, through all their quirks and oddities, they represent a microcosm of a nation’s wider culture.

Hanoi Central Train Station.

You see people meeting for the first time and forming friendships, long-haul passengers relishing the ride, and families reuniting or saying farewell. You see kids playing with their toys beside old people passing the time. You see men drinking beer together after lunch.

None of these things would seem out of place in any Vietnamese city. Here, they are framed by the windows and aisles of a slow-moving train, adding color to days that would otherwise be mundane.

Take a ride below:

Boarding.

Two men killing time.

Lunchtime in the restaurant carriage.

Thuốc lào time.

A staff member checks tickets.

Sleeping, resting, playing on phones in the carriage.

Kids playing together.

A child plays with his toy on a window sill.

The conductor's hat.

A young boy enjoying the view.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2021.

Short Film 'Mud Below, Sun Above' Reveals Daily Trials of Hanoi's Scrap Collectors

2026-08-06T15:00:00+07:00

Đồng nát translates to “junk; broken materials,” but it is also a term used in northern Vietnam to describe the recycling workforce, 90% of whom are elderly women, that operate in a nation that produces 68,000 tons of solid waste every day.

The short film, Mud Below, Sun Above, opens with this information displayed across moody scenes of gray, dilapidated Hanoi. It then quickly moves beyond impersonal statistics to the individual experiences of scrap collection via Bể, a 64-year-old woman who earns a living moving door to door to collect recyclables.

Viewers are given the mundane details of her trade, including the arduous effort of scraping labels from liquor bottles, alongside her reflections on changes in society as understood via trash materials produced. The intimate look at a difficult but dignified life provides essential human elements to truths of commerce, production and lifestyles that are all too frequently framed via cold statistics.

Mud Below, Sun Above comes from Hanoi-based Dutch filmmaker Kate Villevoye, who Saigoneers may remember from her previous work, Mr. Cường's Banyan Tree. After a successful run at several international film festivals, her latest work is being hosted by Aeon Video.

While the movie doesn’t directly pose questions, let alone answers, it humanizes an important issue and should inspire viewers to understand their surroundings and their impacts upon them with greater respect and appreciation.

Watch the video in full below:

Video via Aeon.

Top image via Kate Villevoye's website.