Stories - Saigoneer

How Saigon's Free Water Coolers Quench Thirst and Spread Kindness

2026-04-17T10:00:00+07:00

In recent years, stories about climate change's impacts on the lives of Vietnamese people have been increasingly making the news.

According to the Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, Vietnam is among the six countries most severely affected by climate change worldwide. In rural areas, extreme weather often manifests as natural disasters such as floods, while in urban areas like Saigon, prolonged heatwaves pose the greatest challenge.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As the dry season sets in, city dwellers find themselves battling record-breaking temperatures. Heat rises from the asphalt, blending with vehicle exhaust and musty fumes from narrow alleys to form dense and suffocating clouds of air.

In response, people rush to air-conditioned cafes and shopping centers, seeking refuge from the relentless heat. Those who must venture outside wrap themselves in jackets, masks, or hoodies. But not everyone has the privilege to easily escape the scorching sun.

Photo by Cao Nhân.

Among those most affected are informal workers in urban areas. Jobs like construction, street vending, motorbike taxi driving, or garbage collection often lead to prolonged exposure to the scorching sun.

The Vietnamese Ministry of Labor has advised outdoor workers to rest in cool places and stay hydrated to prevent heatstroke and reduce body temperature. While scientifically sound, these recommendations overlook the harsh reality that shade and clean water are often luxuries for those working outside.

Unassuming water coolers and messages of kindness. Photos by Cao Nhân, Trinh Nguyễn, Paul Christiansen.

A day’s worth of bottled water can cost as much as a light meal and is cumbersome for those constantly on the move. Yet access to free, clean drinking water is limited.

Fortunately, much like mushrooms sprouting after the rain, “grassroots” water sources have appeared during dry spells in every corner of the city. Bearing friendly messages like “Free drinking water” or “Cool water for travelers,” stainless steel containers and insulated buckets dot the sidewalks to serve as mobile wellsprings.

Anonymous benefactors. Photo via VnExpress.

Operating on a beautiful principle of “those with excess give, those in need take,” kind-hearted benefactors fill these stations with iced tea, filtered water, and sometimes even snacks. People can stop by to quench their thirst and cool down for free. There are no thank-yous, no observers, just thousands of silent exchanges happening daily.

This heart-warming practice is not new. In the rural southern regions of the past, residents would set up leaf huts, water jars, and coconut ladles along the roads. Travelers and neighbors could stop to rest and refresh. While the jars may now be replaced with modern materials, the spirit of local generosity continues to flourish.

Clay jars were often used to collect rainwater for daily use and to offer refreshment to passersby. Photo via Phụ Nữ Online.

In response to the severe heat, the city government is piloting more public water stations. Until then, these unmarked containers will continue their humble legacy: providing water and support to ease the hardships of daily life.

Free water pitchers provide blue-collar workers with much-needed refreshment. Photo via Dân Trí.

This article was originally published in 2024.

Inside the Covid Memorial Park at 1 Lý Thái Tổ, Saigon's Brand-New Green Space

2026-04-08T12:00:00+07:00

As part of Saigon’s latest initiative to increase green space coverage in the city, a number of abandoned land plots were converted into public parks, including a Covid Memorial Park that’s become a beloved destination for Saigoneers seeking a space to jog, reflect, or just simply touch grass.

The park, officially known as Lý Thái Tổ Park, was open for visiting on February 12 after three months of construction and renovation. It is based on a triangular plot at 1 Lý Thái Tổ Street, bordering Lý Thái Tổ, Hùng Vương, and Trần Bình Trọng streets.

It’s currently under the governance of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as, after 1975, the villas in the plot were used as accommodations for visiting dignitaries; however, this function stopped years ago, so the land and buildings here have been abandoned since.

The plot was the former estate of Hui Bon Hua, a real estate tycoon living in late-19^th century Saigon and the owner of numerous buildings across the city. In the 1950s, the family built a family compound here, comprising eight villas intended to be a place to unwind.

The villas have fallen into disrepair in recent years while the land was sectioned off due to disuse. As construction on the park began, three villas in the worst conditions were demolished while the remaining four were renovated into park amenities like public bathrooms.

Each villa had two stories, designed by French architect Paul Veysseyre, who also designed the Bảo Đại Palace in Đà Lạt, with a blend of eastern and western elements and constructed using imported materials. Even though the influence of Art Deco was present, the villas also incorporated adaptations to fit Vietnam’s tropical climate.

The new park retains the majority of the plot’s heritage trees and adds paved paths and recreational facilities like basketball courts and playgrounds, but the cornerstone of the venue is a circular monument at the center.

The area features depressed steps surrounding a fountain and a striking teardrop-shaped sculpture. The statue is 6 meters tall with a 13-meter-long circumference, made of a reflective alloy. The empty space at the core resembles a heart.

According to famous sculptor Phạm Văn Hạng, who consulted on its creation, the teardrop is meant to symbolize the humanity, kindness, and sacrifice of our pandemic heroes, while the missing heart represents those we lost during Saigon’s hardest-hit periods of the COVID-19 years.

The monument’s nine steps are divided into three main layers. The lowest is engraved with the 12 animals of the Vietnamese zodiac, symbolizing the passage of time. The middle level features footsteps, evoking a journey. And the highest has flower figures of lotus, plumeria, and chrysanthemum, representing continuity and hope.

The evocative monument has become a solemn place for Saigoneers to pay respect to Covid victims by leaving flowers and lighting joss sticks. The steps are also a popular place just to sit and rest while roaming the park.

All Aboard Bus 146, Home of Plushies, Rubber Chickens and a Side of Humanity

2026-04-03T12:00:00+07:00

“Cute” doesn’t seem like a fitting descriptor for any mode of public transport, but a bus in Saigon is driving straight into the heart of Saigoneers for being the quintessence of “smotheringly adorable.”

At Saigon’s Eastern Station, commonly known to locals as Bến xe miền Đông, picking up and dropping off passengers is a daily ritual for bus operators. The terminal, one of the busiest transport hubs in the south, is where millions of residents embark on their daily commute.

For many of these travelers, especially the more veteran ones, participating in Vietnam’s mass transit system, though frugal and practical, is often a cumbersome experience due to the eternal lack of funding and human resources. Instances where buses bypass traffic laws, or where staff harangues passengers, have become the norm and triggered further stigmatization among the public.

But against all odds, a delightful presence continues to defy expectations by hitting the streets with grace. Lovingly nicknamed the “plushies bus” by locals, Bus 146 offers carnival-like rides to counter the gridlock’s chaos and inhospitality with its own brand of kindness.

At 9:30am sharp, the bus departs from the Eastern Station to head towards Hiệp Thành Station in District 12. The Saigoneer crew was greeted by chú Phạm Ngọc Tuyền and chú Phạm Văn Sang — men in their middle ages whose look and voice just exude a fatherly comfort. By striking up a conversation with the two, I learned that they had been friends long before becoming colleagues. Tuyền bought the bus and takes the wheel, while Sang is in charge of selling tickets and keeping the place neat and tidy.

When the pandemic broke out two years ago and the route’s ridership declined, Sang began to have more downtime when the bus arrived early at the station. He would spend his extended breaks and pocket change at the claw machines in the waiting room as a way to unwind after a long journey. But unlike the majority of players who might struggle to luck out, Sang was a master of chance. The machine’s plushie reservoir fell slowly into the conductor’s arms every time he played (VND10,000 each time) and the cuddly toys became decorative trophies with a life of their own on Bus 146.

Sitting at the rear entrance and plucking out colorful tickets for those who just entered, Sang says to me: “It was for my own entertainment at first, but the bus ended up looking prettier with them. The passengers seemed to love the idea too, so I went ahead with it. All of the stuffed animals that I get from the machines I hang here.” Over time, the bus has accumulated more than 100 toy residents that reside at different corners — hanging on the handles, by the window frames, and behind seats. The vehicle’s rigid interior softens where it meets the cushiony touch of a chubby duck or minion, which blithely swung back and forth with every stop and turn the bus makese while dodging a swerving motorbike

Steady in his driver’s seat, Tuyền watched over the steering wheel. Tuyền admitted that he isn’t much of an arcade ace like his long-time partner, but ensured that he is just as “obsessed with plushies.” As far as the man is concerned, having what essentially is a moving castle full of stuffed toys is “mad cool.” It makes the dozen-kilometer-long trips that he takes daily a bit less daunting for him, he says.

Having traveled for some distance, it dawned on me that the ambiance on Bus 146 did in fact feel more amicable than my usual commute. For so many people, taking a bus in Vietnam means enduring wobbly seats and racing to get on and off a vehicle that moves at the velocity of a rollercoaster. But the plushie bus takes its time to enjoy the ride, whether the wheels are rolling or not.

At every station, the duo would come to a complete halt until all passengers, especially seniors, have safely boarded, and welcomed them with pleasantries, a rare commodity in the world of public service. The bus also moves at a relatively slow speed, so passengers can sit back and fancy a view of the curated plushies, rather than holding on for dear life every time the bus hits a pothole.

Most importantly, there is no need to live out an introvert’s nightmare by crying out from the top of their lungs “Please let me get off here!” as the operators have installed a rubber chicken to serve as a makeshift bell. One only needs to “cock-a-doodle-do” from the rear, and the driver would “cock-a-doodle-doo” in response to confirm the stop.

Like other modes of public transport, the majority of Bus 146’s passengers are students, blue-collar workers, and the elderly. Some actually prefer traveling on the bus so much that they have made a point to save Tuyền and Sang as phone contacts.

"Squish squish."

“Some students will call me to ask where my bus is because they want to catch it specifically. I always tell them to ‘take whichever arrives first,’ but they say that they ‘have time to spare’ and wait out for the toys,” Sang recounts. Some of them even gift the bus with more stuffed animals to help sustain the "population."

But Sang and Tuyền are determined to give back by giving the plushies away, both because they like to keep a fresh rotation and because they see the young passengers “as grandchildren of their own.” During rush hour when it’s common to have 40–50 students pour in all at once, Sang improvises by having a raffle. Whoever’s ticket serial numbers match the ones of Sang’s choosing will go home with a toy from the bus. “I want them to make some good memories. So I give them what they like,” he reasons.

But more than just toys and games, I suppose the best memories on Bus 146 are from the kind hearts that operate it. Be it a student, street vendor, or casual traveler, people are treated with respect and human decency that we don’t realize has been missing for so long.

It is the cheery smile that Sang and Tuyền put on their faces; the small talk about just anything they have with passengers; the way the bus doesn’t budge until older riders have been seated; and the “no cussing" policy that the two adopted because they staunchly believe that "people don’t deserve to be bullied just because they are traveling on concessionary fares."

As I bid goodbye to Tuyền and Sang to return to my office, they insisted on dropping me off at a station with shade so I wouldn’t have to stand under the sun. Bus 146’s silhouette got smaller and then disappeared as it merged into the flow of traffic, continuing to attract curious looks from passersby. Perhaps like me, many of them boarded the plushie bus with that same curiosity, only to leave knowing that the cutest things were, in fact, its people.

This article was originally published in 2022.

Saigon Set to Make Bus Service Free for All to Cut Congestion, Air Pollution

2026-04-02T14:00:00+07:00

Saigoneers without private vehicles might be happy to hear that the city is planning to make the municipal bus system free to ride in the near future.

Just this week, at a municipal meeting on April 1, Secretary of the Municipal Party Committee Trần Lưu Quang announced that Hồ Chí Minh City will remove bus fares in a bid to reduce road congestion and air pollution, VnExpress reports.

At the moment, bus trips in Saigon cost on average VND5,000–7,000 per trip for single-use tickets, but are already free for special groups of riders, including children under 6, older adults over 60, war veterans, and people living with disabilities. Students can ride with fare discounts.

Overall, the subsidy scheme accounts for around VND1.7 trillion per year of the city budget, and it’s estimated that the cost will balloon to VND7 trillion should the policy be expanded to cover all riders. It’s unclear at the time of writing when the free buses will come into effect.

Besides making bus transportation free, Saigon plans to implement a number of upgrades to entice city dwellers to take buses more often, including improving service quality, expanding bus routes, and converting more routes to green energy-only.

According to Tuổi Trẻ, HCMC’s bus network currently has around 2,325 vehicles, 1,082 of which (46.5%) run on green energy, including electric buses and CNG (compressed natural gas) buses. In the first quarter of 2026, that number is expected to rise to 58.4% with the addition of 500 electric vehicles — part of the municipal plan to phase out fossil fuel in city buses completely by 2030.

Saigon has been overhauling its bus network in recent years by allowing certain routes to be privately operated. These include electric-only lines that are run by VinBus and Futa Buslines.

Bạc Liêu-94, Cà Mau-69: In Saigon, a Surprising Reminder of Home Lives on License Plates

2026-04-01T14:00:00+07:00

Once in a while, I bump into a little sliver of my hometown on a random license plate on the street.

Living in Saigon for about four years, I sometimes spend my time driving without a destination in mind.

Passing one street after another, my mind seems to retain just enough clarity to keep the handlebars stable. The pressures and exhaustion of life inundate my mental capacity, turning objects on the street into a blur occasionally lit up by street lamps and scored by the grunts of surrounding motorbikes.

Right in the middle of this thick atmosphere and crowd of multiregional motorists, a number 69 on a license plate caught my eyes. It’s the provincial code for Cà Mau, where I came from. Once, the number showed up behind a rickety Honda Dream bike manned by an elderly man. Once, behind a Vision owned by a student whose backpack bears the logo of my university. Another time, behind a Wave ridden by a Grab driver dashing down the boulevard. Most surprisingly, behind a Mercedes right downtown.

During those moments, my sour mood often vanishes, replaced by meandering thoughts. Who are they? Why are they in Saigon? Do I know them? I have more than once sped up after those 69’s, even though I know that it won’t provide the answers I seek. At least, once I have overtaken them, they would see that I, too, carry a 69 plate — just a quiet signal that we’re hometown buddies amid this strange land.

My 18-year-old would never have cared about that number. He wasn’t in college, not living in Saigon, and didn’t anticipate that there would be a day when homesickness would plague his being. In my memory, the number 69 symbolizes an impossibly peaceful Cà Mau: where the roads are immense and the vehicles drive languidly. Our license plate sneaks into numerous milestones: alongside my mom’s bike when she took me to the barbershop, or to the local tailor to get my school uniforms made before a new school year; behind my dad’s bike when he drove me to the local youth center; and behind my friend’s bike when we stopped at a spicy noodles eatery.

Now, the 69 plate on my own bike takes me to a different horizon, towards foreign destinations. The last vestige of familiarity hangs by a thread on those 69’s I see on the street. At times, I dream that somebody will speed up and shout at me: “Yo! You from Cà Mau?” I would be overjoyed. Even though the currents of life might prevent us from having a chat, I would surely give them the most earnest greeting through my eyes.

I’ve heard many stories of my friends and family bumping into a fellow countryman in the most delightful ways. About half of those would happen thanks to the license plate codes. It could happen in a parking garage when their bikes are right next to each other. A friend started talking to a ride-hailing driver because they spotted that familiar license number on the app interface. Another person found it in the most awkward situation: when they were asked to present their driver’s license to a traffic officer. I realize that those numbers might be the most tenuous link, reminding people of their shared origins in Saigon.

From a long time ago, I’ve learned by heart: Bạc Liêu-94, An Giang-67, Cà Mau-69. It’s not for any particular use, but sometimes, thanks to that, I can learn a piece of someone’s story via their vehicle. Perhaps they are also waiting for a simple greeting from a familiar face just to not feel alone in a strange land.

Pristine Blue Sky and Memorial Park: Ruminating on What the Covid-19 Pandemic Left Us

2026-03-21T20:00:00+07:00

Recently, I visited Saigon’s newly inaugurated COVID-19 memorial park. Located at 1 Lý Thái Tổ, Vườn Lài Ward, the park opened in February as a part of the city’s efforts to expand its green spaces. The centerpiece of the park is its teardrop-shaped sculpture, a monument commemorating the solidarity and care that carried the city through the hardships of the pandemic.

As I sat surrounded by the stairs that form the outlines of a ripple, I reflected upon the pandemic.

The last time I lived in Saigon was in 2021, during the height of the pandemic. After many months of relative success in containing the virus, Vietnam began seeing a surge in cases and deaths in April. Days before graduating from high school, we were told that our graduation ceremony would be virtual. In the months between graduation and heading off to college, my life remained largely static, still as water.

Reflecting on those long days, one image stands out above all others, perhaps because it encapsulates so well how I felt: the image of a pristine blue sky. It felt like the sky was as clear as it had ever been, due to the absence of Saigon’s traffic frenzy, if I had to guess. There was a quality of mesmerizing blankness to it all — one which made it easier to notice and appreciate the little things: the brilliance of the sun, specks of white clouds.

I think my life largely felt the same way. It felt remarkably uninteresting, but amidst the bareness of it all sprouted a deeper appreciation and passion for life and the ordinary. One could say my fascination with the clear skies stemmed from this, too.

Needless to say, for many, the pandemic was neither simple nor peaceful. And for some, it never ended. Variant strains of COVID continue to circulate and affect vulnerable populations. Many still suffer from the effects of long COVID. Many of us lost loved ones. Such deaths and their ripples never truly leave us.

I tend to be skeptical of monuments, because they inherently function to homogenize what is never homogenous to begin with: the plurality and incongruence of uneven experiences contained within any historical event. The droplet is no exception, but I do appreciate that its surface mirrors its surroundings. What's reflected changes with who stands before it and when — an acknowledgment of the impossibility of any single, monolithic construction of public memory.

Piercing through the monument is a heart-shaped hole. It is a hole that, for me, represents indebtedness towards those who showed immense courage, strength, resilience, and more — family, friends, colleagues, and most of all, the countless essential workers who, with little to no other choice, put their lives at risk to keep society’s wheels turning.

The hole exists because we are all incomplete alone, incomplete without the care and labor of and for one another, a reciprocity so often unfulfilled. I hope the city’s new monument can serve as a reminder to all of us that such a need for care and reciprocity, too, should never leave — and with it, a call to imagine what it would look like for the world to truly organize itself around such principles.

Standing before the droplet, I observe what it reflects. I’m there, tiny amidst it all. And above me, the bright blue sky, still looming large, still looming high.

HCMC's Đồng Khởi Among World's Top 20 Most Expensive Retail Streets, Report Says

2026-03-18T10:11:47+07:00

Saigon’s very own Đồng Khởi has once again made the list of world’s commercial streets with the highest annual rents.

Real estate service provider Cushman & Wakefield recently published the 2025 version of their Main Streets Across the World report, which compared the headline rents of 141 standout retail locations in major metropolises in the world.

As VnExpress reports, Đồng Khởi Street in downtown Hồ Chí Minh City claimed the 17^th spot this year at US$346 per square foot (US$3,700 per square meter), amounting to a 6% year-on-year drop in rent.

This is not the first time Đồng Khởi has appeared in the report, having clinched No. 15 and No. 13 in 2024 and 2023, respectively. The central street’s consistent presence in the report is the result of a downtown commercial landscape that has remained at capacity for years, even though the rising middle class has brought about increased demand for flagship locations of brands.

At the top positions are London’s New Bond Street, followed by Via Montenapoleone (Milan) and Fifth Avenue (New York). A number of Asian streets also made the list, such as Tsim Sha Tsui in Hong Kong (No. 4), Ginza in Tokyo (No. 6), and Myeongdong in Seoul (No. 9).

Spanning from the HCMC Opera House to the edge of Saigon River Promenade, Đồng Khởi is one of the city’s oldest thoroughfares, having been around since the French’s earliest urban planning efforts. It was first named rue 16, then renamed rue Catinat in 1865, Tự Do Street in 1955, and finally Đồng Khởi in 1975.

Đồng Khởi cuts through HCMC’s downtown area, surrounded by many luxury hotels and historic structures, making it the ideal location for major brands and companies to establish an official presence. However, in recent years and especially after the COVID-19 pandemic, high rents and waning foot traffic have led to an exodus of tenants on Đồng Khởi, whose occupancy rate hasn’t quite fully recovered.

Photo via Expedia.

Every Bánh Chưng Season, Vietnam’s Lá Dong Capital Comes Alive With Harvest Frenzy

2026-02-13T12:00:00+07:00

On the patches of sandy soil by the river in Kim An Commune, Thanh Oai District, Hanoi, there’s a tiny village named Tràng Cát, where dong leaves have been embedded in local history, memory, and economy for centuries. Right in local courtyard, these broad green leaves were transformed into bánh chưng, ready for Tết feasts across the country.

For about 600 years until now, generations of Tràng Cát villagers have grown up amongst emerald fields of dong. Dong (Stachyphrynium placentarium) is a grass-like plant that’s closely related to ginger. The leaves are bright green, wide, and durable, and thus are very suitable to wrap food in traditional dishes, especially bánh chưng. In Tràng Cát, dong grows thick in yards, alongside old brick walls and village paths where farmers and children tread every day to go to work and school.

Tràng Cát Village in suburban Hanoi.

According to several village household’s genealogical documents, right when the community was first established in the 16th–17th century, locals were already clearing land to cultivate dong. Back then, only the prettiest, most flawless leaves were used to make bánh chưng to offer to emperors. Initially, the plant was only grown at home, but gradually, land plots not fertile enough for other cash drops were all turned to dong fields. Today, the village’s 500 households all cultivate this special leaf.

Tràng Cát has about 30 hectares of dong fields.

About 30 hectares of dong fields now span everywhere in the commune. Irrigated by the Đáy River, Kim An’s sandy soil is particularly nourishing to dong, thus Tràng Cát’s leaves are nationally famous for their broadness, waxy surfaces, and bright colors. When wrapped and cooked, bánh chưng here carries an appealing shade of green and gentle leafy aroma. It’s not a coincidence that, even though dong can grow anywhere, many bánh chưng makers still seek out Tràng Cat leaves.

Tràng Cát’s leaves are nationally famous for their broadness, waxy surfaces, and bright colors

Leaves are harvested year-round in the village, but the volume only really balloons when Tết nears. From the 10th to 25th day of the last lunar month, the entire village enters crunch mode for the busiest time of the year. Harvesters meander in between tall dong shoots to pick the best leaves. Then, they carefully slice off right above the node to prevent tearing or breaking the stalk, while ensuring that the plant could bud out new leaves after Tết.

Dong leaves are sliced off carefully.

Tall dong plants grow close to one another.

During peak periods, each household could gather up to 10,000 leaves a day. Once cut off, they are washed and tied into bundles of 100, before being separated into tiers depending on purposes. Smaller leaves are reserved for bánh tét while medium-sized ones are for bánh chưng wrapped using molds. Only the biggest, prettiest leaves are used for traditional hand-wrapped bánh chưng. Each bundle could fetch VND60,000–250,000 depending on the tier.

Arranging leaves after harvest.

To dong farmers like Phạm Thị Tuyết, growing this leaf is both more familiar and less strenuous than rice or other cash crops. Dong can be harvested all year, not just for Tết, yielding 3–4 batches. The plant is also quite low-maintenance: just water regularly and the leaves would pop out again. Her working schedule during Tết seasons often starts at 7am and ends at 5pm with around three hours of lunch break. “Before Tết, every person in the family must work together to cut and pack the leaves,” Tuyết explains.

Tâm, a local, washes the leaves.

The leaves are washed before being packed.

“Dong is very easy-going and accommodating. They’ll sprout new leaves when one is cut, so we can do this year round. A few previous storms knocked them down, but they still lived and gave us new leaves,” Tâm, a leaf harvester, shares.

Harvested leaves are grouped by size and appearance.

Tràng Cát’s leaves are shipped to every corner of the country.

When the leaves are gathered, farmers focus on sorting and packing: one person cuts, one person counts, one person washes, and one person categorizes. I left the village, but couldn’t stop thinking about the incredible vigor of the dong plant — it won’t stop growing, no matter how many times its leaves were cut off.

Loneliness Too Waits for the Bus

2026-01-25T17:00:00+07:00

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?

Thoughts I've Had While Stranded in Murky Floodwater on Saigon's High-Tide Days

2026-01-15T11:00:00+07:00

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.

Saigon Sees a 10-Year Low of 18°C. What Are the City’s Highest and Lowest Temperatures?

2026-01-09T15:00:00+07:00

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.

Vietnam Bans Unskippable Ads, Requires Skip Button to Appear After 5 Seconds

2026-01-06T15:00:00+07:00

If things go our way, YouTube’s notorious unskippable ads might be a thing of the past come this February.

As Phụ Nữ reports, Vietnam recently announced Decree No. 342, which details a number of provisions to the national Advertising Law, due to take effect from February 15, 2026. The adjustments are expected to place stricter control on Vietnam’s online advertising activities to protect consumers and curb illegal ads.

Amongst the decree articles, some standout stipulations include a hard cap on the waiting time before viewers can skip video and animated ads to no more than 5 seconds. Static ads must be immediately cancellable.

Additionally, the decree requires platforms to implement clear and straightforward ways for users to close ads with just one interaction. False or vague symbols designed to confuse viewers are forbidden.

Online platforms must add visible symbols and guidelines to help users report ads that violate the law and allow them to turn off, deny, or stop seeing inappropriate ads.

Beside rules about the user experience, the decree also seeks to tightly regulate ads for 11 groups of goods and services that directly impact the environment and human health, including: cosmetics; food and beverages; milk and formula for children; insecticidal chemicals and substances; medical supplies; healthcare services; plant pesticides and veterinary drugs; fertilizers; plant seeds and saplings; pharmaceuticals; and alcoholic drinks.

Grindr Year-End Report Names Vietnam as Country With Biggest Top Shortage

2025-12-23T12:00:00+07:00

Ever since Spotify launched its first global Wrapped function a few years ago, December has turned into an exciting season of stats-driven year-end reviews. “Wrapping” is now a tradition embraced by numerous apps, such as Strava, Duolingo, YouTube, Reddit, and of course, Grindr.

If you don’t know what Grindr is — in that case, good for you, keep it that way, sweet innocent angel — it’s a chat-based hookup app catered to gay men. According to a report the company sent to investors, Grindr Unwrapped 2025 was compiled from the profile data of over 15 million monthly users and over 32,000 votes.

This year’s Grindr Unwrapped provides a glimpse into queer culture worldwide and how queers interact with culture, with voting categories like Mother of the Year (Lady Gaga), Girl Group of the Year (Katseye), and Movie of the Year (KPop Demon Hunters), and more. On top of that, Grindr also continued their annual custom of showing us, lightheartedly of course, which nations are graced with the highest percentages of top, bottom, vers, and others.

Some might be shocked, or not, to discover that Vietnam has once again made the Top 5 countries with the most bottoms, coming in at No. 4 behind South Africa, South Korea and Japan, and ahead of Finland. We were also bestowed this honor in 2020 and 2024. Surprisingly, Grindr Unwrapped included a new metric this year: Top 5 countries with the biggest top shortages, based on top-to-bottom ratio — and Vietnam clinches the first spot, beating Thailand, Poland, Mexico and France.

If you’re interested in reading about all the nominating categories in the 2025 year-end report, view it here. These rankings are mostly for fun, as the user base of Grindr is hardly representative of a country’s sexual dynamics, not to mention that many users do not show sexual preferences on their profiles.

Outside of the boundaries of Grindr, Vietnam’s legal and administrative stance on LGBT issues have not seen major shifts, for the worse or the better, in 2025. However, 2025 has been one of the worst years on record when it comes to public perception of the queer community, which suffered from an onslaught of homophobic attacks on local social media towards the end of the year. This lead to the cancellations of many VietPride events in Hồ Chí Minh City in September, including the 13-year-strong annual Pride walk Dung Dăng Dung Dẻ.

Photo: Participants celebrate a Pride event in Hanoi in 2022/Léo-Paul Guyot.

When Donations Are All Womenswear, Men in Flood Zones Turn Necessity Into Fashion

2025-11-28T11:00:00+07:00

Vietnam’s South-Central Coast region is going through an especially grueling time of the year as both the local people and authorities have to deal with the aftermath of historic rainfall and flooding. Still, amid the mourning and strenuous rebuilding efforts, moments of levity shine through — a testament to the resilience, optimism, and incredible humor of the Vietnamese people in the face of hardships.

A few photo collections and TikTok videos have been going viral in the past week, showcasing a special “fashion trend” that’s both heart-wrenching and delightful: men from flood-stricken provinces are now wearing femme clothing as they go about fixing broken roofs, clearing debris, and just being fabulous in general.

These chic looks didn’t materialize spontaneously, but arrived with the throngs of trucks carrying donations from all corners of the country to support local disaster relief efforts. For reasons unknown, the majority of the donated clothing ends up being feminine and childwear. Some netizens have hypothesized that the men in their lives don’t have old clothing to give away, because, in their brothers' or fathers’ wardrobes, either the item is brand-new and unused or overused to threadbareness.

These WinX club members are a little... muscular.

No matter what the reasons behind this phenomenon could be, South-Central men have decided to turn challenges into opportunities — opportunities to serve looks, that is. Brightly colored dresses, crop tops, even a sparkly áo dài here and there: no item should be denied a chance to shine.

While this is an incredible and hilarious fashion moment that will surely put a smile on anyone’s face, it also speaks volumes about the major issues that disaster-battered areas still have to solve to regain a sense of normalcy: menswear, winterwear, and essentials like new underwear, socks, and toiletries are still sorely needed. Find out how to make donations here.

In the meantime, we can all feast our eyes on the wonderful outfits from the South-Central Coast below:

Photos via Threads account @vothuong66/@lethanhloc.

Đắk Lắk, Khánh Hòa Are Next Victims of 2025's Historic Flooding. Here's How to Help.

2025-11-25T12:00:00+07:00

After nearly a week of constant downpour, many provinces of Vietnam’s Central Highlands and South-Central Coast regions have suffered severe flooding and landslides, causing catastrophic damage to local infrastructure, economic activities, and deaths. This has been yet another month of loss and destruction for Vietnam in 2025, which is shaping up to be the most devastating year in recent history due to consecutive powerful typhoons and atypically high rainfall.

The Vietnam Meteorological and Hydrological Administration recently published a report on the dire flooding disaster last week in the South-Central Coast Region, VnExpress reports, noting that the water levels witnessed have never been recorded in 50 years of tracking.

According to the report, from November 15 to 19, many rainfall readings measured at local stations exceeded historic numbers, such as 380mm in Quy Nhơn, 601mm in Sơn Hòa (Đắk Lắk). In Đắk Lắk, some localities recorded over 1,000mm, such as Sông Hinh (1,861mm) and Sơn Long (1,363mm).

Nha Trang authorities gather damaged boats on the street in preparation for repairs. Photo by Thanh Tùng via VnExpress.

These unprecedented amounts of precipitation were minimally absorbed by the land, which was mostly saturated after extensive bouts of rain from October to November. During these months of 2025, the recorded rainfall on average was 120%–200% more than in other years.

As of November 23, the widespread flooding has claimed 90 lives so far across six localities, the majority of whom were in Đắk Lắk. Khánh Hòa, Lâm Đồng, Gia Lai, Huế, Đà Nẵng and Quảng Trị have also reported fatalities, while 12 others remain missing.

Extended heavy rain and inundation have destroyed 1,154 and submerged over 185,700 houses in the region, while over 80,800 hectares of crop farms were affected. Additionally, 3.2 million farm animals died, and 1.157 hectares of aquaculture farms were wiped out. Most prominently, the flooding has completely obliterated Đắk Lắk’s lobster industry with damages amounting to VND2 trillion.

Ánh, a lobster farmer in Phú Yên (now Đắk Lắk), surveying the damage to his rafts. Photo by Đình Sang via Đại Đoàn Kết.

While the water has receded in some provinces like Gia Lai, most of Đắk Lắk’s neighborhoods are still underwater and relief efforts are still hindered as major connective highways were severely damaged by landslides. Many passes that connect Lâm Đồng with adjacent provinces were disrupted by fallen rocks.

The rainiest rainy season

The Central Highlands and South-Central Coast are the most recent victims battered by the series of calamities battering Vietnam in 2025. Just last month in October, Central Vietnam also received historic levels of rainfall due to the remaining effects of Storm No. 12 (Fengshen), causing widespread flooding in Huế, Đà Nẵng, Hội An, Quảng Trị and Quảng Ngãi. Huế, for example, experienced 23 days of stormy weather that only stopped on November 7.

The Imperial City in Huế was overwhelmed by floodwater on October 28. Photo via Tiền Phong.

In early October, Storm No. 11 (Matmo) crossed the East Sea into northern Vietnam, showering mountainous and Red River Delta provinces with heavy rain, including Thái Nguyên, Bắc Ninh, Hanoi, and Lạng Sơn. Thái Nguyên was the worst hit, receiving the highest readings of rainfall in 61 years and thus suffering from major floods.

In late September, Storm No. 10 (Bualoi) made landfall in North-Central Vietnam, wreaking havoc on Ninh Bình, Thanh Hóa, Lào Cai, Hà Tĩnh, Nghệ An and Quảng Trị. As of October 1, the disaster had killed 51 people and caused VND12.8 trillion in damages.

How to help

At the moment, relief efforts are focusing on assisting the victims of the most recent floods in the Central Highlands and South-Central Coast. If you live in Hồ Chí Minh City, there are many designated drop-off points for physical contributions, including all 14 stations of Metro Line 1. A list of places accepting care packages is available on the official Facebook account of the Vietnamese government (Thông Tin Chính Phủ) here. Volunteers are also needed to help sort and pack donated items.

Saigoneers drop off donations outside of Bến Thành Station. Photo via Tiền Phong.

According to Tuổi Trẻ, most urgently needed products include household appliances, such as rice cookers and fridges; food items like cooking oil, condiments, rice; jackets and other winterwear; bedsheets, blankets, and other linens; medicine, insect repellent, disinfectants; school supplies for children; etc.

In terms of monetary contributions, the Vietnam Fatherland Front (Mặt Trận Tổ Quốc Việt Nam) is the official government organization handling donations, including US dollar channels. A list of official VFF bank accounts is available here. Vietnamese citizens can also make donations via the VNeID application. The VFF Facebook account is providing daily statements of transactions to their official accounts here.

Top photo: Volunteers help put together care packages at a dropoff point run by the Vietnam Fatherland Front. Photo by Chí Nguyên/Người Lao Động.

After Years in Limbo, Saigon's Metro Line 2 Is Officially Breaking Ground in Jan 2026

2025-11-13T10:00:00+07:00

After years under development limbo, Saigon’s Metro Line 2 has finally gotten an official date for breaking ground, but will this timeline stick?

As Tuổi Trẻ reports, the Hồ Chí Minh City People’s Committee recently set the date for Metro Line 2 construction to begin on January 15, 2026. From now until December, urban railway authorities must complete and submit relevant reports on feasibility, environmental impact, and project supervision.

This starting date applies to the first phase of the metro line, aiming to complete the initial segment spanning 11.3 kilometers from the existing Bến Thành Station to the northwestern region of the city.

A render of the train to be used on Metro Line 2.

According to Thanh Niên, phase one will feature 10 stations, apart from the Bến Thành Interchange, including Tao Đàn, Dân Chủ, Hòa Hưng, Lê Thị Riêng, Phạm Văn Hai, Bảy Hiền, Nguyễn Hồng Đào, Bà Quẹo, Phạm Văn Bạch, and Tân Bình — all will be underground except for Tân Bình. A few are planned to be interchanges with future lines: Tao Đàn (with Line 3B), Bảy Hiền (with Line 5), and Bà Quẹo (with Line 6).

In 2024, the city hoped to begin construction as early as 2025 with a finishing date in 2030, however, red tapes and delays in site clearance pushed the commencement to 2026.

After the first phase, Line 2’s second phase will stretch the other direction from Bến Thành to Thủ Thiêm in Thủ Đức City, while the last phase will extend northwards to the border with Tây Ninh City.

Photos via Thanh Niên.

Outlaw Ostrich Arrested in Bình Dương for Disrupting Public Order

2025-11-07T17:00:00+07:00

In case you need a pick-me-up on this dreary rainy Friday, here’s a dose of “độc lạ Bình Dương” quackery.

This morning, November 7, motorists in Bến Cát Ward of Hồ Chí Minh City (formerly Bến Cát City, Bình Dương Province) were flabbergasted to find an ostrich careening along on their morning commute, Dân Trí reports.

The panicked poultry could be found parading on NA3 Road in the Mỹ Phước 2 Industrial Complex, perhaps making a coffee run or hurrying to report to the morning shift? According to Bình Dương residents, the ostrich may have escaped from a local eco-tourism attraction.

Thankfully, local roads were mostly clear during the time when it was spotted, so no human or ostrich was harmed. Nonetheless, its presence ruffled some feathers of local officials, so the ostrich has since been taken into custody by Bình Dương police as they began a search for its owner.

Originating from Africa, the ostrich is not native to Vietnam, however, since its first introduction into the country in the 1990s, the towering bird has become a popular attraction in amusement parks and petting zoos.

In May this year, Huế residents were also shocked to find an ostrich running on the 1A National Highway, chased by a man on motorbike, whom many assumed was its owner.

Are you an ostrich herder in Bình Dương whose flock is missing a member? Contact the Bến Cát Police Department to retrieve your outlaw ostrich.

Photo via Pháp Luật.

ASEAN Welcomes East Timor, Asia's Youngest Nation, as 11th Member

2025-11-04T15:00:00+07:00

Time for infographic artists and geography teachers in the region to update their work on ASEAN.

As Reuters reported, on Sunday, October 26, Timor-Leste officially became the 11^th member of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN). It was welcomed by the rest of the members at an ascension ceremony held in Malaysia.

While the occasion was largely symbolic, the ASEAN membership represents a historic moment for its President Jose Ramos-Horta and Prime Minister Xanana Gusmao, both central figures in the island nation’s struggle for independence, first against Portuguese colonization and later Indonesian occupation.

Timor-Leste, also known as East Timor, is located on the eastern half of Timor Island, which it shares with Indonesia. Its capital is Dili and its official languages are Portuguese and Tetum. The nation’s GDP is about US$2 billion, ASEAN’s lowest, with revenues from oil and gas production making up over 90% of the economy. There are about 1.4 million East Timorese living on the island at the moment.

In the 16^th century, Timor-Leste was colonized by Portugal and remained under European rule for many centuries until 1975, when Portugal abandoned the colony following the 1974 Portuguese revolution. Indonesia annexed the country in the same year. In 2001, a UN-sponsored referendum showed overwhelming support by East Timorese for independence. A year later in 2002, Timor-Leste became the first new sovereign state of the 21st century and Asia’s youngest country.

ASEAN was established in 1967 with five founding members: Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Singapore, and Thailand. The regional organization aims to promote economic, social, and cultural development, alongside regional peace. Vietnam became a member in 1995. Timor-Leste first applied for membership as early as 2011 and spent most of the following years as an observer to ASEAN.

As the latest member, Timor-Leste can leverage the bloc’s near-zero tariffs to diversify its economy and seek more trade opportunities. ASEAN-led security might also stabilize the country’s political situation, bringing about more foreign investments.

Photo by Anadolu/Global Times.

Into the Infernal Heat of One of Saigon's Last Remaining Forges

2025-11-03T10:00:00+07:00

It's no exaggeration to say that working in a forge is akin to being in a fiery sauna.

There are two poems I remember most from my primary school days: ‘The Sound of Bamboo Brooms’ by Tố Hữu and ‘The Blacksmith’ by poet Khánh Nguyên. As a child, I associated the labor of street sweepers and blacksmiths with temperature: the former braves the cold, dewy night to clean the streets, while latter stands before a literal furnace.

On scorching Saigon days, folks hurry to reach their destination quickly to avoid the blistering heat. Yet, as I speed on local streets on my scooter, I find myself thinking more about those whose jobs require them to endure such harsh conditions for decades.

A fourth-generation torch bearer

Many, if not most, forges in Vietnam today are not named after their current owners. Passed down from generation to generation, these forges retain the original name to honor their predecessors, the craft they practice and the legacy they continue. Lò Rèn Phương, a forge in Saigon's Thủ Đức City with a history of about 80 years, also shares this tradition.

“[Phương] was my great-grandfather’s name. Back then, everything was very rudimentary, mostly operated by manual labor. He had to use a turbine fan to coax the flames, unlike the automatic blowers we have now. But despite the hardships, he loved his craft very much. He taught my father, who then taught me,” shared Toản, the current owner, pointing with pride to the timeworn sign at the entrance of the alley leading to the forge.

Today, Lò Rèn Phương mainly produces machetes, garden hoes, shovels, crowbars, and specialized construction materials. They also take custom orders for handcrafted tools like concrete chisels and road-digging crowbars.

A bone cleaver, for instance, takes about 2–3 hours to complete. For a skilled blacksmith like Toản, the process is so familiar it’s almost second nature and he encounters little difficulty executing the steps. But when serving tough clients who demand meticulous, razor-sharp products with precise dimensions down to the millimeter, Toản must measure and weigh each piece of metal carefully, leaving no detail unchecked.

To create a perfect tool, Toản believes that the blacksmith must first choose the right type of steel: one that offers the desired hardness and durability. Once the steel is selected, it is heated in the forge until red-hot, softened to make it easier to shape, and then quickly hammered to improve the grain structure, making the blade stronger and sharper with each sharpening.

The next step is heat treatment, a crucial phase that determines the knife’s quality. The steel is heated to a specific temperature and then rapidly cooled in a mixture of oil and chemicals. This process not only increases the carbon content in the steel but also hardens the blade, enabling the user to cut smoothly through anything. The final steps involve additional sharpening, polishing, attaching the handle, and a thorough inspection before the product reaches the customer.

“There are knives in the market that have become too dull from extended use and can no longer chop effectively. People bring them to me to have the edges redone or to order new ones. Sharpening a knife costs only tens of thousand dong, while a new knife ranges from tens to hundreds of thousand dong, depending on customer needs. For example, a coconut cleaver ranges from VND150,000 to VND200,000, while a bone-chopping knife costs VND250,000 to VND300,000. The more intricate and high-quality the knife, the pricier it is.”

Despite being a small business, each product from the forge comes with a unique warranty. Customers can bring any purchase with wear-and-tear to Toản for a free makeover. Remarkably, since taking over from his father, no one has complained about the product quality or requested a refund.

Keeping the flame burning

“The hammering makes the sound ‘cực’ which symbolizes ‘struggle’ (‘khổ’), and the metal when dipped into water sizzles (‘xèo’) which sounds likes ‘nghèo’ (poverty),” Toản talks about how his trade is often jokingly associated with poor working conditions and pay.

However, instead of shying away, he decided to finish his studies, entered the workforce, then returned to help his father and eventually took over the family's forge over 20 years ago.

“It's tough, exhausting, and hot,” he said. “The space from the forge to where I am is probably around a thousand degrees, with direct heat rising up to about 1,200–1,300°C. Even with 2–3 fans blowing to disperse the heat, it still affects you. And obviously, exposure to coal is hazardous. But this is a trade I genuinely love. Every finished product is made with my own hands, sweat, and effort. The feeling of shaping, bending, or forging even a small knife or chisel gives me a sense of honest labor, knowing my products support many people's work — it's indescribable.”

He acknowledged that today, forges can't attract as many customers as during their heyday due to the advancement of machinery and production lines. The most diminished customer demographic is contractors and companies needing large quantities. Diverse options on the market make it all the more challenging for traditional blacksmithing.

“During the golden days, my forge was always bustling with orders for all sorts of tools, not just hammers, knives, and chisels... But then technology developed so fast, mass production can constantly churn out affordable and serviceable tools, making it hard to compete," Toản confided. Additionally, the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted many businesses, including his forge.

Yet, Toản remains optimistic, believing that each product has its unique characteristics. Some specialized products require tailor-made orders that can't be found on the market, like a coconut saw, auto repair parts, or livestock feed knives, which must be customized to meet specific user requirements.

While blacksmithing is traditionally a father-to-son trade, some customers maintain a similar tradition. Products from the forge are durable, lasting 2–3 generations. When in need of new tools, they direct their descendants to the same forge. Toản mentioned that many older customers from far-flung localities like Long An, Hóc Môn, Củ Chi are willing to travel the long distance to order from him because they trust and prefer his products. This loyalty helps the forge endure through the years.

He fondly recalled a memorable encounter with an Indian customer who flew to Vietnam to place an order. Toản couldn't communicate in English, so they sat on the ground, drawing out shapes and processes with chalk. “I didn't understand a word he said, but we both drew pictures, and I ended up making several dozen crowbars for export to India. This customer returned 5–7 times, ordering hundreds of crowbars in total,” Toản said.

From the bottom of his heart, Toản always wants to maintain his ancestral trade for a long time but can't help but worry, as he's over 50 and his children are still young; he's uncertain if they'll want or be able to take over. He hopes his children can carry on the forge's legacy for many generations.

“If young people are interested in blacksmithing, they should come to learn so it can continue to exist. I hope that in the future, regardless of how the country progresses or changes, we remember the craftsmanship of our ancestors.”

Lò Rèn Phương is located at 562 Tô Ngọc Vân, Tam Bình Ward, Thủ Đức District, HCMC.

This article was originally published in 2024.

The Origin of the Strange Lights You See Before Landing in Saigon

2025-10-14T11:00:00+07:00

What are those astonishingly bright lights seen from an airplane window when approaching Saigon at night? I’ve had visitors ask me this on the drive home from the airport, and the question appears on Reddit every few months. I remember being befuddled myself the first time I witnessed the patchwork radiance.

So what are those bright lights that overwhelm the aerial view on clear nights? A hubristic attempt by humanity to mock the cosmos and its flimsy scattering of faded stars? A glitch in the matrix's landscape rendering? A simple illusion induced by the curvature of the earth and your own slipping sanity?

The real answer isn’t anything so outrageous: it's dragon fruit, or, to be exact, farms that grow them, as the fruits do not emit light. Near the coast, not far from Saigon, communities such as Hồ Cốc outside Vũng Tàu boast expansive dragon fruit farms. Left to the natural order, the cactus plants will produce numerous harvests per year, a boon to the local economy. But if super-charged via around-the-clock light, the plants become extra productive, blooming out of season and thus producing even more fruits which are of notably high quality. It’s easy to understand how this led farmers to string up lights throughout their massive fields.

In response to global concerns over energy consumption and sustainable agriculture, and with the assistance of government support, farmers have transitioned from inefficient traditional bulbs to 9-watt energy-saving LED lights. When coupled with solar power setups and water-saving irrigation systems, they result in significantly reduced power and resource consumption.

Photo via Hoàng Hậu dragon fruit farm.

The view of the distant countryside sprawled out beneath its electro-luminescent afghan is worth requesting a window seat next time you have a flight from TSN. And yet, I feel a little shame in revealing the origin of the lights. Knowing the dragon fruit lies behind the mystery is a bit like uncovering Tutankhamun’s long-lost tomb, only to discover it had already been looted and contains nothing but plaster shavings and mouse turds. So much radiance, so much uncertainty, all attributed to what one Reddit commentator described as a fruit that tastes like it has given up on its dreams: a passionless fruit.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image via Reddit user stknrdr]