Lychee tea can be found anywhere and anytime around Saigon, from street stalls to artisanal cafes. Averaging VND20,000–50,000, it’s a popular choice among Vietnamese youths. However, Thái Công Cafe prices their version of the fruit tea at around VND160,000 on their rather pricy menu. Yet, the drink remains extremely popular at the cafe and even went viral amongst Gen Z-ers on TikTok. The reason behind this virality is actually a meme.

Thái Công Cafe is the epitome of opulence, decked out in designer furniture that could cost more than a year’s salary, including a VND1.5 billion Louis Vuitton suitcase. The founder, the titular Thái Công himself, is a Vietnamese German interior designer famous for his lavish products and equally outlandish livestream sessions. His brand is built on elaborated designed pieces, and his social media presence features big-ticket objects, overseas trips, and even a now-infamous VND100 million hunk of Ibérico ham, the world's most expensive type of cured meat.

The ritzy interior of Thái Công Cafe.

Likewise, Thái Công Cafe reflects its creator's penchant for excess. The menu features highly marked-up cafe staples; slightly elevated classics, cocktails; and, of course, champagne bottles that cost much more than the average Saigoneer’s monthly wage. Even a simple Coca-Cola will sets you back VND110,000.

The justification that Công gives for his prices isn’t exactly the way the drinks are made or the ingredients used, but instead the utensils that the drinks come with, even though the customer can’t even take them home. For example, the reason why Thái Công lychee tea is so expensive is because the goblet that contains it costs around VND7 million (around US$280).

Thái Công Cafe's lychee tea is made from pink flamingo tea, lychee, and citrus syrup.

As for the drink itself, it’s a concoction of TWG pink flamingo tea, lychee, and citrus syrup. The drink was genuinely too sweet for my tastebuds, with the citrus syrup overpowering the aromatics of the tea and lychee flavor. Once I waited for the ice to melt to lessen the sweetness, the drink tasted like a very whisper of hibiscus and nothing of lychee. The million-dong glassware didn't seem much different from other receptables, apart from its noticeably heavier weight.

The main reason why this rather mediocre beverage managed to attract such attention was thanks to a meme that went viral from TikToker Phạm San (@pham_san1). In her review of the lychee tea, she says in a deadpan manner: “Today I will review Thái Công’s Cafe. This is the lychee tea. I always order lychee tea wherever I go. Today I will try the lychee tea here.” She then takes a sip of the tea and says, “I don’t like the lychee tea here.” It amassed millions of views before being deleted from the platform.

Thái Công himself hopped on the bandwagon with a parody video, replacing “I don’t like it” with “I like it,” cementing the meme's place in the platform’s ecosphere. Another famous recreation helping boost the trend's notoriety includes a version from TikToker Chị Ly, featuring a cheeky expressionless review.

During my recent visit to the cafe, prices have slightly dropped, and more food and beverage options have been added to the menu. The cafe is now less populated by influencers and chronically online Gen Z-ers. I watched as people entered the cafe, lavishly dressed in high-fashion clothing, ordering the famous trà vải to take numerous pictures of them with it. They then all stared at their phones while the ice in their VND160,000 drinks melted away. Perhaps anything related to Thái Công has always been like this, but it seems like the “Lychee tea” meme has now become a social status performance.

TikToker vs. Interior Designer

I must also highlight certain bizarre experiences I had when I visited the cafe. The cafe employs a doorman, which I thought was something unique to luxury apartment complexes and hotels. If you ask for the bathroom, a staff member will walk with you, all 5 meters from the bar to a door that's well-camouflaged as a wall. The restroom is adorned with a golden tap, golden handles and, for some reason, golden mirrors right where the toilet is. The golden decorations, coupled with the cafe's Birkin- and Rolex-clad clientele, make the entire experience feels like a nouveau riche simulation.

As I left the cafe, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that the Thái Công Cafe experience is less about the food and beverage aspect of a cafe, but instead, it turns out to be a bizarre spectacle of wealth and status. The meme originally did draw in people that visited the cafe out of curiosity or for a joke, but it seems now that the real attraction is a chance to perform wealth and to keep up with the trends.

In a city full of affordable and delicious street food options, as well as innovative cafes, Thái Công Cafe is less about taste and more about image. It’s ironic that the place puts such emphasis on the container of the tea rather than the drink itself. For some, that may be enough to pay VND160,000 for a drink, but I personally am happy with the lychee tea in a squishy plastic cup from a local street vendor. 

-

Dragon fruit has existed in Vietnam for hundreds of years, but it wasn't until the 21^st century that it made its debut in instant noodles. 

From hero to zero

Dragon fruit, a type of fruit-bearing cactus, originates from the deserts of South America. It crossed the ocean with French colonists to Vietnam in the 19^th century and was cultivated in scattered plantations across the colonies. Evolving in harsh environments, dragon fruit developed a robust growth capability, thriving without much water and withstanding the tropical sun and wind.

In the 1980s, thanks to the development of a market economy, domestic agricultural cooperatives adopted new technologies to cultivate dragon fruit on a large scale. By the 1990s, local farmers could sell a kilogram of dragon fruit for VND80,000, enough to buy a decent bicycle at the time. At one point, dragon fruits accounted for up to half of the country's annual fruit and vegetable exports, fetching high prices in foreign supermarkets.

When dragon fruits are not “rescued” in time. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Yet, despite its past international glory, the recent narrative surrounding dragon fruits in Vietnam has been less illustrious. Poor production planning has led to bumper harvests, leaving farmers struggling as supply outstripped demand. Dragon fruit frequently ranks among the top fruits needing “rescue” due to market fluctuations, sometimes dropping to a mere VND1,000 per kilogram. We've all seen heart-wrenching scenes showing dragon fruits abandoned by the pile on the pavement or even fed to cattle.

Then, after years of being a “rescue” commodity, sentiments about dragon fruits changed with the release of a viral advertisement.

*Jingle automatically plays*. Photo via Mì thanh long VinaCaty.

Catapulted into fame from a viral promotional video

In November 2023, the TikTok channel of Mì thanh long VinaCaty (VinaCaty Dragon Fruit Noodles) posted a product advertisement, claiming that the clip was made with a humble budget of VND200,000.

In the video, reminiscent of a PowerPoint presentation complete with crude transitions, a package of noodles floats across the screen. Two dragon fruit mascots, resembling the purple dinosaur Barney, dance along. The scenes cut between vast dragon fruit fields in Bình Thuận Province and hardworking farmers during harvest season. All of this is set to the booming voice of a choir, mixed in karaoke-style background music.

The simple lyrics are as follows: “For the first time / Dragon fruit is in instant noodles / For the first time / Dragon fruit noodles bring a message / Love / Dragon fruit instant noodles / Caty instant noodles / Dragon fruit instant noodles / Caty instant noodles / Bringing you love / Caty instant noodles / Bringing you peace / Dragon fruit instant noodles…”

Dragon fruit noodle theme song, now coming to your nearest karaoke post. Photo via Mì thanh long VinaCaty.

Among modern ads featuring famous artists and sophisticated sound and visual effects, this 2000s-style TVC stood out in its simplicity. Its naive, “DIY” charm warmed viewers’ hearts and made them want to support the “underdog” instant noodle brand.

Netizens quickly created review clips and meme images. The brand capitalized on the viral wave, transforming itself into a meme by releasing karaoke remixes, one-hour loops, and interacting with customers on social media through the persona of “Pé Thanh Long” or “Lil Dragon Fruit,” an intern working under pressure, who prefers watching anime and doing TikTok challenges over posting conventional corporate-appropriate content.

VinaCaty's social media plan is essentially spamming unhinged content. Photo via Mì thanh long VinaCaty.

In reality, the noodle had been launched in March 2022, way before the meme went viral. However, it wasn't until the karaoke song that the brand gained recognition from the public.

Before becoming famous, VinaCaty's online store made less than VND1 million each month, despite being active for nearly two years. But soon after the song’s viral success, the vendor was overwhelmed with orders, with sales increasing 600 times in just two weeks. Dragon fruit noodles became a sought-after product, and Lil Dragon Fruit became a beloved meme figure. Other brands followed suit, launching products and posts inspired by dragon fruits.

In just a month, dragon fruits' visibility in Vietnam surged dramatically. Photos via Knorr Vietnam; Pizza Hut VN.

From a somewhat obscure brand, Caty's unique advertising approach and the sudden surge in attention catapulted the product into the league of the most inspiring figures of the year. For the first time, dragon fruits were everywhere, but most importantly, they were in the average Vietnamese's noodle bowl and mind.

What's in a meme?

When discussing Caty Dragon Fruit Noodles' sudden fame, experts often analyze the event from a business strategy perspective — a clever lo-fi marketing campaign, orchestrated by savvy Gen Z staff who understands trends and young people's mindset to capture public attention. However, often overlooked are the human factors: the people who have been rooting (pun unintended) for dragon fruits since the beginning.

Dragon fruit noodles were born in the context of the pandemic, when dragon fruit could not be exported, leading to thousands of tons being stockpiled at border crossings. Dragon fruit, with its soft flesh and skin, spoils easily and cannot be stored for long. Facing this situation, Caty Food, a dragon fruit company in Bình Thuận, the dragon fruit capital of Vietnam, decided to research and develop dragon fruit noodles to provide a stable outlet for farmers.

Photo via Mì thanh Long VinaCaty.

Initial attempts involved mixing dragon fruit with wheat flour, but the mixture didn't have enough elasticity, so the strands would break when pulled. Frying was also challenging due to the different cooking temperatures of the two ingredients. After many failures, the company collaborated with the Ho Chi Minh City University of Food Industry and the Saigon Economic and Technology Institute. With the support of professors and doctors, they successfully produced this special type of noodle after nearly two years of experimentation.

People: Consumes dragon fruit noodles. Dragon fruit farmers in Bình Thuận: Stonk. Photo via Mì thanh long VinaCaty.

Elated with the success, the chairman of Caty Food, an amateur musician and former dragon fruit farmer, composed the dragon fruit song and conceived the idea for the “Lil Dragon Fruit” mascot. The TVC was scripted and produced by the company’s team, resulting in the "homemade" quality we see today. It wasn't until a year later that a new young employee rediscovered the video, saw its potential, and decided to reuse it.

In an interview, the song's creator acknowledged its unpolished nature. The simple editing and repetitive lyrics were noticeable, but these elements weren't intended as marketing tactics. Instead, the roughness was just a natural result of farming and production experts tapping into their creative sides. The traditional aesthetics of the older generation came across as cheesy to younger audiences, and the original message got somewhat lost in the brand's chaotic humor and identity. While the meme was undeniably amusing, it's crucial to remember that this all started because the creator genuinely believed that “With love, dragon fruit brings many health benefits,” hence the lyrics “bringing you love.”

What's next?

Trends come and go quickly, but the rising popularity of dragon fruit noodles sparks thoughts about how we should go about promoting the country's agricultural goods.

Showcasing Vietnamese agricultural products requires a narrative that the public, especially young people, can relate to. Photo via Thông tin Chính Phủ.

“Farmers have not yet paid much attention to branding, and their investment in packaging remains minimal. Currently, many fresh agricultural products from Vietnam are simply packed in cardboard boxes and transported for sale [...] However, they need to create a narrative for each product, from its origin and production process to the love they put into it, to truly gain consumer trust,” shared an expert on enhancing public perception of Vietnamese fruit and agricultural products.

Vietnam has been blessed with abundant delicious and affordable produce, but it a hard sell trying to promote them to a wider audience if the message consistently remains “support high-quality Vietnamese goods” or worse, “rescue high-quality Vietnamese goods.” We need to repackage them in newer, more exciting ways that can resonate with modern consumers.

From left to right: Wasapy, Jumball và Miyasan. Photo via Mondo Mascot.

We can perhaps take some lessons from Japan, where adorable mascots are regularly used by regional authorities to promote their local specialties. Some of Saigoneer's favorite characters include Wasapy, a wasabi root with an azalea on its head; Jumball the Third, a watermelon king representing the town of Nyuzen; or Miyasan, a soft tofu dog from Hiroshima.

In a country rich in resources like Vietnam, the possibilities are endless. Without even trying, we already created an icon that is the chubby, noodle-obsessed Lil Dragon Fruit from Bình Thuận. But imagine, we could have Miss Grand Orange from Vĩnh Long, Auntie Pomelo Năm Roi, or maybe Uncle Plum from Hà Nội. We succeeded brilliantly in our first attempt. What exciting things lie ahead for our next steps?

Fun fact: Red-fleshed dragon fruits are typically rounder, while white-fleshed ones have an elliptical shape. This difference is reflected in the appearance of the two Lil Dragon Fruit mascots. Photo via Mì thanh long VinaCaty.

My middle school memories are often peppered with the honking voices of adolescents chanting some silly chorus about household cleaning.

“Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” and the generation raised on Vietsubbed K-pop

In 2011, South Korean girl group 2NE1 made a comeback with their second studio album, pioneered by the title track “I Am The Best.” The song quickly became a hit in their homeland due to its message of self-affirmation. Young Vietnamese, caught in the middle of the K-pop craze sweeping across the region at the time, also embraced the song, but for different reasons.

The edgy style of the four girls and the catchy electro-pop melody filled a void that Vietnamese pop music, which was still struggling to find its identity at the time, lacked. Meeting the demand for groundbreaking pop, the song became omnipresent, blasting from every corner, from Nhaccuatui (a streaming platform) to my middle school's loudspeakers that previously only played patriotic songs.

During every break, my entire grade would enthusiastically dance when ‘I Am the Best’ came on. Many wanted to sing along but were held back by the fact that fewer than 1% of the students could pronounce the Korean lyrics correctly. Somehow, the chorus, “Nega jeil jal naga” morphed into “Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” which translates to “You wash the dishes, I'll sweep the house,” a quirky phrase that the kids cheerfully repeated. This was the tune that would become part of my high school years' soundtrack.

Much later, 2NE1 disbanded, and the members pursued solo careers. However, the iconic tracks and their unofficial versions continue to resonate among young people.

“On this occasion of New Year's Eve, we would like to welcome our domestic cleaning queen.”

Whether it is played at comedy shows or weddings, ‘I Am The Best’ is still considered the anthem of washing dishes and sweeping houses. Years later, when group leader CL returned to Vietnam to perform at a New Year's Eve concert, people excitedly whispered, “Ready to ‘wash dishes and sweep houses’ with our queen?’

In addition to ‘I Am the Best,’ many other K-pop songs of that era gained new identities upon arriving in Vietnam. With the creative touch of remix enthusiasts, tracks were subtitled and carefully dubbed with nonsensical lyrics that bore little relation to the original content but somehow fit the music remarkably well.

There was a time when people asked each other, “Ăn sáng chưa?” (Have you had breakfast yet?) to the tune of ‘A Boy’ by G-Dragon. They would “đưa nhau đi chơi xa, trên con xe tay ga” (go on trips, ride motorbikes) alongside Big Bang's ‘Fantastic Baby.’ And when Taeyang's ‘Ringa Linga’ chorus played, everyone would join in chanting, “Lên là lên, lên là lên!” (Up and up, up and up!).

“Lên Là Lên/Ringa Linga” — The ultimate club music for middle schoolers.

When reflecting on my “K-pop alternative” phase, I wonder what made these “K-pop chế” (K-pop parody songs) so popular. Young Vietnamese were eagerly consuming cultural products from Japan, Europe, and the US at the time, yet there were no Backstreet Boys or Westlife parodies. So how did we get here?

Tracing the history of Vietnamese-language adaptations

Throughout Vietnam's history, localizing foreign content has been a long-standing tradition essential for preserving knowledge through various times of turmoil. For instance, during colonial rule and periods of varying Chinese influence, language shifted and adapted. Via translations into Nôm script and Quốc Ngữ script, meanings were altered and lost, intentionally or not. From Truyền Kỳ Mạn Lục to The Tale of Kiều, imported works were transformed with names, settings, and events made to feel more “Vietnamese.” This localization made foreign elements more relatable to local audiences.

Having had significant exposure to foreign cultures, people in southern Vietnam before 1975 appreciated foreign songs with localized lyrics.

Such adaptations extended beyond literature, finding their way into theater and music. During colonial rule, new, powerful Western melodies became tools for stirring patriotism and anti-colonial sentiment.

Revolutionaries wrote Vietnamese lyrics to the tune of foreign songs to express their desire for independence. A notable example is ‘La Marseillaise,’ the French national anthem, which has spawn up to seven different Vietnamese versions with lyrics like “Hey, comrades! Forward to liberation day!” and “Citizens, rise up and answer the nation's call!”

Lam Trường was the face of translated Chinese-language pop.

The adapting of foreign material continued in the following decades as Vietnam encountered other cultures. In the south, Phạm Duy created Vietnamese versions of western songs like ‘You're the Most Beautiful Tonight’ and ‘When We Were Young.’ In the north, Soviet songs such as ‘A Million Roses’ and ‘Katyusha’ were also translated. By the 1980s and 1990s, Chinese pop adapted into Vietnamese had become hugely popular, producing timeless hits that defined the careers of artists like Lam Trường and Đan Trường.

However, during the 2000s, translated music lost its appeal for various reasons. Young people began listening to English songs in their original form, while Chinese pop music failed to keep up with new genres like hip-hop and EDM. Moreover, Vietnam joined the International Federation of the Phonographic Industry, which further complicated the translation and distribution of foreign songs.

Riding the Hallyu wave

As the era of translated music faded, Vietnamese audiences began to embrace a fresh breeze of culture — the Korean Wave, or Hallyu. Originating from the South Korean government's initiative to promote cultural industries globally, Hallyu aimed to enhance the nation's image by exporting its cultural assets.

As South Korea's comprehensive diplomatic partner, Vietnam quickly integrated Hallyu into daily life. Vietnam became the first Southeast Asian country to broadcast South Korean dramas on a national TV station. Korean fashion, hairstyles, and cosmetics became increasingly popular among urban youth. People in big cities started preferring “made in Korea” consumer products over those from Japan or America.

In the early Hallyu days, idol obsession became such a prominent issue that the Ministry of Education included “idol culture” in a national graduation exam.

However, when discussing Hallyu in Vietnam during the 2000s and 2010s, colloquially referred to as Gen 2, the most notable impact came from the music industry and the idol culture that accompanied it.

Unlike C-pop, South Korean music at the time was diverse in genres and appealed to a wide range of tastes. But unlike western music, the progressiveness of the Korean music industry was delivered through themes and expressions more relatable to Asians. It contained a measured openness, as seen in hip-hop music videos that embraced melodramatic cancer storylines typical of Korean dramas, catering to the tastes of a nation still learning the ropes of international integration.

A staple of school performances back then was not-so-polished K-pop cover dances.

Gen 2 is also considered the golden era of K-pop, as it gave rise to many groups now regarded as legends: TVXQ, Super Junior, Girls’ Generation, Wonder Girls, Big Bang, etc. With generous production budgets and exceptional stage performance skills, the idol wave quickly captured the hearts of young Vietnamese. Issues of teen magazines like Hoa Học Trò and Mực Tím that featured K-pop artist posters were hot commodities. The catchy beats and choreography of popular K-pop songs, performed off-rhythm but enthusiastically by students, became fixtures in school assemblies and youth group meetings. Naturally, the torch of translated music was passed to Korean songs when local artists released Vietnamese versions of trending K-pop hits despite legal ambiguities.

Mom: “We have Lee Hyori at home.” The Lee Hyori we have at home:  

Vietnam's K-pop chế universe

With limited resources to access idols' official products like concert tickets, fan meetings, or even CDs, Vietnamese fans supported their idols through the internet, joining fan forums like 360KPOP and tirelessly streaming music videos.

In the early days, companies didn't provide subtitles. But fans who wanted to connect with idols had to feel both the visuals and the lyrics. Since Vietnamese cover versions weren't ideal, “Vietsub” music videos became popular. Fans fluent in Korean would translate lyrics, add Vietnamese subtitles, and re-upload them.

Big Bang's ‘Haru Haru’ music video is hip-hop inspired but still incorporates a dramatic cancer storyline typical of Korean dramas.

During this period, Vietnamese-subtitled K-pop music videos flooded the internet. Statistics show that 60% of the videos tagged with “Vietsub” were Korean-related. With K-pop closely tied to fandoms, fans did not merely want to consume the music but also interact with their idols and other enthusiasts.

Because fan meetings and official concerts were rarely held in Vietnam, translating and subtitling music videos and sharing them became a way for fans to recruit new members and lay the groundwork for their communities. From active fans promoting their idols to the innate trendy nature of the Hallyu wave, the hottest K-pop music videos at the time began to spread beyond the fandom. They were broadcast on mainstream TV channels and consistently appeared at the top of YouTube's recommendation lists, sparking curiosity and interest from casual viewers who weren't deeply invested in the artists' details and simply wanted to enjoy the music.

However, back then, Korean wasn't as widely spoken as English, and even the Romanized Korean syllables were challenging for people to sing along with. Thus, K-pop parody videos emerged to meet public demand, adjusting lyrics to be memorable and easy to sing. The original messages vanished, replaced by creative rewrites from fans and creators.

‘Oh! Chế,’ or ‘Oh! Parody,’ is considered the cornerstone of K-pop parody music.

In the early days, well-known K-pop parody songs often carried a negative connotation because they originated from anti-fan groups who sought to “throw shade” at specific artists. An example is ‘Oh!’ by Girls' Generation, or SNSD. Upon debut, the nine-member group quickly became a national phenomenon in Korea due to their fresh image and music.

In Vietnam, SNSD fans (including the author of this article!) were mostly marginalized because the group was constantly boycotted for ridiculous reasons, like being disrespectful to seniors, having plastic surgery, or interacting with male idols — rumors that were later proven unfounded. “Oh! Chế” transformed what was originally a lighthearted love song into one that attacked the female singers' looks and personalities:

Bụng em giờ rất thon / My waist is now so slim
Trông người em thật mí nhon / My body looks so petite
Hút bao nhiêu mỡ mà cũng phát biểu / But that's liposuction
Quá đáng anh thật là / You're such a jerk
Cứ phụ lòng của người ta / Messing with my heart
Mất bao nhiêu công em đi tu sửa lại đồ đấy. / You know I went under the knife to fix myself.

After ‘Oh! Chế,’ SNSD's sizable anti-fan contingent released more parody classics such as ‘Run Devil Run.’ Paradoxically, many people grew more interested in the group due to these parody songs, and even became K-pop fans because of the songs' sharp-tongued and sarcastic lyrics.

“Raise your hand if the Oh parody introduced you to K-pop.”

“I was even happily singing along because I thought it was a fan-made cover.”

The negativity of early K-pop parodies likely stemmed from young people's limited awareness of the internet, which was just beginning to be common in Vietnam in the 2000s and 2010s. At the same time, fandom culture strongly promoted parasocial relationships. Loyal fans felt they needed to protect their idols' reputations and achievements against any competition, even if that meant personally attacking other idols.

Fortunately, as young people learned to use the internet more responsibly, their perspective on female artists also softened as Gen 2 idols gradually established their careers. K-pop parody culture within the community evolved, shifting from mockery to humor. By incorporating relatable details like trà đá, bún chả, and motorbikes, idols became characters who felt closer to Vietnamese people. The parody lyrics were carefully crafted for rhythm and catchiness, making them singable like genuine songs. Thus, timeless choruses such as “Mày rửa chén, tao lau nhà” or “Lên là lên” became woven into the daily lives of millenials and Gen Z's.

With K-pop parodies, language differences were no longer a barrier. Instead, they distilled the work into its fundamental elements: fun moves and catchy sounds. Everyone could enjoy the music videos' entertainment value without needing to understand the lyrics. This created a blank canvas for anyone with a computer to unleash their creativity and convey personal messages and emotions, for better or worse.

Not just Vietsub, it's Nghệ-An-sub.

In recent years, with a booming economy, Vietnam has become a market of interest for the K-pop industry. Fan events like concerts and meet-and-greets are now organized in Vietnam, and some music videos even come with Vietnamese subtitles. Translation and parody lyrics have thus become less essential for fans to feel connected with the artists. The golden age of K-pop parody has become a nostalgic memory for Gen 2 fans. Even so, the legacy of K-pop parody music continues to inspire and be carried forward by a handful of current creators.

“I started listening to K-pop in 2012. The first K-pop songs I heard were ‘Oh Chế,’ ‘Haru Haru Chế,’ and ‘Em Yêu Ảo Lòi.’ These songs had a massive impact on me,” Bạch Ân Khoa, a longtime K-pop fan and remix master, told me. Bạch Ân Khoa is known for viral parody tracks like ‘Love Dive Tình Ái,’ a “collab” between IVE and Đàm Vĩnh Hưng. Khoa's other remixes also always include a random Vietnamese twist. With the support of AI tools, idols can sing duets with Bé Xuân Mai or even perform in a Nghệ An accent.

“The ideas just come naturally and serve no other purpose than to satisfy my passion, bring laughter, and spread my idol's songs to more people,” Khoa shared. “The Nghệ An series started with a friend, a NewJeans fan, who posted a video showcasing a Central Vietnamese accent. I thought, ‘What if K-pop idols sang in the Nghệ An dialect?’ It's also my way of promoting the region's special dialect to friends across the country.”

What goes around comes back around?

For the longest time, K-pop parodies reflected the influence of Korean culture on Vietnamese youth. Yet today, they're a demonstration of the creativity that young Vietnamese use to share their unique identity with the world.

The girls of IVE used Bạch Ân Khoa's parody song to thank their Vietnamese fans in a message in Vietnamese: “DIVE ơi, chúng ta kết lâu đài!” (“Hey DIVE, let's build a castle!”)

Imagine having your favorite artists quote you.

When BlackPink held the first Vietnam concert in Hanoi, the audience sang along enthusiastically to the chorus of ‘Flower’ in its Vietsub version called ‘Lửa Hận Thù.’ The performance by 60,000 Vietnamese fans left the artists astonished, and the international community praised Vietnam as probably the coolest fandom during BlackPink's tour. Recently, with the global rise of Hoàng Thùy Linh's ‘See Tình,’ Korean-subtitled versions have also started appearing all over South Korean social media.

The ‘Lửa Hận Thù’ performance that crowns Vietnam's fans as the coolest in the world.

As evidenced by Vietnam's history, no matter the era, fostering cultural exchange and integration is crucial when a nation opens its borders. Embracing and influencing each other's cultures between nations not only strengthens diplomatic relations but also enriches the cultural life of each country's citizens. After more than three decades of friendship and a decade filled with fond memories of Vietnamese K-pop parody music, could there be an opportunity for a “V-pop parody wave” to emerge in South Korea? I'm eagerly awaiting the answer.

Before Vietnamese could hop on social media sites such as Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to share our hot takes of the week, there was an era of past cybersphere when online forums were the crucial online space to connect local netizens.

In online forums, discussions happen in topic boxes, or “threads,” created by members; other users will participate by publishing strings of reply posts below. Forum members have the freedom and safety to express themselves because they can be as anonymous as they wish. In Vietnam, there used to be many different forums specialized in a vast array of topics, some have managed to endure until today, such as Webtretho (childcare), GameVN (gaming), Tinh Tế (tech), and more.

Some major gay community forums popular in the 2000s: taoxanh.net, vuontinhnhan.net, tinhyeutraiviet.com, thegioithu3.vn. Screenshots via Wayback Machine.

While most of us probably use forums to get answers and advice, and participate in many activities, the anonymity and safe nature of forums made them especially conducive to function as social hubs for the Vietnamese LGBT community in the early 2000s, a time when social stigmas against them were common and severe. 

Among the earliest LGBT forums in the country, there was Táo Xanh (Green Apple), a prominent community for gay Vietnamese that first stepped into the world wide web in 2005. Táo Xanh started out as a humble and small circle, but would eventually become one of the biggest LGBT-centric forums at its prime in 2014.

Photo taken from the Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2014 (top). A tattoo of Táo Xanh’s logo (middle). Screenshot of Táo Xanh forum policies page (bottom).

It started at an... Internet cafe

“Back then, to know about a forum like Táo Xanh, you usually discovered it through word of mouth,” Mạnh Quân, a frequent member of many LGBT forums, tells me in Vietnamese about how he came across Táo Xanh. “I remember reading a piece in the newspaper warning people about inappropriate activities of LGBT people in online chat rooms.” The cautionary newspaper write-up, ironically, spiked Quân’s curiosity about these online spaces, so he joined those chat rooms and was introduced to a number of major online gay forums. Táo Xanh was one of them. 

Back cover of the book “Hãy để anh thương em,” a collection of short stories written by members of the forum. Photo via Facebook page Táo Xanh.

For Quân, while he spent a fair share of his time on multiple LGBT forums, Táo Xanh had a noticeable user difference thanks to its name: “I often accessed these forums while in Internet cafes, so sometimes people would glance at my screen and give me a judgemental look. But not Táo Xanh, because at the time, people outside of the community didn’t know what Táo Xanh was, they probably thought it was just another forum.”

Interestingly enough, the subtlety of the name “Táo Xanh” somewhat mirrored the identity of the forum at the time. “I remember spending sleepless nights at an Internet cafe, chatting with two friends to come up with the idea for the name Táo Xanh,” Minh Thảo, one of the forum's founders, reminisces about the forum's early days. At the time, Thảo and his friends meant to create the forum as a space for closeted gay people, so they wanted the name to be more indirect and less conspicuous. 

When brainstorming for the name Táo Xanh, Thảo and his friends were inspired by the symbolism of the apple. As the apple is a symbol of love, in some cultures, it is also thought to be the forbidden fruit as per the ancient story of Adam and Eve. “But those apples have a red color, so we went with the name Táo Xanh [Green Apple], as a way to represent a different kind of love.”

The virtual life of Táo Xanh

When Táo Xanh went online for the first time on September 19, 2005, the forum came with very strict rules and regulations. Because Thảo’s goal in creating Táo Xanh was to make it a secure place, where the gay community can come in and unwind, share hobbies, and make meaningful connections. So things such as NSFW content or vulgarity were banned on the forum. “We even had a rule about members having to use legible Vietnamese with accent marks when posting and commenting,” Thảo describes how intense the rules were. 

Although, because the initial direction of Táo Xanh was a forum for closeted gay people only, some of its policies were put in place to filter out people who did not identify as closeted gay men. “In the early period of the site, we had rules that restricted girl names as their username, or people using she/her pronouns,” Thảo says. These regulations received a fair share of criticism from the community. “At that time, we didn’t have much knowledge about other communities, so it led to us wanting to exclude ourselves,” he says. 

Minh Thảo at a Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2013. Photo via Huỳnh Minh Thảo/Flickr.

Fortunately, as the LGBT movement in Vietnam progressed, Thảo and his friends had the chance to network with more people within the LGBT community and learn about different sexual identities. Thus, the specific rules regarding names were eventually changed to make the forum more welcoming for the LGBT scene at large.

Thảo was 23 years old when Táo Xanh was first introduced. He remembers spending a large chunk of his time on the site. “Every day after work, I would drive to an Internet cafe to hop on the forum,” he shares. Thảo served as an admin and moderator for Táo Xanh, he would spend days finding and pinning interesting posts for the forum, supervising multiple topic boxes, or socializing with the community. Also, Thảo was the host of Táo Xanh Radio, for which he recorded himself reading short LGBT-centric stories that were posted on the forum.

An episode of Thảo’s radio story for Táo Xanh.

“I listened to Thảo’s radio stories a lot. He somehow found a lot of good and very sad LGBT stories, and for me, his reading voice was very fitting,” Mạnh Quân shares. Quân first joined Táo Xanh in 2007, during his high school years. As he was a student and a gamer, a big part of Quân’s teenage life was associated with an Internet cafe near his home, where he would take root almost every day after school. Quân would lounge around the forum listening to music and the radio's short stories while playing video games. “Whenever I got to the Internet cafe, I would log into Yahoo!, log into Táo Xanh, open NhacCuaTui to play some music, and then immerse in my online game. Just like a routine,” Quân explains.

From forum to parties: The green apple went AFK

Aside from the usual activities common to an online forum, Táo Xanh also had a number of clubs established by its members. There were clubs related to singing, traveling, graphic design, etc. These small groups were where people could share their pastimes and enjoy offline activities together.

“The drama club in Táo Xanh was the place where I got to connect with a lot of people, and also a place where I could develop myself,” says Trọng Nghĩa, a member of Táo Xanh who ran the forum’s drama club named The Gardener Club. It was a place for members who were interested in doing skits about LGBT topics; they would have weekly performances at many theater cafes in Saigon.

A skit by The Gardener Club in 2012. Photos via Facebook user Oril Nguyễn.

Theater cafe, or cà phê kịch, is a type of cafe with a small stage, where independent drama groups can perform to gain a little income and get their name out there. According to Nghĩa, these types of venues were fairly popular during the early 2010s, and every week members of the drama club would run around asking cafe owners for permission to perform at their venues. 

“I always remember how delighted I was doing those performances,” Nghĩa recalls. He remembers how crowded it was at each of the club’s performances. “Each of our sets could have up to 50, 60 viewers. At that time, there were hardly any places for our community to just hang out, so they flocked to places like this, and it feels great being a part of that atmosphere.”

Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2013. Photos via Huỳnh Minh Thảo/Flickr.

Nghĩa knew about Táo Xanh through the forum’s major offline event, usually called “Táo Xanh Big Party.” It was a recurring event usually held as a birthday party for the forum, and these parties were among the most crowded events hosted by Táo Xanh. “I had never seen so many gay people in one place before,” Nghĩa recalls. Quân also has fond memories of his first time being at the Big Party: “I was so shy. There were so many people there that I ended up standing in one place and went home early.” But fortunately, Quân would later feel more included when he got the chance to be one of the people organizing the events, where he could run around helping people and having fun.

But throughout the years, there were struggles along the way too. “Our first ever offline event was small, and all of the attendees came with a face mask. But we understand that everybody just wanted to feel safe, because it was a very different era,” Thảo recalls the early days of the forum. At later events, while attendees were asked to not wear masks while joining the events, photos taken from the events were shared privately in the forum to keep everyone safe. 

Thảo (in red) at the Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2014. Photo via Facebook page Táo Xanh.

“When asking venues to organize our events, we had to be a little bit slick too. We told them: ‘Oh we're just organizing this party for these young, cool people.’ We couldn’t say that we are hosting an event for the LGBT community,” Thảo shares about the struggles in finding a location to hold an event for the community. But for him, the effort paid off: “After most of our big events, the organizing team would gather at a hủ tiếu bò viên place on Trần Khắc Chân street. Everybody, even myself, looked exhausted after hours of running around, but those moments are really memorable for me. It was the feeling that I had tried my best for the thing that I believed in.”

Memories of Táo Xanh

During its 11 years of operation, Táo Xanh at one point was welcoming up to 80,000 members accessing the site. The forum hosted numerous offline events to connect the LGBT community, and they also organized charities to raise the community’s social image. 

Alas, the forum website went offline somewhere around 2016 due to a lack of budget for hosting bandwidth. The administrators and moderators of the forum also ran into some problems during the archival process, which led to the database of the forum being lost. While the Internet only holds very few memories of the old forum, Táo Xanh has undoubtedly remained vividly in the memories of thousands of its users. 

The cover image and background music of the Táo Xanh forum. When users accessed the forum, this image and song would be appear. Image via Huỳnh Minh Thảo.

“I’m a bit of a forgetful person. There were times when I met people [in real life] who referred to me as ‘Sas Ri,’ my username in the forum, and while sometimes I can’t remember who they are, I always know that the time being in Táo Xanh was such a precious time of my life,” Thảo, one of Táo Xanh's founders, said. He's now working as an LGBT activist.

“The forum has given me many valuable relationships in my life, there are people I knew from the forum that I still keep in contact with even to this day,” Quân, a member of Táo Xanh since 2007, shares. He was best known in the community as a host for many of the forum’s events. He is now a working MC and actor.

Nghĩa, the founder of Táo Xanh’s drama club who used to direct the club’s many performances around cafes in Saigon, is now working as a film director. When asked of his memories of the forum, he says: “While I can’t relive everything in detail, I can remember my feelings and how happy I was. It was a beautiful part of my life, because everything has changed now, and those past experiences are something that I can never get back.” 

Vtubers have been taking the global streaming industry by storm for several years now, with millions of fans that span the globe, even in Vietnam. Yet despite this obvious popularity, local Vtubers catering to a Vietnamese audience are only a recent phenomenon.

I spent about five hours last week watching a Vtuber play a horror game.

I’m not sure what it was about them that interested me so much. Was it their voice? Their humor? The way their streaming avatar lagged when they met a jump scare? Or was it the way they hilariously begged their viewers to collectively pray for their in-game survival?

Virtual YouTubers, also known as Vtubers, are content creators and online performers primarily found on Twitch and YouTube, who use a digital avatar instead of their real face. This digital avatar — either art commissioned from an artist or made by the Vtubers themselves — is rigged to follow the owner’s movements and facial expressions. It can be a 2D image animated using Live2D technology, or a 3D model. The latter is usually reserved for certain milestones during a Vtuber’s career, like reaching 100,000 subscribers because of how laborious and expensive it is to make.

There are now hundreds of Vtubers on the net, each with their own distinct backstory, personality and charm. Image via Nijisanji.

For all intents and purposes, Vtubers are the same as streamers and online vloggers, with a wide variety of content catered to different audiences. However, many Vtubers opt for activities that can be done on-screen to not reveal their body or real-life location. As such, gaming, chatting, singing and digital drawing are some of the most popular forms of content among Vtubers.

A virtual tradition from Japan

Vtubing started in Japan and became popular with the appearance of Kizuna Ai in 2016, who also coined the word “Virtual YouTuber.” Two years later, Vtuber agencies like Hololive and Nijisanji were established, pushing the trend to a global scale. Today, Vtubers have become a common sight on social media, with the most famous ones - like Gawr Gura - having over 3.5 million subscribers on YouTube as of this writing.

If this reminds you of famous Japanese virtual singer Hatsune Miku, then you’re closer than you think. The current Vtuber industry borrows many of its motifs and aesthetics from Japan’s idol culture. Despite being a global trend nowadays, many non-Japanese Vtubers still pay respect to the industry’s Japanese roots. Some major examples are the anime art style seen in many Vtubers’ character designs. As such, most fans and viewers of Vtubers are people who are already interested in Japanese or anime culture.

Kizuna Ai was one of the first Vtubers. Image via Virtual Human.

One of the most obvious benefits of having a digital avatar is that streamers enjoy a certain level of anonymity. Some Vtubers may not feel confident about their appearance, but the digital medium allows their inner charisma to shine. Having a made-up persona also means that many of these digital avatars come with a backstory of how they came to be, giving streamers the opportunity to really be creative with their characters’ looks and personalities, like a Shiba Inu, a cute demonic critter, a campy cross-dressing elf, or even...a gun. 

Vietnamese Vtubers: who are they?

In Vietnam, the local fanbase for Japanese and English Vtubers is immense, with many channels on YouTube translating foreign videos for local viewers. In contrast, the local Vtuber scene is only a recent development, with observable growth beginning in 2020.

Chiêm Ch.'s Vtube avatar. Image courtesy of Chiêm.

On the first day of October back in 2020, YouTube was briefly graced by a 15-second birthday song sung by a girl in gray. That was Chiêm’s debut as a Vtuber in Vietnam. She declares herself a “fallen angel” who was banished and forced to sign a deal with the “devil” — who is conveniently her real-life friend/manager — to help her in her new life as an art and game streamer in the mortal plane.

Offline, she’s a bit different from her virtual persona; her shyness makes her seem distant from others. “Deep down, I still want that sense of connection, to become something special in someone’s life,” Chiêm shares. “So you could say becoming a Vtuber is an indirect way for me to be more confident in myself.”

The streamer chose to hide behind the character “Chiêm” because she “wanted people to know ‘Chiêm’ for [her] personality and content, instead of letting them judge [her] through appearances alone.” Like other Vtubers, a fondness for Japanese culture is key to Chiêm’s genesis as well.

“I also like manga, anime culture and the virtual idols that are prevalent in Japan,” she explains. “So becoming a virtual character myself might give viewers the impression that ‘Ah, this person must like Japanese culture,’ and then I’ll have more chance to connect with others who share the same interest as me” 

Chiêm’s content varies from time to time. Sometimes she plays co-op games like Among Us with fellow Vietnamese Vtubers, has casual hang-out nights when viewers can chat about anything, or hosts art streams in which she draws her Vtuber self and fan art of other Vtubers. But a common theme of the activities is the close bond between the host and guests.

Chiêm's avatar singing 'Happy Birthday.'

“A few people [in real life] know I moonlight as a Vtuber, a few don’t. But it’s not anything to hide, so I’m open-minded about it,” Chiêm says. “Most of them were quite surprised but are still supportive, so in the end, I feel really lucky to have the support from others regarding my new direction.”

In an industry where most Vtubers pose as ageless abominations, mythical creatures, supernatural beings, or just plain-old catgirls, Jortun Leventor, affectionately localized as "Lê Văn Tèo" by fans, has a hilariously tame backstory as a green-haired heartthrob who was “kidnapped” into becoming a Vtuber by 3Di Project, an indie Vtuber group led by a band of ambitious friends. Leventor previously appeared with a surfer-themed avatar, but has recently received a makeover to become a pirate.

Jortun Leventor's new model.

Leventor’s content focuses on gaming streams with no restriction on genre, from light-hearted Stardew Valley to hardcore shooters like Doom Eternal and Apex Legend. His channel is also peppered with occasional free talk streams where he and viewers discuss anything of interest, as well as some occasional shenanigans, be it meme videos or co-op games with his two other stream-mates: Vtubers Minh Nguyệt and Vici, both affiliated with 3Di Project. The trio is fittingly nicknamed “Đèn Giao Thông” (Traffic light), a nod to the color motifs of their virtual personae.

Jortun Leventor. Image courtesy of 3Di.

Anxiety is a universal feeling that comes with anyone’s first time doing anything, and Leventor was no exception. Technical and performance problems were worrying “what-ifs” at the beginning, but Leventor now feels at home on his stream thanks, in part, to the dedication of his fans. “To me, my fans are wonderful, wholesome, and humorous. Once in a while, they even help me remind new viewers on streams of the chat rules, making sure they don’t affect other people’s viewing experience,” Leventor gushes.

When asked about one of the more unique experiences that he has had, he shared: “One of the most memorable moments has to be the four flag salutation [chào cờ] streams between last August and September. Back then the lockdown was still in effect, National Day and the first day of (online) school were coming near, so I wanted to do some Monday morning flag salutation, singing the National Anthem with my followers who can’t go to school. I assumed that there wouldn’t be many people since it was an early morning stream, but it turned out to be very crowded and lively. I even invited some of my friends in 3Di to sing with me, but because we were singing through Discord, the sound got delayed, so none of us were in sync with each other,” he laughs.

A morning flag salute stream with Jortun.

The pros and cons of a small, close-knit community

As a solo Vtuber, Chiêm has to create content and promote her streams through social media, among other internet-related tasks, but she says the most difficult part of the hobby is keeping her viewers engaged.

When asked if it’s mainly her personality and humor that attract viewers, the streamer said that it depends: “Everyone came into my stream for a different reason, but those could be the main qualities one needs to be mindful of while streaming. Still, I have lost some loyal fans without knowing why, but as a content creator aiming to be more professional, I try my best not to doubt myself too much or go after them for dropping off. Instead, I focus on creating more content to develop my channel further.”

A screenshot from a stream by Chiêm.

As one of the few men in a largely female industry, Jortun Leventor does feel out of place at times: “My viewership is mainly women. So I had to do some adjustments in the way I speak, like talking a bit more gently. In reality, however, I’m taken aback most of the time because their reaction can be very…passionate!”

Leventor continued: “In the local Vtuber scene, women Vtubers are the majority, so when I debuted there were some odd reactions. I was worried because I was not sure if me and my content would fit in with others or not; it’s quite lucky that I got accepted and supported by fans in the end.”

“Usually, creating assets for streaming can be a bit pricey for most independent Vtubers, so I’m very lucky to have 3Di’s support…Tasks like drawing the Vtuber model, rigging the Live2D model [to get the model to animate], creating the streams’ layout, etc. are divided among everyone, we actively discuss and help each other out, so there aren’t many financial problems that we have to deal with,” Leventor shares.

Looking forward

As of now, the local industry is still in its early stages, with new faces appearing every day. There are criticisms of it straddling the line between awkwardly charming and cringe-inducing for Vietnamese viewers, who were used to Japanese- and English-speaking Vtubers up until now. But to Chiêm, this is a problem that time will fix.

“It’s true that I’ve seen some articles and videos bashing Vietnamese Vtubers…I think that these critics’ perspectives are a bit too affected by their negative perception of the word ‘Vtuber,’ simply because it’s a big international trend right now,” she opines. “In reality, being a Vtuber is nothing more than being a typical content creator or streamer, something that’s already prevalent in Vietnam.”

Minh Nguyệt, another Vtuber from 3Di, also recently got an update to her Vtuber model.

Both Chiêm and Leventor are hopeful about the industry’s potential, as more Vtubers, both solo and groups, that create high-quality content are getting into the media landscape. This gives Chiêm the motivation to further improve so she can stand out in this developing ecosystem. As for Leventor, the green-haired streamer and his crew will have a meeting with fans at this year's Color Fiesta, one of the biggest conventions in Vietnam for local artists and anime enthusiasts.

Putting aside the novelty of animated streamers, I’m always happy to see people who found their calling, and if Vtubing can help those with social anxieties or concerns about their appearances to become the content creators they have always dreamt of being, then who are we to judge? The scene is still very young, but give it some time and it will surely flourish. In the meantime, I’ll be rooting for both Chiêm and Leventor’s success, hoping that one day I will see English fansubs of Vietnamese Vtuber content creators, a sign that local streamers are getting the attention of the world.