“Điển is like a flower; there is no question of growing or not growing.”

It’s the same with Lê Triều Điển and creating art, according to his fellow painter and friend of many years, Tri Ròm.

“My paintings are like scar tissue,” Điển says when pressed for the best feedback he’s ever received about his paintings. “You might look at them and see rubbish, but they heal pain,” he adds before likening them to the lotus flowers that emerge from the muck in his delta homeland.

A flower emerging from mud is an apt metaphor for Điển’s life and career as a whole. He was born in the Mekong Delta in 1944, and the past eight decades have involved the poverty, sacrifice, war and trauma that are sadly common to his generation, as detailed in his powerful autobiography The Journey of Alluvium. Yet, like a lotus refusing to wilt during a drought and blooming spectacularly when the rains return, Điển has triumphed to become an important, successful artist.

Luxury cars were filling with people who had just finished lavish breakfasts behind myself, Tri, Điển, and his daughter-in-law at the restaurant of the homestay in Can Tho we’d stayed at the night before. The street leading in along the Hau River was lined with imposing new mansions looming behind gaudy gates and I commented to Điển about how different the area must look from when he was stationed in Can Tho during the American War, when the river was “patrolled up and down by warships and patrol boats day and night” and the surrounding area was full of “coconut orchards with topless tree trunks, paddy fields devastated by clearing chemicals.”

Yes, he said, the area was very different from when locals here went out in the middle of the night to catch mice and snakes and frogs to sell at the “ghost markets;” but “go into one of those houses and look at their walls, they have no real art.” This is as damning a description as Điển can levy, because to him art, in addition to family and community, is the most important part of life.

Điển is refreshingly unimpressed with money, sometimes to the frustration of people attempting to sell his paintings. His friends casually mention the great numbers of paintings that were sent overseas for various sales or collections that he never saw again or received payment for, and there is even discussion of a zoo in Denmark that plagiarized his plans for a giant panda enclosure.

At one point during our weekend together, a gallery owner who was with us brought up plans for an exhibition in Hanoi to sell his paintings. Điển simply lit a cigarette, threw up his hands and walked away while telling the man to talk to the woman who manages those matters for him. Asked point-blank what he thinks of the business side of art, he says one needs to understand it but ultimately, “as an artist, you make art, you do your best. Everything else? Leave it to other people.”

“Emotions as Transparent as Water from its Source”

The one constant throughout Điển’s life has been creation. At the age of 12, he moved to Saigon for a formal art education. While he didn’t enjoy the rigid coursework and sterile approach to painting, living in the city introduced him to a variety of other artists, writers and creatives whose philosophies and lifestyles proved fundamental for how he would approach the world and his place in it.

Điển was able to avoid frontline conflict during the war by producing technical drawings and later studying aviation mechanics. During the war, he drifted between Da Nang, Can Tho, Vinh Long and Saigon, surrounding himself with a great variety of passionate individuals to discuss literature, poetry, music, and painting while producing literary journals and hosting small art exhibitions at cafes and bars. He lived, he says, as a bụi đời (dust of life), a vagabond. With little more than a chair that could unfold into a comfortable enough bed, he moved from here to there on a whim with frequent trips to visit his family.

During those years, painting was a sort of therapy for him. “I felt that I was painting for myself, for my own soul that was suffering the pain of my war-torn country. I painted my dreams and hopes of a peaceful future, and I painted children’s pleasure and laughter on a happy field. I painted temples in ruin but young buds rising from burnt tree stumps could be seen.”

Yet he did not paint according to the styles he had been taught in school, nor did he follow any specific trends. Rather, he followed his instinct and spontaneous inspiration, never arriving at a blank canvas with a plan or idea, simply letting the lines and colors flow as they must. “I gradually eliminated all the craftsmanship, got rid of technical performance and returned to the nature of my innocence like a child drawing as simply as those ancient people leaving their paintings on cave walls, with emotions as transparent as water from its source flowing over gravel and stones to reach the plains,” he says.

He continues with this approach today. His often very large paintings have a raw boldness typified by strong lines and arrows that seem to rush across the canvas like waters surging across a floodplain. Given his biography, one can imagine scenes of delta floodplains, rice fields and humble countryside homes. There are also elements of sign language, Khmer and Oc Eo cultures and Theravada Buddhism. Điển can be evasive regarding what an actual painting is of, preferring viewers to take from the scenes what they will. This tendency to not explain every element of his work does not suggest a lack of artistic clarity, however.

While many of his paintings tend to be abstract and expressionist and contain elements of cubism, there are moments of literal specificity. His home is filled with his paintings and drawings: something hangs on nearly every inch of open wall and stacks of papers and canvases sit on nearly every available surface. During a recent visit to his home, he flipped through several dozen drawings and occasionally paused to point something out: a buffalo, a horse, a boat, a xích lô, his wife when she is writing a poem, his wife when she is angry at him, a self-portrait. He doesn’t offer why he painted those things, nor do I think to ask. It would be like asking a cloud why it was dropping rain. Yet he is quick to note where he finds inspiration: everywhere. His natural surroundings, cave paintings, architecture, and most importantly, his family and friends.

You have to know the rules before you break them is a common adage in art, often used in reference to how Picasso learned to paint in the traditional style of his day before moving on to the ground-breaking works he became famous for. Thus I asked Điển if he thought his conventional art education was necessary to make way for his abstract style. He shakes his head no, and says he is self-taught, before offering up this story:

This confidence in his own artistic vision, playful wit and connection to depicting his homeland resonates through his hundreds of works.

“I don’t have a teaching method, I have a living method,” he says when asked what he says to younger artists that seek him. Truly, he may not offer specific theories on balancing colors or controlling white space, but one watching him surely receives a lesson in how to live as an artist. To that point, I should have known better to ask him how he prefers to work: in silence or with music? In the morning or at night? At home or a studio? After a few glasses of wine or sober? The answer was simply “Yes.”

This adaptive nature applies to the mediums he uses. In addition to the conventional canvas and inks, paper with watercolor or pen, and ceramics, Điển can create art out of just about anything. For example, when he once took great delight in flipping over one painting on his wall to reveal it was in fact the cardboard lid of a bánh trung thu box. Similarly, painted chair cushions dangle from his staircase railings and x-ray paper covered in images dangles from the ceiling.

Witnessing Điển work provides further insight into his philosophy. When Saigoneer visited to take photographs for this story, we were greeted with fresh fruit, snacks and beer. Before any discussion of photographs we hoped to take, he thanked us for visiting and said he wanted us each to go home with one of his paintings. When we asked if we could take a short video of him at work, he noted that because it was my birthday he would draw a portrait of me. With concentrated ease he filled the paper with divisive lines, pausing momentarily to ponder the space before grabbing a new color; the piece came together like the effortless blooming of a complex flower.

Work Before Play

Creating art can be a lonely, tireless task especially if one dabbles in genres that are not embraced by mainstream artists, but being an artist is not. I got a first-hand glimpse of the importance Điển places on community during the first lunch we shared. At the end of the meal, he lifted his beer glass and turned slowly to everyone at the table and one by one: “You: I want to see your next painting. You: I want to read your next poem. You: show me the next painting you make. And you: I cannot wait to have another meal together again.”

Điển’s genuine and motivating words that day came as no surprise based on the way he described his life and journey. Beginning with the many teachers he studied with and the peers he surrounded himself with, his book is filled with references to painters, sculptors, singers, and writers with whom he sat in cramped cafes and bars, sharing ideas and exchanging work. He details countless literary journals that rose and fell and exhibitions for soon-to-be-defunct groups and organizations. They are not attempts at name-dropping, but rather reflective of the way he sees community as an integral part of creativity and the galvanizing effect it can have on a person’s life.

Considering this past, I was unsurprised to learn that our main activity on the day we arrived in Vinh Long would be to meet with his group of friends at one of their terracotta kilns. We gathered in the spacious living room which was filled with paintings, sculptures and ceramics. The owner pointed at the paintings explaining who had painted each: a friend, a child, himself. New books were exchanged as we sat drinking coffee, eating snacks. I naively asked Điển if this was what it was like back in the day when he spent time with the same group of friends. He laughed and said, “No, all we did then was work, work, work.”

Indeed, while Điển may have achieved a level of financial comfort now, leaner decades were filled with a great variety of arduous tasks to make ends meet. While subsisting on little more than boiled potatoes and sorghum supplemented with boiled pig bones, Điển earned a paycheck painting vehicle license plates and state propaganda posters, weeding paddy fields, harvesting water spinach, selling simple cakes, and delivering newspapers. And of course, in the spacious factory beside the house we were sitting in, he crafted terra cotta statues.

The lifting of the embargo with America and the generally improved economy has reverberated across society as exemplified by the terracotta factory. Before its owner settled into semi-retirement and tapered down production, he employed upwards of 1,000 people. Điển, too, has enjoyed more financial comfort in recent years. After decades of group and solo exhibitions, since 2005 he has enjoyed an amount of commercial success. His work has been featured in the prestigious Galerie Dumonteil in Paris, attracted the attention of renowned international art collectors, and been in numerous shows and galleries here in Vietnam.

“Fifty Years in Prison”

There once was a struggling painter who began coming home to find his clothes and house cleaned and food prepared. This went on for quite some time and he never could figure out who was doing it. But one day he noticed a female figure in one of his paintings and became suspicious. He hid and waited after pretending to leave for the day. When he burst back into his house, he surprised the woman who had indeed emerged from the painting. He caught her and the two married. His life improved instantly and he was not only happy but also began to experience great fame and financial success. Unfortunately, this led to him drinking too much and losing his passion for art. Unable to rescue him from his alcoholism or re-ignite his love of painting his wife left him.

Điển originally offered this story, an altered version of a story by Đoàn Thị Điểm, to warn of the risks of fame and success. Adding, that while he is financially comfortable now, he is far too old to fall into any of the dangers that accompany them. Besides, is he famous? If you ask him, he doesn’t know nor care.

But then I pressed him if the characters in the story shared any similarities with him and his wife, Hồng Lĩnh. Sure, he agreed, her presence in his life has been instrumental. While it’s true that she manages many domestic tasks and shouldered a great deal of work during the poor years, working in a library as well as taking on odd jobs to help ensure he had resources needed to paint, that undersells her role in his life. He may jokingly say that they have been sentenced to each other for half a century, but he is utterly sincere when advising “When you get married, you must treat your wife like a goddess.”

Lĩnh is a gifted poet, sculpture, and painter herself and learned of Điển via his artwork more than 50 years ago. Seeing his work before she’d ever met, she explained to me, was what first won her over. At their wedding, a friend joked: “This couple might have their future in poverty. One artist usually leads his life in misery, they both are artists, so their misery maybe double.”

That prediction, thankfully never came to pass. Rather, the financial struggles they shared may have brought them closer together as people and as artists. When their eldest son was admitted to Saigon, they moved to the city and worked side-by-side to create paintings and sculptures with the hope they could sell them to restaurants and hotels. Their work continues to stand side by side, though now it is in galleries and exhibitions. And of course, lining the walls of their home.

One is not likely to get their work confused, however. While Điển prefers thick, angular lines, she opts for more curves and gentle restraint, though the most exemplifying difference is her frequent use of Vietnamese, English and French texts by herself and others, layered on top of the work. Lĩnh may be a quieter presence in rooms punctuated by Điển’s staccato chuckle, but her art and life is just as deserving of an article. Hopefully, that happens in the future, but in the meantime, no story about Điển could possibly be told without her inclusion.

Equally important as their work hung on the walls in their home is what is scribbled around it. Between paintings and photographs are the squiggled doodles of one of their grandchildren. By contrast, they help articulate how Điển’s seemingly simple strokes are the result of artistic rigor and practice combined with youthful exuberance. But more importantly, they serve as a metaphor for how his work is intrinsically tied to his family and the inspiration it provides, his belief that any surface can be a canvas, and that artistic impulses should never be ignored, but rather praised and promoted.

This article was originally published in 2021.

In a small kiosk overlooking the crowded Nguyễn Trọng Tuyển Street in Phú Nhuận, Nguyễn Thị Tâm routinely checks the clock and reviews the day’s train schedule meticulously. She’s repeated these tasks countless times, a crucial component of a job that she’s done for two decades as a train crossing attendant.

Since 1976, when the Renunification Express started to connect the Northern, Central, and Southern regions of Vietnam, the country’s railway department has witnessed numerous changes. Tâm and her many colleagues stationed at crossings across the national track have also been there with every passing locomotive, safeguarding them from street traffic and protecting vehicles and pedestrians from incoming trains.

A level crossing on Nguyễn Trọng Tuyển, Saigon.

I grew up in a neighborhood bordering a train track and a busy arterial road, and have seen many times that, when the train alarm goes off, people often take it as a sign to speed up, not slow down. The flashing red alert seems to instill a sense of rush in commuters instead of stoppage.

Every time this happens, crossing guards act as the final layer of shield. In Vietnam, they not only lift and lower the gate arms, but also keep a close eye on nearby civilians to intervene when there are troubles, in order to ensure that trains get to their stations on time without pausing road traffic too long.

As precise as an alarm clock

Having been in the position since she was 25, Tâm knows more than anybody else the high levels of discipline and accuracy that her career calls for.

Nguyễn Thị Tâm has been a railway staff for two decades.

“You can’t miscalculate when you do this job. Each level crossing has very clear gate closure times,” she explains. For crossings of level 1 and 2, like where she works, the gate arms can’t be down for over 3 minutes.

If they’re down too soon, especially in densely populated districts or during peak hours, that could cause serious congestion. If you’re down too late, that’s a major collision risk. As every action is high-stakes, each step must be technically correct and precise in timing.

Attendants use a logbook to record the train schedule, gate openings and closures, in addition to any other incidents.

Nowadays, each crossing kiosk comes with CCTVs to monitor staff operations. After receiving the signal from the shift operator, Tâm would turn on the alert light in the room to notify shift supervisors, and then step out to observe both ends of the track. Everything happens just minutes before the train comes, so the atmosphere is always tense. The attendant has to heed the system’s signals while overseeing nearby traffic to detect barrier bypass violations.

Tâm tells me that this is the hardest part of her job: “Sometimes people just don’t understand and complain when I close the crossing early, like ‘the train is not here, why are you closing now?’ or ‘if you close, the traffic will jam up.’ But actually, these things are part of the safety guidelines.”

The main control for crossing signals.

During unexpected incidents such as a vehicle being stuck on the track or other extended accidents, the crossing guard must break the seal and press the alarm button in the control kiosk.

Beside lighting and flag signalling systems, they also have detonator signals in their arsenal. Detonators can be strapped to the rail and will explode when the train passes over them. In cases where visibility is limited or the lights malfunction, they will emit loud, audible alerts to warn approaching trains from afar to slow down. This is the last resort in the playbook, and is only used when all signals fail.

“When the alert seal is broken, all lights along the track will turn red and trains must stop during the emergency,” Tâm shares. This is the reason why attendants have to always be on guard, learn by heart every signal, and cannot leave their position during a shift.

Detonators are employed during emergencies when all else fails.

Tâm remembers like it was yesterday a shift she did one afternoon in 2008 at the Nguyễn Kiệm Crossing. A motorbike suddenly toppled over and got stuck on the track when a train was just a few dozen meters away. Not thinking too much, she rushed in to pull the driver away from the track.

“At the time, I reacted on instinct to pull them out. Luckily, there were a few xe ôm drivers around who helped drag us away from the brush with death. The train made an emergency stop too, but the line between safety and tragedy was so thin that I will never forget it.”

A youth spent alongside trains

Each of Tâm’s shifts always commences a lot earlier than business hours. She lives in a faraway suburb but works in central Hồ Chí Minh City, so before work, she wakes up at 4am so she can be present for a 6am shift. For shifts later during the day, she also starts getting ready over an hour before to commute and carry out the handover procedures.

Crossing guard’s uniform hat and light signals.

During any given shift, she will handle from nine to over 20 trains, depending on the time of the day and time of the year. Once stationed, the attendant is not allowed to leave the kiosk, even if the day is New Year’s Eve or the first day of Tết.

“You need to follow every shift through. Bring your lunchbox and eat fast, because the operator gives the signal, you need to carry out the warning procedure,” Tâm says. It’s rather repetitive work that can look simple at a glance, but just a moment of neglect can have catastrophic consequences.

Tâm takes care of plants on the track as part of the Railway Department’s “Flowers on the Track” initiative.

The work is intense, but it is even tougher for female staff. Some female attendants need to return just six months after giving birth; the baby is left at home with the grandparents or enrolled in public nurseries. Crossings at major avenues like Hoàng Văn Thụ or Nguyễn Văn Trỗi have giant heavy barriers that could give one a bruise if lifted improperly.

On days when the weather is stormy, everybody at the kiosk must also double as a cleaning crew to remove branches, debris, and rubbish that the water drags into the track. It’s not uncommon for Tâm and her colleagues to regulate traffic, operate the barriers, and watch out for signals while their uniform is soaking wet and the gale lashes their faces.

Apart from train-related tasks, crossing guards also ensure that the track is free from debris.

In the past years, the railway department has implemented upgrades to make the work of attendants less arduous. Some crossings were converted from manual to electric, reducing the weight of gate arms and the time of operation. A digital monitoring system can assist staff in overseeing traffic, detecting accidents, and providing clarity when there are disputes with civilians. Besides, staff benefits have improved when it comes to yearly trips, help for struggling employees, and working conditions for female workers with young children.

While the welfare policies don’t really lighten their actual technical work, Tâm feels validated. “It’s less tiring these days, I’m happy that the authority cares more about us,” she shares. Her daily schedule is not just filled with hardships; there are wholesome moments with passersby, too.

Sometimes, commuters nod their heads in gratitude when she just finishes a shift. Another time, on March 8, she was in the middle of the night shift when a group of students dropped by to give her a small bouquet in honor of Vietnamese Women’s Day. She never forgets those flowers, because they made her feel appreciated, and that her work is seen and meaningful to somebody.

While the job is strenuous, Tâm keeps a positive mindset.

Chatting to Tâm reminds me of ‘Hai Đứa Trẻ,’ Thạch Lam’s famous short story. In the text, the night train piercing across town was once seen as the symbol of light, of hope, of a bigger world out there for tiny humans in the rural area. Perhaps, in her 20 years guarding crossings, Tâm and her colleagues were the people hard at work keeping that light ever burning.

Động Tag Live Session, Cổ Động’s series of live recordings aiming to highlight Vietnam’s up-and-coming musicians, is returning with a second season.

Động Tag first premiered back in 2023 with 11 episodes, each featuring one artist or group at a different location. Some of the more whimsical impromptu stages include Giấy Gấp performing on the bank of the Saigon River with the Ba Son Bridge hulking in the background, or Vũ Thanh Vân singing her heart out inside an ornamental fish shop.

A recap of Động Tag Season 1.

According to Cổ Động, the live session series was established to give lesser-known and new local musical acts to reach a bigger audience through their own musicianship. With high production value and recording quality, these live sessions will appeal to both listeners and artists, who can enjoy the music in a stripped-down, intimate way.

Season 2's featured line-up.

Season 2 of Động Tag has returned since last December, this time bringing along nine musicians back to the same stage — including familiar names like Nhạc Của Trang, Datmaniac, and Minh Đinh.

The season was co-produced by Cổ Động, BLAZE, PhimGoods, 326 Concepts, and Kontribute over four days. Have a taste of Động Tag Season 2 in a few snippets below:

EP01: Nhạc Của Trang

EP06: Chillies

Media courtesy of Cổ Động.

We often see archival images of old Hanoi, but these photos are different — they are personal. The following shots, which come from a collection of five photo albums, are the only surviving record of my two great-great-grandfathers’ presence in what was then Indochina.

I don’t know when exactly they arrived, but it was around 1880, right in the midst of the French colonization of Tonkin. One, named Vézin, was an entrepreneur or a contractor; the other, Louis Vola, was a civil engineer for the colonial administration. 

The most remarkable subject in these albums is the documentation of early railway construction. We can see land being leveled, bridges being built, locomotives at train stations and workers toiling in the mountains.  

After gathering some information from my father and uncle, it seems more than likely that both my ancestors worked together on the railway from Phủ Lạng Thương, which is just outside Hanoi, to beside the Chinese border at Lạng Sơn.

Neither of the two men has gone down in history; their names are almost completely forgotten. And it might be for the best. As Tim Doling explains in his book The Railways and Tramways of Việt Nam, Vézin was not known for his kindness:

Kidnappings were a regular occurrence on the construction sites of the Phủ Lạng Thương–Lạng Sơn railway. Monsieur Vézin himself was kidnapped in July 1892 by a band that included many of his own workers, who then demanded money for his safe return.

While it can be hard for me to read about such a troubled and immoral family history, it at least seems clear that Vézin eventually received the treatment he deserved. 

Have a look at the railway’s construction below:

Photos courtesy of Julie Vola.

This article was first published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

After several years of preparation, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa by North London Collegiate School (VNTH) has achieved recognition as an IB World School, joining a global network of over 5,700 schools worldwide.

The International Baccalaureate (IB) is a global standard in education that helps students attain the tools and skills to excel throughout their lives. The program is an integral part of VNTH’s entire approach to education, which includes academic rigor supported by North London Collegiate School International and prioritizes Vietnamese identity via language and culture.

VNTH integrates the IB curriculum into the school’s philosophy of placing students at the center of learning while fostering critical thinking, curiosity, and a global mindset.

Introducing the IB System to Saigon Families

Many families understand the concept of academic excellence, but not necessarily the philosophy behind the IB. Thus, the school often starts by explaining the 'why' before the ‘what.’ This means emphasizing that the IB nurtures independent thinkers, confident communicators and compassionate global citizens. While the IB Diploma awarded to students serves as proof of a mastery of subjects including the English language and critical thinking skills for university admissions offices around the world, that isn’t the entire point. The IB curriculum develops each student to be a multi-talented individual who values their ability to contribute to the communities around them.

Introducing the IB system is an exciting opportunity to strengthen the connections between families and VNTH. The school hosts parent workshops, open classrooms, bilingual communications, and one-to-one meetings so families can be active participants in the learning journey. Adminstors note that amongst the most popular is the ‘Window into Learning’ where parents received an introduction about inquiry-based learning and then got to sit in their child’s class and see it in action.

The Role of English Rigor via North London Collegiate School

VNTH benefits from its profound relationship with North London Collegiate School (NLCS), which is a world-class IB Family of schools with 175 years of exceptional education in the UK, Korea, Dubai, Singapore and Kobe. NLCS provides support for implementing a curriculum framework that meets all the requirements of the National Curriculum for England and scaffolds the IB. The rigor and structure provided by NLCS’s formal standards balance the IB system’s more holistic and difficult to assess inquiry-based learning methods.

Students celebrate the ending of the year.

Maintaining Vietnamese Identity

VNTH graduates will go on to exciting opportunities around the world, but they must do so without ever losing connection with their home and culture. A key component of this is Vietnamese fluency, which is developed naturally and mindfully in coordination with the IB and English curriculum. It may at first seem that achieving bilingual fluency while also pursuing the rigorous English curriculum requirements and IB system presents an overwhelming task, but it’s not only possible, with bilingualism serving as an asset, not an obstacle.

The IB PYP values mother-tongue development because it strengthens cognitive growth, identity, and academic achievement. Vietnamese at VNTH is a living language in the school, reflected in literature, cultural experiences, and classroom practice. Students learn to think, problem solve, and express themselves in both English and Vietnamese, giving them cognitive flexibility, stronger literacy skills, and a deeper connection to their heritage. 

Moreover, achieving all the Vietnamese language and knowledge standards of students who attend local public schools has a profound impact on their ability to maintain ties to their communities. They can communicate fully and connect deeply with family members, friends, and neighbors which enables them to feel a part of their local communities.

Putting it All Together

Vietnam’s national curriculum, the English national curriculum, and the IB’s required interdisciplinary units can complement one another when designed and delivered carefully. The best of all worlds can be blended together for an education that is even greater than the sum of its parts. 

For this blending to occur, NLCS’s teachers and leadership work together closely. A key strength of the school's model is the partnership between Western and Vietnamese teachers. Planning is done collaboratively. Teachers co-design units, share expertise, and align instructional approaches so that the learning experience is coherent across languages and subjects. Western teachers bring international pedagogical approaches and inquiry-led methodology, while Vietnamese teachers bring cultural insight and language expertise. When this succeeds, students develop learning approaches that are both internationally minded and deeply connected to Vietnamese culture. Small class sizes and modern, purpose-built facilities, including the STEAM Lab, Makerspace, Art Studio, and Science Lab, assist in offering authentic learning opportunities.

The IB program, like the focus on Vietnamese language and culture, is intended for every student’s lifelong benefit as leaders, thinkers, and contributors. The school is united around their desire for families to understand their long-term goal: to help children grow as thinkers, collaborators, and leaders, confident in who they are and prepared for the world they will inherit.

We are all in this, but not together.

In a beautiful letter addressed to the strangers one finds themselves suddenly huddled amongst under bridges during rainstorms, my coworker reflects on their “15minutes’ worth of camaraderie together.” I agree with his sentiment as it relates to unexpected downpours, but observe no such unity at a bus stop. Rather, isolation intensifies while waiting for the city bus.

I began taking the bus regularly last year, and while the routes are frequent and navigation is easy, it's unavoidable that I find myself at the bus stop, waiting. Loneliness knows many varieties: the loneliness of a convenience store at 2am; the loneliness of failed romance conjured by music. But for me, it lurks in these suspended minutes at the bus stop, and I catch myself thinking of Fanny Howe’s description: “Loneliness is not an accident or a choice. / It’s an uninvited and uncreated companion. / …  It sits beside you. It’s as dark as a shadow.”

This dark shadow seems to occupy an empty chair surrounded by other passengers. Students carry bookbags stuffed with stress over assignments, exams, and social clique dramas. Office folk wear lanyards around their necks while doing mental run-throughs of presentations and pitches. Blue-collar workers, finally granted a chance to rest their limbs, try to ignore stiff joints. Or so I imagine, because I have no idea what is on their minds. Just like they don’t know what I’m thinking. The bus stop is not a place to talk with strangers. We are so close, and yet so far apart.

We cannot even bond over unspoken but mutual anticipation. Unlike those moments gathered during a storm, we are not all waiting for the same thing: Bus No. 30 will come to offer me reprieve from waiting, but the man next to me is praying for No. 43. When a bus appears in the distant traffic, it might bring relief to me but frustrated disappointment to the woman sitting next to me. Even aspirations separate people waiting at the bus stop.

As Tết approaches, Saigon’s buses will become even more crowded. Space will be taken up by gifts, ingredients, clothes, and cleaning supplies, each carried bag providing more boundaries between which loneliness thrives. Meanwhile, the routes that stretch to further destinations start to ferry luggage, reminding us that even though we may all occupy Saigon and carry in our pockets the key to a front door here, we also have other places we call home. And, perhaps most frightening, what if the loneliness we meet at the bus stop follows us home?

I almost never remember the faces of the employees at cafes that I’ve been to, but I am strangely attuned to the existence of their cats. I remember the textures of their fur when I gave them pets, the little squeaks when they jumped up and down the furniture, and the subtle ways they expressed their personality during our fleeting but memorable encounters.

This is not a list about pet cafes, but rather conventional cafes that just happen to host a feline resident or two. While the animals are a commonality of the two, I distinguish them by whether the animals are the main attraction or just a part of the coffee shop ambiance that you’ll get to bask in during your stay.

Having a cat, or any animal in general, at one’s cafe is a courageous and strategic, but also risky decision. A comfortable, well-mannered kitty will add much personality and life to any space. Cats can’t mask comfort, so a cafe that they deem safe is likely to be a welcoming space for your overstimulated nervous system as well. On the contrary, as a long-time cat owner, I can always detect signs of a cafe cat in distress or of ill health. Alter all, a team is only as strong as its most vulnerable member, and a coffee shop that doesn’t care for their cat properly is unlikely to be one that pays attention to your needs.

Here are five cafes in Saigon with outstanding feline inhabitants that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting (and petting).

1. Auvery Cafe

14 Lê Ngô Cát, Xuân Hòa Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

An offshoot of the first location on Ký Con, Auvery Cafe is a welcoming corner on quaint Lê Ngô Cát Street to hide from traffic. Its spacious sheltered and tree-lined courtyard is a well-ventilated seating choice on early Saigon mornings when the temperature is still cool. Auvery’s resident feline is half-ginger, half-cream Em, who might be grumpy-looking at first but will happily nuzzle your leg after a few visits — that is, if you’re lucky enough to visit during Em’s non-nap hours.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

2. Phường Cà Phê

115/102 Lê Văn Sỹ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Phường Cà Phê is located on a peculiar stretch of Phú Nhuận where what seems like one street on the map is actually two parallel paths in real life, separated by the train track. Unlike Hanoi’s train street, the track is slightly elevated and sectioned off, but sitting inside Phường, once in a while, you’ll be greeted with the blaring horns of a passing locomotive. There are two feline residents here, one of which is a gorgeous long-haired heterochromatic white cat whose presence will shower your day with regal energy.

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

3. Haru Craft

15/10 Nguyễn Huy Tưởng, Gia Định Ward

Photos by Cao Nhân.

Despite the numerous cute videos showing cat-pottery wheel interactions that I’ve watched on Instagram, I still think that pottery and cats are a dangerous combination — one ever so fragile while the other is chaos embodied. Haru Craft doesn’t seem to share this belief, judging by the presence of Gona, their energetic creamsicle ginger cat named after the famous Dalgona coffee from South Korea. This spacious cafe has a dedicated studio space for recurring ceramic workshops you can take alone, on a date, or even with a group of friends. Watch out for the cat while handling pottery!

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

Read Saigoneer's review of Haru Craft Ceramic Studio here.

4. Kalery

172/9 Đặng Văn Ngữ, Phú Nhuận Ward

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

As a cafe, Kalery is structured around working and studying instead of boisterous chats: the lighting is bright, there are many power sockets, and the quietude is lovely. There is a wide assortment of snacks, sweets, stationery, and even cat treats on sale at the counter. The cat snacks are obviously there for fans of Mỹ to befriend him. In spite of the feminine name, Mỹ is a boy, and an exceedingly handsome grey tabby boy at that. He can be spotted inspecting the cleanliness under the tables or rolling lazily on the floor. 

Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

5. Passengers

46/9 Trần Quang Diệu, Nhiêu Lộc Ward

Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

The vine-covered wooden doors of Passengers might appear mysterious at first glance, but they open into a secluded world of rustic furniture, eclectic knick-knacks, and lots of cats and dogs — the most of any on this list. I have never done an official count, but there are at least three cats and a dog at any given moment, napping, maneuvering in between your legs, sniffing your backpack. Most of the pets are rescues, and you wouldn’t believe that some of these fluffy friends were once on the street, because they look happy and healthy. It’s clear that this is their world, and you’re just existing in it.

Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Read Saigoneer's review of Passengers here.

"In the early 2000s, the market experienced an exodus of painters due to the shift to digital; it was difficult to retain customers otherwise. I didn't want my craft to be forgotten, so I started everything all over,” Nguyễn Hoài Bảo told me in Vietnamese when I visited his studio.

Bảo, born in 1986, is one of the few traditional sign painters who is still practicing his craft in Saigon.

“My father used to run a workshop that made hand-painted signs in Đồng Tháp. I started learning about the trade when I was 13. I would go to school in the morning and help out at the workshop in the afternoon. I got the ropes of the job pretty quickly and my father recognized my potential, so naturally I followed in his footsteps.”

Traditionally, hand-painted signs employed a simple palette comprising red, blue, green, and yellow — primary shades for grabbing attention easily. In their heydays, these signs were a staple for businesses wishing to advertise their products and services. Such high demands kept Bảo’s family workshop booked and busy.

But as times changed, modern methods took over. Plastic lamination, acrylic panels, and LED lighting emerged as more eye-catching assets and soon dominated the market. Many artisans had to give up their trade due to declining income. As the number of customers seeking hand-painted signs dwindled, Bảo's family also made the difficult decision to abandon their lifelong work to keep the business going. “It was tough, and I was devastated. I thought my profession would fade into obscurity.”

In 2017, seeing how vintage aesthetics were trending again, Bảo took a leap of faith and relocated to Saigon to set up a new workshop. “I chose Saigon for a fresh start because there’s so much potential here. When all things nostalgic were becoming popular again, Saigon was one of the very first to embrace the trend," he said. "As I was starting from scratch, new customers didn't know who I was or what I was capable of. It took a lot of passion and sweat to pick up my brushes again and get to where I am today.”

Gradually, he was able to build a customer base steady enough to receive orders every day. Many clients from abroad who took a liking to Bảo designs even came to Vietnam themselves to pick them up. “I remember this one Japanese professor who loved Saigon so much that he visited me and ordered a sign with the '333' beer logo to decorate his office in Japan,” Bảo recalled.

According to the artist, a hand-painted sign's price ranges from VND800,000 to a few million đồng depending on its size. Unlike modern signs, these traditional signs cannot have “add-on” fixtures such as LED lights or letter cutouts. However, they can showcase a distinct brand identity and offer greater durability as well. The longer these signs are put on display, the more rugged and “authentic” of a look they acquire.

Bảo explained the meticulous process behind his work: “After receiving a request from a customer, I design a sample for them to review. If they agree with the design, I will proceed with measuring and welding a metal frame, then fit in onto a metal sheet. Next comes two coats of base paint, with each layer being painted four hours apart. Once the paint is completely dry, I begin sketching, outlining the details in pencil, and then adding in the colors.”

Bảo still uses Bạch Tuyết-brand paint, the same kind he used when he was just an apprentice to his father, as it's durable and reasonably priced while offering a variety of colors to choose from. The painter handles every step from gathering materials to finishing the sign, thus explaining the name of his shop “Một Mình Làm Hết” (lit: Do it all myself).

Since every part of the process is handled by Bảo, he sees each sign as his “child” and puts a lot of care into nurturing it. He told me, “When I'm out on the street, I can spot which signs I've made at a glance. I remember them all. In those moments, I feel proud because at least I know I've made some sort of contribution. And it's not just my own works that make me feel that way; whenever I come across any hand-painted sign, I feel joy.”

Throughout our conversation, Bảo also expressed his admiration for the late artisan Hoài Minh Phương, who devoted his entire life to preserving the art of hand-painted signs despite financial difficulties. Up until his recent passing, he was seen with brushes in hand.

“Up until now, I have a stable stream of orders, but I often worry if my work would become a lost art in the future. That's why I don’t keep any trade secrets. Anyone who wants to learn how to make hand-painted signs, I'm ready to share, so that together, we can preserve what's left of it.”

Last year marked an impressive year for tourism in Vietnam. A record number of 21.17 million international tourists visited the country in 2025, a 20.4% increase compared to 2024. This far exceeded the global average growth rate of around 5%, as well as that of the Asian Pacific region of roughly 8%.

The service sector, with tourism identified as a key driving force within, contributed to more than half of last year’s GDP growth of 8.02%, the highest in 15 years, if exempting the post-COVID burst of 8.12% in 2022. 

China contributed the most to the figure, accounting for 5.28 million visitors. South Korea came second with more than 4.33 million visitors, followed by Taiwan with around 1.23 million arrivals. Around 83% of visitors arrived by air.

The tourism surge can be at least partly attributed to new policies adopted and implemented in 2025, specifically with regards to visa facilitation. Unilateral visa exemptions were extended to citizens of 24 different countries, e-visa eligibility was extended to all countries, and the period of stay for visitors was lengthened, from 30 to 90 days for e-visa holders and 15 to 45 days for visa-free travelers.

A series of measures designed to encourage and support tourism businesses also played a part, such as cuts to appraisal fees for travel business licenses, the lowering of electricity prices for tourism accommodation facilities to equal those of the manufacturing sector, and streamlining administrative procedures.

In hopes of sustaining the momentum of 2025's success, Vietnam’s tourism authorities have set an ambitious target of attracting 25 million international visitors in 2026. 

According to Nguyễn Trùng Khánh, Director of the Vietnam National Authority of Tourism, the tourism sector will focus on developing and improving key tourism product lines such as cultural tourism, ecotourism, marine and island tourism, and urban sightseeing. He further noted that, to attract higher-spending travelers, the country is studying and developing new premium tourism products, including those tailored for Muslim travelers.

Next year is expected to be the first year in operation of Long Thành International Airport, slated to be open in June. The brand-new aerodrome is hoped to alleviate the bottlenecks that have existed for years at Saigon’s Tân Sơn Nhất Airport, which received a record number of 83.5 million passengers in 2025. Transportation infrastructure between the new airport and Saigon, however, remains a major concern, as three planned major roads linking them are yet to be completed.

A trail of enormous footprints, criss-crossing slabs of cracked concrete, lead to a battered ranger station in Vietnam’s Pù Mát National Park. Park staff say the wild Asian elephant that left the tracks is as friendly as it is lonely.

Separated from any of the country’s remaining wild herds, the solitary giant satisfies her social appetite by interacting with people at the station. Rangers say the 29-year-old female has been solo since her mother died more than a decade ago. Signs of her visits to the rangers are hard to miss, with craters in the soil left by weighty feet, a fence bent from a playful push, and a dented sign toppled by a frisky trunk.

“The elephant usually comes here to play,” says Nguyễn Công Thành, a ranger at Pù Mát in Vietnam’s north-central Nghệ An Province, as he points out the damage. The wild elephant herd which lives deeper in the forests of Pù Mát — made up of around 15 individuals — is far less friendly, he says.

Nguyễn Công Thành, a ranger at Pù Mát National Park, holds a battered sign which was knocked down by a solitary wild elephant.

Lộc Văn Hùng, a fellow ranger, with a section of the station’s fence that the elephant damaged

Only around 100 wild elephants are estimated to survive in Vietnam, separated into 22 groups across the country. These last survivors of Asia’s once 100,000-strong elephant population face a myriad of threats, including conflict with people, exacerbated by habitat loss.

Drawn to fruit trees, corn, rice and other agricultural produce, a herd of wild elephants can destroy a farmer’s livelihood in a single meal. And when Vietnam’s remaining wild herds interact with humans, the results are often fraught and sometimes fatal.

As pressure mounts from agricultural expansion and other human development, conservationists warn the dwindling number of elephants will soon approach the point of no return in sustaining a viable population.

In the last two years in Pù Mát, rangers allegedly suspect two elephants may have been killed by poisoning in possible acts of retribution following conflicts with humans.

An Asian elephant takes a bath in Vietnam’s Yok Don National Park in May 2023, when a record-setting heat wave swept Vietnam.

With Vietnam’s elephant populations trailing on the very edge of viability, each incident of conflict threatens the continued existence of the species there.

Vietnam’s elephants on the brink

Asian elephants are listed as critically endangered on the Vietnam Red Book of rare and endangered species, while the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List categorize them as endangered at the global level.

A tourist draws a rescued Asian elephant during a tour hosted by NGO Animals Asia in Yok Don National Park, which is estimated to be home to 28–60 wild elephants.

Vietnam’s wild elephant population has been in sharp decline for decades. Huge swathes of forest were destroyed during the 20-year-long American War, and the animals’ habitat has continued to shrink as the country has developed.

Hunted for ivory and the elephant skin trade, and captured from the wild for use in logging and tourism, Vietnam’s wild elephant population has fallen from approximately 2,000 in 1980 to between 91 and 129 in 2022, according to the Vietnam Forest Administration.

The few surviving wild herds live in areas close to Vietnam’s borders with Cambodia and Laos. The largest groups are in three national parks: Cát Tiên, Pù Mát and Yok Don. Even then, Cát Tiên and Pù Mát are home to fewer than 20 elephants, while between 28 and 60 are estimated to live in Yok Don, according to data from the Vietnam Forestry Administration. The rest of the nation’s wild elephants are sparsely scattered across nine provinces, with four provinces counting just a single wild elephant.

Wild Asian elephant herds have declined steadily for decades in Vietnam. As of 2022, 91–129 elephants are estimated to survive across 12 provinces, with the largest herds restricted to three national parks. • Data source: Vietnam Forestry Administration • Graphic: China Dialogue, Anton Delgado

The Vietnam Forestry Administration lists Lâm Đồng Province as elephant habitat. However, no data on the number of individuals is included.

A national plan to save elephants

Vietnam is currently crafting a national action plan on elephant conservation to protect the country’s remaining wild herds. This program will run from 2023 to 2032, and will set a vision to 2050.

Mai Nguyễn, wildlife program manager at Humane Society International (HSI), an animal welfare and conservation NGO, says that national agencies, along with authorities from those provinces where wild elephants cling on, have been meeting with conservation groups in “consultation workshops” and “technical meetings” to develop the action plan.

A sculpture of an Asian elephant herd made of snares and other wildlife traps in Vietnam’s Pù Mát National Park, which is estimated to be home to fewer than 20 wild elephants.

HSI is leading on writing a draft plan, while also providing technical support and encouraging authorities to find “appropriate interventions” to mitigate conflict between elephants and local communities, Mai says. The plan must be signed by Vietnam’s prime minister or the Ministry of Agriculture and Rural Development before it comes into effect.

But reducing human-elephant conflict is complex, and more information is needed to inform responses, Mai says. “The conflict is unique and it’s also very complicated. To sort this out is not easy and it takes time… We should keep monitoring and learning about the characteristics of the conflict.”

Retaliation and reconciliation

Some traditional methods used to scare elephants away from crops in Vietnam can be harmful to the animals. While many farmers will bang pots, flash lights, and set off firecrackers, some have also used more violent means.

Locals in Cát Tiên have told conservationists about an incident some four years ago in which they threw a Molotov cocktail at a wild male elephant and lit it on fire in an attempt to drive it away. People in the area later reported the elephant is one of the more aggressive animals now.

An Asian elephant munches vegetation in Yok Don National Park, which is home to Vietnam’s largest wild elephant herd.

Conservationists had initially hoped that “bio-fences” such as bee boxes and chili plants could be used to deter elephants, but these passive interventions have been mainly unsuccessful.

Another potential solution, which some are pushing to be included in the conservation plan, is a countrywide compensation program for property destroyed by elephants. These initiatives are intended to prevent acts of retaliation against the animals, and though some exist on the local level, there is no such countrywide mechanism.

“We hope some compensation to local people can settle down the conflict and hopefully we can protect the elephants,” said Thông Phạm, a research manager with Save Vietnam’s Wildlife.

Phước, a fruit vendor, playing with his three-year-old son at an elephant fountain in Buôn Đôn Square, Đắk Lắk province.

Mai Nguyễn at HSI is working to submit a final draft of the action plan to the government in the hopes of it being signed by the end of this year. “To sort this out is not easy,” she says. “We must represent the elephant voice.”

Training for better responses to human-elephant conflict

In late May 2023, Cao Thị Lý, an elephant expert and retired professor from Tây Nguyên University in Đắk Lắk, led a training course on mitigating human-elephant conflict. At the event, approximately an hour’s drive from Pù Mát National Park, we met with conservationists, rangers, and members of a “community quick-response team” dedicated to mitigating human-wildlife conflict around the park. The training course was arranged by nonprofit Fauna & Flora International (FFI), which runs conservation efforts in Pù Mát and backs the response team.

“Out of 13 Asian nations [with extant wild elephant populations], Vietnam is the one with the fewest wild elephants left,” says Lý. “We have to change to help the elephants.”

Cao Thị Lý, a retired professor from Tây Nguyên University in Đắk Lắk and author of a book on human-elephant conflict in Vietnam, leads a training course on the topic with conservationists, rangers and researchers.

Habitat destruction has exacerbated human-elephant conflict, says Đặng Đình Lâm, a member of the quick-response team.

Rubber plantations and slash-and-burn farming near Pù Mát National Park have shrunk elephant habitat and thus availability of elephant food, Lâm says.

“The conflict has two sides. Elephants lack habitat, and because they destroy crops and property, people dislike them,” Lâm says. “I hope that the government and people will be more responsible about protecting elephants.”

Engineers of the forest

“When I was young, I could see elephants everywhere,” says Quỳnh Phạm, driving an e-cart into the 115,000-hectare Yok Don National Park in Vietnam’s verdant Central Highlands, which is home to the country’s largest wild elephant population. Quỳnh is the ethical elephant tourism manager for Animals Asia, a nonprofit working in Vietnam and China to improve the welfare of captive wildlife.

In December 2021, Animals Asia signed a memorandum of understanding with the province of Đắk Lắk (where Yok Don is located) to end elephant rides completely by 2026 and transition to ethical elephant tourism. As of 2022, there were 37 domesticated or captive elephants in Đắk Lắk province, and between 28 and 60 in the wild.

Ten animals previously used for elephant rides now live in Yok Don, under the care of Animals Asia. The elephants roam freely in the park during the day, with mahouts traveling with them to ensure their safety; they are kept on long chains in the park overnight. Visiting tourists can watch the animals grazing, bathing, and mud wallowing from a safe distance.

While far from the hundreds of Quỳnh’s youth, the 10 retired elephants can now play their key natural role in the forest ecosystem.

Trampling through the forest, two females graze on bamboo and plough through thick vegetation — a long way from the elephant rides of their past. Wild Asian elephants do this for 18 hours a day, dispersing seeds and creating new forest trails for smaller species as they go. As elephant populations have plummeted across Asia, this important role as an “engineer” has been left unfilled.

An Asian elephant, rescued by Animals Asia, feeds in Vietnam’s Yok Don National Park. Elephants can eat up to 150 kilograms of vegetation per day.

Prasop Tipprasert, who has worked in elephant conservation for more than 30 years in Southeast Asia, explains that the presence of elephants in the wild indicates a healthy, biodiverse landscape.

“If we cannot keep elephants from extinction, we lose the potential of keeping our forests healthy,” says Prasop, who now works for the Laos-based eco-tourism agency MandaLao Elephant Conservation.

Cao Thị Lý, an expert in human-elephant conflict, points out a sign warning of frequent wild elephant sightings in Vietnam’s Pù Mát National Park.

Lý, the retired professor, says that for elephants to maintain their role as ecosystem engineers in Vietnam’s forests, the country’s government must actively restore and reconnect their habitat to give different populations opportunities to interact and interbreed.

While elephants could once travel through suitable habitat from northern to southern Vietnam, forests have become increasingly fragmented, with conflict with humans becoming “systematic” as forests shrink, she says.

“Due to the conflict between humans and elephants over the small leftover shared resources, bad outcomes arise,” she notes. “The confrontation between humans and elephants has intensified.”

An approximately 40-year-old Asian elephant rescued by Animals Asia treads through Vietnam’s Yok Don National Park

Elephants on the brink in neighboring countries

The decline of elephants in Vietnam is mirrored in neighboring nations. The wild Asian elephant populations of both Laos and Cambodia are estimated to number less than a thousand. In China, barely 300 wild elephants are believed to survive, with their once enormous range now limited to a pocket of the south-western province of Yunnan.

Conflict over resources is a major concern for China’s remaining wild herds. In 2021, 14 elephants usually resident in a nature reserve in Yunnan’s Xishuangbanna region began to move northwards. On their months-long journey, the elephants destroyed property, creating a challenge for authorities in finding a balance between elephant conservation and protecting citizens’ dwellings and livelihoods. According to local authorities, 150,000 people were evacuated from the elephants’ path to avoid potentially dangerous incidents, and the government paid out a total of US$770,000 in property damages.

Farmland surrounds Pù Mát National Park, one of the few locations where wild elephants cling on in Vietnam.

Sitting just steps from where Pù Mát’s solo female elephant is often spotted, Cao Thị Lý underlines how important habitat protection is if there is to be any chance of saving the last elephants of Vietnam.

“Vietnam is the weakest in everything in elephant conservation,” she says. “We have the chance to help the elephants to keep growing their population in the future, but we need to rebuild forests.”

This story was originally produced by China Dialogue in collaboration with Southeast Asia Globe with additional reporting by Nguyễn Háo Thanh Thảo. It has been republished with permission from China Dialogue.

Last year, acclaimed Vietnamese American writer Viet Thanh Nguyen published To Save and to Destroy: Writing as an Other, a collection of six essays adapted from the prestigious Norton Lectures that he delivered at Harvard in 2023–2024.

Writing and otherness are the central themes of the book. What does it mean to write as an other? To read as an other? What is, or should be, the relationship between self and otherness? Such are the questions that Nguyen is invested in in his latest book. And while his reflections upon these questions center around his own experiences as an Asian American and refugee, he demonstrates, importantly, that such questions are pertinent to all of us, whoever we are and wherever we live, ethically, socially, and in some sense, existentially.

The insights that Nguyen offers in To Save and to Destroy are simultaneously theoretically sharp and intimately tender, a result of his seamless blending of autobiography and theory. Maneuvering between artful storytelling drawn from his own life and readings of critical and literary texts, he lets each shed light on the other. The result is a deft hybrid between art and criticism, combining the best strengths of both — a quality that great lectures most often have. That said, Nguyen’s book does not read like a lecture, and nor does it attempt to lecture at us. Rather, it simply asks to be heard, asks for its readers to think, feel, and reflect alongside its author. 

For those who have read Nguyen’s previous works, the particular hybrid genre of To Save and to Destroy may strike as new, but it may oddly feel familiar as well — after all, Nguyen’s fiction has arguably always been theoretical, and his non-fiction, as his latest memoir A Man of Two Faces can attest, literary. Anyone who finds pleasure in reading theory as literature and literature as theory, To Save and to Destroy will be a delight to read, intellectually rich without being burdensome.

As it may already be apparent, the subtitle of Nguyen’s book, “writing as an other,” contains within it a multitude of meanings that he weaves through and together. To start, Nguyen is interested in two forms of otherness: one that is experienced via marginalization and domination, a form of otherness deeply personal to Nguyen as someone who came to the US as a young refugee from Vietnam, and a second form of otherness, perhaps more universal, that resides in the deepest parts of all of us. Nguyen explains:

By others, I mean those who are outcast from or exploited by the powerful norm of their societies, or those who have moved voluntarily or have been moved forcefully from one place to another, or those who have been dominated in their own homes by outsiders whom they would consider to be others. By others, I also mean ourselves, for as Toni Morrison points out in her Norton Lectures, The Origin of Others, otherness emerges from within the mysterious and unknown, or at best partly known, territory inside us all, a nexus of fears and desires we project onto those whom we label strangers, foreigners, enemies, invaders, threats.

For Nguyen, as the last part of the quote above makes clear, the two forms of otherness, while distinct, often intertwine in troubling ways. A central question of the book then, is how one should relate to the other, both within and outside the self. In the book’s preface, Nguyen explains that his lectures are an “attempt to think through what it means to write and read from the position of an other, which is for me the starting point of an ethical and political art.” If ethics and politics concern the question of how one should relate to others, the task of thinking through “writing as an other” is the starting point for ethical and political art precisely because it is in otherness that self and other meet, struggle, and relate.

In this respect, the chapter “Palestine and Asia” stands out, the corresponding lecture of which he delivered not long after the October 7 attacks in 2023. In raising the question of the significance of Israel-Palestine for Asian Americans, Nguyen comes to the following forceful conclusion.

Being Asian American is not the only dimension of myself. I cease being an Asian American if and when Asian Americans cannot emerge from self-defense, inclusion, and a limited solidarity bound by race and nation in order to embrace an expansive, global solidarity. My Asian Americanness matters less than my ethics, politics, and art. Together they constitute a repository of a stubborn otherness that resists the lure of a domesticated otherness satiated by belonging. For Asian Americans, inclusion is crucial but complicated when it means belonging to a settler and imperial country that promotes the colonization and occupation of other lands. What is the worth of defending our lives if we do not seek to protect the lives of others? As for whom we should feel solidarity with, the answer is simple, albeit difficult: whoever is the cockroach. Whoever is the monster.

Nguyen’s point is that belonging cannot, and should not, come at all costs, taking precedence over one’s ethics, politics, and art, nor over the pursuit of “radical solidarity” that cannot be bound by race or nation, but must extend to those who are most oppressed and dehumanized beyond our immediate communities. Importantly, Nguyen is not calling for a rejection of belonging or Asian American identity, but rather a transformation in how such belonging is understood in the first place — the values it should entail and the forms of solidarities it should call for. And such reworking of what Asian Americanness ought to mean is precisely what Nguyen seeks to engage in in deliberating upon, and performing, writing as an ethical and political act.

If, on the one hand, Nguyen is interested in “writing as an other” as an act, he is also interested in “writing as an other” as a noun, an object that “is itself an other to the writer.” This is, in fact, literally the case in the chapter “On Speaking for an Other,” in which he recounts rediscovering essays that he wrote long ago as a freshman in Berkeley for Maxine Hong Kingston’s writing seminar, specifically about his mother’s breakdown and her eventual commitment to a psychiatric ward. In rereading his own essays decades later, Nguyen realizes that his memories of the event were wrong, with crucial parts distorted or even entirely blacked out. He realizes that his mother had been committed to the psychiatric ward when he was a college freshman, not as a child as he thought for decades. He also learns about a hole in his bathroom door that he fails to recollect even after rereading his writing. His father had knocked it through in order to reach his mother who had locked herself in the bathroom out of a paranoiac fear that someone, or everyone, was trying to kill her.

If writing is other, it is in part because language itself is always already other, foreign, even in the form of one’s mother tongue, a point that the French philosopher Jacques Derrida elucidates in “Monolingualism of the Other,” a text Nguyen explicitly invokes. But writing is other also because it reflects the otherness that is an inherent and irreducible condition of existence itself. As Nguyen reflects upon the aforementioned episode, he writes, “if the experience was so unsettling that I had to write about it, it was also so unnerving that I had to forget about it until my mother died two days before Christmas Eve in 2018.” In some sense, Nguyen’s trauma was itself an other within himself that he could not bear nor confront — which is why he “had to” write about it, “had to” in order to externalize it into words on a page so that it could be stored away and forgotten.

As Nguyen explains, the experience of being a refugee is often one that must inevitably face the question, “will they live or die, be saved or destroyed?” But what about in writing? As the title of Nguyen’s book indicates, in “writing as an other,” salvation and destruction do not necessarily exist in binary opposition but rather in odd cohesion. In writing about his mother, and in rereading his writing, what has he saved? destroyed? The memories of his mother, both, no doubt, but perhaps also himself — a contradiction only if we cling onto a notion of self that excludes from itself otherness.

But even as the encounter with otherness — both of one’s own as well as of loved ones — can be deeply unsettling, traumatic even, Nguyen insists that such an encounter can also possess unexpected joys. In the last paragraph of the book, Nguyen describes his sister Tuyết, whom his family abandoned in fleeing Vietnam (and who, as was unknown at the time, was adopted), visiting San José to see their sick father, whom she had last seen three decades ago.

Love was what brought my sister to the United States, to see her brothers but most especially, I think, our father. After Los Angeles, my sister flew to San José to visit him, whom she had not seen since his last visit to Việt Nam thirty years before. Our father spends his days in quiet contemplation, and when I return, he either does not recognize me or pretends to recognize me, his other, as he is other to me. I warned my sister that our father would probably not know who she was, but this did not appear to deter her. When she walked into his room, she told me later, she asked him if he recognized her. In a moment of reunion and recognition that I think of as manifesting the joy of otherness, he murmured an assent. Then our father said, “Vui lắm.” And my sister was content that our father said he was very happy.

The otherness of Nguyen’s sister, the otherness of his father, the otherness of their encounter with each other — in this extraordinary scene, a multitude of layers of otherness overlap and collide, each bearing its own painful history. Yet in this encounter, we witness the emergence of a plurality of joys too, each felt differently by his sister, his father, and Nguyen himself. The “joy of otherness” resounds here, but it also remains opaque, not least of all because it remains unclear what their father exactly meant by “Vui lắm.” Perhaps he recognized Tuyết. Perhaps he was happy to see her regardless of who she was. Perhaps he was joyous for a different reason altogether.

But perhaps the question of why does not matter so much. If the joy of otherness, and the multitude of joys that reverberate from it, cannot but be opaque, it is because the joy of otherness is itself also, ultimately, deeply other.

Its entrances flanked by ATMs and adverts for international airlines, the Sun Wah Tower on Nguyễn Huệ today appears to be another nondescript testament to the global economy and Vietnam’s enthusiastic place within it. However, on those same grounds only 150 years ago, a guillotine was set up to decapitate people on order of the colonial authorities at the Justice de paix.

The Sun Way Tower pictured in 2015 (left) and The Justice de paix, opened in 1875 (right). Photos via Historic Vietnam.

This reality comes into focus when looking at its colorful depiction on an 1882 Saigon planning map. It’s possible to toggle between this surprising past and the present day instantaneously via The Vietnam Map Archive Project (VMA) on your computer or phone. More than just a repository of static images, old maps are anchored on modern ones, letting users instantly journey through time by overlaying centuries of history onto their current location.

Saigon planning map from 1882 via the French National Library archive. Keen observers will recognize Nguyễn Huệ is not a paved street, but a canal.

VMA’s co-founder Tuệ had suggested we chat about the project at a Highlands Cafe just off Nguyễn Huệ so we could see the tower in question and then journey through time via maps on our computers. Since meeting Tuệ several weeks prior at the Engaging with Vietnam conference, where he introduced the project to a group of gathered academics, I had occasionally flipped through the twenty-odd historic maps stretching from 1791 to the present day. Doing so allowed me to observe when the site of my favorite coffee shop ceased being a snarl of swampland and how the city’s central market once stood near the river, before Bến Thành was established as the “new” market.

The old market on Charner Boulevard, now Nguyễn Huệ built in 1982 (left) and the site of the new market at Bồ Rệt Swamp (Marais Boresse) as depicted in 1898. Images via Flickr user manhhai.

I expected my time with Tuệ would produce a few more interesting details about the city as revealed by looking at the maps. And while I certainly did hear some incredible anecdotes, such as the many notable buildings owned by Wang Tei, a fabulously wealthy 19^th-century Chinese businessman who ran the city’s opium refinery and the factory that made the bricks for Notre Dame Cathedral, I left with a more profound understanding of how maps can serve as the skeleton for a city’s soul. Dedicated to preserving, nurturing, and sharing this soul, VMA’s scope and scale is truly limitless, with each stage of development able to greatly enrich the experiences of students, scholars, tourists, urban developers, and anyone who simply loves maps, histories, and stories. In other words, the Vietnam Map Archive Project is for Saigoneers.

Construction of Wang Tei's mansion on the Saigon River (left) and when it was purchased by the French authorities in 1882 to house its Directorate of Customs and Excise (Direction des Douanes et Régies). Photos via Historic Vietnam.

A love of maps

“I like old maps, because, first off, they’re beautiful,” explained Tuệ. A data journalist at VnExpress, he is pursuing a master's degree in Public Policy from Fulbright University and his knowledge of data is largely self-taught. His earnest love of maps and a seemingly insatiable desire for interdisciplinary knowledge motivated him to embark on this passion project in his free time approximately one year ago. “I started it because I wanted to learn how to work with maps,” Tuệ admitted.

A screenshot of VMA in action.

Saigoneer shares with Tuệ a despair over the sudden and inexplicable loss of the manhhai Flickr account, which held thousands of archival photographs from Vietnam. “This disappearance of manhhai’s Flickr collection was a wake-up call for me,” Tuệ explains in the VMA’s founders' letter released six months ago. In response, he formed a vision for VMA as “A fusion of open access, historical preservation, and visual storytelling [...] We are a group of young researchers and scholars trying to build a home for these scattered memories. What we wanted was simple: a place that is both as secure as a professional archive and as open as the Internet. A library built by the community, for the community.”

While many of the maps are focused on downtown Saigon, which constitutes a small area of the modern city, some expand their views outwards as in this one from 1923. Image via the French National Library archive.

Since the beginning, Tuệ has amassed a small team of volunteers representing complementary backgrounds and disciplines to strengthen and support VMA’s goal. “Our mission is to create a collaborative space for our shared heritage,” the letter continues. “We believe that history is not a monologue delivered by experts; it's a conversation. You might have an old map from your grandfather. A researcher in France might have a rare document. A student in Hanoi might have a question that connects them both. VMA wants to be the room where that conversation happens. Our dream is that one day, a student in Huế can pull up a map from 70 years ago, find the street their grandmother lived on, and for the first time, truly see the world through her eyes. That is the magic we want to build.”

A sparse slithering of rivers and inexact estuaries comprise 1791’s Plan de la rivière de Saïgon. Its failure to chart the city’s streets and the imprecise placement of certain stretches of water compelled the team  to deem it unworthy for VMA; he has hundreds of maps to select from and can thus be discerning when selecting which to include so as to not overwhelm users. Other members of the VMA team, however, pushed back, arguing that because it is amongst the first western chartings of the city, the map tells a powerful part of its development. Specifically, before the French could impart so much change in the region, they had to arrive and enter, which occurred via the rivers. The map, error-filled as it may be, informs the narrative of Saigon’s progress over the past centuries. The VMA’s researchers won out, and the map is now included in the project.

Saigon's rivers map from 1791. Image via the French National Library archive.

The fate of the river map provides insight into how the VMA team works. Currently consisting of about 10 volunteers, including Tuệ, the team is split into departments for maps, research, technical details, and operations. Everyone aims to contribute at least 10 hours a week to their respective specialty. Some scour archives, historical documents, and reputable resources like Tim Doling’s Historic Vietnam, while others work on the backend framework and another team is dedicated to finding and assessing new maps. There are several great online archives of relevant maps, including the David Rumsey Map Archive and one maintained by the French National Library. Specificity, accuracy, novelty, purpose and annotations are all important criteria used to select which maps will be uploaded for VMA. And because maps are stored as images, the team must add information for coordinates and established landmarks so the maps can all be understood in relation to one another.

The search for maps to use revealed some surprising truths about cartography communities. In Vietnam, there are many original maps held in private collections and for sale. Unfortunately, their owners have not been willing to lend them to the project to upload. Alas, knowledge remains hamstrung by commerce. Meanwhile, a more philosophical argument is at play. Users will quickly notice that VMA’s maps are mostlyl Western in origin, reflective of and perhaps contributing to inequities. “Maps are a projection of power; those who make the maps have the power,” Tuệ said before explaining why the team focused first on maps created by the French. Indeed, the most readily available and accurate by modern-day standards were created by colonial powers, but Vietnamese perspectives remain essential. Given the modern-day realities, it was easiest to start with foreign ones, but they are learning about native sources as well, noting Vietnamese created maps using an alternate system informed by stars. 

Plan annamite d'Hanoï dated 1876–1883. Image via the French National Library archive.

In addition to reliance on celestial points, Asian mapmakers from the past offer an alternative understanding of how maps can represent our world. The size of depicted structures and natural features can be reflective of their relative importance. I saw this first-hand when Tuệ was creating a sample Hanoi version of the project for us to tinker with. The citadel dwarfed the surrounding area to emphasize its role in the city, as opposed to the specific dimensions of its walls. 

A matter of bodies and souls

The streets, bridges, buildings, parks, and rivers depicted on maps can be understood as a city’s body, which we can observe growing and changing across time. However, Tuệ emphasized that this is of minimal importance without encountering and knowing the soul of a city. This means details, histories, narratives, and sensory descriptions. For example, what was sold in any specific building? Who owned it? How much was rent for the tenants? Why was it abandoned and later reclaimed? And beyond these straightforward facts, what did the surrounding streets sound like at 6am when vendors peddled past? What did it smell like on a hot summer afternoon? And what about the hopes, fears, and joys of the people who occupied it?

Input of knowledge will allow static images, like this map from 1902, to have story along with structure. Image via David Rumsey archive.

Adding these details via primary and secondary sources is essential for developing VMA into a knowledge hub, as outlined in the founder’s letter: “Currently, each map is meticulously georeferenced, dedicatedly researched, effectively stored, and beautifully presented for the public. We will then establish a system that welcomes and streamlines community contributions without any compromise to quality. In another word: our small core team will build the house. We'll set up the shelves with this standardized, high-quality process, and make sure the lights are always on. Then, we invite you to help fill it.”

Additional knowledge will enhance the VMA experience, as showcased in this sample focusing on Nguyen Hue Street. 

With backgrounds in history, sociology, anthropology, and other social sciences, Tuệ’s team members helped convince him of the need to add additional sources, including photographs, news stories, official records, and diaries. Providing the body with its soul, so to speak, requires far and wide research which is currently underway. This will then be uploaded and accessible via search terms and navigating the maps on VMA.

This eclectic and inclusive gathering of material helps combat the idea that history is a matter of important men, battles, and dates. “It’s a crime to look at history as fragmented stories in space,” Tuệ said when professing the power of individuals and common experiences for truly understanding history. Only by having these details and the awareness of what life was like in the city for the average person can one begin to see its soul. 

Free knowledge with no limitations

While construction of the soul is underway, the team welcomes support. Everyone is encouraged to contact VMA and share maps as well as photographs, documents, research, questions, and ideas. The group’s research team will function as reviewers, vetting any material that goes online, but ultimately it's a community project. “Everyone can use it, contribute to it, have fun with it,” Tuệ said. 

An intrinsic aspect of VMA's communal nature is free access. A strong believer in freedom of knowledge as adhered to by such projects as LibGen and Anna’s Archive, Tuệ seeks to ensure that shared wisdom is accessible to everyone, not just those with privileged access to higher education or government archives. Given this principle, the team hopes that users are not merely passive observers; they are invited to become co-authors of the historical narrative and co-designers of the experience.

However, openness does not imply a compromise on accuracy. To safeguard the scholarly integrity of the archive, VMA employs a team of in-house researchers and engages a network of experts to review and validate crowdsourced submissions, ensuring that every data point and detail is as reliable as it is accessible.

To further guarantee that this collaborative work endures, VMA adopts the International Image Interoperability Framework (IIIF). IIIF is a global standard for open digital storage, ensuring that maps, photos, scanned books, etc., are preserved with integrity and remain interoperable for future researchers. Moreover, to ensure that their work doesn't disappear like that of manhhai’s, all information is stored in at least three separate locations, including the Internet Archive.

The VMA landing page.

There is no limit to where VMA can grow into. After offering a variety of near-term use cases such as charting the historical biography of an ancestor using their diary entries or creating an annotated guide to literature set in the city, Tuệ revealed a wild, long-term vision: fully 3D immersion. Using current and future technology, one could buy a ticket to ride the city’s 19^th-century train and witness Saigon in complete reconstructed glory, with VR glasses allowing one to take in the tiniest detail of every building along with the fashions and mannerisms of the citizenry. 

This form of 3D navigation is an ambitious dream for VMA, but every step towards it offers great value as more information gets added to the project. Tuệ agrees that now is the perfect time to spread the word because enough of the “body” is in place to entice the creativity and passion of people to contribute. Tuệ’s letter concludes with an inspired call to action: “If you are a student, you don’t need to be an expert. Your curiosity is more than enough. If you are a researcher or a collector, consider sharing just one story, one map. Let’s start a conversation. If you simply believe in this idea, your support, in any form, gives us the fuel to keep going. Let's build this shared space for our heritage, together.”

To get in touch with the team, you can visit the VMA homepage or email them directly.

I’m willing to forgive nearly everything about Saigon. It’s a sign of a sustainable relationship, as I still wish to coexist in peace with this city. To me, Saigon’s midday, even when the searing sun flares the strongest, is when the trees are the most glorious. The sudden bouts of torrential rain are indeed a nuisance, but I tell myself that at least the streets can get a wash after a dusty day. But there’s one thing that never goes away and that I can never write off; something I can’t, for the life of me, find reasons to romanticize or defend. Those are the infuriating floods that submerge Saigon streets every time the tide is high.

I used to think that I’m seasoned enough to deal with Saigon’s flooding. I come from the Mekong Delta, where the flood cycle is a way of life, and the year is divided into seasons of high and low water levels. Yet, the first day of my Intro to Saigon Floods course completely dampened my confidence.

I still remember it was an evening. I was riding my bike back home on the usual route when what appeared in front of my eyes startled me. A huge pond of murky black water inundated the road surface. It wasn’t the nourishing alluvium-rich swirls of my hometown, but a watery sludge of dirt and rubbish. My scooter’s weary wheels slowed to a crawl, struggling to escape the water that rushed in from every direction.

“The tide is high today,” during that moment, I remember this caution from my housemate, sent just an hour ago. At the time, I entirely ignored the text, partly because I was preoccupied with something, but also because I naively believed that tides are just something for the rivers and the sea. From where I live to the nearest body of water is about 2 kilometers, so I wasn’t concerned. Saigon’s high tide decided to punish me for underestimating it by sending the clearest wake-up call possible.

The dim street lamps made me even more impatient to get out. Not knowing when the water would go down, I brashly sped up and steered ahead right into the middle of the flooded street. I was greeted with the rancid stench of sewage mixed in with the acrid fume from the exhaust pipes of waterlogged bikes around me. I held my breath, gripped the handlebars tight, and glued my eyes to the divider in the middle of the road. At times, a few motorcycles passed me and slowed down until they stopped completely, evoking barrages of expletives from their owners. I was a mess inside, quietly praying to the deities above to bless my engine so it could safely overcome this seemingly endless stretch of water.

Only after I parked the bike in the lot did I realize that I was wet from the calf down. From my balcony up high, I saw tiny flecks of human wearily wading across the water surface. On both sides of the street, the doors of shops and houses stayed emotionlessly shut. Rideshare drivers took shelter under their canopies, shaking their heads in resignation. Occasionally, a truck careened by, forming massive waves that whipped into walls and traffic and dragging floating debris and plastic chairs of nearby homes into the water.

Since that night, flooding has climbed to the top position of my most feared events during the rainy season. Seemingly peaceful water had the power to cause the fast-paced rhythm of Saigon to come to a halt. What remains are the phlegmy coughs of waterlogged bike engines, in between bursts of gray exhaust as commuters try in vain to restart them; and the wet squishes of rubber flip-flops. In my neighborhood, living and preparing for high-tide days are a well-honed skill of the people, and I was a clumsy novice.

I still remember the feeling of irritation every time I accidentally drove past a huge pothole that the mucky water obscured. The kids sitting behind their mothers on the way home after school weren’t that upset, because they were too busy cheering their parents on as the bikes pierced into the thickness of the water. The college student over there wasn’t that annoyed despite his dead bike, because the local uncles helped him push the vehicle to a dry pavement to wait for the mechanic to arrive. The residents bailing out water from their homes were handling the situation just fine, because the whole family was laughing and joking around amid piles of buckets, basins, and containers.

Over time, I realize that living with flooding isn’t just keeping up with tidal reports, figuring out which routes are high enough to evade floods, or honing my driving skills to navigate inundated streets. It is also understanding an important life philosophy: just accept the divine workings of nature. I won’t stop hating flooded days in Saigon, but I will accept their presence in my life, and, for now, choose to warm my heart with thoughts of the kindness everyone living here has shared with me and one another. Keeping one’s head above water is important, but here, people try to support and care for others in the water, too.

Hanoi’s infamous train street might be going away if a new municipal plan becomes a reality.

As Tuổi Trẻ reports, the Hanoi People’s Committee sent a directive earlier this month to the Ministry of Construction regarding a stretch of the national railway track passing through the city. Hanoi is seeking approval from the ministry to take over the infrastructure between Hanoi and Gia Lâm stations for a city project to renovate and upgrade the Old Quarter. 

The plan also includes a request to the Vietnam Railway Authority to modify future train trips across the capital to exclude the track between the two stations. Typically, trains going southwards from Gia Lâm Station traverse the Red River via the historic Long Biên Bridge, then stop at Long Biên Station right across the water, before passing by the Old Quarter on the way to Hanoi Station near the Temple of Literature.

The segment of track of this itinerary that runs along Phùng Hưng Street and crossing Trần Phú Street is globally famous as “Hanoi Train Street,” where the trains run very — some would say dangerously — close to nearby residences. Over time, Hanoians living along the track started opening trackside coffee shops and eateries to cater to tourists seeking the thrilling experience of having trains zip by the hem of their shirts.

Hanoi’s project will effectively put a stop to this daredevil tourism activity, as, while the track still exists, the trains would be gone. Under this plan, passenger trains from south of Hanoi will exit at Hanoi Station while those from north of the city will get off at Gia Lâm. The Hanoi Department of Construction is tasked with organizing shuttle services for passengers between the two stations.

The Long Biên Bridge with lanes for bikes and trains. Photo by Linh Phạm.

According to the Hanoi People’s Committee, the project aims to install new infrastructure to address many issues plaguing the city center, especially the Old Quarter, for years, such as congestion, urban disorder, pollution, and flooding. 

Besides, another key goal is preserving and cultivating the values of local heritage structures, including the Long Biên Bridge, which was built by the French in 1903. Hanoi is currently collaborating with the French Embassy to assess the bridge’s current conditions and devise appropriate ways to repair and maintain the century-old structure.

It is unclear at the time of writing if the planned train service cessation will be permanent or just temporary while renovation works take place. Nonetheless, the removal of Train Street might negatively impact Hanoi’s tourism in the short run while tourists look for other entertainment options. Since its appearance in the late 2010s, the attraction has remained incredibly popular, especially amongst international travelers, despite the perils it poses and much to the ire of local authorities, who even tried to shut it down in 2019.

Back in 2018, Saigon witnessed the birth of Vietnam Pro Wrestling (VPW), the first and only Pro Wrestlers in the whole of Vietnam, and a lot has changed since then.

Trần Phong jumps on his former best friend-turned-sworn-ennemy, Damien Wolfe.

What started as a teenage dream has become a full-grown Pro Wrestling promotion with nothing to envy of its Southeast Asian counterparts. Judo mats have now given way to a proper ring that they managed to afford, thanks to a crowdfunding campaign organized by Vietnamese-American Pro Wrestler Viva Van, who used her popularity to support them in their quest to create a Vietnamese Pro Wrestling scene from scratch.

Mayhem often happens outside of the ring, for the pleasure of the front row seaters.

The roster has also become more diverse too, with three generations of wrestlers, from old school founders Rocky Huỳnh (The Awesome Taurus), Sid N’guyen (The Prince of Wrestling) and An D (The National Treasure) to the first Westerner in the team the Evil British Horror and newcomers Billy & Bobby (The Classic Night) with their slapstick.

The British Horror accidentally unleashes his secret weapon on his partner Black Orchid.

The crowd has grown too, with around 300 new and old fans of all ages gathering at each show, bringing the intensity to another level with their cheering and booing. Some wrestlers are even known to occasionally use the front-row audience members as props to knock out their opponents.

The crowd can get pretty rowdy and sometimes the fans look even cooler than the wrestlers.

Vietnam Pro Wrestling can sometimes feel like the Wild West — or is it East? To keep the shows rich and entertaining, VPW makes sure to always have plenty of surprises, with special guests and wrestlers from other new promotions coming to defy them.

For one night, VPW and Rooster Beers held a show at BLOQ in District 2.

The growth of VPW can also be measured by the international attention they are getting: some of the wrestlers have been invited to fight abroad (Singapore, Thailand, etc.); they received a 4-page feature in PWI (Pro Wrestling Illustrated) — something no other Southeast Asian promotion has accomplished — and they were invited onto the podcast of one of the greatest professional wrestlers of all time, the American Canadian Chris Jericho. 

The Filipina wrestler Crystal sits on top of Singapore star Alexis Lee at VPW Burning Dawn.

The shows are great as standalone episodes, but there is much fun in following the character's efforts and evolution, in thrilling yet sometimes heartbreaking turns of events, across events. It's well worth trading some Netflix time.

Interested people can see the VPW in action, this Saturday at Vietnam Pro Wrestling: Brawl Hallows Eve and check out more photos below: 

The British Horror sets foot on Rykioh’s flat, beaten-up body while Black Orchid cheers.

A fan whispers words of support to a tired Rocky Huỳnh, the founder of VPW.

Rykioh crashes cans of beer on his way to smash them on The British Horror’s face.

A packed house at VAIB Studio (D7) looks on while An D grabs the high-flying Sid Nguyen.

Singaporean Jack Chong uses his signature pig face move on Billy (left) while Once long-haired Khoa Trương loses a HAIR VS HAIR match against Kira, who gets to scalp him on stage (right).

The crowd gathers outside VAIB Studio during the intermission .

Although pro wrestling comes from the west, the Vietnamese promotion never forgets where they’re from and they honor traditions.

Rykioh explains one thing or two about life to one half of the Venomshank twins.

An D, aka The National Treasure, finds it hard to swallow his defeat (left) while the one and only Xavier Patricks (aka X-Pat) always brings his A-game as the charismatic and emotional show presenter (right).

A third generation wrestler, ARES is the powerhouse beast to be reckoned with.

The human beast ARES triumphs over Rocky, thus winning the Heart of Darkness cup.

Rocky catches one half of Venomshank mid-air in what promises to be a painful landing.

This article was originally published in 2023.

My first meal in Sa Pa was accidentally earned. After a few hours of uneven rest in a sleeper bus and a short ride from Sa Pa city center to the village, I finally arrived, along with two other indigo enthusiasts, at a small hill in bản Cát Cát. A few modest houses framed a quiet courtyard where indigo vats rested, and long strips of dyed fabric hung on bamboo poles, drying in the morning air.

Lush scenery of Bản Cát Cát.

Shortly after arriving, we met Mi in the courtyard. She led us into her grandmother’s house, where she was splitting corn kernels from the cob while her grandmother worked the stove. We each took a small stool and joined her by the fire. When breakfast came, we were handed bowls and chopsticks, despite our minimal help and last-minute arrival. Sautéed bamboo shoots, simmered pork, and plenty of rice: simple, filling, and comforting. That meal set the tone for the days ahead: we would be mildly useful, gently active, and always rewarded with food made with care.

Hmong indigo pattern with traditional beeswax pen.

After breakfast, we met the remaining students, and Nhái and Nủ, the couple who ran the four-day indigo class we had come for. It covers the main stages of the process: harvesting the plant, fermenting it using an anaerobic method (traditional to the Hmong community of the area), making indigo paste, and learning a selection of dye techniques. I joined after having seen scenes from one of their classes pop up on my social media feed last year. Small groups of people sat around a log of coal used to melt the beeswax needed to create patterns on fabric before dyeing. Another picture showed them in the woods, listening to Nủ explain something. Then there was a graduation shot, where everyone is showing their final dyed product. And all of it with Sa Pa’s greenery and wooden houses in the backdrop. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ felt unassuming, yet their classes seemed inviting and fun. 

Learning about fabric properties with Nhái (bottom right corner).

When asked why she didn’t offer shorter, workshop-style classes, Nhái explained how she wanted students to experience the dye’s rhythm and living nature. The vats required care: we took turns, during our sojourn, stirring them to incorporate oxygen and keep the extract from settling, covering them from rain, and regularly checking and testing them for alkalinity and dye strength, especially after each use. The dye also needed warmth and time to ferment. We learned to read the signs of a healthy vat and to recognize when one was falling short. 

The indigo dye process with bubbles visible due to fermentation.

From curiosity to Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ 

Originally hailing from Hải Phòng, Nhái moved to Hanoi for university. With a keen interest in all things DIY and handicraft, she taught herself how to sew, to embroider, to bake, and to bind books. Certain that office life was not for her, she began making and selling handmade work while finishing her studies.

She first experimented with heat dye processes, using natural dye materials such as lá bàng, onion peels, and avocado pitt, before eventually learning about indigo dye. During this early period, Nhái partnered with a friend to learn and experiment with indigo dye together, selling their work under the same brand. In 2016, as their needs and directions diverged, they went their separate ways: Nhái continued with Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, while her friend founded Đu Đủ, which now focuses on indigo dye in interior design. 

As her focus deepened on indigo dye, her curiosity shifted towards the plant itself, sparking an interest in cultivation and farming. She began paying closer attention to the food she ate and the plants around her. Nhái then felt the need for more space to dye and grow, something Hanoi could not offer. 

Preperation of simple, healthy meals is shared by attendees of the Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ indigo dye class.

In 2018, Nhái moved to a small farm in Lạng Sơn, staying for a year before planning to relocate to the Ngọc Linh Mountains to set up a new workspace with a friend and business partner. While waiting, Nhái went to Cát Cát to help Nủ, a recently made friend at the time, to build what is now their current house, all while continuing to deepen her knowledge of indigo dye through local practices. When the farm in Ngọc Linh did not turn out as expected, and the move was no longer possible, Nhái decided to stay in Cát Cát. She and Nủ would later get married and have Mì, their daughter, in 2023. 

Starting a new dye vat.

After settling in Cát Cát, Nhái began teaching classes and continued to grow Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ, all while consigning her work at friends’ shops in Hanoi. When she became pregnant with Mì, Nủ stepped in to help with the business. Despite coming from different cultures, the two grew into a seamless partnership, balancing work and family life. Nủ would lead our group into the forest to harvest indigo, while Nhái guided textile choices and dyeing techniques, and ensured Mì gets her daily naps.

Before the class began, we were told to be mindful of the inorganic waste we brought with us and to take it back for disposal after our stay. Upon arrival, it became clear that while their environmental practices are not perfect, they are intentional and grounded in the realities of their surroundings. Plastic bags are kept and reused; milk cartons are washed, cut, and kept to bring back to Hanoi for recycling, if not already repurposed. Solid soap is bought by the kilo for all purpose use. In the kitchen, an informal compost bucket collects organic scraps for later use in gardening. Most importantly, no pesticides are used — not on the garden greens cooked for meals, nor on the hill where indigo is grown. 

Dying the fabric (left) and Nủ melting beeswax to reveal the final product (right).

Currently, the indigo they can grow is not sufficient for their needs. This meant needing to buy indigo paste from other farmers, who are not always willing to forego pesticides, even when offered higher prices. Life in the mountains is harsh; using pesticides and chemical fertilizers has become common practice, as they speed up growth, reducing time and labor. They were often introduced as a miracle solution, without any acknowledgement of their toxic properties that degrade soil health, harm biodiversity, and pollute water and air. Persuading more indigo farmers to lessen or eliminate these chemicals remains an active effort. 

A successful team harvest for indigo.

Adding to this, the growing interest in indigo dye in Vietnam has led to more places offering similar products. For Nhái, it’s an ongoing internal negotiation to put out work that meets her standards yet remains appealing and accessible. Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ relies largely on collaboration with small local brands who seek her out for hand-dyed fabrics with specific pattern designs. For example, here is an Áo Tấc from the brand Đông Phong, made with fabric dyed by Nhái.

Any profit from the class is reinvested in their infrastructure, improving living and communal spaces for students to learn and cook during our stay. With Sa Pa’s high altitude making construction materials costly to transport, progress is gradual. In the long run, Nhái also hopes to invest in herself, to further her education in indigo dye, and learn new techniques from other parts of the world. 

A peaceful morning view from the dorms' windows.

Outside of work, Nhái and Nủ envision developing more social projects for local youth. Nhái sees a great value in indigo dye as a craft, but local youth seem less and less interested. Today, many are encouraged after ninth grade to learn a trade and/or work in the service sector, as tourism in the region continues to grow and demand more labor. The couple hopes to preserve their cultural practices, as well as expose younger generations to more creative paths.

When asked about what she considers her proudest achievement, Nhái frankly shared, “In truth, I feel a bit self-conscious for not coming from a creative background. Because of it, I always feel that I’m not skilled enough, that my work could always be better. Of course, after some time thinking this way, looking back, I realize that I actually did well. I tried and did my best at the time, so it’ll be ok.”

How to dye using indigo, the four-day teaser

A refreshing dip in the river after the first day of learning about indigo dye.

Time spent in Cát Cát held more depth than expected. We moved slowly and followed the curriculum flexibly, yet time never felt ill spent. After our first day, we took a spontaneous hike to the river with Nhái and Nủ’s nieces, bathing in the fresh water of the falls. 

On our third day, we spent hours by a small fire that kept our beeswax melted, as we drew and sewed, helping one another through projects that were sometimes more ambitiously time-consuming. My fellow course-mates all opted for a bigger rectangular hand-woven fabric (180cm x 40cm), which can be used as a scarf, tablecloth, or turned into an ornamental piece. I chose the other option, a square linen piece (70cm x 70cm), that I intended to use as a headscarf or a neckerchief. At the beginning of the course, we were shown different pieces from Nhái and Nủ’s collection, finished and ongoing projects, as well as pieces made by Nủ’s family, for their own use. 

A traditional Hmong indigo dye pattern.

They very kindly let me buy one of Nủ’s old jackets, dyed and sewn by his mom when he was still a boy. Their clothing has a distinctive shoulder built, that drops well into the sleeves, almost reaching one’s elbows. This simple structure removes all sharpness, giving the jacket a softer overall look. The fabric has seen many dye vats throughout the years, retaining its dark and vibrant blue. The garment is completed with dangling small metallic bell-shaped buttons and has white stains on the left sleeve, remnants of renovation work done by Nủ recently, when he decided to throw on his old jacket for added warmth. When they sold me the jacket, they considerately tried to remove the stains. I thought about embroidering over it, but have since decided against it, as it gave me yet another excuse to share anecdotes about my time in Cát Cát and the people behind Nhặt Lá, Đá Ống Bơ. 

Through their collection, we were able to better understand the rendering of different techniques, aiding our own design process. My project combined beeswax use, which protects the fabric against dye, creating negative space, with layering dye to get different indigo shades, and shibori stitching. The result is a patchwork composition. Others had a more defined vision, opting to focus on one technique only to create a cohesive design. 

The group works on their designs while Nủ grills chicken.

Nủ shifted between guiding us and grilling chicken over that same fire meant for the beeswax, meat he had marinated that morning, while we studied with Nhái. Many meals were prepared in slight confusion and not without tension, as our little group was only getting to know one another in an unfamiliar setting. Still, we always came together whenever Nhái brought out baked goods. Shokupan for breakfast on our second day, cream puffs to celebrate our graduation, and milk bread that was meant to last a couple of days, but was quickly devoured on our fourth-day hike to Tả Vân, while we waited for our dye vats to ferment.

Graduation cream puffs that Mì eyes with anticipation.

I left Cát Cát with a deeper appreciation for indigo dye as a craft and its deep roots in Hmong culture. Since then, I try to incorporate the same focused intention and active curiosity in my daily life that came so naturally during my stay. On my phone now sits our own graduation photo and an ongoing group chat, where our cohort continues to share tips, discoveries, and reflections on indigo dye.

Graduation picture with Nhái (third from the left).

This January, Saigoneers have been enjoying an unusually pleasant stretch of weather, with daytime temperatures hovering around the mid-20s and dipping to 18–20°C late at night and in the early morning.

Cooler temperatures are not unheard of in Saigon during January, a short but welcome time of the year, when the rainy season has largely waned and cold air masses from the northern winter drift southward, blanketing the region in crisp breezes and chilly mornings.

In recent history, the last time the mercury fell to 18°C in the city was in 2015. According to Trần Văn Hưng, deputy director of the Southern Vietnam Hydrometeorological Center, HCMC’s lowest recorded temperature occurred in December 1999 at the Tân Sơn Hòa Weather Station, reaching 16.4°C. The city also experienced a low of 16.9°C in 1995.

While these readings may seem mild compared to conditions in the Central Highlands or northern Vietnam, Saigon, known for its searing heat, rarely enjoys cool weather in any given year, typically for only a few days in December and January.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, March and April are usually the hottest months in HCMC, when temperatures commonly climb into the high 30s and even reached 39°C in 2024. That, however, wasn't the highest; that record belongs to May 7, 1998, when the temperature at Tân Sơn Hòa reached 39.3°C.

Photo via Thương Trường.

A grazing buffalo, frolicking water puppets, mystifying tam cúc cards, an insolent maiden in áo tứ thân, a rustic meal around cái mâm. These are just a few standout visuals that will haunt your brain upon feasting your eyes on Limebócx’ debut music video ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay).’

Amidst bewildering characters and surreal segments that seem to have been spontaneously glued together in a chaotic fever dream, Tuấn and Chuối — the founding members of Hanoi indie duo Limebócx — appear as the only semblance of normalcy reassuring viewers that they’re watching a music video and not tripping balls. The pair first met through a jam session at the Rec Room community years ago, but only played music together during a music exchange program in South Korea, they told Whammy Bar in an interview. The founding of Limebócx started from an unknown mishmash of influences that didn’t fit in any particular genres but sounded relaxing when đàn tranh was added to the mix. Over time, the sight of a beatboxing Tuấn hunching over his trusty loop station and Chuối cranking out sultry bass licks or a đàn tranh solo would go on to become a beloved familiar image in the mind of fans starting from the duo’s debut in 2019.

In 2023, the renaissance of traditional Vietnamese elements in the local music landscape is so prevalent that you can’t walk two blocks in any metropolitan area without bumping into a fusion pop hit blasting from a bubble tea parlor or sidewalk coffee cart. Names like Hoàng Thùy Linh, Hòa Minzy, Văn Mai Hương, and K-ICM have all found success of varying degrees with new chart-topping tracks featuring facets of Vietnamese culture, from folk instruments like đàn nhị or đàn tranh to ancient literary classics. This appreciation for local flavors in mainstream pop productions has been bubbling away for half a decade or so, but is fully flourishing in 2023. Back in 2019, the release of Limebócx’ EP “Electrùnic” was the first time I saw zither and classical poetry having a place in such a contemporary, sleek and exciting context.

The cover of the extended play "Electrùnic."

Even with just a handful of songs, Electrùnic demonstrated a coherent creative vision that rose above the music landscape at the time. The debut extended play includes four tracks: ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay),’ the first to premiere, is based on the quan họ Bắc Ninh mainstay ‘Qua Cầu Gió Bay’; ‘Mục Hạ Vô Nhân’ and ‘Hồ Tây’ weave in poetry by 19^th-century literary powerhouse Nguyễn Khuyến; and ‘Chiều Trù Nhật’ takes inspiration from ca trù, another form of folk singing. Beatboxing, bass, echoing loops, and đàn tranh intermingle as the simmering base for Chuối’s deliciously viscous line delivery. It’s as if slam poetry has a dalliance with electronica during a quan họ performance.

Hà Đăng Tùng (left) and Lê Trang (right), the current roster of Limebócx.

Watching ‘Dung Họa,’ Limebócx’ latest single and music video released back in February, you might notice a new face in the member roster. Last year, Hanoi bid farewell to Tuấn as he embarked on a new academic journey in Australia, and the group welcomed a new member in the form of Hà Đăng Tùng, who brought his passion for electronic music into the tapestry of Limebócx. I met Tùng and Chuối for the first time via virtual call as they were drowned out by the cacophony of a random coffee shop in Hanoi. It was hard for me not to feel intimidated, as a self-proclaimed Limebócx groupie, to sit face-to-face with the people behind the songs that have accompanied me through numerous flights, night showers, and languorous Saturday nights lying on the floor feeling every beat.

My attempts to dispel the initial awkwardness with small-talk questions went about rather poorly, though many random things I’ve been wondering were answered. Chuối, meaning banana in Vietnamese, is the affectionate nickname of Lê Trang. As she was growing up, Trang’s father referred to her by a plethora of pet names depending on his mood, but only “Chuối” has stuck until now. Her favorite fruit? Not banana, but jackfruit. Is there a special story behind the band name? Nope, before a performance back in the early days, they were asked about the name of their act, so they fused together “chanh/lime” (đàn tranh) and “bócx” (beatbox). Limebócx was born and the rest is history.

Limebócx before a performance at the Temple of Literature in Hanoi.

The indie music scene in Hanoi was as small as can be and Tùng and Tuấn were already friends way back then, so it was a natural progression that Tùng stepped in to form Limebócx 2.0. “I was ‘coerced’ maybe three, four times [to join Limebócx]. After four, five nhậu sessions, I finally had to say yes,” Tùng tells me. “I already knew both of them. At the beginning, it was challenging as I didn’t know where to start, and the band already has an established image, so it was tough for me to fit in.”

Long-term followers of the independent music scene in Hanoi might already recognize the prolific “pedigree” of the members. Chuối was a segment of Hanoi quintet Gỗ Lim, iconic punk legends of the 2000s, and is currently the bassist for rock/metal group Windrunner. Also known as Đờ Tùng, Tùng studied Classical Guitar at the Vietnam National Academy of Music in Hanoi and is a member of several music entities, such as Bluemato, Phác Họa Xanh and Ngầm. Becoming a part of Limebócx, Tùng brought to the table a distinctive touch of electronic music, something that he has already been exploring in his personal endeavors, along with experimental and ambient sounds.

From nhậu mates to bandmates.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness. Making a world of percussive sounds using just one’s mouth movements, gliding easily between traditional and contemporary instruments, and smashing together east and west, old and new — none of these are easy feats for newbies. Cool, however, is not exactly the first adjective one would associate with many of Vietnam’s traditional performing art forms. Quan họ, ca trù, chèo, đờn ca tài tử, hò, tuồng, xòe, and many more, all have rich histories, involve meticulous techniques, and are shining examples showcasing the country’s profoundly diverse cultures, but one is more likely to catch them at tourist sites and academic television documentaries than in the minds of young Vietnamese. Nguyễn Khuyến, whose vịnh poems inspired a number of Limebócx songs, is a mainstay author in the national high school literature syllabus, and thus, tends to evoke memories of exam-related dread rather than a sense of fascination among youths. This is all to say that there isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

There isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

Much of the link to traditional influences came from Chuối, who credited her interest in reading and poetry to the literature lessons back in high school. “In high school, we are taught so many types of fiction and poetry. There were things I really hate, but there were things I thought were cool and resonated with me,” she reminisces. Nguyễn Khuyến is perhaps best known for a trio of poems revolving around autumn: ‘Thu Điếu’ (Autumn Fishing), ‘Thu Ẩm’ (Autumn Drinking) and ‘Thu Vịnh’ (On Autumn). “I like things like that, a bit of romanticism in there, like taking a walk, appreciating the flowers, sipping some rice wine,” Chuối adds.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness.

In between verses of poetry, the music of Limebócx is truncated by metallic licks of đàn tranh, our version of 16-string zither and a major factor contributing to the duo’s unique fusion sounds. Chuối received an old đàn tranh as a gift, but found the traditional instrument too challenging, so she didn’t touch it for a long time. When she started making music with Tuấn during the early days of the band, she decided to give it another chance. The next era of Limebócx might or might not see the addition of guitar phím lõm in its soundscape, something that Tùng is experimenting with after he was given one by a friend. This six-string lute is the Vietnamese adaptation of the European guitar, albeit with scalloped neck spaces between frets; this modification was designed to produce the reverberating sound commonly heard in southern cải lương.

Following a few years of relative quietude, Limebócx confirms with me that they’re indeed working on the next record, an album that pays tribute to the band’s old self, in-transition self, and new self. There’s a sprinkle of throwbacks to the first extended play, but with more of Tùng’s input. There’s an exploration of Limebócx as a trio, as evidenced in the latest single ‘Dung Họa.’ And of course, there’s Limebócx 2.0, much of which we don’t know about yet, but the making of which is a process of experimentation that they enjoy. Long-time supporters will be able to find the traditional elements they know and love about the duo, but electronic music will play a bigger role than before, adding more weight to the new record.

The new direction will lean more towards electronic, Tùng's forte, while retaining the traditional references that fans know and love about the band.

“Tùng has been in the group for a year, but at the beginning, we were just trying to get to know each other,” Chuối says of the process of making new music. “For the new album, I want to ‘exploit’ this one [points to Tùng] as much as possible so that it will turn out to be something with a lot of his personality and voice too.”

“I hope it will turn out okay,” Tùng quips. “I think it’s quite dope when I listen to it, but I don’t know what people will think.”

Limebócx’ biggest wish ever since the band’s founding is to bring their music and more traditional Vietnamese materials to the international stage. For decades now, local music has struggled to find a footing in bigger arenas, but there are glimmers of a very Vietnamese identity that are starting to shine through — in projects by Hoàng Thùy Linh, Dzung, and Limebócx, for example. After decades of learning from developed industries, perhaps we’re finally at a point where we can grow what we learned into a unique and personal sound.

Chuối: Perform with a symphonic orchestra. Or even better, a traditional orchestra.

Tùng: Glastonbury. [laughs]

Photos courtesy of Limebócx.

This article was originally published in 2023.

A roughly 50-kilometer-long urban railway route will run from September 23 Park in downtown Saigon to VinGroup's Green Paradise project in Cần Giờ, beginning in 2028 at an estimated cost of VND102.43 trillion (nearly US$3.9 billion).

Last month, authorities approved VinSpeed, the infrastructure subsidiary of VinGroup, to develop the line, which will terminate at the business conglomerate's gargantuan 2,870-hectare coastal urban and tourism development located amidst the UNESCO mangrove biosphere reserve. The line is expected to alleviate traveler congestion to an area currently only accessible by ferry.

Phase 1 of the project will include operational stations at September 23 Park in Bến Thành and a site adjacent to the VinGroup project. The second phase will add stations in Tân Thuận, Tân Mỹ, Nhà Bè, and Bình Khánh. Site clearance is set to begin by the end of the year; it's estimated that the metro project will require about 328.26 hectares of land.

The VND12.78 trillion land clearance costs will be covered by the state, while VinGroup will contribute over VND15.36 trillion in equity capital, and the remaining VND87.06 trillion coming from credit institutions and other permitted sources, as well as potentially state-approved loans and government guarantees. 

Traveling at 350 kilometers per hour, the ride will take passengers less than 20 minutes, with trains coming every 20 minutes between 6am and 11pm during the first phase of operation. Six carriages, consisting of six cars each, will operate on the fully-electrified double-track railway with a 1,435 mm gauge.  The second phase, which has yet to receive a specific timeframe, will decrease the wait and travel times. 

A rendering of the Vinhomes Green Paradise project. Image via Saigon Times.

The Vinhomes Green Paradise project broke ground in early 2025 on 1,357 hectares of reclaimed land and 906 hectares of leveled terrain. Designed to house nearly 230,000 people and attract millions of tourists per year, the US$9.3 billion project is envisaged in different use zones. Points of VinGroup pride include an international convention center, a hospital, a marina, a golf course, and an oceanfront square alongside housing and hotels. It is expected to be fully complete in the next 10 years.

Environmental experts have expressed concerns regarding the negative impacts of development in the mangrove ecosystem, which is essential for preventing coastal erosion, mitigating storms and flooding, and providing a home for valuable flora and fauna. Meanwhile, building on reclaimed ocean requires sand dredged from other locations, which usher in other environmental concerns.

Drone footage of on-going development in Cần Giờ. Photos by Ngoc Hien via Tuổi Trẻ.

In addition to the railway, a 7.4-kilometer-long bridge from Nhà Bè to Cần Giờ is fully complete with VinGroup recently expressing interest in a 14-kilometer bridge and tunnel from Cần Giờ to Vũng Tàu. Meanwhile, VinSpeed has dropped out of consideration to develop the highspeed North-South Railway.

When a dish travels far from its homeland to take root somewhere else, one common yardstick for judging it is “authenticity.” Is the seasoning true to form? How closely do the ingredients match the original? Has the cook stuck to tradition, or wandered too far into improvisation? But what if an entire cuisine was born and shaped in defiance of that very idea?

Tucked in a small corner on Phạm Viết Chánh Street, WOKO at first looks like just another fixture of Saigon’s Chinese food scene, grabbing attention with its red shopfront and vivid wall covered in Hong Kong movie posters. The heart of the operation, though, is American Chinese, a branch of Chinese cooking with an American identity created within very particular historical context.

What is American Chinese cuisine?

In the 19^th and 20^th centuries, the first waves of Chinese immigrants arrived in the United States and took on punishing work in mines and on railroad crews. As those projects dwindled and discrimination narrowed their options, many trades shut them out altogether. Chinese migrants retreated into Chinatowns, where laundries and small restaurants became a way to make a living. With familiar spices and ingredients hard to come by, they had to cook around what was available. Stir-fries were remade with North American vegetables like carrot and broccoli; meat leaned toward leaner cuts, and sauces were rendered more assertively, meant to be eaten with plenty of rice or noodles to keep one's belly full.

Before long, words spread. More diners began seeking out Chinese restaurants for meals that were tasty, (relatively) nourishing, and affordable. Over the decades, these places multiplied and became a fixture of American popular culture, and of the west, more broadly.

Like many international students in the US, I used to subsist on more than a few of these “charity meals” from Chinese restaurants. They stayed open regardless of the hour, so even on a freezing Christmas night, when everything nearby had closed for the holiday, I could still wander over for a box of orange chicken or beef and broccoli, bring it back to the dorm, and steady myself with a good meal in the middle of winter. Even now that I am back in Saigon, I still get sudden cravings for the comfort food that fed me during those years away from home.

From Australia to Saigon

Duyên, one of the two founders of WOKO, was also a student abroad and shared a similar experience that inspired her to start the shop. “I studied in Australia for three years,” she said. “On my first day there, I ate chow mein and honey chicken, and I didn’t even know it was American Chinese. Late,r it was my go-to after class. The food court sold it so cheaply, around 3 or 4 dollars for a small portion, that I’d stop by almost every day. I ate it so often I ended up loving it.”

After finishing her studies and returning to Vietnam, Duyên found her way into the local F&B scene. She worked at several restaurants, including one that specialized in American Chinese dishes. There, she not only deepened her understanding of the cuisine, she also met people who would later help her build WOKO: Sơn, now the head chef; and Huy, her co-founder.

When the restaurant shut down because of the pandemic, they kept working in different kitchens but stayed in touch. After saving for some time, each of them had managed to put aside a bit of capital. One night, over drinks and talk about the future, Duyên and Huy began to discuss starting a business more seriously. “At the time I was thinking of opening a café,” Duyên said. “Then Huy was like, ‘Why don’t we open a place like that American-Chinese spot we used to work at? Everybody misses that flavor.’”

In fact, Saigon already has a few restaurants pursuing this model, but none truly met Duyên’s personal criteria. The food did not always suit her taste. Portions felt too large. Prices still ran high compared with the general baseline. “I wanted to fix those small issues,” she said. “I wanted a portion people could share, so they could order more dishes. I wanted smaller servings, more suitable for Vietnamese diners. I wanted prices to be a bit steadier. A person can come in and order a combo with rice and a main dish, starting from VND65,000.”

WOKO’s menu is built from the founders’ own experience and presents the best-known staples of Chinese-American restaurants across the Pacific, including sweet & sour pork, orange chicken, chow mein, and more.

Even after significant tailoring, these dishes still follow many techniques rooted in Chinese cooking. Ingredients are stir-fried quickly in a large wok so they stay fresh and vibrant in color. Sauces are lightly thickened with cornstarch, which gives them viscosity and helps them cling to the other components. The clearest departures show up in the finishing. Fried chicken, for instance, is coated in a fairly thick batter and cooked twice. Seasoning is also pushed in a bolder direction, with sweetness and sourness often more pronounced than in the original dishes.

Among WOKO’s many offerings, honey chicken and fried rice are the two I love most, and I order them almost every time I stop by. If Vietnamese fried rice is typically on the drier side, sometimes with slightly browned edges, American Chinese fried rice tends toward a looser, fluffier texture. WOKO’s version, mixed with egg, peas, and scallions, is deeply seasoned with soy sauce and a glossy dark brown that is pleasingly theatrical — “the Uncle Roger's standard,” as Duyên described.

Whatever the version, good rice is often what determines whether an Asian meal hits the mark. WOKO’s team, accordingly, tested their way through multiple options before landing on the right grain. “Honestly, we tried like 10 bags of rice,” Duyên said. “Vietnam is famous for exporting rice, so there’s so much variety. We had to find the exact kind we needed.”

The fried rice is a perfect counterpart to the honey chicken: crisp fried pieces glazed in a gently sweet honey sauce, fragrant with toasted sesame, served alongside hot rice and tender broccoli. Sweetness, salt, and richness weave into one another in a combination that is deeply comforting. Beyond the honey sauce, WOKO offers orange, black bean, Kung Pao, and more. Diners can mix and match these sauces with chicken, beef, or tofu, then pair them with rice or hot noodles to make the most satisfying portion for themselves.

American Chinese food tends to be seasoned generously, so those accustomed to Saigon’s more traditional Chinese fare might find it unfamiliar at first bite. Yet that difference creates a separate lane for WOKO. The shop does not try to please everyone, but it is always open to changes when the changes are reasonable.

“Some people say the sweet-and-sour sauce is really good now, don’t change it,” Duyên said. “But someone else might think it’s too sour, too salty. Instead of changing the recipe back and forth, I’ll remember that customer’s feedback, so the next time they come in, we’ll adjust it to fit their taste.”

For Duyên, WOKO may not be the only American-Chinese restaurant in Saigon, or even the most outstanding one, but it should be the one with the best service standards. Flavor matters, of course, but what she is most intent on building is a friendly, personalized experience where customers feel consistently welcomed.

With American Chinese food, “authenticity” has never been the most important criterion. Alongside recipes learned from books and from their previous kitchen, Duyên and Sơn have also experimented with distinctly Vietnamese ingredients, including a “secret sauce” (which I am not allowed to reveal) to create a one-of-a-kind flavor for their chow mein, a creation Duyên described playfully: “It’s Chinese, it's Vietnamese and it’s American!”

Ultimately, it's that spirit of adaptability that allowed Chinese cuisine to survive and flourish in an unfamiliar land. Today, that legacy lives on in a modest kitchen in Saigon, and in the soul-warming plates that I keep finding myself returning to whenever I can’t decide what to eat.

To sum up:

• Opening time: 12pm–2:30pm; 3:30pm–9pm
• Parking: Bike parking in front of shop
• Average cost per person: $$ (VND60,000–150,000)
• Payment: Cash, bank transfer, credit card, Apple Pay
• Delivery app: Grab