Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

Listen to the Unique 'Dialects' Found in Regional Vietnamese Modernist Architecture

2026-07-31T14:00:00+07:00

“It was my uncle who came up with the design. There are no drawings left; everything was improvised back then,” the owner of a modernist homestay in Ninh Thuận told me. No architect, just an idea and a craftsman to pour it into concrete.

Modernism is usually a language spoken only by architects. But in Vietnam, ordinary people picked it up too. It became the routine way to build a shophouse or a villa across the south. And like any language spoken that widely, it started to develop accents.

Independence in 1954 gave modernism its opening. Years of war had made rebuilding a priority, and for the first time Vietnam's own architects were in charge. They chose modernism as a statement: forward-looking and nothing like the neo-classical buildings the French had left behind.

The style quickly outgrew its architects. In Vietnam, most people build their own homes, and the improvisation the Ninh Thuận homestay owner described to me is probably how the style spread: a homeowner likes his neighbor's brise-soleil, and the house down the street takes it up too. A shape passed from door to door, until it became vernacular: the language of ordinary people.

The whole of southern Vietnam speaks this concrete language, but if you travel from the Mekong Delta up along the South-Central coast, you'll notice each area has its own quirks. Maybe it comes from local folk aesthetics, or the way each town answers its own sun and wind. Either way, communities developed their own dialects. Sometimes it's just an accent: the straight vertical slat of a Saigon brise-soleil can end in a small curve in Quy Nhơn. Sometimes it's whole new slang: a shading device that curls back on itself, which I've only found in Ninh Thuận.

Southern Vietnamese vernacular modernism is a language from the streets, twisted a little by every hand that built it, full of odd wordings too joyful for the polished modernism they teach in textbooks. Like any language, it rewards you slowly: it’s the small thrill of someone learning French who finally hears that everyday conversations in Paris and Brussels don't sound the same. See enough of Vietnam's modernist houses, across enough towns, and you'll start to hear the dialects too: Quy Nhơn doesn't sound like Mỹ Tho.

Clouds of Quy Nhơn

Where a Saigon brise-soleil stays straight, in Quy Nhơn, the concrete lines loosen into intersecting swirls, perhaps an abstraction of clouds. This distinctive brise-soleil shape can also be found in surrounding towns such as An Nhơn.

Pastel-blue painted shophouse in Quy Nhơn city center.

Shophouse with đá rửa finishing in Quy Nhơn city center.

Villa in the outskirts of An Nhơn built in 1987.

Shophouse on Trần Hưng Đạo street in Quy Nhơn city center.

Holes of Phú Yên

An hour south, in Phú Yên, façades are riddled with ventilation holes: triangles, hearts, arrows, more triangles, and in one house, against all odds, a helicopter. This perforation habit reached Quy Nhơn too, but never with the same intensity.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with a perforated red beam.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with blue-contoured motifs and holes scattered across the façade.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, where a helicopter hides among the geometric motifs.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, white-contoured motifs running along the whole house.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with walls tiled in yellow and white.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with purple contours tracing the holes.

Curls of Ninh Thuận

In Vĩnh Hải, concrete shading devices that frame porches and balconies are curled, often finishing in a hook. Each one is outlined with a raised contour, painted in the blue or white typical of seaside towns everywhere.

Villa in Mỹ Tân, its façade engraved with plants and flowers.

Villa in Mỹ Tường built in 1990, the date set in relief on the porch.

Villa in Mỹ Tân built in 1989, with details painted in blue.

Villa in Mỹ Phong with a street restaurant in front.

Porches of the Mekong Delta

In the Mekong Delta, the modernist dialect is less a motif than a structure: villas set behind a porch, almost always resting on four columns creating a kind of triptych, the beam above held by pairs or trios of concrete fins. Not an accent this time, but a different grammar.

Villa in Vĩnh Long, its frieze alternating diamond shapes with pierced patterns.

Villa in Mỹ Nhơn, Bến Tre, layering different decorative elements: engravings, pierced friezes, fins and unusual vase-shaped bases.

Villa in Bến Tre, with compass-rose motifs along the beam.

Abandoned villa in Sa Đéc, now for sale.

Villa in An Thạnh Thủy, Đồng Tháp, its façade entirely resurfaced in tile.

Learning to Ngồi Chồm Hổm Is a Simple Way for Anybody to Feel More Vietnamese

2026-07-30T15:00:00+07:00

What is culture? For someone who writes for an arts and culture publication, you’d think I’d have a quick and clean answer, but the more I ruminate, the more I realize it comes down to a sloppy assemblage of habits, ephemera, and minutiae: eating preferences, holiday attire, styles of sneezes, methods for counting on one’s fingers, variety of fruits to gift and an endless string of social norms. Pile enough of these choices together, and you end up with a distinct culture.

If one were to thus try and compile the many disparate points that comprise Vietnamese culture, one must make space for ngồi chồm hổm. As its oft-used English equivalent, “Asian squat,” attests to, the style of crouching low to the ground, perfectly balanced without a chair, is common across Asia broadly. Still, it is such a frequent sight in Vietnam, evidenced by the many social media posts foreigners make about it, that we should consider it an element of Vietnamese culture.

For illustrative purposes only and not guaranteed anatomical accuracy.

In these online discussions, westerners often admit to being wholly unable to chồm hổm. If you take a poll of your foreign friends and co-workers, you’ll likely find this to be true. But why? While there are plenty of theories as to why foreigners rarely can, it has less to do with the minor differences in body types and anatomies across ethnicities, and more to do with practice. To squat, one must have flexible ankles. Kids have these and thus are observed across cultures to be rather good at squatting. But unless one practices regularly, the body, like the mind, naturally becomes less flexible, and the ability is lost. This might explain why many Vietnamese of all ages can squat: they have plenty of practice when washing vegetables, fixing a motorbike, waiting for the bus or simply playing games on the floor when they don’t want to get the seat of their pants dirty.

Squatting used to be a popular way to enjoy noodles in Vietnam (left). Photo via kevintruong.vn.

Sugarcane vendors are seen squatting on a street in Saigon in 1950 (right). Photo via LiveJournal user Foto-history.

Of course, not all Vietnamese can chồm hổm, because of habits or physical shape. And perhaps, as the nation continues to develop away from the actions typically associated with squatting, even fewer will be able to. This shift would coincide with some local perception that chồm hổm is an inherently uncouth or rural activity best left back in the nation’s poorer eras, despite its potential positive health effects. This view may be exacerbated by the pose's resemblance to the posture one takes to defecate when no western toilet is present.

Proof of my squatting prowess from an early age.

I would consider the disappearance of the squat to be a great cultural loss. But I am biased. For inexplicable reasons, growing up very much white in America, I would chồm hổm at all times: while playing videos games, while studying in my school desk, even seated at the family dinner table. While this caused much consternation amongst my teachers and parents — “Knees off the able,” my Dad would repeat several times per meal — I never grew out of it. And now, at least until my Vietnamese advances beyond that of an uncoordinated middle-schooler, chồm hổm is what most allows me to feel like I can fit in within Vietnamese culture. Not to mention, it’s far more comfortable and convenient than any chair I’ve yet to find.

Hẻm Gems: At Phở Chay Như, a Banquet of Vegetarian Versions of Iconic Viet Dishes

2026-07-30T13:00:00+07:00

A bowl full of noodles is one of the things that make me feel lucky to be alive, and alive in Saigon in particular.

There are a plethora of noodle soups to fall in love with in Vietnam, and Phở Chay Như offers a wide variety, meat excluded.

After discussing featuring Phở Chay Như as a Hẻm Gem, I went back to the restaurant on a quiet afternoon after leaving the Saigoneer office. This was my fourth time going, but somehow I still managed to drive past it. I don't know if this says more about my derpish sensibility or the obscurity of its entrance. Likely a melange of the two.

Phở Chay Như is easy to miss if you drive too fast.

The restaurant is located along Trương Quyền Street, sandwiched between Điện Biên Phủ on one side and Võ Thị Sáu on the other; a quick walk from Lê Văn Tám Park. I entered and took a seat to the left of the owner. He sat, leaned back with arms crossed, watching what sounded like an action movie on a laptop set on one of the establishment's aluminum fold-up tables.

After receiving my bowl of the signature phở, I squeezed in as many limes as I could get my hands on, added a few pieces of red chili, and a healthy portion of basil from the plate of herbs and greens provided. Then, my favorite addition to the soup, a fried wonton, a plate of which is provided for customers to add as they please for a small fee. Because I am exceedingly horny for condiments, I added quite a bit of vegan nước mắm and the lemongrass-heavy sa tế sauce.

There are many vegetarian noodles here, all inspired by normal Vietnamese dishes.

My bowl was now ready to go. The circle of noodles was surrounded by floating mushrooms and rolled bean curd skin, which added a nice touch of umami to the clear broth. The freshness of the basil, the tartness of the lime, the kick of chili and the salty sweetness of the nước mắm were all nice compliments to the earthy flavors. Adding the oily wonton added a delightful touch of gluttony to the otherwise simple offering.

A bowl of phở chay

My one quibble with the dish is that the temperature of the broth wasn't as hot as I would like it to be. If a food is supposed to be served hot, I want it to basically burn my mouth. But, like I said, a quibble.

I returned a couple of days later with some of the Saigoneer crew to try some more dishes. We ordered the cơm tấm, bò kho, mì Quảng, and another bowl of phở. The cơm tấm was quite satisfying. The chewy and oily mock meats sat on a bed of rice and made the perfect bite when covered in the chili-infused nước mắm. The bò kho is a real standout dish. The vegan version of the beef stew is fragrant with a variety of sweet spices, lemongrass and chili.

Mỳ Quảng chay

Bò kho chay

Cơm tấm chay

Along with eating more food, I was able to satisfy a few curiosities on this return with co-workers. I learned that the restaurant has been open for over 40 years and that the staff begins their day at 5am, preparing the food and starting to serve customers at 6am. I was also curious about the presence of beer, as most chay places do not serve alcohol. The question as to why Phở Chay Như's refrigerator is stocked with Tigers and Heineken was answered mainly with laughter. In addition to the beer, the fact that the restaurant stays open until 9pm makes it a good option for those looking for both a good late-night meal and a few beers.

The kitchen has a common vegetable stock, and whenever a bò kho or mì Quảng is ordered, the cook will mix in the appropriate sauce to add flavor to the common broth.

Phở Chay Như has what made me so obsessed with Vietnam to begin with: delicious vegetarian food delivered in a laid-back atmosphere that manages to delight with little details that stick in my consciousness more subtly than the flavors that linger on my palate.

This article was originally published in 2020.

To sum up:

Opening time: 6am–8pm
Parking: Bike only
Contact: N/A
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood, GrabFood

Govi is enthusiastic about the golden hour, clouds, bodies of water, trees, breezes, faces, cappuccinos and thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking.

Phở Chay Như

54 Trương Quyền, Xuân Hòa Ward, HCMC

How Overreliance on Pesticides Traps Thai Farmers in a Vicious Circle of Debt

2026-07-30T10:00:00+07:00

As the sun rises over the village of Ban Wichit Pattana in north-east Thailand, 62-year-old Chuchart Srithachum does his morning exercise, walking as best he can on his prosthetic leg along the street outside his home.

Editor's note: Some readers may find certain images in this article disturbing.

These days, Chuchart is unable to work. He gets by with money from his son, as well as government allowances for his age and disability. He used to be a rice farmer, working 2.4 hectares of land on the outskirts of his village in Nong Bua Lamphu province.

Almost nine years ago, he was working in his flooded fields, barefoot as usual, when he noticed a strange greenish tint in the water. He carried on but soon started to feel a tingling in his feet. By the time he got home, the skin on his leg had begun to develop a rash, accompanied by pain. He was quickly taken to a local clinic.

The doctor told him the rash on his leg “showed telltale signs of paraquat exposure,” Chuchart recalls. The damage to his skin allowed for a bacterial infection that had devastating consequences.

An infection linked to paraquat exposure led to the amputation of farmer Chuchart Srithachum’s right leg in 2017. The herbicide, which can cause chemical burns, had run off a nearby sugarcane plantation in north-east Thailand’s Nong Bua Lamphu province, contaminating his paddy fields.

Paraquat is a liquid herbicide used to kill weeds and desiccate leaves, often for commercial crops such as coffee, pineapples, tea and sugarcane. Widely identified as being highly toxic to humans and other animals, it can cause serious internal damage or death if swallowed, inhaled or even absorbed via the skin. Its corrosive nature means contact with the skin can also result in chemical burns and other damage. In north-east Thailand as well as other parts of the country, this has been controversially linked to a rare flesh-eating disease called necrotising fasciitis, which develops rapidly and has led to a spate of deaths and amputations.

Chuchart’s condition quickly became too severe to be treated at his local clinic. He was promptly transferred to the provincial hospital in the town of Nong Bua Lamphu, but by then it was too late — his right leg needed to be amputated to save his life. He spent the next six weeks in hospital recovering.

Chuchart was not alone. When he was hospitalized in 2017, there were more than 50 cases of farmers who suffered severe chemical burns and subsequent infections in sugarcane production areas across Thailand’s north-east region, according to Mana Muangkhun, an activist with the Consumer Association of Khonkaen involved in a lawsuit against importers of paraquat.

Natthanan Photiwong’s leg was infected in 2018 after accidental exposure to paraquat while spraying sugarcane near his village of Ban Dong Sawan in Nong Bua Lamphu.

The infected tissue was removed fast enough to save his leg from amputation, but Natthanan no longer dares spray herbicides himself.

In the nearby village of Ban Khok, Bunrod Yodda was not as fortunate. His leg was amputated after exposure to paraquat that had contaminated a pond he was laying shrimp traps in.

The cases added momentum to an already ongoing campaign led by civil society groups like the BioThai Foundation and Thailand Pesticide Alert Network (Thai-PAN). Using various techniques, including testing fruit and vegetables for pesticide residues to raise consumer awareness and direct advocacy with government bodies, the campaign called for bans of paraquat and two other controversial agrochemicals: the insecticide chlorpyrifos, which is known to cause brain abnormalities and developmental delays in children; and the herbicide glyphosate, which the World Health Organization has named “probably carcinogenic to humans.”

Backed by a growing body of scientific evidence, the campaign led in April 2017 to a recommendation from the Ministry of Public Health that paraquat and chlorpyrifos be prohibited and the use of glyphosate restricted by the end of 2019. What followed was a prolonged and heated national debate, marked by pushback from various stakeholders, street protests from both sides and government policy flipflops.

Bans eventually came into force in June 2020 with the reclassification of paraquat and chlorpyrifos as category 4 hazardous substances, the highest level. This made it illegal to produce, sell, use or even possess the chemicals. In line with this, the Thai Food and Drug Administration introduced a policy of zero tolerance to residues of the chemicals, even on imported foods. Glyphosate was to be included in the reclassification, but pressure from the US government and agrochemicals manufacturer Bayer stopped that. It remains legal, although as a category 3 hazardous substance, its use requires a licence and is heavily restricted, allowed only on specific commercial crops and not within certain zones, such as watersheds and public areas.

Two down, hundreds still in use

Contamination of produce with paraquat and chlorpyrifos has fallen significantly since the ban, according to Thai-PAN coordinator Prokchon Usap. The network and their fellow campaigning organisations count this as a major battle won. But their war is not over. Prokchon sees all agrochemicals as “highly hazardous,” and says there are “over 230” others still in use in Thailand. Perhaps more importantly, she and other campaigners argue these chemicals are being heavily over-used, posing health risks for all those exposed to them, including both farmers and consumers.

A sign beside a rural road in the central province of Nakhon Sawan advertising glufosinate-ammonium, a restricted category 3 herbicide similar to glyphosate.

A shop selling agricultural supplies — mainly synthetic herbicides and pesticides — to farmers in Nong Bua Lamphu province. Few farmers across Thailand are properly trained in how to use the chemicals they buy.

Paraquat is such a well-known name among farmers in Thailand that, until recently, it was still being used to advertise other pesticides. This photo, taken in November 2025, shows a product on a popular shopping app. The name paraquat is used at the top, labelling what is actually an alternative chemical called diquat dibromide.

In their most recent tests of market fruits and vegetables conducted at the end of 2024, Thai-PAN found that 68% of samples had pesticide residues above the maximum limits set by the government, which apply in varying degrees to all foods. This included above-limit residues of restricted category 3 chemicals such as chlorfenapyr, fipronil and carbendazim.

For Prokchon, one of the most concerning chemicals found was carbendazim, a fungicide used on multiple crops to control plant disease that is banned in many places around the world.

“We found carbendazim on almost every contaminated fruit and vegetable sample,” she says. “This chemical is responsible for many underlying health threats, including infertility, as there is evidence linking carbendazim with sperm count reduction in men.”

A forced reliance

Over the past few decades, Thailand has seen a major shift from subsistence to commercial agriculture. It is now one of the world’s top growers and exporters of commodity crops such as rice and tropical fruits. Sugar has played a major part in this — the country is the world’s fifth largest producer and the second largest exporter. This shift has been matched by the growth in use of agrochemicals. Thailand is the world’s 15^th largest importer of synthetic pesticides, and in 2016, before the bans came in, glyphosate and paraquat were the top two imports.

This national trend has played out on steroids in the north-east, which has seen the “rapid expansion of sugarcane and rubber plantations” in recent years, says Patiwat Chalermchart, a leading member of the regional branch of watchdog the Thailand Consumers Council. “These types of commercial farming rely heavily on pesticides to lower production costs and maximise profits,” he explains, adding that this is why “the previous paraquat poisonings had an epicentre here”.

Despite widespread awareness among farmers of the dangers of using pesticides, many still consider it a necessity. They have no choice, says Patiwat, pointing to limited finances and the need to bring labor costs down.

The countryside around Ban Dong Sawan village in Nong Bua Lamphu province is covered in sugarcane. About 45% of Thailand’s sugarcane production is concentrated in the north-east. Smallholders are key to the sector, with 70% of the crop grown on plots of less than 10 hectares under contract to sugar mills.

A field in the same district of Suwannakhuha recently sprayed with a powerful herbicide to kill the vegetation and make way for new planting.

Although pesticides can help limit some labour inputs on sugarcane farms, a lot of the work still needs to be done by hand. Harvesting is especially labor intensive, with many farmers having to hire in extra help.

A farmer in Suwannakhuha waters her vegetable patch right next to a sugarcane field. Many small-scale farmers are aware of the dangers of pesticides and use as little as possible on the food they grow for their own consumption. But contamination from nearby plantations can be unavoidable.

Natthanan Photiwong is a 64-year-old sugarcane farmer with a smallholding in Suwannakhuha district of Nong Bua Lamphu province. He stopped using synthetic herbicides entirely for over three years after he too suffered a necrotising fasciitis infection linked with accidental exposure to paraquat in 2018. But the difficulty of finding workers to clear weeds from his 1.4-hectare plot has forced him to start spraying again.

“It’s a tiring task to clear weeds by hand in a dense sugarcane field. I can hardly find anyone willing to do this job,” he says. “I eventually needed to hire someone to spray herbicide instead, as I still do not dare do it myself.”

In the neighboring district of Na Klang, young farmer Sinaphon Namphrom, whose family grows rice commercially, holds the same opinion.

Although concerned about the health impacts, agrochemicals “are essential materials to make our farming easier to maintain and profitable,” she says. “We try to protect ourselves by wearing proper protective gear while spraying and using as little as possible, especially on the plots where we grow crops for our own consumption.”

An agricultural drone pilot and his assistant mix a concoction of fertilizers and pesticides to spray on a customer’s rice paddy.

The only protective gear they wore while working with the chemicals were T-shirts wrapped around their heads.

A relatively new technology, drones make things much easier compared to spraying by hand, and have seen rapid uptake in Thailand over the past few years. Spray can drift further using drones, contaminating areas beyond targeted fields.

For Thai-PAN’s Prokchon, “farmers are trapped in a vicious cycle of debt and chemical use.” The use of chemicals has destroyed natural processes that previously helped fertilize the soil and control pests, making their continued use unavoidable. In addition, commercial agriculture has introduced an economy of debt in rural areas, with many farmers taking out loans to purchase the products they need.

“The commercial farming sector has not developed new farming methods to help reduce reliance on chemicals,” she adds.

Alternative methods of farming without chemicals have come to be seen by many as unachievably expensive. “Our food production system does not favor organic farming,” says Patiwat of the Thailand Consumers Council. “There is no supporting system to help farmers invest in more costly organic food production.”

A pesticide-free future?

While options may be limited for many farmers, concerns over food safety among Thailand’s growing middle class are driving a growing demand for organic produce, especially in wealthier urban areas. Enter entrepreneurs like Krisana Tamvimol, co-founder of DiStar Fresh, which grows high-value leafy vegetables hydroponically in a vertical, indoor farm.

Launched in 2021 in Nonthaburi province’s Bang Yai district near the capital Bangkok, the 400 m² facility is capable of producing the same amount of food as 64,000 m² (6.4 hectares) of traditional outdoor farmland, says Krisana.

The company advertises its produce as “beyond organic.” Grown in a closed system using a water-based nutrient solution instead of soil — an environment DiStar calls “pristine” — the vegetables are protected from outdoor pests and diseases, so there is no need for pesticides.

An employee harvests lettuce inside DiStar’s high-tech, climate-controlled facility. The company uses hydroponics to grow a limited variety of leafy greens.

DiStar markets its produce as “beyond organic.” It is sold at a premium, mainly to middle-class urbanites.

Against a backdrop of what Krisana sees as Thailand’s considerably weaker agrochemical regulations compared to those in developed nations, his business is doing well. “We already have around 1,000 to 2,000 regular customers,” he says. “Now, the demand is nearly reaching the production capacity of our farm and we are looking for a location to expand our second hydroponic farm in Sai Noi district.”

While Krisana calls hydroponics part of the future of agriculture in Thailand, it’s unlikely to offer a solution when it comes to crops like rice or sugarcane, not least because of the costs. To build a facility capable of growing 3.2 hectares worth of produce requires an investment of around THB20 million (US$643,500), he explains.

Running costs are also high, although Krisana points out they are lower in Thailand than in western countries thanks to cheaper electricity. In developed nations, growing a portion of produce in a hydroponic farm costs an average of around THB15 (US$0.48), compared to THB8 in Thailand, he says.

At an orange plantation in the northern province of Chiang Mai, a worker sprays the trees with pesticides just before harvest to ensure perfect-looking fruit. Thousands of litres are sprayed in one go.

Migrant workers from Myanmar sort oranges at the facility of a large distributor. The company buys oranges from local growers, packages them and distributes the fruit for sale around the country and overseas.

Some orange farmers in the area are trying to do things differently. At the Yoddoy Orange Farm, the owner is keen to limit his use of synthetic chemicals, and now only sprays once a season when the trees first blossom. To give him more control, he no longer sells to big distributors. Instead, he promotes on social media and sells directly to consumers online and when they visit the farm.

Far away from the capital in northern Thailand’s Chiang Mai province, known for the commercial production of rice and various fruits, there’s a growing organic movement of a different sort. Saranarat Kanjanavanit, co-founder of the Nunienoi Wetland and Farm, is just one of many in the area demonstrating how farming can be done without the use of synthetic chemicals, by restoring biodiversity and working with nature.

She says when she bought the property in 2018, it had very poor soil due to the prolonged and intensive use of agrochemicals, including both pesticides and fertilizers. She worked on restoring soil fertility by employing a traditional rotational crop technique, switching between rice and soybeans every season to naturally fix nitrogen.

The farm’s organic rice yields have reached 500 kg per rai (1,600 m²), which is comparable with regular commercial farms that heavily use chemicals, she says.

Saranarat Kanjanavanit, co-founder of the Nunienoi Wetland and Farm, is an advocate of organic farming.

She also has no need of pesticides, as there are plenty of predatory insects and birds living in the restored wetland, helping control the population of pests on the farm.

“In the first few years, many people including my staff did not believe that ecological farming would work, as we had very low yields. But after we gave time for nature to restore ecological balance and regain biodiversity, we have proven that by understanding and working with nature we can assure food security without sacrificing the environment,” Saranarat explains.

Luke Duggleby is a documentary and portrait photographer based in Bangkok, Thailand where he has lived for over 15 years. To see more of his work, visit his website.

This article is originally published by Dialogue Earth and has been republished with permission. Read the article on Dialogue Earth here.

Illustration Project 'Con Ốc Nhỏ' Archives Southern Vietnam's Diverse Architectural Facades

2026-07-29T10:00:00+07:00

Riding a motorbike is the most popular mode of transport in Vietnam. Albeit convenient and fast, being on a bike, merging in and out of the ever-flowing, hurried traffic, might not afford you the slow pace needed to fully appreciate the urban landscapes and their hidden gems. Vietnamese artist Bờm Sketcher, on the other hand, is fully in support of walking as the best way to document the most fascinating corners of local streets onto his pages.

Bờm Sketcher, also known as Lâm Bờm, is based in Hồ Chí Minh City, but his rich travel history has taken him across the Mekong Delta, judging by the scenes depicted in his works. Bờm is best known for his on-site watercolor sketches, which aim to capture the beauty of urbanscapes as realistically as possible, down to every missing patch of plaster on the wall and overhanging telephone wire. Most recently, however, the Saigon-based artist has introduced a new side project, Con Ốc Nhỏ, with the goal of archiving Vietnam’s architectural riches in a different style.

Con Ốc Nhỏ is a play on the word ốc, which could mean “snail” or “house” in Vietnamese. As a metaphorical “little snail,” he wants to take his own time, wandering everywhere the inspiration calls to jot down the houses that fascinate him throughout his time on the road.

“This project started partly because I do a lot of street sketches. One time, while in Tri Tôn [An Giang], I spotted a few really interesting houses [with styles] that seemed a mix of Hoa, Vietnamese, French, but also Khmer,” he tells Saigoneer in Vietnamese. “These buildings were all very old, running the risk of being demolished. I realized that there are still plenty of interesting houses in other localities, so I want to archive them in my way.”

The result is a collection of dozens of stylized illustrations showcasing the facades of Vietnamese homes in a neat layout, as if they are part of a scientific encyclopedia of architectural styles. Each entry is accompanied by information regarding the house’s hometown, building materials, and a few standout decorative elements like balustrade and wrought-iron windows.

Flipping through the posts on the project’s dedicated Instagram page, one will notice that Bờm doesn’t focus on any specific style of architecture, but offers an eclectic range of houses that simply pique his curiosity. Still, those with some knowledge of Vietnam’s vernacular architecture might immediately recognize a few recurring themes, like Chinese-influenced colonial shophouses similar to those in Saigon’s Chợ Lớn, utilitarian tube houses, or the grey-washed rock mosaic of southern modernism. This mish-mash of styles reflects the cultural makeup of the Mekong Delta, where most of the featured dwellings live, and it was also this interesting diversity that drew Bờm to the region’s houses at first.

“The idea for Con Ốc Nhỏ came during a period when I was wandering around here [the Mekong Delta] to sketch. This is a land of many special facets of culture, food, and people and rich in inspirations for sketching,” he explains the project’s focus on the southern region. “Also, this region has many ‘historic’ towns not too altered by urbanization, so many old structures still exist, forming distinctive architectural clusters. They also exhibit the confluence of different cultures like Vietnamese, Hoa, Khmer, and French; and strong influences of riverine settlements — I was really impressed by both.”

The collection spans many localities in the delta, like Hồng Ngự, Mỹ Tho, Cái Bè, Cai Lậy, Gò Công, Sa Đéc, etc. Some standout entries include a bright yellow colonial shophouse in Cái Bè that bears some striking resemblances with those in Saigon’s Hải Thượng Lãn Ông quarter; and the Huỳnh Thủy Lê villa in Sa Đéc, made world-famous thanks to its appearance in the French film L’amant. According to Bờm, over the months working on the project, he’s learnt a lot about each quirks and building tastes of the localities he visited. The balconies of Sa Đéc, for example, are very frequently decorated with brise-soleil, but those in Mỹ Tho tend to employ cement and geometrical shapes. When it comes to windows, Châu Đốc has semi-circular arches while Mỹ Tho homeowners prefer rows of square windows.

“The process of making Ốc Nhỏ has allowed me to closely observe the architectural styles of each place. If [you] zoom deeper into the details, there are distinctive regional flairs that express the personalities of that place,” he shares. “At the same time, I could recognize the flow of time across the different aesthetics and how the buildings were constructed in each era.”

To view more works from Con Ốc Nhỏ, follow the project’s Instagram page here.

Great Vietnam Resurrects Nguyễn-Era Fashion, One Traditional Costume at a Time

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

In the last four to five years, ancient Vietnamese costumes have gained more visibility, becoming a welcome sight among young locals thanks to the efforts to reproduce and promote historic fashion from a number of designers, brands, and interest groups that appreciate the country’s history and traditions.

Great Vietnam is made up of such individuals. Founded in 2019 and officially going into operation in 2020, the group focuses on researching and reproducing clothing that was worn in Vietnam hundreds of years ago. A few costumes they produce have been featured in the art show “The Quintessence of Vietnam” at Grand World Phú Quốc (2021); the photo-video project “VIETNAMESE? REALLY?! – 1000 Years of Vietnamese Fashion” (2021) in collaboration with the Vietnam Centre; and the exhibition “The Resplendent Vestiges” in Sydney, Australia (2019).

The video project "Người Việt Xa Lạ" by Vietnam Centre featuring costumes made by Great Vietnam.

From individual struggles to a collective effort

Great Vietnam comprises young Vietnamese who love culture and creativity and aim to make their reproduction of ancient clothing as historically accurate as possible. The three core members are 28-year-old Vũ Đức and 33-year-old Trương Tuấn Anh, who are in charge of designing the costumes; and 36-year-old Đoàn Thành Lộc, a researcher of Sino-Vietnamese culture who provides expertise on the accuracy of the clothes and handles customer feedback.

Đức has a degree in political science and Tuấn Anh is a research fellow that focuses on space technology. Despite the seemingly irrelevant backgrounds, the two share a passion for cổ phục, or ancient Vietnamese clothing, which drew them together to found Great Vietnam in 2019.

Inside Great Vietnam's Hanoi showroom with their works on display. At the time of writing, the showroom has been closed.

That was after they both made personal attempts to research and promote what they knew about the clothes: Tuấn Anh learned, designed and sewed traditional patterns by himself and joined the Hoa Văn Đại Việt project; while Đức created cartoon characters wearing historic royal clothes and published them on a Facebook page named Anh Hoàng.

Vũ Đức tells Saigoneer: “On our individual journeys, when it came to ancient clothing, we all encountered challenges, and when we realized that even the official sources sometimes delivered incorrect information on this type of clothing, we decided to become the ones who make it right. That’s how Great Vietnam was born. Step by step, we reproduced the costumes, and at some point, it became something we do together.”

Áo phụng bào, based on the real version worn by Empress Dowager Từ Cung, the mother of Emperor Bảo Đại. Featured: headwear by Phượng Điển. Photo by Bạch Như.

They realized many Vietnamese love the country’s ancient costumes, but often mistake the majority of replica designs available in the market for the real thing. This shortcoming applies to áo dài (narrow-sleeved tunics, considered the national costume of Vietnam since the Nguyễn Dynasty), áo tấc (wide-sleeved tunics, used on important occasions), áo nhật bình (special vestments reserved for women of high status under the Nguyễn Dynasty), and áo bào (round-collared robes for feudal-era mandarins).

Young Vietnamese wear ancient costumes as part of the parade event Bách Hoa Bộ Hành. The walk was joined by many historical interest groups and individuals, including Đông Phong, Great Vietnam, Hoa Niên, Thủy Trung Nguyệt, Quê cực, and Đại Nam Chân Ảnh. Photo by Ann Anh with retouching by Bạch Như.

“It has not changed since the ancient costume 'movement' by young people started five years ago,” Đức says. “That’s the reason why we want to recreate the ancient costumes, to run Great Vietnam — as one of the key players in the process of changing awareness of ancient Vietnamese costumes.”

Lộc joined the team later, after he was approached by Đức. “I decided to collaborate because of the good vision Great Vietnam wanted to pursue, which is to create patterns and textures as historically accurate as possible,” Lộc says. A scholar with more than 10 years of studying and doing research abroad on Sino-Vietnamese culture, Lộc has access to source texts written in Chinese from China, South Korea and Japan.

Costumes of Nguyễn Dynasty court guards recreated by Great Vietnam. On the right is the reference image taken by W. Robert Moore in 1931.

“A lot of people say that what was written about Vietnam in Chinese texts is not accurate, which is a perspective I would really like to criticize,” he says. “Not everything China says about Vietnam is wrong and inaccurate, especially things that were written hundreds of years ago.”

He relies on documentation both in and out of the country to deduce what ancient clothing items should look like, Lộc says. “It has to be a two-way process, with exogenous and endogenous variables. We have information in our books, historical records, from statues in pagodas, temples, and communal houses, as well as in documentation of family trees or handwritten books from the older generation...That is one source. I then compare them with foreign sources. That is the scientific method we use. We never completely rely on only one source.”

A video featuring áo mãng lan, a tunic often worn by court guards or military mandarins of the Nguyễn court.

Promoting Vietnam through cultural products

Art producers and practitioners are the people Great Vietnam aims to collaborate with, since the group thinks art is a great way to reach out to a wider audience to promote Vietnamese culture through costumes.

A few examples of robes and costumes for female members of the court.

“Our target customers are those that are carrying out large-scale art and cultural projects such as stage performances, movies, or festivals because they have high demand for ceremonial clothing and have great potential for promoting an authentic traditional culture,” Đức explains. “Despite the scarcity of such customers in Việt Nam, through our activities, Great Vietnam hopes to gradually encourage people and organizations to think about and carry out such projects.”

The group also produces and supplies costumes to retail customers. They do everything themselves, from making designs and patterns to measuring and cutting the clothes.

A young couple in Vietnam wore ancient costumes for their engagement ceremony. Albeit not very common, historical costumes have increasingly been selected by culture-minded individuals in Vietnam for their betrothal. Photo by Jamex Production.

“In this field, it’s difficult to find experienced partners, so we have to actively research, think, and learn from scratch,” Đức says. “In terms of supplies, Great Vietnam looks for both modern and traditional sources. Apart from stages that need modern materials such as designing, printing, sewing, etc. For other techniques such as embroidering, carving, weaving, it’s compulsory for us to reach out to craft villages, especially when making silk costumes.”

Vạn Phúc, La Khê, Bưởi, Nha Xá, Nam Cao, Mã Châu, and Tân Châu are some traditional craft villages that the group often visits. The process of producing a set of ancient costumes is the same as any other type of clothes, Đức explains. He is responsible for designing the decorative patterns, while Tuấn Anh is mainly in charge of drafting the sewing patterns.

Áo nhật bình created by Great Vietnam, based on a real version worn by Princess Mỹ Lương, photographed in 1931.

“First we would sit down together and decide whether the costume will have patterns on them or not, and whether the patterns will be embroidered or printed,” Đức elucidates on the process. They will then create a sewing pattern and send it to manufacturers, who will cut fabrics and follow instructions on the pattern to produce the clothes.

Photos of their products and feedback from clients are often posted on the Great Vietnam 大越南 Facebook page. Included in each post are detailed descriptions of the costumes and references to the texts from which they learned about the meaning of each pattern and accessory. But behind this thoughtful presentation is a lot of hard work put into finding credible documentation and making sense of them.

Three other áo nhật bình prototypes created by Great Vietnam.

“The artifacts available in the country were either so poorly preserved or hard to access due to barriers in cultural management, so those available outside the country, albeit scarce and scattered, were the ones we placed our expectations on,” Đức shares. “Because of this, our work in the last three years is like sailing against the wind, with almost no support, or struggling to get support, the type of struggle that we thought we shouldn’t have to go through. But also because of it, we got used to finding solutions ourselves instead of relying on unreliable connections that might affect our eagerness to research and learn.”

Mãng lan tunic worn by court mandarins. "Mãng" is a four-claw dragon, a motif often seen on costumes for court officials. Mãng is lower than "Long," a five-claw dragon that's highest in level and is only used in costumes for the king.

Not undermining the authorities’ role in preserving cultures, Lộc and Tuấn Anh both think there should be a collaboration between the state government and private companies to better promote ancient clothing. Lộc tells me: “Both sides should find a common voice and agree to cooperate. The government has an advantage in terms of literature and law. Private units have strong teams and good knowledge. They really should collaborate.”

“Personally, I hope historical researchers and the government will pay more attention to preserving traditional costumes and culture. That is what we should really aim for at the moment.”

Costumes as a cultural trademark

Despite having only been in the business for a few years, Great Vietnam is serious about their work. Their goal is to keep reproducing ancient costumes — from simple to intricate, from the latest dynasty to earlier ones — and fill the gap in documentation and knowledge about them in the country. They also hope that historical clothing will be studied carefully, treated with respect, and that their honest reproductions will help the next generations appreciate the past culture more.

Mãng bào, often worn by court mandarins.

Đức shares: “In Vietnam, the process of reviving ancient costumes started slowly and did not receive enough attention, but that’s not how it’s done around the world, because traditional artworks such as drawings, carvings, and embroidery show the depth of local culture. If we continue to not pay attention, we don’t really know our culture.”

Lộc has a rather unusual vision for the revival of ancient clothing: "I hope people will wear them to bars, pubs, luxurious international events, and on planes. Let’s consider them, even though they are a bit loose, a bit baggy, a bit untidy. They’re called ‘ancient’ but they don’t belong to dead people. So don’t just wear them to go to temples, pagodas, or the Temple of Literature, or the Imperial City of Huế."

“Their name is ‘ancient clothes’ but they are not old. Let’s consider them as just a style, and take advantage of it. Only then can ancient clothing endure and exist in our daily life. If we only wear them to temples and pagodas and traditional ceremonies, they will just stay there, they will not evolve.”

Photos courtesy of Great Vietnam.

This article was originally published in 2022.

From D4's Village Past to Now, History Keeps Wanting to Widen Nguyễn Tất Thành Street

2026-07-26T09:00:00+07:00

A century before today's bulldozers, colonial planners were already wrestling with the same congested waterfront corridor — and the same promises of transformation.

Nguyễn Tất Thành Street pictured in 2025, running alongisde land prepared fro a public park. Photo by Quỳnh Trần via VnExpress.

In 2026, Hồ Chí Minh City is finally moving forward with one of its most long-anticipated infrastructure projects: the widening of Nguyễn Tất Thành Street, the perpetually gridlocked artery threading through the former District 4 between Khánh Hội and Tân Thuận bridges. The plan calls for expanding the road from its current four lanes to six or eight, at a projected cost of nearly VND3 trillion, while the adjacent Nhà Rồng–Khánh Hội port area — some 32 hectares of prime Saigon riverfront — is set to become a public park. Construction is expected to commence on September 2, 2026, timed to mark the 50^th anniversary of the city.

It reads like a story of long-overdue progress. But open the colonial archives in the Vietnamese National Archive Centre No. 2 on Lê Duẩn (the Government of Cochinchina files, thereafter GouCoch), and the sensation is uncanny: urban planners have been trying to sort out this exact corridor for over a century.

A canal that made an island

The story begins not with a road, but with a waterway.

On February 6, 1904, a French development company called the Société Française Industrielle d'Extrême-Orient was awarded an eight-year concession to maintain and improve Saigon's waterways. Among its tasks was the construction of a canal de dérivation — a diversion canal — planned to ease the chronic congestion of fluvial traffic between Chợ Lớn and Saigon's port on the Arroyo Chinois (nowadays Bến Nghé). The waterway linking Chợ Lớn to the hinterland and the Mekong Delta rice trade was simply too narrow, too shallow, and too crowded with junks to function efficiently as a commercial artery. The solution: dig a parallel canal to the south.

1906 map of Saigon and Cholon with canal and territorial annexation projects. (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753)

That canal is today's Kênh Tẻ.

The engineers got their waterway. But in doing so, they created an unexpected problem: they turned the village of Khánh Hội into an island. The canal would eventually become the boundary line between what residents knew as District 4 (now the Khánh Hội, Vĩnh Hội, and Xóm Chiếu wards since the city's July 2025 administrative reorganization), to the north, and Districts 7 and 8 (now Tân Hưng, Tân Thuận and Chánh Hưng wards respectively) to the south and southwest — a division that persists in the city's geography to this day.

Magnification of the above 1906 map to focus on the Khánh Hội and Chánh Hưng village territories to be annexed to Saigon (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753).

The village that became a bargaining chip

Khánh Hội had existed long before French colonization as a fluvial settlement on the southern bank of the Bến Nghé, close enough to Saigon's port to serve later as a logistical buffer zone, and legally part of Chợ Lớn province. Much of its southern reaches were swampland and rice paddies, considered unhealthy and largely undeveloped — a landscape that would take the better part of a century to fully urbanize. Once the new canal was dug to its south, the village was physically severed from its administrative parent. It sat, marooned between two waterways, on a strip of land that colonial planners quickly identified as valuable real estate.

Focus on areas set to be annexed: Khánh Hội (indicated with an 'A') and Chánh Hưng ('B') to be annexed to Saigon (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753).

In October 1906, M. Bos, the administrator of Chợ Lớn, wrote to the Lieutenant Governor of Cochinchina recommending that Khánh Hội be transferred to Saigon's municipal authority. The reasoning was pragmatic: a part of the area had factories, a dense population, and part of its northern waterfront was already registered under Saigon's cadastre. The famous Nhà Rồng Wharf — headquarters of the Messageries Maritimes shipping company, the same jetty from which a young man named Nguyễn Tất Thành would depart in 1911 to begin his decades-long journey toward becoming Hồ Chí Minh — sat in this disputed borderland.

The Saigon Municipal Commission accepted the annexation project on November 7, 1906. A map produced the following month, titled “Project for the expansion of the city of Saigon,” visualized what the administrators had in mind: not just a tidy administrative transfer, but an industrial island, an îlot industriel, stitched into Saigon's logistical network.

Ten notables, one letter

The annexation was not without friction. Vietnamese village notables were formally consulted — a procedural requirement under colonial regulations governing commune reorganization. The council of neighboring Chánh Hưng raised no objections to ceding a small portion of its territory. The representatives of Khánh Hội did.

Letter from Khánh Hội village representatives dated 12 November 1906 (left) and Public Notice of the factory project in Khánh Hội, 1909 (GouCoch, TDNK, 16753 and 20665)

On November 12, 1906, ten notables of Khánh Hội addressed a letter to the municipal administration of Chợ Lớn. The document, preserved in folder GouCoch TDNK 16753, raises concerns that feel strikingly human across the distance of 120 years: they worried that Saigon's municipal authorities would not tolerate their maisons en paillotes — traditional straw-and-timber dwellings — standing alongside the brick buildings of an industrial zone. Since 1878, Saigon had decrees prohibiting such structures in urban areas. To be absorbed by the city meant risking eviction from their own homes.

The colonial council dismissed these protests on April 27, 1907, characterizing them as driven by personal interest rather than legitimate concern. The administrative transfer was formalized on December 31, 1907, handing over Khánh Hội's archives, tax registers, and land tenure records from Chợ Lớn to Saigon.

Yet the archives tell a more ambiguous story than that official dismissal implies. Documents from the 1920s — lease requests for marshy plots in Khánh Hội containing straw huts and family tombs — confirm that paillotes were still standing, unremarked upon, well into the decade after the transfer. Colonial authorities, it turned out, were far more interested in developing the northern waterfront for industrial use than in policing the housing of the people living further inland. The industrial programme took precedence; the social regulation never quite caught up.

Renovation-Prolongation project of Jean Eudel Street (in red), 1925 (GouCoch, TDNK, 29240)

The street that planners kept deferring

Scene from Khánh Hội in the 1930s that offers a glimpse into the industrial appearance of Khánh Hội. Photo via Flickr user Minhchan Le.

By the 1920s, Khánh Hội had taken on the industrial character that colonial administrators had always envisioned for it. Archives document an oxygen factory (1910), a tannery (1909–1914), a silk-spinning operation dating to the 1860s, a colonial distillery, and buffalo hide warehouses belonging to Maison Denis Frères. A 1925 master plan for urban redevelopment proposed improving tramway connections, reorganizing industrial zones, and extending port facilities along the Khánh Hội waterfront. A report that same year by the Chief Architect of Civil Buildings outlined several infrastructural upgrades for the area.

Among them was the question of the street running along the riverbank.

Folder GouCoch TDNK 29240, dated 1931–1933, is titled “Dossier relatif au prolongement de la rue Jean Eudel à Khánh Hội” — the file on extending Jean Eudel Street. A renovation and prolongation project appears in the archive drawings in red ink, tracing the same corridor that would eventually become Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. The colonial engineers sketched their improvements; the files record the deliberations; the project was, apparently, partially implemented and partially deferred.

Map illustrating the renovation of Jean Eudel Street, c. 1931–1933; the dotted lines show the areas concerned by the project (GouCoch 29240).

By 1941, Admiral Decoux, making an official visit to the Pont en Y at Chợ Quán, was still publicly lamenting the poor connectivity between Khánh Hội and the rest of the city. The Tribune Indochinoise recorded his remarks in September that year. More infrastructure was needed. The links were insufficient. Something had to be done.

The Japanese occupation began shortly after. The interwar colonial development phase ended. The plans stayed on paper.

A century of deferral, one September deadline

What is striking, reading across these archival layers, is not the failure of any single plan but the persistence of the problem — and the repetition of its proposed solutions. Widen the artery. Improve the connections. Develop the port land. Make the industrial island legible and accessible within the city's broader logic.

Graphic by Dương Trương.

The Kênh Tẻ Canal transformed Khánh Hội in 1906–1907 by isolating it and then absorbing it. Jean Eudel Street — named after a French colonial official, later renamed to honor the man who left from Nhà Rồng Wharf to change the country's history — became the corridor through which that absorption would, eventually, be made real. It has been chronically under-built ever since: four lanes where the traffic demands eight, a waterfront of rusting port infrastructure where city planners have imagined parks for decades.

After years of chronic gridlock, Nguyễn Tất Thành Street — connecting the former Districts 7 and 4 with downtown — is now set to be widened, and Nhà Rồng Wharf is to be transformed into a riverside park. The proposed expansion would bring the road to a minimum of eight lanes with a cross-section of 30–40 meter. Construction is expected to begin on September 2, tied to the expansion of the Hồ Chí Minh Museum area and the Nguyễn Tất Thành road project.

An AI-rendered plan for the widening of Nguyễn Tất Thành Street with adjacent park space. Image via VNExpress.

The village notables of Khánh Hội who wrote their anxious letter in November 1906 could not have imagined the city that would grow around their straw huts. But they understood, with perfect clarity, what it meant when administrators started drawing new lines on maps of the place where you lived. They knew that infrastructure is never just about roads and canals. It is always also about who gets to stay, and on what terms.

As the bulldozers prepare for September, the archive suggests a gentle corrective to triumphalist narratives of urban transformation: this particular bend in the river has been waiting for its redesign for a very long time. And the people who lived there, long before the planners arrived, were asking reasonable questions that the plans still rarely think to answer.

The archival research for this article was conducted at the Vietnamese National Archive Centre No. 2, Ho Chi Minh City, drawing primarily on the Cochinchina Government Collection (GouCoch), in particular folders TDNK 16753, 29240, and 29345. The research is part of a broader project on colonial urban planning in Saigon-Chợ Lớn at RMIT Vietnam, School of Communication and Design.

In the Mekong Delta, Đồ Bộ Is Everything, Everywhere, All at Once

2026-07-24T14:00:00+07:00

Despite its humble beginning as something worn just for convenience’s sake, đồ bộ has entered every minute of life in the Mekong Delta as a staple fashion choice that’s both flexible and colorful. Đồ bộ means “set outfit” in Vietnamese, a type of female casualwear made of soft, thin fabrics that often comes in a top and long bottom combo. They’re sometimes referred to as “Vietnamese pajamas,” but these comfortable sets can be worn at any time of the day and even outside, not just reserved for sleep like pajamas.

It’s Sunday morning in my hometown. The power is suddenly out. Our home is devoid of any usual sounds of the electric fan or water pump. The rooster’s lonesome cock-a-doodle-doo pierces through the dew-drenched garden. I carry the basin of laundry to our washing yard beneath the banana trees, where the giant pot sits, holding alum-free fresh water that my mom filtered a few days ago. This is my favorite washing spot, because it receives all the cooling breeze from our pond. The air is filled with a soothing aromatic mix of fabric softener, early morning sun, fresh hay, and new alluvium from the nearby river.

I carefully weave each clothing item onto a hanger and arrange them onto the clothesline, leaving them to dangle in the breeze. The line is right next to the veggie patches, so the scene always looks like something out of a picture book. The winged beans are flowering on the trellis; their lilac flowers pop out in between green leaves craning out into the sun; nearby, the gourd blossoms are bright yellow; beneath, the water morning glory shoots are still holding the night dewdrops. Amongst the emerald, lilac, yellow palette of nature, my mom’s navy đồ bộ stands out with its flowery pattern of red, yellow, and pink. Another features tiny floral motifs sprinkled all across the textile; one has neat rows of black polka dots on white; while the third set has stripes of sienna, purple yam, and teal.

I am enamoured with my mom’s outfits, even though I rarely muster enough courage to wear them in public. Only on a few home visits do I manage to try on the sets she finds pretty and saves for me in her wardrobe. Perhaps I’m not yet used to seeing myself in đồ bộ, and living in the city, I don’t have many chances to enjoy them. I guess I feel a little awkward in this vibrant fashion genre.

Nonetheless, one would only need to step into a local market to find an eclectic “universe” of dynamic đồ bộ. From U-30, U-40 sisters to older aunties, everybody wears them with ease. They wear đồ bộ with platform slides, crab claw clips, string bags, and, of course, the classic plastic market baskets. Outside market trips, đồ bộ can also be spotted in coffee shops, at the school gate during pickup time, or even during raucous livestreams and trendy TikTok dances filmed hastily in the front yard.

Everybody is embracing đồ bộ with open hearts today, thanks to a slew of modern modifications that have improved upon the designs compared to years ago. My mom says that about a decade ago, đồ bộ was only confined to loose clothing created and worn purely for ease of movement. Nowadays, đồ bộ retailers boast a smorgasbord of styles, from short to mid-length to no sleeves, from lacy trims to heart-shaped necklines. The level of craftsmanship and silhouette diversity have also been improved to be as flattering as possible to wearers of any age.

Perhaps the most welcome improvement was the advent of new materials such as cold spandex. During the peak of the hot season, this cooling fabric provides both lightness and coolness to the skin. Its minimal wrinkling and fast-drying properties are also beneficial for wearers who are busy doing heavy labor all day.

Attending a countryside wedding is a great opportunity for one to witness how the ladies break out their most treasured đồ bộ outfits. Their appeal doesn’t lie in the number of compliments they can solicit, but their ability to stay stylish and put-together even after a whole day cooking and prepping ingredients. Right from the moment the first light of the day arrives, everybody has gathered to help out with wedding preparations: some butcher the poultry, others peel veggies and pick herbs. A while later, those silhouettes move into their position next to the pot of porridge or broth, nimbly seasoning and stirring while sometimes wiping their hands on those very outfits. When the guests arrive, they will be greeted by those đồ bộ, and then the aunties will head back inside to clear the table and wash dishes. It’s probably because the wearers themselves are energetic, whatever they put on will take on the same energy — no frills, no fussiness, just pure countryside dynamism.

Đồ bộ are not confined to the kitchen or the market. They could be cooking up a storm in the morning, and in the afternoon, being cuffed up to wade through water channels and paddy fields. Sometimes you’ll even spot them climbing up towering coconut trees, each movement breezily supported by stretchy elasticity. By the river, they set up fishing nets; during low tide periods, they hunch down in sandy swamps to dredge for clams. Đồ bộ is as resilient as the people who wear them, enduring every kind of harsh weather without complaints.

One time, I was loitering in the kitchen while Mom was making canh chua. Its steam filled the air. I asked, quite randomly: “Mom, why is it called đồ bộ and not đồ bông [floral outfit]?” She was holding a ladle full of hot broth close to her mouth as she blew at it gently to cool it down enough to taste. “What đồ bộ? The one I’m wearing? Well, the top and bottom are cut from the same cloth, so people call it that.” That’s countryside vocabulary for you — everything all started with “that’s just what people say.”

Sometimes I see đồ bộ as miền Tây’s unofficial uniform. From the well-off to laborers in the field, their dressers are bound to feature a few sets. The southern region is too sweltering and humid for stiff formality in daily fashion, or sharp distinctions between clothes to “wear at home” versus “wear outside.” Every day, the same outfit can be worn to cook lunch and sweep the floor in the morning and then to visit a neighbor for some delicious gossip in the afternoon. Is that not yet another piece of evidence of that famous Mekong way of life? Laidback, flexible, and free-spirited.

I have always been curious about the origins of đồ bộ in history. Alas, internet searches and questions to my grandma and mom yielded nothing concrete. The only thing I know for sure is that, since I was little, I have already watched mom tailor her own đồ bộ. She often purchased floral fabrics from the local market and spread them across a spacious wooden plank. A triangle of tailor’s chalk in hand, she sketched the layout and then cut out shapes using a pair of sharp scissors. I was amazed just seeing everything take shape from the sideline. In the evening, after dinner, she would sit down at the table and continue cutting and sewing.

During a time when retailers were rare and making one’s own clothes was more convenient, each đồ bộ was a product of care. Back then, my grandma’s clothing used to be mostly thick cotton in dull colors, usually solid without patterns; living in a period of scarcity meant durability was prioritized over everything else. Bright colors, florals, and patterns only started showing up in my mom’s adulthood — a positive correlation with our society’s better financial situation. Once a set was finished, mom would meticulously fold it to save for grandma or my aunties. Each outfit was treasured like luxury goods.

Over the years, our rustic sewing machine was pushed into a corner of the house, enveloped by a layer of dust. Now, at the market, everything is available for instant purchase without any additional labor involved. Still, no matter how diverse the styles get and how instant shopping has gotten, the gist of đồ bộ remains intact like the early days — a symbol of a timeless sense of practicality and simplicity that has helped endear it to everybody, even in a new era.

The Unifying Presence of Cái Mâm, Vietnam’s Ubiquitous, Familial Food Tray

2026-07-22T10:00:00+07:00

An authentic Vietnamese meal cannot be complete without cái mâm. Mâm, a humble, circular food tray, has conducted generations of Vietnamese into a familial ritual for centuries. Once a mâm is set as the centerpiece, knees begin touching knees until the whole family sits cross-legged in a circle. One person pairs up chopsticks from the bundle and distributes them to fellow diners, while another scoops rice into bowls.

Mâm was first created using wood, usually from jackfruit trees. According to Tuổi Trẻ, former versions were painted crimson and featured intricate patterns to display wealth. At the dawn of the Bronze Age, a new, more durable version appeared, only to be replaced centuries later by its contemporary, aluminum cousin.

Some ethnic minorities utilize other eco-friendly materials for their mâm. In certain areas of northern Vietnam and along the nation’s central coast, men from Thái minorities take pride in the woven cane trays they create, which can last for up to 20 years. During special feasts, Muong minorities line their mâm with lightly scorched banana leaves and arrange regional specialties on leaves to form a colorful platter.

A 1960 silk painting by Nguyễn Phan Chánh. Photo via designs.vn.

Mâm is, therefore, a lens through which one can capture how Vietnamese people eat every day. A minimal checklist includes a serving of seasonal vegetables, a protein dish and a bowl of soup. Each mâm is a round of culinary delights orbiting around a spicy bowl of fish sauce. Indeed, what would a summer meal be without sautéed morning glory, or a winter feast without braised catfish?

The intuitive design of mâm explains its timeless utility. A round tray adorned with food becomes an instant focus for hungry eyes. Its magnetic presence attracts diners around its rim. The round tray has no prominent spot, thus it establishes seating arrangements of unrivaled equality. Diners, regardless of status or age, enter an intimate circle to share stories over plates of food. And yet it is, after all, merely a simple tray for carrying food to and from the kitchen to the dining area.

Now in his 60s, my father believes the communal aspect of mâm grew out of Vietnamese rice-farming culture. After working from cockcrow until noon, his parents and their nine children sustained themselves with only two boiled eggs, some diluted fish sauce and wild greens. He reminisced: “It was fulfilling somehow. We shared whatever was there on the plate.”

Table manners surrounding mâm weave daily interactions into a rhythm. The young show respect to elderly family members, who lightly nod in return. If someone seems too far from any dish, an observant relative will pass chopstick-held food across the mâm. If someone is late for dinner, their portion of food is reserved in a covered dish.

An illustration of a mâm plate adorned with sticky rice cakes, pickles, pork sausage, braised pork belly and stuffed bitter melon. Illustration by Phan Phương.

Like a timepiece without hands, mâm rings a bell of reunion. Its routine presence rushes workers out of offices, out of phone calls, and away from life’s daily hustle to take up their spot in the circle. It would only taste like Tết, however, if everyone makes it in time for the midnight meal.

The connective duty of mâm extends beyond quotidian family tables. Mounted with engagement gifts, mâm turns strangers into in-laws. When resting upon altars, mâm represents an outstretched hand to ancestors.

Yet while mâm is a mediator, it can also act as a form of segregation. Festive gatherings in rural areas still divide mâm trên, a higher rank, from lesser mâm dưới. Only when elders and men in the mâm trên group finish drinking and dining can the women and children in mâm dưới leave the gathering and start washing dishes.

A family of three generations having dinner. Photo by Trang Six.

In urban households, a generational rift manifests itself over mâm. My sister, a sophomore student, says home life stresses her out, and that street food meals are simply more exciting. Her obvious preference is to eat out with friends. This lifestyle choice of my sister and her generation questions the continued relevance of family gatherings.

In public spaces, some are finding ways to reconcile with this new cultural milieu. Modern Vietnamese restaurant owners serve food on mâm as it opens doors for business partners to enter a circle of trust, or for travelers to taste a sample of ‘genuine’ Vietnam in communal homestay dinners.

Across endless decades, mâm has satisfied generations of hungry souls. Bridging relationships one meal at a time, mâm whispers that we are all connected. In this circle of life, we are all a part of something greater than ourselves.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2020.

Kiến Ba Khoang: Not an Ant, but a Harbinger of Dread and Divine Punishment

2026-07-20T11:00:00+07:00

People’s skin erupted with horrific boils that burst open, spilling stinging pus across vicious rashes. According to the Christian Bible, along with water turning to blood, frogs, lice, gnats, diseased livestock, hail, locusts, darkness for three days and the killing of firstborn sons, the boils were one of the plagues God sent down to ancient Egyptians to compel them to free the Israelites.

Some researchers have different explanations for these seemingly divine punishments, however. A known volcanic eruption at the time or a natural algae bloom could have upset the ecological balance in Egypt’s waterways, causing frogs to flee rivers and lakes and die en masse, which would have left insects without predators and an overwhelming supply of rotting meat to feast upon. One such decomposition-loving bug just happens to cause horribly painful blisters: members of the Paederus genus, commonly known as rove beetles, or kiến ba khoang.

Of all the living things people are afraid of, kiến ba khoang may be the smallest. Hardly larger than a grain of rice, the sight of one scurrying across the room not only causes a person to leap away in fright, but also subsumes one with the fear that there may be more lurking unseen. And it’s the beetles you don’t see that you need to worry about.

The agonizing large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting, but a bacteria-produced toxin in their body called pederin.

The agonizingly painful and astonishingly large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting. Rather, a bacteria-produced toxin called pederin courses through the flesh of females, or males that eat their eggs. As it’s more powerful than cobra venom and perhaps the strongest toxin in the animal kingdom, coming into contact with it — by crushing the insect, or brushing against one, which causes the animal to secrete the pederin — results in the condition known as paederus dermatitis. Anyone who has had the misfortune of experiencing this likely did so without first realizing it, often instinctively flicking at a tickle on one’s arm, leg or face in sleep.

While they are beetles, many people refer to rove beetles as kiến (ant), which makes sense given how many members of the genus resemble the unrelated insects. Rove beetles evolved hundreds of millions of years ago, and some species took to sneaking into ant or termite colonies to eat. But why break in, if you can be invited in? If you can camouflage as a member of the army, you get all the easy food and safety you need. Thus, over millennia, their bodies evolved to more closely resemble ants, and they even developed the ability to emit the same aromas.

In Vietnam, apartment buildings, neighborhoods and even entire cities occasionally experience an outbreak of rove beetles. Pesticide use and deforestation have pushed the insects from their normal woody homes into residential areas, particularly during the rainy season. Drawn to light, they end up in houses, where they are inadvertently squished. During such infestations, thousands of people end up seeking medical treatment for the chemical burns. Even if you haven’t experienced it, you have no doubt heard enough about it to dread finding one of the bugs in your home.

And yet, there is a lot to love about the rove beetle. As with all animals that humans consider “evil” or “villainous,” rove beetles are simply acting according to their nature, as constructed through the merciless machinations of ecological checks and balances. And the toxins they contain have nothing to do with humans, but are the result of millions of years of natural selection before we even existed to repel the spiders that preyed upon them.

Ironically, they probably help us more than they hurt us, because they are critical in pest control, as their main diet is smaller insects that typically threaten crops, as well as mosquitos and other household nuisances. It is only when we started spraying fields with pesticides and chopping down forests that they were forced to migrate to urban environments. Truly, rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Moreover, parents could look to rove beetles as an important teaching tool similar to tales of the boogeyman. Lured to illumination, at night they often invade homes that have lamps on inside. Such energy consumption not only increases electricity bills, but contributes to pollution. So parents would be wise to tell their children, “you better turn off that light, or the rove beetles will sting you while you sleep.” Even if leaving a lamp on only slightly raises the risk of accidentally developing their dreaded rash, this would be an effective means of encouraging responsible energy use.

The medical community has recently begun experimenting with pederin as an effective cancer treatment, as well. While significantly more studies are required, in the future, tumor-eliminating drugs that save you or your loved ones may be concocted with the main chemical found in rove beetle toxins. So even if you do not care about preserving the environment for its own sake, remember that every species lost or forest destroyed is a potentially life-saving substance gone.

On the flip side, if you care about taking life, as opposed to saving it, the rove beetle might be of interest to you as well. It is believed that ancient Indians relied on their crushed bodies to make a powerful poison. While it is extremely rare to accidentally ingest a rove beetle, doing so could have serious implications. I have found no modern accounts of this being done as a means of assassination, though I would imagine there is potential. Of course, Saigoneer is not advocating murder, but if one were to do it, slipping concentrated rove beetle powder in someone’s cà phê sữa đá may be the way to go; it's not like any medical examiners will be expecting it.

There is no domestic or international lobby focused on rehabilitating the reputation of the rove beetle and, because it is a bug, it cannot do this on its own. If one agrees with the need to improve the perceived value of the rove beetle based on all of the reasons offered above, however, I can think of numerous means.

Conservation agencies could, of course, adopt them as a mascot, given they are a symbol of what happens when we muck around with the environment. Might a fashion brand release a jewelry line featuring glass vials containing live kiến ba khoang catering to “edgy” consumers?

A much slicker way, I think, would be to create a popular comic or television program with the rove beetle as the starring character. She could have a goofy potato bug as a sidekick, an evil spider as an arch-nemesis. There would be schemes, shenanigans, and hijinks. Perhaps the rove beetle works as a delivery driver and gets into wacky mishaps with mismanaged orders, or maybe she is a detective tasked with exposing a forgery ring dedicated to duplicating priceless Nguyễn-dynasty artifacts; just spit-balling here.

Graphics by Phan Nhi, Hannah Hoàng, Simona Nguyễn.
Animation by Simona Nguyễn, Phan Nhi.

Nguyễn Đổng Chi's Classic Retelling of Vietnam's Fairy Tales, Now in English

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

Folklorist and anthropologist Nguyễn Đổng Chi dedicated decades to weaving a significant portion of Vietnam’s folklore tapestry. He collected, researched, and rewrote over 200 Vietnamese folktales from all corners of the country. His work, initially scattered across five volumes published individually and consecutively over 25 years, appeared as a complete anthology in 1982. Guided by a comprehensive treatise of Vietnamese folktale, Chi’s Kho tàng truyện cổ tích Việt Nam (Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales) might be daunting for readers drawn to Vietnamese folklore but disenchanted by rigorous academic discourse.

Major Books’ Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1, released in March 2026, offers a condensed and curated version of Chi’s seminal work in English. For the first time, international readers can indulge in his version of 11 classic Vietnamese tales. Readers might uncover a new appreciation for familiar tales, such as ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh’ (Sơn Tinh Thủy Tinh), ‘The Tale of the Betel, Areca, and Slaked Lime’ (Sự Tích Trầu Cau), and the infamous ‘Tấm Cám,’ widely known as the Vietnamese equivalent of Cinderella; or discover new stories about ancient customs. This edition, focused on presenting the folktales to amuse and delight, is ornamented by Jeet ZDũng’s illustrations. Inspired by Vietnamese artisans, ZDũng’s visual interpretations are as playful, textured, and immersive as the tales they bring to life.

Fairy tales and the women in them

Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1 is an ambitious project. It promises multifaceted Vietnamese female characters, and to honor Vietnamese cultural heritage through Vietnamese storytelling traditions. Offering glimpses of our culture through short, punchy, and surprisingly funny tales, it appeals to readers with varying expectations. Love stories, rivalries, happy endings, tales of revenge, historical legends, animals, deities and Vietnamese customs: this compilation truly has something for everyone to enjoy. It fulfills its promises through whimsical visual elements, subtly thought-provoking stories, and skillfully translated folk rhymes that sound as catchy as the original Vietnamese versions of my childhood.

Inside front cover

Mother Liễu Hạnh watching corrupt male travelers from above

Initially, I struggled to reconcile the anthology’s bold claim to spotlight “the women of Vietnamese folklore—not damsels in distress, but as heroes, tricksters, warriors, and sometimes even villains,” with its opening title, ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh.’ The tale is a classic: two men, in this case, the Mountain God (Sơn Tinh) and the Sea God (Thuỷ Tinh), battle for the hand of Mị Nương, the daughter of Hùng Vương. While the two gods wreak havoc on the villages, the princess disappears from the narrative. How can an absent female character be even remotely layered and complex? This contradiction perplexed me, but ultimately had a useful effect. Unable to find Mị Nương in her own love story, I diligently searched for women in subsequent tales and kept them at the forefront of my mind as I read. Perhaps this was the anthology’s goal all along: to make readers consider women in every story, making us focus on their presence or lack thereof.

Sơn Tinh and Thủy Tinh

As promised, the collection offers autonomous female characters with colorful personalities over its 10 remaining tales. ‘Mother Liễu Hạnh’ is a fun and empowering story that follows a woman who does what she wants — and gets away with it splendidly. The Jade Emperor banishes his unruly daughter Liễu Hạnh from Heaven. In the mortal realm, she becomes famous for her beauty and the merciless pranks she plays on corrupt male travelers. One such traveler, the Crown Prince, tempted by Liễu Hạnh’s mythical beauty, plans to visit the tavern and kidnap her. Acting mostly in self-defense and self-entertainment, Liễu Hạnh transforms into a peach tree. As he prepares to bite into the irresistibly “ripe, round peach sagged from a low branch,” she turns it into disgusting maggots before vanishing into thin air. I giggled at this seemingly random act of punishment all while acknowledging its creativity — turning oneself into a rotting peach sure is an unusual way of chasing away unwanted suitors. This supernatural fruit seasoned a tale of reversed gender and power dynamics with a healthy dose of whimsy.

Love stories, rivalries, happy endings, tales of revenge, historical legends, animals, deities and Vietnamese customs: this compilation truly has something for everyone to enjoy.

In ‘Tấm Cám,’ we follow Tấm through her death and subsequent reincarnations. Her final transformation into a magical golden fruit, quả thị, discreetly raises an interesting discussion on domesticity and female autonomy. One day, an elderly woman comes across the lonesome fruit; unaware of Tấm’s residence within it, she brings the fruit home. Every day, as soon as the woman leaves for work, a tiny Tấm emerges from the fruit, grows back to her default size, cooks, cleans, then climbs back into her refuge. But surely such mystical potential would inspire more adventurous quests than housework? The spilling of fantasy into daily domestic life is very characteristic of Vietnamese folk tales, as Nguyễn Đổng Chi observed. Though Tấm’s confinement to domestic duties can be read as an affirmation of traditional gender roles and gendered division of labor, I find that quả thị nonetheless symbolizes a renewal, or a new life for Tấm. She enters a domestic space that strictly excludes her abusive stepmother and sister.

Shimmering art direction

As readers navigate the multitude of worlds contained in Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales, Jeet ZDũng’s textured artworks transform each page into an immersive reading experience. Visually, the book opens into a universe of its own: shimmering gold fonts and deep, dark, jewel-toned illustrations in gold frames jumping out of crimson pages pull you into a regal world of ancient magic — flipping through the pages, I felt like a lost kid who had accidentally stumbled upon an old relic locked away and accumulating dust

Inspired by “Vietnamese sculpture, lacquerware, ceramics, and folk paintings,” Jeet ZDũng brings each folktale to life through diverse and textured illustrations. The illustrations are contained in geometrically irregular boxes and fun shapes that resemble fragments of crystal or puzzle pieces. For instance, his depictions of the Sea God and the Mountain God blend sharp and rounded shapes, as well as warm and cold colors, creating intense contrast that feels fitting for a mythical clash

Tấm and the giant, golden thị

ZDũng imagines many scenes in black and gold, occasionally adding muted colors. Such drawings add allure to tales that many already know, prompting readers to visualize old stories in new shapes and shades. In ‘Tấm Cám,’ the luminous quả thị glitters against a black background — the humble fruit looks more luxurious than I have ever imagined. This melancholic mood further mythologizes the fruit, corresponding nicely with the importance of this golden symbol.

Constrastingly, ZDũng’s illustrations can also be bright, bold, and colorful. His version of the betel leaf, areca nut and slaked lime stands out against the anthology’s generally somber visuals. The neon-green heart-shaped leaf against a bright red square with a gold frame is simple but effective in evoking that childish wonder so crucial to one’s enjoyment of fairy tales.

The betel lead, areca nut and slaked lime

The fisherman in “The Water God’s Daughter Is In Love With The Fisherman”

Meanwhile, the drawing of tall turquoise scallions sprouting between and over two tiny dancing characters playfully introduces the tale ‘Who Will Buy My Scallions? Or The Magic Potion.’ A few pages later, one cannot help but smile at and let their attention linger on the sight of one tiny, compact man carrying these same giant scallions before two other tiny, compact characters.

Familiar stories, with a little something new

As a Vietnamese reader who primarily reads in English and is on a quest to refamiliarize herself with Vietnamese literature, I was delighted by this anthology’s ability to not only preserve, but add to, the wit and humor of the tales I grew up loving. An example is the humorously concise final sentences that condense entire legends in curiously straightforward terms in most of the tales. In ‘The Battle Between Sơn Tinh and Thuỷ Tinh,’ the final line casually unmasks the turbulent and tedious romantic rivalry as the origin of Vietnamese monsoon season: “This time of year, when the two gods clash, is known as the monsoon season.”

‘Who Will Buy My Scallions? Or The Magic Potion.’

This brief addition of crucial information abruptly de-dramatizes the genesis of monsoon season as common knowledge. ‘The Tale of the Betel, Areca, and Slaked Lime’ is summarized in a similar punchline that reads as an afterthought: “And that is why Vietnamese people have the custom of chewing betel.” In ‘Tale of the Sand Crab,’ readers are briefly told that the protagonist “turned into a sand crab which rolled sand into little balls to fill up the sea day in and day out” after his death. We are given only a brief second to make sense of this ending before the narrative concludes on oddly placed fun fact about an entirely different animal from the story — geese:

“The lore goes that geese do not eat shrimp because they are grateful of the latter’s sacrifice on their ancestors’ behalf in the olden days. They also say that geese have a white crest on their heads as a sign of mourning for Dã Tràng and their gratitude for him having saved their lives.”

I was also amused by the straightforward translations of rhymes that make this edition’s ‘Tấm Cám’ particularly enjoyable. I expected lyrical verses that match the grandiose character of fairy tales, but the tea vendor’s sing-songy imploration, in simple monosyllabic English, is as catchy as I remembered it in Vietnamese. Tấm, reincarnated as various entities, delivers her fair share of rhymes to her stepsister who has replaced her as the Prince’s wife.

Catching Cám doing the Prince’s laundry, Tấm, as a golden bird, sings “You dry his dresses, dry with poles; don’t dry on hedges, you’ll rip holes.” This uncomplicated translation, which does not over-poeticize rhymes with which many Vietnamese children grew up, does a nice job at emulating the original Vietnamese verses. My favorite rhyme of the anthology must be Tấm’s final threat to Cám, which she utters as a loom: “Crock-a-crock-et, / You take my husband, / I’ll gouge your socket.’” The effective use of onomatopoeia sent shivers down my spine; it's as frightening in English as it was in Vietnamese when I heard my mom say it to me at bedtime over a decade ago.

Unlike Nguyễn Đổng Chi’s original anthology, which meticulously records, analyzes and categorizes Vietnamese folklore as a genre, Major Books’ Treasury of Vietnamese Folk Tales: Volume 1 builds a whimsical and beautifully illustrated world that is accessible to various kinds of readers who, like me, might find their expectations met in surprising ways. These 11 short stories might not provide elaborate explanations of Vietnamese customs, or underscore the historical significance of certain legends and myths, but they make for a perfectly delightful introduction to the intricate tapestry of Vietnamese folklore. Subtly informative, this collection blends knowledge of Vietnamese culture into an entertaining mix of mundane and epic moments, whilst making sure that rhymes and essences are not lost in translation.

Illustrations by Jeet ZDũng, courtesy of Major Books.