Exploring Saigon and Beyond - Saigoneer

The Saigon House That Swapped Its Front Door for a Moat

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

Does a house need walls?

That's not a rhetorical question. And the answer is no. This Saigon house, designed by CTA Creative Architects, lacks a single door frame, making use of elevation shifts and natural elements to separate rooms and signify disparate spaces.

Constructed as a second home next to the owner's main dwelling, it is situated in a typical city area which presents familiar problems of space, light and airflow. The architects responded to the challenges by rejecting urban topographies and elements, instead embracing free-flowing movement more frequently associated with the countryside.

The home's most overt departure from norms is seen in its lack of doors, including one's absence at a front entrance. Instead, between the street front and the home's entry with garage rests a fish-filled body of water that could rightly be called a moat, were one keen on calling to mind a castle. No drawbridge exists; however, the stepping stones across the water are easily navigated. A fence in the front and a vegetable garden at the rear provide security and shield from noise and leering eyes, while the far-reaching roof slopes low over the front and back to provide shade. The bathroom doesn't even have a door, with the floor plan relying on hallways and angles to provide privacy.

In addition to the garden at the rear and row of vegetation between the front fence and pond, patches of plants occupy various points throughout the home. The greenery serves to separate the activities in the house: a quiet zone for working and relaxing in a jacuzzi in the rear and a more active front area consisting of the kitchen and living room. Sleeping quarters are tucked off to the side.

The lack of front and back walls allows for ample airflow and natural light, which is enhanced thanks to a central skylight. Z-shaped louvers beneath the glass draw warm air up out of the home while allowing in fresh light for the plants and people below. Carefully constructed mesh casts captivating shadows throughout the interior. The sense of nature's intrusion on the domestic sphere is further established via the rustic building materials which include exposed stone, brick and wood and overall warm, muted tones.

Young people today fantasize about finally owning a set of keys to their own home, but perhaps really making it means owning a home that doesn't even have a door to unlock.

Take a peek at more photos and the floor plan of this envy-worthy abode below:

Photos by Hiroyuki Oki via ArchDaily.

A Brief History of Saigon's Art Deco Eye Hospital, Formerly the Clinique Saint-Paul

2026-09-03T11:00:00+07:00

For those condemned to a long daily commute along that busiest of city arteries, Điện Biên Phủ Street, the clean, elegant lines of the Hồ Chí Minh City Eye Hospital offer a refreshing contrast to the surrounding urban clutter. The compound was formerly known as Clinique Saint-Paul, so many older Saigoneers still refer to it by the name Bệnh viện Xanh-Pôn.

Funded and operated by the Sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres, the Clinique Saint-Paul was built in 1936–1937 at the junction of rue Legrand de la Liraye and rue Pierre Flandin (modern Điện Biên Phủ and Bà Huyện Thanh Quan streets) to replace their earlier Clinique du Docteur Angier (1908), which had stood at 1 rue Docteur Angier (now Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm street), immediately behind the St Paul’s Convent.

The Clinique Saint-Paul pictured in the early 1950s.

The new Clinique was built by the Société Indochinoise d’Études et de Constructions (SIDEC), one of the leading construction companies in the colony, which was also responsible for the Tân Định Market as well as numerous other civic works in Cambodia.

The Clinique was designed by distinguished Saigon-based architect Louis Chauchon (1878–1945), whose other major works include the Public Library (now the National Library of Cambodia, 1924), the Psah Thmey Central Market (1937) and the Palais du Commissariat de France (1938) in Phnom Penh and the Pavillon de la Cité Universitaire in Hà Nội (1942).

The south and central wings of the former Clinique Saint-Paul. Photo by Tim Doling.

According to the Echo Annamite newspaper, the Clinique was inaugurated on December 19, 1938 in the presence of Cochinchina Governor André Georges Rivoal and several other local dignitaries. Its Director, Dr Roton, treated them to a tour of the state-of-the-art facilities which “made a great impression on the visitors.”

Functional yet elegant, the Clinique is noteworthy for its stylish fusion of art deco curves and traditional four-panel roofs. Truly a sight for sore eyes.

Top image via Wikimedia.

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

But What Even Is an Expat: Unpacking the Highly Contentious Term, in Vietnam and Abroad

2026-09-02T14:00:00+07:00

“Expat is a racist as hell term” — this is the take of Misan Harriman on the popular internet show SubwayTakes. The reasoning goes that the term expat, short for expatriate, is racist because it is applied to migrants unevenly. Along this line, Mawuna Remarque Koutonin writes in Silicon Africa: “Africans are immigrants. Arabs are immigrants. Asians are immigrants. However, Europeans are expats because they can’t be at the same level as other ethnicities. They are superior. Immigrants is a term set aside for ‘inferior races.’”

The argument goes that “expat” is designated for white Europeans and westerners and carries a certain kind of prestige and privilege that is made inaccessible to other peoples who are labelled “immigrants.” Similar sentiments can be found surrounding the recent controversy of a Bali-based, Dutch-run run club’s alleged discrimination against locals. As one Instagram comment on an Al Jazeera post reads, “They are not expatriate[s]. They are immigrants. Please don't label people of color as immigrants and call white people as an expatriate.” Or, as Fred Wissenk remarks closer to home in Vietcetera (though he appears to suggest we call all foreigners expats), “If you’re white, people automatically label you as an expat. I disagree with that.”

The Bali run club that allegedly discriminated against locals. Photo via The Guardian.

Yet, to accuse the term expat of racism is much too reductive and obscures nuance, for the simple reason that there exist plenty of non-white expats who are labelled or identify as such. Thus, the assumption that expats are white may itself constitute a kind of whitewashing, not just of the present but also of the past, overlooking, for instance, the history of South Asian expatriates in East Africa whom the British brought for colonial civil service positions. More broadly, it is also worth questioning whether words can ever be inherently racist, for the meaning and significance of words inevitably vary with context. This is to say, of course the term expat can be racist when wielded in racist ways — for instance, when one calls a white person an expat and an Arab person an immigrant, even when they occupy similar class positions and professions — but cannot be seen as an inherently racist term for the fact that “expat” denotes no single stable type of migrant, its use, meaning, and scope dependent on context and geography.

Defining the expat

Indeed, the expat is a notoriously slippery term, not only because there exist discrepancies between formal definitions of the term and everyday usage, but also between those who identify as versus those who are labelled as expats. So, what even is an expat? How should we understand the category in Vietnam? And what distinguishes an expat from an immigrant or a migrant? The Cambridge Dictionary offers the following definitions.

Expatriate: “someone who does not live in their own country”
Immigrant: “a person who has come to a different country in order to live there permanently”
Migrant: “a person that travels to a different country or place, often in order to find work”

Firstly, what differentiates the expatriate from the migrant is that expats move across countries, while the movement of migrants may be either inter- or intra-national. “Migrant” is thus treated as the broadest migration category, hence why academic literature will describe the expatriate as a type of migrant. Yet, in practice, expatriates are often considered not as a subset of migrants, but rather a category separate from migrants, as is made evident when a Việt Nam News columnist follows up his use of the word “migrants” with the parenthetical comment, “sorry, ‘expats,’ this is you.”

On the other hand, the primary differentiating factor between expats and immigrants is presented as the intention of the duration of stay. An immigrant intends permanent residence, while duration of stay is undetermined and unspecified for expats. Yet, common and practical usage of the term, both within general publics and in academia, deviates substantially from such definitions — most often, what is meant by expats are none other than “rich, educated, developed elites,” whereas all other migrants are seen as immigrants. Still, even this definition appears to be imperfect, for as Sarah Kunz explains in her book Expatriate: Following a Migration Category — which has been indispensable in writing this article — those who are labelled and/or identify as expats often vary significantly in socioeconomic class, whose professions range from “diplomats and CEOs, to English teachers, humanitarian volunteers, yoga teachers and unpaid interns further down the socio-economic ladder.” Kunz describes of the expats she met during her fieldwork in Nairobi: “some lived luxurious lives while others barely made ends meet, and yet others relied on support from families ‘back home.’”

A foreign teacher in Hanoi. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

To complicate things further, there is also the fact that the equivalent to the term “expatriate” often does not exist in other languages. For instance, an equivalent to the term “expat” does not really exist in Vietnamese. Arguably, the closest substitutes that exist are “người nước ngoài,” which simply means foreigner, or “người tây,” meaning westerner — though we should note that there also exists a term for migrants, “người di cư.” Neither does a translation for expat exist in Korean: expats residing in Korea are commonly referred to as “oekuk-saram,” which again simply means foreigner. While the French cognate expatrié or expatriée has similar connotations to English, the dominant meaning of the Spanish cognate expatriado or expatriada is one of exile, or those banished from their home country — which is in fact what “expatriate” denoted prior to the 20^th century in English as well.

But even within the English language, the term does not travel the same across geographies. For instance, in the US, one notices that the term expat is rarely used, for which there may be two reasons: one, the country’s dominant narrative of itself as a “land of immigrants,” and two, the fact that the US is much harder to simply come into and stay in the way that many expats do in other countries. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are the Gulf states, where all foreign workers, ranging from the heavily exploited construction workers to high-ranking corporate managers, are called expats — arguably in order to restrict a sense of belonging for non-citizens who make up significant portions, or even a majority, of the population. As for Vietnam, it seems that distinctions between expats and immigrants are rarely made — though as we will see, this does not mean that the expat functions neutrally in Vietnam either.

Workers in Dubai. Photo via The New York Times.

Because of the term’s polysemy, to call “expat” inherently racist is rather reductive. Alternatively, a better way to understand the category is not as racist per se, but as racialized. To expand upon the notion of racialization, there is an important distinction to be made between describing a concept as racist versus racialized. An imperfect but useful example to think about is that of the concept of the human. Certainly, the human is a racialized concept. Here, we might think about how Leonardo Da Vinci’s drawing, ‘Vitruvian Man’ — which depicts a white, male, able-bodied person — is often invoked as the “classical ideal” or “universal model” of “Man.” And it is, of course, furthermore true that the concept of human is deeply intertwined with racist histories of violence and subjugation in which various colonized peoples were, and continue to be, denied the label of human as rationalization for such violence. But does that mean the concept of the human is itself racist? Debatable, but I think that most people would argue no. It may be useful to think about the term expat along similar lines: not racist per se, but racialized, normatively white — as well as, we should add, classed (obviously) and gendered (as evident in the fact that an “expat wife” is often not herself referred to as simply an “expat”).

A brief history of the expat

The racialized nature of the expat is rooted in the history of empire and capital of the 20^th century that have shaped the category. We may understand the historical development of the expat in the 20^th century through three paradigms. To start, there was first the colonial expatriate, the likes of British colonial officers in India — or, as Anne-Meike Fetcher more vividly caricatures, “the British gentlemen who, after prolonged exposure to the tropical climates of South or South East Asia, suffer from world-weariness, alienation and alcoholism, as they are portrayed in the novels and short stories of Anthony Burgess, Joseph Conrad and Somerset Maugham.”

Servants around a British general and his guests in Bangalore. Photo via The New Statesman.

But with the wave of successful anti-colonial movements that swept the formerly colonized worlds following the end of World War II, expats came to mean something different. With the fall of European colonial empires rose to power a new global empire, namely that of the US, which dominated and shaped the world through both military and economic dominance. And central to the ascent of the US empire was the rise of US multinational corporations (MNCs), which emerged as powerful actors in the international political economy through their control of the flow of foreign direct investments. The rapid growth of US MNCs increased demand for a “new breed” of expatriate workers that would soon replace their European colonial predecessors: that is, the intracompany assignee transferred abroad for temporary periods of time for purposes of overseas management of operations.

Following the shift from the colonial expatriate to the corporate expatriate, the emergence of the next new model of the expat came in the 1980s and 1990s with the advent of neoliberalism, characterized by, in big-picture terms, minimal government intervention domestically and globalization and free trade internationally — the defining outcomes of which have included worsened inequality, decimation of the public, cuts in welfare, deregulation of worker protections, and the atomization of individuals.

In Vietnam, the neoliberal turn took shape in the form of Đổi Mới, which opened the country up to foreigners. As a precursor to the third type of expat that would follow the corporate expat, it is illuminating to take a look at the example of the multinational oil company Shell and the corporate restructuring they pursued in the 1990s. As Kunz details, with the neoliberal turn, Shell expats “got increased ‘choice’ and ‘flexibility’ but also found themselves more precarious and unequal. Payment structures were increasingly tied to individualised performance, implying greater inequality among expatriates and an emphasis on competition instead of the harmony thus far nurtured and expected.” While since at least the 1950s Shell expats understood themselves as part of and embedded within a larger “Shell family,” in the 1990s, the “company man” was re-fashioned into “individualised and disembedded global ‘expatriates’” — or in other words, neoliberal subjects.

Travel writer Mark Hudson and his friends at the Majestic Hotel in 1992. Photo via Saigoneer.

The new individualized, global expat was to be an early harbinger of the rise of what academics call the “self-initiated expatriate” (SIE) — a globally mobile worker who moves abroad without necessarily being told to, often highly-skilled. This includes, of course, the “digital nomad”-type professional, as well as English-language teachers, travel influencers, freelancers, and more. To clarify, SIEs did not replace corporate expatriates per se, who of course still exist — rather, they displaced the corporate expatriate as the dominant model evoked by the term “expat.” In many ways, SIEs are fundamentally neoliberal subjects in their reproduction of neoliberal ideology, in that their espousal of an international lifestyle often masks and obscures the fact that the feasibility of such internationality is itself ordered in uneven ways globally — dependent on, say, the strength of one’s passport or the feasibility of navigating borders and immigration systems, in addition to access to capital. As Kunz poignantly writes, “The self-styled international person, who possibly even rejects the label expatriate, in their performance of a celebratory and ‘border-blind’ internationalism… arguably has the markers of a tragic figure that is possibly well-intentioned yet hubristic, invested in rereading structural privilege as individual achievement.”

A view of Thảo Điền, a hub for expats in Saigon. Photo via Vinhomes.

Despite the association of the SIE with internationality and thus diversity, the SIE arguably remains racialized as white. For Kunz, this seeming contradiction must be understood via neoliberal ideology. Specifically, she suggests that the category’s “conceptual multiplicity and malleability” — its inclusion of “contingent insiders” of other backgrounds — helps to mask its largely racialized nature and in maintaining “a guise of a borderless internationality” that is in reality asymmetrically structured by persisting colonial and neocolonial relations, as much as the project of neoliberal globalization would want to have us believe otherwise. It is for this reason that criticism of the term expat as designated for white people is so common, despite the fact that non-white expats exist. From this view, the logic of (select) inclusivity of the category of the expat functions in the same way that the neoliberal celebration of “multiculturalism” and “DEI” by corporations functions to mask and obscure the violently racial nature of racial capitalism on a global scale.

The expat in Vietnam

The broad picture of the historical development of the expat from colonial to corporate to self-initiated expats offers a compelling account of the historically racialized nature of the expat, at least globally. But in Vietnam, the expat cannot be seen as racialized straightforwardly as white, given the significant population of East Asian expats. In fact, in 2025, a majority of the country’s officially counted international workforce — which, granted, is not the same as the population of expats, but is nonetheless illuminating — were from either China, South Korea, or Japan. Very tellingly, a Vietcetera article titled “Expats’ View On Working In Vietnam” features six expats, at least five of whom are not white, whose professions range from managers to yoga and ESL instructors.

The opening ceremony of a Coca-Cola manufacturing plant in Hà Tây Province (now Hanoi) in August 1995. Coca-Cola is one of the earliest American MNCs to arrive in Vietnam following Đổi Mới. Photo by Hoàng Đình Nam via Instagram page @tonkin.jpg.

Yet, this does not mean that the expat in Vietnam is unracialized — it is more so that different types of expats are racialized differently. Here, it is useful to contrast the article cited above with another series of expat profiles, “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City.” While the former features majority Asian expats, the latter features overwhelmingly “western” expats. It is no coincidence that the article that features majority Asian expats focuses on the topic of work, while the profiles that feature majority western expats focus more broadly on the expat experience and lifestyle. This is because, in Vietnam, the two archetypes of “business” expats and “lifestyle” expats are “racialized” differently, as (East) Asian and Western respectively.

As one study of Korean expats in Saigon notes, interviewees often referred to their stay in Vietnam as “a long-term business trip” — which runs counter to what we might expect of “western” expats, by contrast. Thus, it is not exactly that race is irrelevant to the category of expat in Vietnam, but rather that the logic of race operates differently and unevenly, given the huge proportion of FDI from other Asian nations like Korea, Singapore, China, and thus the business-skewed orientation of Asian expats. The so-called “expat community” in Vietnam is thus in fact not singular — as Fred Wissink, the producer of the “Expats In Ho Chi Minh City” series writes of Korean expats, “they’re very closed off. It’s a 100,000-person strong community, but they’re all in District 7… They have their own group and don’t have to deviate outside of it to do business or live comfortably. Outside of the Korean community, there’s an estimated 50,000 expats in Saigon.” In line with our comments above, what we find here also is a kind of inter-expat stereotyping, for of course it is not true that “all” Korean expats live in District 7 nor live secluded from the rest of the city.

View of Phú Mỹ Hưng, often referred to as Saigon’s Koreatown. Photo via VnExpress.

While it may initially seem like, in Vietnam, the term expat is inclusive of all foreigners, two examples make clear that the expat by no means operates as an innocent category in Vietnam either. There are two instances that make this evidently clear.

Firstly, while it is true that the country has long been a country that has exported rather than imported “unskilled” labor, there still exists a notable population of manual laborers from abroad, specifically, from China. As anthropologist Nguyễn Văn Chính explains, while it is unclear what percentage of 33,000 Chinese contracted laborers in Vietnam are manual workers, it is commonplace for Chinese contractors in northern Vietnam to hire workers from China for several reasons, including ease of communication in Chinese and the relative ease of mobilizing workers from cities just across Vietnam’s northern border. Most of these laborers work illegally on short-term contracts, usually between three months to a year, though some stay up to ten years. Surely, according to dictionary definitions, most of these migrant workers should be considered not as immigrants but rather expats. Yet, at several moments in his study, Chính refers to them as “immigrants” — very telling moments of how “expat” remains a category both racialized and classed.

As much as 90% of thermal power plants in Vietnam are built by Chinese contractors. Photo via UNDP.

Our second example concerns the most prominently covered naturalization of a migrant in Vietnam in the media: specifically, the story of Kenneth Atkinson, a British entrepreneur, who, after three decades of living in Vietnam, finally naturalized to become a Vietnamese citizen in 2025. Interestingly, the media coverage of his naturalization on Tuổi Trẻ and VnExpress does not once mention words like “immigrant” or “immigration.” The former is in fact categorized under the “Expat Life” column and the latter article is tagged with various tags containing the word “expat.” With respect to both Kenneth Atkinson and Chinese manual laborers, the point isn’t that the former is an expat and the latter are immigrants, but to point out “edge” cases in which the terms are not in fact wielded neutrally.

Naturalized citizen Kenneth Atkinson at the launch of his memoir in September 2025. Photo via VnExpress.

At the end of the day, popular discourse around expats and racism tends to be reductive and obscures a more nuanced understanding of the phenomenon of “expats.” But even with a more nuanced understanding of the category, I think that there is a strong case to be made for the abandonment of the term altogether, given how confused and confusing the term remains. In opposition to abandoning the term, some may feel that the term “expat” may still be salvageable if used as a category to identify those who already possess a certain level of privilege. Yet, the problem with such a proposal is that what is intended as identification of privilege may in reality inadvertently constitute bestowal and/or reproduction of privilege and status, especially given that it is rarely possible to determine someone’s “level” of privilege in any straightforward way. Given this mess, it may be best that we abandon using the term altogether.

The Enigmatic Neon-Lit World in the Mist of Sapa

2026-08-31T09:00:00+07:00

Is there a more atmospheric place in Vietnam than Sapa on a misty night?

Sapa needs no introduction. It is one of the country’s most popular tourist destinations thanks to its promise of breathtaking treks among rice terraces, traditional villages and colorful markets.

It is also often synonymous with the thick fog that frequently covers the mountainous town and its surroundings. Unwelcomed by travelers eager for endless landscapes, the mist wraps the city in an otherworldly atmosphere at the end of the day.

Take a walk around Sapa on a moody, low-visibility evening below.

The mist has consumed almost everything in sight.

The fog adds an eerie cyberpunk hue to central Sapa.

Contrasting styles of light.

People are little more than dark silhouettes.

Views similar to trying to recall a dream after waking.

Umbrellas and phones keep passersby dry and entertained.

If all color was drained from it, perhaps this is what the world would look like.

Ngõ Nooks: On Hàng Bài, Golden Bún Cá Thái Bình in a Hole in the Wall

2026-08-28T10:00:00+07:00

When a friend of mine returned home after living abroad last year, he longed for a bowl of bún cá. I suggested the classic Hanoi dish, with satisfyingly oily deep-fried fish, but he had other ideas — a fresh feast originally from Thai Binh, located almost 100 kilometers from the capital.

We ventured to a narrow, lively alleyway close to Tràng Tiền Plaza. The restaurant is in a dimly lit room in a crumbling old colonial house. I noticed bowls of pickled bamboo shoots on the tables which, it turns out, are prepared specifically to go with the bún cá they serve. That point alone marks a clear departure from the dish’s Hanoian cousin.

When my bowl arrived, I saw how the broth barely covered the bún in my bowl. The noodles were also thicker — more akin to those served with bún bò giò heo — and the soup had a distinctive taste formed from fish stock and a hint of sour tomato. But what really topped it off was the meaty chunks of richly hued snakehead fish.

The fish held firm between my chopsticks yet, as soon as it entered my mouth, its tender flakes fell apart gorgeously. Later, I was told that these plump and juicy pieces were carefully picked from prime cuts and, to achieve their burnt orange color, they were braised in a rich mix of turmeric and cashew powder.

Feasting merely on fish and noodles can be a tad heavy; thankfully they are served with steamed seasonal vegetables such as morning glory, celery or water mimosa (rau rút) to add freshness. And if that wasn't enough, the aforementioned tangy bamboo shoots easily balance out the heartiness of the bowl.

If I had come by a little later in the day, closer to noon, they would have been serving pork rinds with each meal. These crunchy, fatty, deep-fried snacks are a favorite among office workers who regularly swing by.

The restaurant’s owner was born in Thái Bình City but moved to Hanoi years ago. She tried and failed to sell general household goods before eventually offering customers her hometown’s celebrated noodle soup. Initially, only those familiar with the dish came by, but word gradually spread, and these days her restaurant is always brimming at meal times.

To sum up:

Opening time: 7am–8pm
Parking: If you come by motorbike and are unsure of where to park in the tiny lane, keep heading straight past the shop and you’ll see a big yard used by the community there. Parking is free.
Contact: 0989310749
Average cost per person: $ (under VND100,000)
Payment: Cash, Transfer
Delivery App: ShopeeFood

Hà Tạ absolutely loves food and dreams of selling noodles.

Bún Cá Thái Bình

21D Hàng Bài Street, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi

From Fine Dining to Comfort Food: Why Chef Thierry Mounon Followed up La Villa with La Fontaine

2026-08-27T11:28:00+07:00

“Beyond awards or recognition, a restaurant is about welcoming people, creating memories and bringing joy around a table,” explains Chef Thierry Mounon of his decision to expand from French fine dining into comfort food.

Chef Thierry Mounon and the La Fontaine team.

Thierry and his wife, Tina Trang Phạm, spent over 15 years building La Villa into one of Saigon's best-known French fine-dining restaurants. The Micheline-selected restaurant has earned a reputation as a destination to experience classic French cuisine, where exquisite ingredients are meticulously prepared and presented, accompanied by carefully choreographed service. One expects tasting menus with goose foie gras terrine, blue lobster tail, and Dombes barbecued duck, accompanied by an extensive wine list and choreographed service. With such success, one could expect Thierry to open another fine dining concept that builds off his experience. Yet, with La Fontaine, he chose to “return to the roots of hospitality … The heart of French gastronomy is much simpler.”

Locating the heart of French gastronomy

Just down the road from La Villa, La Fontaine takes inspiration from the neighborhood bistrots in the South of France, where Thierry grew up. Compared to fine dining, bistrots are more casual and part of to everyday life as opposed to special occasions. “A bistrot is spontaneous, lively, and accessible,” he says. “It’s where families, friends, neighbours and regular guests gather around honest food.”

Roast chicken, steak frites, and onion soup, all of which are exemplary items on La Fontaine’s menu, appear simple, but they do not require any less skill in the kitchen to prepare, according to Thierry. “I often tell my Chef Thanh that bistrot cooking leaves nowhere to hide,” he says, going on to explain that while fewer techniques are used in homestyle cooking compared to fine dining, there is no less love needed for the preparation or ingredients.

Given that the standards for skill and care in the kitchen are shared by both restaurants, the atmospheres that surround the meals are the biggest differentiators between La Villa and La Fontaine, in addition to price. By offering experiences that people can enjoy casually, without cause, pomp, or circumstance, La Fontaine becomes a member of the neighborhood. Families can rest there after busy days, couples can opt to connect over a bottle, and foodies can taste stellar food without the need to dress up or put on airs.

A reflection of Saigon’s evolving dining sophistications

With Michelin restaurants, celebrity chefs, and a headfirst dive into global trends, Saigon’s culinary world has changed significantly in the decade and a half since La Villa first opened its doors. Amidst the chase for attention, accolades, and recognition, there has emerged a counterbalancing desire for authenticity. Thierry sees the new bistrot as attending to people uninterested in highfalutin egos and distractions.

Attuned to classic French and a wide range of global cuisines, alongside Vietnam’s many regional delicacies, diners are skeptical of gimmicks and novelty. “What they appreciate is honesty,” Thierry says. This is achieved by serving staple French comfort foods like Lyonnaise salad, duck leg confit, seared scallops, and beef vegetable soup in a relaxed dining room where comfortable chairs stretch beneath the types of photos, posters, and images one might find in a French countryside home.

La Fontaine has a similarly grounded approach to the role of promotion. “People don’t return because of marketing; they return because a place becomes part of their lives,” Thierry notes. This means frequent guests are greeted by name and brought to their favorite tables, where they can order the same dish as always, prepared precisely as they expect. Meanwhile, seasonal dishes and flavors help keep every visit fresh.

One can consider La Fontaine a logical step for an esteemed chef with a passion for honoring the nation’s culinary legacy without judging success by accolades and prestige. One can also think of La Fontaine as reflecting Saigon’s ever-maturing dining landscape, which has space for high-quality international food within everyday routines. Or one can simply think of La Fontaine as an ideal place to linger over delicious food with loved ones, ensuring the day contains something exemplary.

La Fontaine's website

La Fontaine's Email

Phone (+84) 283 535 5487

La Fontaine, River Garden, 170 Nguyễn Văn Hưởng, Hồ Chí Minh 700000, Vietnam

Review: Pieces of Me | Nao Yoshioka (feat. Mỹ Anh)

2026-08-27T10:00:00+07:00

Mỹ Anh has come a long way since becoming the runner-up of The Heroes in 2021. Five years later, now with a full-length album and a spectrum of singles and extended plays under her belt, the Hanoi-based artist has proven to be one of the most dynamic singer-songwriter-producer of her generation.

Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mỹ Anh, to me, is her ability to move seamlessly between Vietnamese and English, no doubt a key characteristic that sets Gen Z apart from Vietnam’s previous generations of musicians. A firm grasp on English allows young Vietnamese to gain much more knowledge of the world, and bring those nuggets of wisdom into their creative works. Similarly, Mỹ Anh’s music, right from her debut single ‘Got You’ (2020), is strongly influenced by R&B, soul, and blues, something she also brought to her latest release, ‘Pieces of Me’ — a collaboration with Japanese soul artist Nao Yoshioka.

‘Pieces of Me’ is a '90s-inspired R&B track that’s mainly driven by keys and percussion, but lifted by the vocal layers of Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh — the former leads the vocals with classic soul techniques while the latter adds an airiness and softness to the lyrics. I find it unexpectedly delightful that Yoshioka’s voice bears some resemblance to Mỹ Anh’s; in a way, a more mature and seasoned version, but they’re singing to each other and reassuring the other self that these “pieces of me” are precious and worth treasuring.

Yoshioka and Mỹ Anh, at a glance, have quite different backgrounds: they belong to different generations; one is Japanese, the other is Vietnamese. Yet, their journeys with music share striking similarities. Yoshioka dropped out of high school and moved to New York alone to chase her dream of being a singer. Mỹ Anh was accepted to the Berklee College of Music in 2020, but, on the cusp of the global pandemic, she decided to remain in Vietnam to develop her own music. Both artists are also pursuing R&B and soul in English, creative choices that often struggle to find footing in the mainstream at home.

It was this sense of isolation that inspired the lyrics of ‘Pieces of Me,’ which express a sense of relief and epiphanous reckoning at finding pieces of self after struggling to live with expectations and seek validation. “I kinda like this so far. Never knew life’s this chill. Feel like I can breathe,” Yoshioka’s verse chants, before she belts out the first line of the chorus. In the chorus, the singers perform alternate lines in succession, as if in conversation — Yoshioka is passionate and empowering, while Mỹ Anh is more grounded.

‘Pieces of Me’ was released in May 2026 as a single, and later included in Nao Yoshioka’s latest album, “self.” The track comes with a visualizer on YouTube featuring the pair’s adventures around Hanoi — sipping phở on the sidewalk and vibing in a coffee shop — it’s like Yoshioka sings: “Never knew life’s this chill.”

To sum up:

Type: Single
Lyrics: Simple but empowering
Danceable: Very
Cryable: Not really, maybe a single tear of joy
Karaoke Potential: More for the shower

Score: 75/100

Exploring Chợ Quán Asylum, Saigon’s Oldest Prisoner-of-War Camp

2026-08-26T12:00:00+07:00

In a secluded corner of Saigon’s Bệnh viện Nhiệt đới, or Hospital for Tropical Diseases, a prison continues its century-long existence hidden from public memory and discourse.

It is uncommon knowledge to most people that the present-day Hospital for Tropical Disease (formerly Nhà Thương Chợ Quán) was once home to a 150-year-old detention camp where revolutionaries such as Trần Phú, Hà Huy Tập, and Nguyễn Văn Trỗi were held captive. According to historical records, the cells were originally built by French colonialists in 1875 as a specialized ward to treat psychiatric patients at Chợ Quán Hospital.

The institution later took on a darker purpose as the regime turned it into a base to confine political prisoners that were being treated at the ward to extract intel on anti-colonial efforts. The encampment went on to be responsible for detaining prisoners of war throughout Vietnam’s decades of conflict with French and American forces.

Chợ Quán Hospital was established in 1982 with donations and support from the local Vietnamese community. Long before the hospital’s founding, its plot was occupied by a French-run first-aid clinic. In 1864, the clinic operation was handed over to the succeeding government. A specialized wing was created to isolate and treat its psychiatric patients.

Despite the changes in the political and cultural landscapes that surround it, the structure retains its colonially inspired architecture. The design of the prison is in a cowbell shape. The front entrance directly overlooks the women’s cell, while the men's cell is on its right. The pitched roofs are covered in double lap tiles supported by fixed iron frames and the floor still has its original terracotta tiles. Under French rule, bunks used to shackle inmates were made of wood, but under American control, they were replaced by cement blocks that were common in the Phú Quốc and Côn Đảo prisons.

A communal cell with double lap tiling where male inmates were held.

Though seemingly cramped, the women’s cell was actually the space that got the most sunlight thanks to the large windows that run along the wall.

The prison’s long and narrow corridors sent a chill down my spine, as the deeper I ventured into these halls, the colder and gloomier the atmosphere became, even though it was midday. Taproots from trees outside were seeping in through cracks in the wall, and in a few cells, shackles remained where they had been for decades. The innermost chambers were impenetrable by sunlight, further adding an air of mystery to the building.

Apart from the regular cells, the French also built solitary confinement quarters to quarantine patients that had infectious diseases that could spread to the rest of the inmates.

The inside of a cell for patients with infectious diseases.

A communal restroom that prisoners shared. 

The stairs in these dimly lit rooms lead to buckets placed underneath that were used as toilet bowls.

Iron shackles are kept intact for display

One of the most historically significant parts of the structure is the cell that held Trần Phú, the first General Secretary of the Indochinese Communist Party, who was still in captivity when he died of tuberculosis on September 6, 1931. His last words to fellow comrades were:

Keep your will to fight.

Trần Phú’s portrait and headstone, as well as information plaques detailing his capture and death, are still shown at the cell where he passed away. Here, flowers and wreaths are sometimes placed by visitors to remind current and future generations that this was the final resting place of a nation’s leader and patriot.

On special occasions such as Trần Phú's death anniversary or public holidays, bouquets are often placed by his headstone to commemorate his sacrifice.

In stark contrast to the bleakness that the prison bears within, a lush garden surrounding it has sprouted up to provide shade and comfort to patients receiving treatment at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, who are most likely unaware of the fact that every brick, tile, and frame around them bore witness to a painful scar in the nation's history.

Documents about Trần Phú's life and revolutionary contributions are preserved and exhibited for visitors.

Readers keen on exploring more of the prison in person may easily do so since the site is accessible to the public and located to the right of the hospital's dining hall, which is only 100 meters away from the main gate. But as the prison is under the supervision of the District 5 Cultural Center, be sure to contact them for permission before planning a day trip!

Visit ttvhq5.com.vn or call 028 3855 6161 to learn more about the site or to schedule a visit.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Art Exhibition ‘Limerence’ Explores Where Romantic Desire Distorts Into Obsession

2026-08-25T12:00:00+07:00

Thom Nguyen utilizes portraiture and depictions of mushrooms and organic objects to explore the concept of limerence in a solo exhibition at Permanently Closed Gallery in Thảo Điền, beginning Friday, August 28.

Limerence describes “an intense psychological state of obsessive longing for another person ... characterised by intrusive thoughts, emotional dependency and a powerful desire for reciprocation. Unlike ordinary attraction or infatuation, limerence involves obsession, emotional volatility and disruption to daily life.”

Thom approaches the term through a distinctly queer lens. The exhibition's works concern themselves with intimacy and imperfection as observed in the moments when longing becomes fixation. His typically colorful and confident oil works depict the beautiful and grotesque results of projection and idealization. Tasteful nude images are not committed to fantasy or reality, while a selection of mushrooms and other organic materials hint at the transformation and decay inherent to an emotion of intense romantic desire and fixation.

Work from Thom Nguyen's previous exibition, Nước | Water Resistance. Photos via Thom's Instagram.

Born in Saigon and raised in America, Thom held his first solo exhibition in Vietnam, “Nước | Water Resistance,” at A. Farm last year. That collection of oil paintings, sculptures, installations, and fashion works considered queer bodies in the context of water’s ability to shift one’s identity.

Scenes from ACHI's Peach Garden at Permanently Closed. Photos via L'Officiel.

In 2026, Thom expanded his artistic practice to curation and community development with the establishment of Permanently Closed Gallery with his husband, Michael Bell. The gallery space is devoted to providing a platform for emerging queer artists and has presented several projects including Nothing to See Here, Nothing to See There, ACHI's Peach Garden, Lyon Nguyen's performance SWEET, and Yellow Fever's The Scent of Pipe.

The opening reception for LIMERENCE will be held on Friday, August 28 from 5pm to 9pm. The exhibition remains open through September on Friday–Sunday at 1–6pm.

The Artworks in “LIMERANCE” Explore Where Romantic Desire Distorts into Obsession

How Vinahouse Fosters Sonic Belonging in Modern Saigon's Queer Collectives

2026-08-24T11:00:00+07:00

If you spend a night wandering along Bùi Viện Walking Street and its dense concentration of bars and clubs, you will almost certainly hear the same sound spilling from multiple directions: fast, pounding basslines layered with Vietnamese pop melodies, punctuated by dramatic buildups and explosive drops. If you fall into the right algorithm on TikTok, you might encounter these same sounds circulating as background audio. This music is Vinahouse. Its ever-presence in both physical and digital spaces makes it one of the most recognizable yet least critically examined musical forms in contemporary Vietnam.

Though saturating everyday life, Vinahouse occupies a marginal position within dominant hierarchies of musical taste. The genre’s cultural significance becomes most visible when examined within queer nightlife in Saigon. Particularly, through the practices of queer collectives such as Bung L0n, the genre is reclaimed from the musical hierarchy that valorizes western electronic dance music (EDM) and becomes a vehicle for belonging and local queer expression. By tracing how Vinahouse circulates through urban soundscapes and queer nightlife spaces, and listening to the perspectives of those within that scene, we can better understand Vinahouse's role in solidifying collective identity and queer sociality in a rapidly transforming urban environment.

Young people in Saigon out and about in 1994. Photo by Ed Kashi.

Vinahouse emerged in the late 1990s and early 2000s as a localized adaptation of Euro-American house, trance, and hard dance styles, shaped through remix practices, pirated media circulation, and club cultures in rapidly urbanizing major cities in Vietnam. The genre quickly became embedded in everyday celebratory contexts such as clubs, weddings, and informal parties. Despite its widespread popularity, Vinahouse is often framed within Vietnamese cultural discourse as lacking refinement, originality, or artistic depth.

Quỳnh Chi is an enthusiast of Vinahouse, whose listening practices also sparked my interest in the genre; she shared the same understanding: “It’s almost implicitly taught that Vinahouse is something that you’re not meant to listen to — much less to enjoy — as a middle-class person.” Queer nightlife in Vietnam occupies a similarly ambiguous and precarious position. While homosexuality was decriminalized relatively early and public attitudes have gradually shifted, queer social spaces remain shaped by discretion and episodic visibility. Nightlife venues and temporary events, especially in Saigon, therefore, have become crucial sites where queer communities negotiate safety, intimacy, and belonging. Within these spaces, music plays a central role not only in entertainment but in structuring bonds and enabling forms of self-expression. In these contexts, Vinahouse is reworked as a locally grounded sound of belonging, transforming the dance floor into a key site of queer social life in the city.

A gathering of queer Vietnamese in 1990. Photo by Catherine Karnow.

Reclaiming the local

Amid Vietnam’s rapid post–reform urbanization in the 1990s, during which a Vietnamese urban culture was being developed, EDM was hastily reshaped to fill the gap in the local urban music scene. Indeed, Vinahouse borrows heavily from global EDM structures while remixing V-pop melodies, bolero, and lyrical references into its core. The genre first became a staple music of Đôn Chề (Dolce) culture — a “marginalized” subculture distinctive of its aesthetic, specifically fashion. However, with its rhythms spilling out of neighborhood cafés, wedding tents, and roadside speakers, the music registers less as a discrete musical choice than as part of the ambient soundscape in Vietnam. This mode of circulation, alongside the digital one, produces a form of musical intimacy grounded in repetition and recognition.

Dancing in the club in Vietnam in the 1990s.

What critics dismiss as derivative can instead be understood as an important aesthetic resource that prioritizes familiarity and recognizability. Saigon’s dense club economy, informal venues, and relatively flexible social atmosphere have allowed hybrid musical forms to flourish. Yet even here, Vinahouse remains stigmatized within “elite” club cultures that privilege techno and other globally valorized electronic genres. Mainstream discourses repeatedly contrast “white” or “western” electronic music, often associated with seriousness and sophistication, with Vinahouse — labeled as trẻ trâu (childish) or bay phòng (drug-party music).

Queer nightlife scene in Saigon provides a crucial site for reclaiming Vinahouse from these hierarchies. Within these spaces, the genre’s local specificity becomes an asset rather than a stigma. Trí Nguyễn (a.k.a. Smoothie Boiz), a co-founder and DJ of Bung L0n, described a conscious shift toward incorporating Vinahouse more centrally in his sets as a way of asserting the Vietnamese-ness within club spaces otherwise dominated by transnational sounds. This move is not framed as a rejection of global club culture but as a modification of it within a local context. In fact, early Bung L0n events relied more heavily on techno and international styles; only later did they start to incorporate Vinahouse.

Đôn Chề is a subculture rooted in fashion, street life, and social media trends.

“After a while, we were like, ‘we are Vietnamese, why don’t we play this type of music more’… [Because] each of our parties has a theme relating to Vietnam, and having no Vinahouse in our parties is not okay,” Trí said, “we felt we were missing something.” When Vietnamese tracks were introduced, he observed that there was a “kind of difference with the participants, people seemed to enjoy it more, or felt a greater sense of familiarity… People [became] more in rhythm.” Reclaiming the local, then, is less about cultural assertion than about affective resonance.

Queer sonic kinship

Bung L0n emerged after COVID-19 as a nightlife collective responding to a perceived lack of inclusive spaces for queer communities in Saigon. Founded by a small group of friends with little background in DJ–ing and party organization, the collective is one of the few existing underground parties geared toward members of the LGBTQ+ community such as Vấp Cục Đá and Gái Nhảy. However, Bung L0n deliberately avoids claims to a specific “community,” Trí said, instead trying to “make it so that when people come, they feel comfortable being themselves, not constrained,” because “ở đâu vui nhất, ở đó có bê đê” (where it is hot, the queers hit the spot). This refusal of overt politicization is itself significant. As dance floors are often romanticized as inherently liberatory spaces — obscuring the gendered, sexualized, and racialized exclusions that structure access to nightlife — Bung L0n’s approach acknowledges the constraints without reproducing them. The result is an environment where queer visibility emerges through atmosphere instead of declaration.

An event organized by Bung L0n. Photos by @captain_____bipolar via Instagram page bung_l0n.

As a participant of multiple queer raves, Linh Phạm sees Bung L0n events not only as spaces of care and intimacy, but also “spaces of becoming”: extravagant dress and makeup, and bodily expression allow participants to safely inhabit identities that may not be possible in everyday life. The queer raves become “transcendental” spaces, but also “liminal.” The experience of exclusion often felt by queer individuals in heterosexually dominated nightclubs is not produced solely by sound but by its atmospheric and spatial by-products as well. When scenes relocate or are reworked — as in the creation of queer nightlife spaces — these atmospheres shift, and gatekeeping boundaries are redrawn, allowing different bodies to feel welcomed rather than deterred. Crucially, this process of becoming in queer spaces is collective.

While those spaces often valorize individuality, Linh emphasized that “individuality [brought into Bung L0n] is interconnected.” Individuality is experienced as relational, with diverse expressions coexisting within a shared platform. Vinahouse generates this platform by providing a common cultural language that anchors differences. When a familiar Vinahouse track appears unexpectedly within a set, the dance floor response “shifts noticeably,” said Linh — participants sing along and become more energized, transforming individualized dancing into collective vocalization. These moments are explosive not because of technical virtuosity but because of shared “sonic memory.” This interconnectedness emerges because dancing is simultaneously an individual and collective act. The dance floor becomes “one organism” when individual musical experiences merge into a shared collective experience, allowing clubbers to feel both immersed in themselves and part of something larger — akin to spiritual or religious experiences.

Vinahouse’s timbral and lyrical familiarity enables listeners to feel connected not only to the music but to one another. However, this kinship is not automatic but carefully cultivated by performers and organizers. Trí emphasized the importance of selection and balance, noting that excessive Vinahouse can alienate some listeners, while too little undermines the collective’s local grounding. This curatorial practice reflects an acute awareness of the genre’s contested status and demonstrates how kinship is produced through labor rather than assumed.

The pulse of belonging

The affective power of Vinahouse in queer nightlife spaces is inseparable from its sonic materiality. Tempo, texture, and volume work together to shape embodied experience. Vinahouse’s high BPMs and predictable structural patterns create cycles of tension and release that resonate with buildup and drop sections in EDM; the latter returns listeners “home” after a period of suspension, intensifying pleasure through contrast.

In queer raves, this return re-anchors bodies in shared cultural space with the reintroduction of familiar melodies and lyrics following extended techno passages. Texture plays an equally significant role. Dense bass frequencies layered with melodic lines invite tactile engagement, encouraging listeners to attune not only to sound but to vibration and movement. Such a tactile immersion blurs distinctions between self and crowd, and fosters levels of embodied intimacy. Volume further intensifies this experience by collapsing distance. Vinahouse is often described as “louder” and more “bustling” than other electronic genres, a quality that Trí identified as immediately signaling “Vietnamese house.” This loudness is not merely auditory but social. It demands participation.

Bung L0n's anniversary event. Photos by @ilang.tmp via Instagram page @bung_l0n.

Therefore, the traits of musical spaces are often less about sound itself than about the atmospheres it produces. In Bung L0n events, sonic qualities of Vinahouse contribute to an atmosphere of inclusion by drowning out self-consciousness and social surveillance, allowing queer bodies to move without constant self-monitoring.

Perhaps most importantly, Vinahouse negotiates the relationship between Vietnamese cultural identity and queer expression in ways that challenge dominant narratives. Queerness in Vietnam is frequently framed as western or foreign, while Vinahouse is often understood as stubbornly local, even anti-western. The convergence of queerness and Vinahouse in nightlife spaces destabilizes both assumptions. In other words, their confluence unravels an inherent antithesis: on the one hand, as Chi put, Vinahouse — being excessive and positioned outside the ordinary — is in and of itself “queer”; on the other hand, queer communities in Vietnam are eager for a local and unique grounding in place of Western norms of sexuality and club culture.

Vinahouse thus has become a means of “localizing western club culture” into something distinctly Vietnamese rather than derivative, said Linh, with whom Chi and I also shared a Vinahouse playlist on Spotify. These moments of localization are not primarily ideological, as ideologies tend to recede inside the rave, replaced by what Chi described as “embodied,” “carceral,” and “more felt” experience. Yet the effects are nonetheless political, allowing participants to inhabit queerness without disavowing cultural belonging. In this sense, Vinahouse within queer nightlife unsettles both the cultural hierarchy of music and the societal hierarchy of sexuality, demonstrating that queer expression in Vietnam does not need to be sonically western to be legible or meaningful, and that Vinahouse can function as a medium through which queer belonging is not only performed but locally grounded, sensorially felt, and collectively sustained. At the same time, the genre does not resolve the tensions between the socially constructed cultural hierarchy and sexual marginalization, but it renders them temporarily livable. Its significance lies not in transcending stigma but in dwelling within it, transforming what is dismissed as low, repetitive, or unserious into a shared language of joy, recognition, and care.

Is the Yeti Vietnamese? This Ancient Ape Might Hold the Answer.

2026-08-23T03:00:00+07:00

Can you name a Vietnamese animal that hasn’t been hunted to the precipice of extinction or become a commodified item whose flesh, fur, or feathers are only deemed significant in relation to their practical use by humans?

It’s not so easy to think of one, but there is an enormous example: Gigantopithecus. A massive orangutan-like ape believed to have weighed 200 to 300 kilograms and stood over 3 meters tall rambled around modern-day China and northern Vietnam some two million years ago.

Speculative scene of Giganthopithecus by Garcia/Joannes-Boyau, Southern Cross University. Image via National Geographic.

Gigantopithecus, the largest homonoid known to have walked the earth, was first discovered because of the same superstitions that doom animals today: traditional medicine. In early 20^th-century China, bones and teeth were used for all sorts of elixirs and potions passed off as “dragon bones.” Vendors hardly took a scientist’s eyes to the calcium, keratin, and enamel specimens kept in their drawers before pulverizing them. Knowing this, Ralph von Koenigswald, a Dutch geologist and paleontologist, made a habit of scouring apothecaries while researching in the region. In Hong Kong in 1925, he noticed a molar that appeared human-like but was five times the size of his own.

Gigantopithecus's holotype molar (left) and mandible (right). Images via Wikipedia.

Recognizing the importance of the finding, Koenigswald arranged scientific expeditions in mainland China. With the help of local marketing and supply cooperatives, he narrowed his search to caves in southern China, near the border with Vietnam, where he discovered hundreds more of the animal's teeth. The large teeth were distinct enough to warrant classification as an entirely new species, and in an all-too-familiar situation, he named the species Gigantopithecus blacki, in honor of Canadian palaeo-anthropologist Davidson Black, who had studied human evolution in China and had died the previous year.

Modern-day photo of Dinghu Mountain in Zhaoqing, Guangdong Province, southern China, which is believed to resemble the habitat of Gigantopithecus. Photo via Wikimedia.

In the subsequent decades, researchers discovered hundreds more Gigantopithecus teeth and four mandibles, including at cave sites in Vietnam. The research trips included American scientists working despite the 1990 embargo, suggesting that perhaps pursuit of science supersedes political posturing. While the sites contained significant mouth matter, the sizable skeletons are assumed to have been eaten by porcupines before they could fossilize. Still, scientists can make astounding understandings from fragments. Observing the large, flat molars with thick enamel attached to heavy jaws and analyzing residue on the teeth allowed them to conjecture that Gigantopithecus survived on tough, fibrous plant matter. Later examinations of carbon residues left on the teeth with high-powered microscopes suggest the apes had a mixed diet of fruits and fig seeds along with some variety of grasses, probably bamboo.

Giganthopithecus compared to modern-day orangutan as speculated for the Brainmaze.

This diet and estimations about its anatomy mean that compared to its closest relative, the modern-day orangutan, adult Gigantopithecus were likely too large to climb into trees to forage for fruits. Mathematical modeling places it at more than 10 feet tall and 1,200 pounds (for comparison, the average gorilla tops out at around 400 pounds). Such understanding has allowed scientists and artists to make educated depictions about its appearance, but there is no certainty about elements including fur color or bulk. Aspects of their behavior, temperament, intelligence, and social bonds can only be guessed at with the help of related species.

The misty line between fossil and legend

Gigantopithecus is believed to have existed for approximately one million years, up until about 100,000 years ago, which would have meant it could have occupied the same forests and jungles as early humans. While people are not believed to have contributed to their extinction (more on that to come), run-ins with the animals continue to populate myths and legends as intertwined with stories of Yeti and mysterious ape monsters.

Yeti as depicted in popular western legend and spectacle, specifically an American comic from 1971. Photo via New York Times.

The Yeti, a hairy, ape-like hominoid, has been said to roam the Himalayan mountains, with legends passing from Tibetan and Russian communities to the west where it is occasionally referred to as the Abominable Snowman. Owing to the region’s remoteness, intrigue persisted into the mid-20^th century when western explorers arrived to obtain dubious evidence, including grainy photographs, large footprints, and mysterious strands of hair to delight foreign audiences. Every pelt debunked by DNA testing and piece of available modern technology increased skepticism until we arrived at the current widespread belief that no such cryptid exists.

However, amongst certain cryptozoology communities, the Yeti might still be out there, explained as a small, persisting population of isolated Gigantopithecus and their descendants. Putting aside the fact that the icy mountains do not resemble the ecosystems the ape is known to have inhabited, some believe that a group has survived tens of thousands of years and adapted to the climate. Moreover, Yetis are nearly always described as bipedal while Gigantopithecus is thought to have walked on all fours like an orangutan, for which no convincing explanation has been offered. The efforts to connect the Yeti to the great ape ultimately say more about 21^st-century people’s desire to ground myth in science and our current age’s desire for empirical truth than any likelihood that Gigantopithecus is an extant species.

The rock ape as depicted in the Cryptid Archives.

We should apply a similar skepticism to claims that Gigantopithecus is behind the rock ape legends that circulated during Vietnam’s war with America. While never receiving formal academic journal coverage or serious news attention, if you spend time on GI blogs and subreddits, you will encounter mention of rock apes. These creatures, whose observers are adamant were normal animals and not mythic beasts, were given their name because of their penchant for throwing rocks at soldiers. While sightings of the creatures and their prints and fur predate and postdate the war, and were also made by Vietnamese forces, they were most widely reported by American soldiers in highland posts. Despite heights significantly less than Gigantopithecus’ 10 feet, some attempt to explain them as remote communities of the species agitated by the presence of armed forces.

The fact that rock apes have not been seen in the past several decades should convince us that they never existed at all, let alone as Gigantopithecus. But we can also make some conclusions about the psyche of soldiers during the war. Overwhelmed by the savagery of their assignments and the strangeness of their surroundings, troops latched onto the surreal to maintain sanity. Such an interpretation coincides with the existence of a large ape-like creature in Bảo Ninh’s The Sorrow of War, wherein a soldier kills an orangutan-like creature, despite none existing in the nation. Rather than reveal a potential lost species, such instances can be interpreted as man’s inability to explain the horrors of war in rational terms. Only by evoking the possibility of extinct species and the unlikelihood of prehistoric life persisting until today can there be room to justify the barbarity humans inflict upon itself.

An extinction explained

If we can assume Gigantopithecus did not persist in the Himalayas or remote Vietnamese forests and is in fact extinct, how did it happen? Scientists have some thrilling theories. Simply put, they were too big to adapt to climate change. Animals as large as Gigantopithecus have massive metabolic needs while producing few children, which makes them particularly vulnerable to the changes in vegetation that result from altered global temperatures and precipitation patterns. Unfortunately for them, this is exactly what began to happen around 300,000 years ago.

During this period, what had been tropical forest became grassier patches of land, as determined by analysis of pollen in the fossil record. A recent academic paper explained that “Just before and during the extinction window between 295,000 and 215,000 years ago there was enhanced environmental variability from increased seasonality, which caused changes in plant communities and an increase in open forest environments. Although its close relative Pongo weidenreichi [orangutans] managed to adapt its dietary preferences and behaviour to this variability, G. blacki showed signs of chronic stress and dwindling populations. Ultimately, its struggle to adapt led to the extinction of the greatest primate to ever inhabit the Earth.”

The extinction would not have been a fast process. Rather, as the forests grew drier, the abundance of the ape’s preferred food would have been less available. While young Gigantopithecus, as well as the orangutans who once inhabited Vietnam, could have climbed trees to access fruit, adults would have been reliant on dwindling plants on the ground. Evidence reveals they were forced to turn to more tree bark, reeds, and non-nutritious ruffage. Given their large size, this was ultimately not enough. As their preferred foods disappeared, and they couldn’t adapt to the plants that emerged to fill the niche, they disappeared. We will never know where or when the last great ape perished.

Photo via Reddit.

What should we take from Gigantopithecus’s disappearance? In one sense, it is comforting to know that humans are not the cause of all extinctions, and like dinosaurs, all species will meet an eventual end. But I refuse for this to be my conclusion, as such a perspective can easily become an excuse to continue our wanton destruction of the environment and its inhabitants. Rather, I would like the life of Gigantopithecus to remind us that the world is capable of wonders, but only if we allow it time and space. No great ape can populate reclaimed land encrusted with cement towers looming beside sundered mangrove forests; no mammals can thrive on deforested coasts converted to luxury resorts; and no creature will evolve amidst the hammering of karsk stone into a fabricated European amusement park. We never knew Gigantopithecus, and think of all the other fantastic plants and animals we will never know if we don’t get our shit together and stop treating the planet as a commodity instead of a blessing.