Across English-speaking countries such as the US and Australia, the Vietnamese diaspora established close-knit “Little Saigon” towns whenever they settled down, founding large markets, starting financial services, and introducing southern fares like gỏi cuốn and bánh mì to the local population. Elsewhere in Europe, however, the Vietnamese community is often known as “Little Hanoi,” due to the regional makeup of the first wave of immigrants. Some, like Prague’s Little Hanoi, have flourished to the point of being a “city within a city,” boasting its own self-sufficient administrative services, schools, and housing.

Sapa Market, the city's largest Asian neighborhood and the core of Little Hanoi, is just around 15 kilometers from central Prague.

Much of Vietnam’s initial relationship with Czechia started in the late 1940s and 1950s, when it was still part of Czechoslovakia (Tiệp Khắc in Vietnamese) — a segment of the Eastern Bloc under the influence of communism, following a planned economy. As part of this bedrock of diplomacy between communist nations, Vietnam started sending well-performing students to Tiệp Khắc for higher education.

Restaurants here seem frozen in time.

In 1955, the first-ever batch of Vietnamese students arrived in Czechoslovakia, comprising 16 delegates, all high school students from northern provinces like Phú Thọ, Thái Nguyên, Tuyên Quang, Bắc Ninh, Nghệ An, etc. The exchange program also sent students to neighboring nations like the USSR and Poland. They carried with them the hopes from the northern government that the graduates would return home later to contribute to the development of their hometowns. Many did, but some decided to make a home in Europe.

Bún chả is a star dish and the biggest signifier that this is a northern Vietnamese enclave.

The program went swimmingly for the next three decades until the dissolution of the Eastern Bloc. Still, the Vietnamese diaspora in European countries had grown so much and assimilated into the local societies, giving rise to the existence of Little Hanoi towns. Today, Vietnamese remains the most populous non-European demographic in the Czech Republic and Poland, with populations of dozens of thousands of people. The descendants of those who decided to stay decades ago grew up ethnically Vietnamese but fully integrated into the local society.

Signs with prominent Vietnamese-language texts are everywhere.

Visiting Prague’s Little Hanoi, officially known as Sapa Market, a feeling of strangeness and surprise will hit you first, as the Vietnamese language is everywhere. The entrance gate is bilingual, and a few signs might have minimal Czech, but the majority of signage is only in Vietnamese, promoting homemade bún cá, haircuts, leather goods, famous Czech crystals, and a slew of other Vietnamese-specific products that one might assume to be elusive this far from home.

Markets are often the heart of diasporic communities.

Sapa, as local media reports, is autonomous to the point of having its own “police” patrolling streets and clamping illegally parked cars. It also features a kindergarten, accepting kids as young as one year old, so their parents can go about their business in many of the compound’s Vietnamese-run enterprises, like financial services facilitating money repatriation back to Vietnam. But for anyone growing tired of the austerity of Eastern European food, Sapa Market is a welcoming salve, offering a dose (or many) of tropical freshness and well-seasoned noodle broths to bread-saturated palates.

That gourd sure is a show-er not grow-er.

Fish sauce, rice paper, tea and coffee from Vietnam are a given, but a wide range of fresh produce from home will surely brighten up one’s dreary day: herbs, dragon fruits, mangosteens, and surprisingly not wilted rambutans are abundant. And even if you’re not in the mood to shop for groceries, perhaps a glass of freshly pressed sugarcane juice is just the treat you need to quench nostalgic thirst — cô Mía not present, alas.

Fresh tropical produce on sale.

Elsewhere in metropolitan Prague, trendy Vietnamese restaurants run by second- or third-generation Vietnamese might offer diners a range of pan-Vietnam dishes like bánh mì, bánh xèo or gỏi cuốn, but at Sapa Market, the menus stay decidedly northern. It’s understandable, given their proprietors’ regional roots, but what’s astounding is the fact that the wealth of northern cuisine here might rival even Saigon’s culinary diversity.

Uncommon northern delicacies, like bún cá Hải Dương and ngan nướng, are on offer here.

Bún cá Hải Dương, for example, is few and far between in Saigon, while ngan — a type of Muscovy duck popular in northern Vietnam — is a less common poultry in southern provinces. Both are on offer here in Sapa Market. Those familiar with Hanoi eateries’ naming convention of putting together the owner’s name and a word describing their appearance will feel right at home with Chè Tuyết Béo.

Every diasporic community comes with its own quirks and issues, a fact to which any Vietnamese who’s studied or lived abroad can attest. Pressures to survive, to assimilate and even to succeed can and will bring out the darker side of human dynamics. Whether one enjoys or feels disillusioned by the existence of Little Saigons and Little Hanois, it’s at least comforting to know that the phở will probably be great. If all else fails, bet on phở, always.

Local streets are buckling under the pressure of Saigon's ever-increasing population density, here are the city's most frequently jammed roads, according to the municipal Department of Transportation. 

Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Connecting Districts 4 and 7, Nguyễn Tất Thành Street has experienced 811 traffic jams in the first nine months of the year, making it Saigon's most congested road, according to the HCMC Department of Transportation.

The current figure places Nguyễn Tất Thành Street on pace to beat its city-leading 978 traffic jams last year, according to Tuổi Trẻ. Serving as a major route for those from the southern part of the city entering and leaving downtown, the 3-kilometer road suffers morning and evening rush hour traffic.

Observers note that drivers on Nguyễn Tất Thành frequently ignore traffic rules and ride on the curb, impacting local businesses and nearby homes. The road currently operates at 140% capacity, meaning any minor accident causes further congestion chaos. Rainy season and periods when schools are in session make matters even worse.

The situation for Nguyễn Tất Thành is similar for the rest of the city's most traffic-prone areas. Specifically, in the first nine months of the year, Xô Viết Nghệ-Tĩnh has experienced 615 traffic jams; the Đinh Bộ Lĩnh-Bạch Đằng intersection has had 588; Trường Chinh Street between Âu Cơ Street and Tân Kỳ Tân Quý Street has had 569 and the An Phú intersection has had 554.

Regular traffic observed on Nguyễn Tất Thành Street. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Remedies for the curb-clogging commotion have been proposed, but currently, no solutions are in sight. The most recent plan put forth in 2015 proposed expanding the road from the four-lane road's current width of 14 meters to 37 or 46 meters, depending on the section. Unfortunately, delays and funding issues have thwarted the approved plan. Smaller measures such as banning large trucks and parking have proved ineffective.

A variety of street-widening proposals have also been put forth for some of the most affected areas, though citizens are acclimated to inaction. In the meantime, officials are pushing the use of apps, websites, and digital signs to share information about traffic conditions that can influence drivers' plans.

In addition to the previously noted causes of congestion, Saigon's growing number of drivers, particularly cars, is making the situation worse. The city is home to over 8.4 million motorbikes and one million cars, an increase of more than five million over the past 15 years. This year alone, car registrations have risen by 7% and motorbike registrations by 4.5%.

“If you know, you know.”

This is the best response to the question posed on internet message boards as to why the baggage claim after flights originating from Vietnam fill with so many boxes among the suitcases. Anyone who has stood beside a luggage carousel with Vietnamese passengers has seen the cardboard and styrofoam boxes with large names (always Nguyễn, as Reddit has observed) and addresses, often somewhere in California or Texas, written on numerous sides. You may have even helped pack or receive one yourself.

The explanation for the boxes is straightforward: they are cheaper and lighter than a full suitcase, which makes them ideal for bringing gifts to family and friends abroad. Dried fruit, fish, noodles, nuts, rice paper, clothes, sauce, spices, and, no doubt, a few oddities determined by the particular preferences of each recipient are the most common, albeit rarely declared items. And if the boxes are being re-used to bring items in the opposite direction, chances are there would be a few giant bottles of Costco medicine inside. 

It’s easy to understand why the boxes are so much more common in Vietnam than in other countries: large and somewhat recently established diaspora community consisting of close families with population centers in a few cities; economic growth and income disparities; and limited availability of niche items on the global market. 

But just because the airport box phenomenon can be easily explained to outsiders and feels commonplace to the point of cliche to insiders, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pause to voice our appreciation. Ultimately, the boxes are visual proof of Vietnamese generosity and the importance of family as well as the preferred method of expressing emotions. One might not hear “I’ve missed you so much” when picking up a relative arriving from Vietnam, but you’ll feel it in the heft of the box placed in your trunk.

Few airports in the world have specialized devices and staff dedicated to wrapping cardboard boxes with secure plastic, so their presence at numerous departure entry doors at TSN underscores the sanctity of the habit. Passing them last week filled me with a tinge of shame. I proceeded to my flight’s check-in line surrounded by people ferrying stacks of boxes while I pushed a single duffel. I know I’m not Vietnamese, but I should have learned a thing or two by now about expressing my affection for a family that is too far away and whom I visit too infrequently. So as I prepare for my return to Saigon, I’m already thinking about what people there will be happy to receive, and what shrink-wrapped, dehydrated, bottled or locally produced goods will best reveal how happy I am to return to them.

Third place (noun): A space outside of one's home and workplace, where people meet and interact socially.

Where do we go to find a place that feels like home, but isn’t?

Not home, not the office — a third place is a space that stands apart from daily life, where one feel comfortable enough to connect with new people and form new relationships.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg first coined the term “third place,” describing it as a cultural incubator where shared values take root. It’s a space where people can converse with others, express their individual identities, and find a sense of “belonging” through platonic and romantic bonding. The third place manifests in various forms, constantly evolving to fit the fabric of each society, whether it’s a neighborhood bar, a cozy used book store, or even a temple.

Saigon boasts more than 200 bridges.

In Vietnam’s major cities, rapid economic development and urbanization have led to the shrinking of public works and free communal spaces like parks, libraries, or playgrounds — the most natural and accessible third places for people from all walks of life. But human connection is resilient, and informal third places have emerged in the leftover cracks of urban infrastructure.

Workers resting under the Ba Son bridges.

In 2019, Russian photographer Nikolai Sokolov moved to Vietnam from Saint Petersburg. His work gradually shifted from abstract and landscape photography to street photography, drawn by “the people and the life here.” In the summer of 2024, he spent his time capturing everyday moments beneath Saigon’s many bridges.

“I’ve traveled all over Vietnam, and I often found myself sheltering under bridges to avoid the sun or rain. I started noticing that many people were sitting under these bridges, especially in the south. There was something special about them — each came with a different story. One day, a man asked me to take his picture, and from that moment, I knew I wanted to document the lives of these people. Each face, each gaze offered a story. And I wanted to share it.”

The first photo of the series.

Neglected and overlooked, bridges are far from anyone’s idea of a traditional third place, and the commuters who usually use them are passing through out of necessity. But in Nikolai Sokolov’s black-and-white photos, these anonymous bridges (though if you’re sharp, you might recognize them) come alive as tranquil yet vibrant sanctuaries. Beneath rigid concrete structures, rough patches of ground are transformed into playgrounds, gathering spots for friends and family, or simply a place to rest in the midst of the city’s constant motion.

Free-range ducklings, now available at your nearest bridge.

The sweet joy of swinging in the shade on a hot afternoon.

The first rule of cockfighting club is: you do not talk about cockfighting club.

Birds of a feather surely flock together.

“Dude, you cheating?”

Future stars of the national team?

Sisters and best friends.

Just middle-aged people casually flexing spines healthier than yours.

Dressed to impress.

“I already won. No point arguing now.”

Better safe than sorry.

Most definitely a good boy.

The bridge-side tango.

For some, this is the first place.

“What kind of school awards did you get this year?” “I barely passed, uncle!”

You can practically hear the squeak in this photo.

Cigarette smoke and dust.

Who’s coming in last this round?

Follow Nikolai Sokolov's work here. 

It’s yet another case of new infrastructure versus old heritage building — one of Vietnam’s most common urban planning clashes in recent years.

As VnExpress reports, a century-old villa in Biên Hòa City, Đồng Nai Province currently faces demolition as part of the site where it stands will become a new road. The building was broken ground in 1922 and finished in 1924,  and follows a French colonial style with all building materials imported from France.

It is known amongst locals by the nickname “nhà lầu ông Phủ,” after Võ Hà Thanh, a Đốc phủ (chef de province) under the French administration, overseeing Biên Hòa Province (now Đồng Nai). Thanh’s family has called the historic building their home for a century, though today only his great-granddaughter still lives on site to take care of the premise.

Built in the early 1920s, the villa's architecture is a blend of French and traditional influences.

The infrastructure project that will cut through part of the estate was inked three years ago, aiming to construct a 5.2-kilometer riverside road along the Đồng Nai River from Hóa An Bridge to Bình Hòa Commune. According to the plan, around two-thirds of the lot where nhà lầu ông Phủ sits will be part of the new road.

Ever since news of the impending demolition was published, the decision was met with uproar from netizens and experts, who argue that the removal of the building will negatively impact Đồng Nai’s architectural heritage. It is currently among the handful of structures in Đồng Nai from the historical period that still exist today, and was even used as the setting for the 1996 historical TV drama Người đẹp Tây Đô.

Following the backlash from concerned citizens, Đồng Nai officials recently organized an on-site assessment at the villa, including members from the departments of construction; culture, sports, and tourism; and other relevant state agencies.

The main room with the ancestral altar of Võ Hà Thanh's family.

At the time of writing, the fate of the building is still unclear, but some officials have expressed interests in finding ways to preserve the structure. Nguyễn Hồng Ân, deputy director of the Đồng Nai Department of Culture, Sports, and Tourism, told Tuổi Trẻ in Vietnamese: “It is our department’s opinion that [the state] should purchase the century-old villa for preservation.”

The culture department hopes that the Department of Construction and the management committee of the road project would adjust the riverside road’s route to retain the old villa.

[Photos by Phước Tuấn via VnExpress]

“In summer, the song sings itself.”
― William Carlos Williams

Summers have always stood for something. With #bratsummer, #eurosummer, #hotgirlsummer and more having come and pass, I am proposing #saigonsummer.

Like many of my peers in the Vietnamese diaspora, no matter where I'm at in life, I return to Vietnam in the summer. Under the glorious heat, I waste the day away eating, sweating, shopping, people-watching, reconnecting with my heritage, and falling in love with the city. It's a place interwoven with noise and chaos; you either despise it or love it relentlessly. Fortunately, I love Saigon. 

My regular summer day involves waking up bright and early, dabbling in the cool morning air before the sun and street swelter. I might cycle around the neighborhood, oftentimes stopping to grab fresh flowers or groceries while greeting my elderly neighbors who have the same idea. I might make a silly little drink (most likely a matcha latte) and have breakfast with my family, before leaving on a trusty Grab bike to get to work. On the commute, I pass fellow spirited Saigoneers also rushing to get through the city’s signature traffic. I linger on the possibilities of what their day might look like. Trees, from tamarind to hoa phượng, graciously provide shade at every red traffic light. At work, I glimpse how “true” Saigoneers live, my coworkers a gateway to the heart of the city. After work, the multitude of shops, cafes, restaurants, clubs, and activities catering to young people herald in the most amusing portion of my day. A little shopping at one of the many compelling shops selling locally designed and produced clothing is irresistible. The robust coffee culture encourages a momentary pause to people-watch and soak in the city’s energy. The best food can come from the most unassuming locations before late-night dance and alcohol spots that simply get it beckon. 

Everything in Saigon seems to teeter between tradition and modern, the latter a creative undercurrent bubbling amongst the youth. As such, every summer I discover something new or different about the city: last summer’s was art fairs, and this summer’s was the abundance of underground raves and weekly pop-ups. 

Amongst all the leisure and indulgence, you might get in touch with previously unknown things about yourself.

I feel it standing before the steps of my ancestral home, my parents and siblings beside me.

I feel it eating tào phớ, a dessert of homemade silken tofu with ginger, lime and sugar, under the shade of the aged starfruit tree my grandpa planted when he was young.

I feel it when I have my palms together holding an incense, eyes closed, on my knees paying my respects to temples and altars of those who’ve come before.

Graphic by Trường Dĩ.

Taking into account global and national chains, small brands, independent cafes and street vendors, a recent report estimates that Vietnam is home to more than 500,000 coffee shops that generate US$1.46 billion in revenue in total.

According to data from consultancy group Mibrand Việt Nam, the nation's coffee shop industry has a compounded growth rate (CAGR) of up to 7.56%. A separate report published by iPos.vn claims that by the end of 2023, Vietnam only had 317,299 coffee shops, representing a 1.26% increase over the previous year.

Regardless of the precise number, anyone in Vietnam can attest to the thriving of coffee shops of all sizes, shapes and operation models. While there have been several high-profile downsizes and market adjustments including Starbucks announcing the closing of its only Reserve location in Saigon this week, and The Coffee House pulling out of Đà Nẵng and Cần Thơ entirely, there is visible growth as well. Phin Deli, Katinat and Phúc Long have all opened many new locations in the past year.

When it comes to chains in Vietnam, Highlands Coffee leads the way with 721 outlets, followed by Trung Nguyên e-coffee with 542 and then Phúc Long and The Coffee House both in the mid-100s. Notable recent international arrivals to Vietnam include Amazon Cafe, the most numerous chain in Thailand, and Japan's %Arabica. Cotti Coffee, a popular Chinese chain, has also started its ambitious expansion plans for Vietnam beginning with 10 locations in Saigon. 

Inside Saigon's Cỏ Café. Photo by Kevin Lee.

In addition to the proliferation of homegrown and global brands, the nation's independent coffee shop scene is undergoing perpetual shifts in product. Aesthetic segmentation continues with shops devoting themselves to easily recognizable and trendy interior designs. From retro to garden to industrial minimalism to audiophilic, Saigoneers have a wide variety of vibes to choose from.

Meanwhile, new flavors and preparations are entering the market across price tiers, including the recent popularity of salt coffee beyond its native Huế. The domestic industry's strength is helping to fuel expansion abroad as well as exemplified by Cộng Cafe's expansion to Canada, following Phúc Long's arrival in the US 2021.

[Top photo: Young Vietnamese hang out at Cafe Yên in Hanoi]

A Vietnamese national recently surpassed over 2,000 other contenders to claim the top spot in a customer service contest in Japan.

As Nikkei Asia reports, 7-Eleven Japan held an annual competition for staff in the country to demonstrate their expertise in customer care. This year was the second time the konbini, the Japanese term for convenience store, chain has organized the unique event.

A total of 2,476 employees from 7-Eleven stores across 47 prefectures participated, though only 22 advanced to the final round, which took place on June 19. The winner was Lê Thị Phương Thảo, who was also the first foreigner to claim the top prize.

Photo via NHK.

Eight years ago, Thảo started taking Japanese lessons and also her job at 7-Eleven after being introduced by a language school. This year, she represented the Kobe Sannomiya Station Minami store in Kobe, Japan’s 7th-largest city.

In the final event, contestants competed in two four-minute tasks live on stage: tending to a customer at a checkout counter while engaging in banter, and recommending products to a regular. Their performances were reviewed by a panel of judges comprising members of franchise stores and affiliated companies on five pillars including “first impression,” “flexibility and conversational skills,” and “heartfelt experience.”

Apart from her sunny disposition and warm attitude, Thảo’s competition entry was particularly praised for her thoughtfulness and ability to connect to the customer. She complimented the customer’s baby and wove in short anecdotes about her family in Vietnam.

A snippet of Thảo's award-winning hospitality.

In recent decades, many Vietnamese have chosen Japan as a place to work and study, so much so that Vietnamese has become the second-largest group of foreign nationals in the country, just behind Chinese. This has resulted in the proliferation of “Little Vietnam” enclaves in large metropolitan areas, such as Tokyo’s Takadanobaba.

[Top photo via Nikkei Asia]

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.

The growing popularity of biking as a recreational activity in Vietnam has been acknowledged officially by urban planners in Huế.

Recently, Tuổi Trẻ reports that workers are putting the finishing touches on a network of dedicated bicycle lanes in Thừa Thiên-Huế Province’s new administrative area in Xuân Phú District, Huế. This is part of a program to establish the new area as a “green city.”

The initiative was greenlit in 2016 by the provincial Department of Planning and Investing, comprising 10 urban planning projects in the city of Huế. It seeks to upgrade local infrastructures, reduce flooding, improve urban hygiene, facilitate business activities, and boost land appeal in the city.

The under-construction administrative area will feature 8 kilometers of bike lanes.

Currently, the sidewalks along Tố Hữu and Võ Nguyên Giáp Avenues have been outfitted with the green lanes, as these streets have been very popular with locals seeking an open space for walking, running and biking.

The bike lanes are painted bright green with yellow borders, with widths spanning between 1.45 meters to 2.9 meters depending on the available sidewalk space. On six-meter-wide pavements, there is one 1.45-meter lane while 11-meter pavements will feature two bike lanes.

The lanes are green with yellow borders.

Lê Thành Bắc, Deputy Director of the Thừa Thiên-Huế Green City project, said: “Dedicating part of the pavement for bicycles has been successfully and ethically carried out in many global cities, encouraging citizens to use bicycles, forming a green city that’s friendly to the environment.”

While this acknowledgement of the need for dedicated biking space is a step in the right direction, it remains to be seen if Vietnamese motorists will leave the lanes alone. Huế wasn’t the first city in the country to have bike lanes, as Hanoi also piloted a similar project earlier in the year, albeit at a smaller scale.

Bike lanes present a step in the right direction towards reducing reliance on fossel fuel-run vehicles.

Back in February, Hanoi earmarked part of the promenade along the Tô Lịch River as dedicated lanes for pedestrians and bicyclists, but the area has since been co-opted by motorcyclists and street vendors. Many Hanoians have also used the space to discard trash and unwanted household items.

[Top photo via Lao Động/Photos via Báo Giao Thông]

“Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.”
— Vladimir Nabokov.

Dear you,

It’s been a few weeks, how have you been? Did your daughter eventually get to school on time? Did those orders of fresh phở reach your hungry customers safely? As for you, how long did it take for your nice leather shoes to completely dry? I’m sorry that your poncho broke and water poured onto your leg.

I’m doing fine — soaked pant hems, dirty tires, and a tinge of stress having to drive under the drizzle — but three decades in Saigon have honed my resilience in the face of the city’s monsoon. Now, I can catch even the most microscopic whiff of petrichor moments before the rain comes, and I’ve long etched into my skin a reminder not to take off my raincoat too early, even though for one moment it might seem like the pouring has ceased. A spare pair of flip-flops in my bike’s trunk to deploy in place of hard-to-dry footwear, an ability to unfurl my poncho in less than 30 seconds, and a sense of acceptance that the water is a welcome element of life.

I apologize for not getting your name, but I doubt you’ll remember me, like how I don’t remember you, apart from visual and auditory slivers that come and go as time marinates them in my memory. A Hello Kitty slipper, the ding of a phone reminder, a grin as warm as the sun of summer. Would we be friends had we encountered one another elsewhere in this 10-million-people town?

For a fleeting fifteen-minute while in our lives, we were here, huddling in the cavernous space under this bridge that crosses over the canal, like a shoal of remoras beneath a whale. We were here, united by our need to wait out the battering of rain, just imprudent enough to forget to bring a raincoat in the face of the ferocious southern rainy season, and just freezing-cold enough to not care about the irked beeping of incoming traffic admonishing us for taking up street space.

I’ve been on both sides of the beeping. I’ve nonchalantly stopped along the road under an underpass to hide from the monsoon and I’ve honked at gaggles of rain-hiders who slowed down my commute in a time of urgency. What I’ve learned is that everybody forgets as soon as the rainwater stops falling. Enduring the pitter-patter of a Saigon rain is a stressful daily ritual these days, so I consciously remind myself to practice empathy every time I look up to the endless sky and drops of rain stare down at me. There is a certain camaraderie that grows within those who have undergone trying times together, and it was absolutely my pleasure to have experienced our fifteen minutes’ worth of camaraderie together.

Yours torrentially,

Rain-hider.

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.

In Vietnam, you can find a Lego set in official Lego stores or any big toy shops at high prices; but if you take a different route, you can find Lego sets being sold by small vendors for much cheaper. But those sets are a little bit different; they are branded as “Lele'' or “Lepin,” or just white Chinese characters on a red square. For decades, these bootleg toys have been a widely popular option for Vietnamese kids.

“Bootleg,”  “fake,” or “counterfeit” toys belong in the shady, unlicensed section of the toy world. Some are made to imitate specific authentic products, while others are unauthorized toys merely resembling characters, objects, etc. from popular franchises. These bootleg items are the arch-nemesis of many global toy manufacturers.

A quick Google search of the term “bootleg toys” will give you a general idea of how these items are perceived. Unofficial merchandise is generally criticized for its unknown origins, copyright violations, and subpar quality, but it still has a big presence in many Vietnamese children's lives.  

I learned about bootleg toys when I was old enough to go to class and saw them being sold by bicycle vendors in front of the school or nearby grocery stores. Back then, I had no concept of what were real or fake toys; all I knew was I could spend my pocket money on Beyblades, yo-yos, Pokemon figurines, and toy versions of popular TV characters.

The quality of those toys was not great, but everyone around me was playing with bootleg toys, so I viewed their shortcomings as the norm. For example, when it came to Beyblade battling tops, real Beyblades were superior to counterfeit ones, but since my friends all had fake Beyblades too, we were on a level playing field. We simply grabbed one or two Beyblades for VND20,000 each and used a plastic basin or a Danisa cookie box as a battling stadium.

Bootleg toys have an unpolished charm that captivates children. To better understand the appeal, I visited the toy market to explore the current landscape of fake toys. I observed a recurring theme: the crossover between popular icons.

Since bootleg toys don’t abide by any copyright limitations, manufacturers have the freedom to mashup any pop culture character or property you can think of, as long as it appeals to children. Kids love Thomas the Tank Engine, but have they ever seen Thomas in a badass robotic form? Minecraft is popular on YouTube Kids, so here is Superman as a blocky Minecraft character! Famous mascots such as Hello Kitty, Pikachu, Marvel & DC superheroes are stamped on almost every type of toy, phone, car, helicopter, tambourine and puzzle. It feels like bootleg toys were made based on the wild imagination of a child. 

It's also fascinating to see the quirky side to counterfeit toys’ branding. To avoid copyright lawsuits, bootleg manufacturers use various tricks, such as deliberate typos, including “Diensys” and “Mineecraft.” There are also clever switcheroos that you have to inspect closely to spot, like “Avcngcrs.” To skirt the copyright rules, some licensed brand names get changed into related topics, like One Piece is named “Pirates”; and my personal favorite is how the Frozen franchise gets changed into either “Fashion” or “Freeze.”

Bootlegs are very cheap, which is ultimately why they are so popular. The toy market I visited sold the biggest, most expensive toys within the VND100,000–200,000 range, while cheaper options were quite affordable at only around VND15,000—50,000. Back in my school days, I remember buying them with ease if I refrained from getting sodas and snacks for a day or two.

Messing around with bootleg toys, having Beyblade battles and playing Đập hình with friends were fun, but parents, teachers and school supervisors advised us against buying them because they distracted us from studying and could even be dangerous. At the time, I only took it as grown-ups not knowing how to have fun, but as I got older, my feelings changed.

A news article from 2015 uncovered some unsettling features of specific bootleg toys sold in Hanoi markets. The toys could play audio telling stories, reciting poems, and more, but some of the content was inappropriate. There was an apple-shaped toy broadcasting vulgar comedic stories, for example. The dark recordings can get quite intense, as the report found toy iPhones containing messages touting substance abuse, and worst of all, a Doraemon figure with an angry monologue encouraging self-harm and suicide.

With all this in mind, I have a love-hate relationship with bootleg toys. The knockoff universe is large and wacky, comprising anything from top-notch entertaining items to downright unhinged, terrifying products that shouldn’t exist. I despise how their unregulated nature results in some unsafe situations for children, but at the same time, I do appreciate them for being a part of my childhood, and a source of joy for me and my friends.

In suburban Hanoi, this is the season when mulberry branches heavy with bright red fruits dangle in the summer wind.

The sunshine of April arrived with blasts of sweltering heat, dispelling the waterlogged curtain of March’s humidity. It was officially summer in Hanoi, a time for countless types of fresh fruits to showcase their vivid ripeness on the streets in town, competing with the mauve of jacaranda and the golden yellow of hoàng yến.

Ripe mulberries are a harbinger of summer.

Compared to the season’s usual players like pineapple, lychee, longan and mận hậu, mulberry’s entrance to the capital’s fruit shops and traditional markets has been quicker than most. Northern Vietnam’s mulberry season spans not even a month from the end of March to the beginning of April. Mulberry ripens fast, and falls and bruises easily, so its shelf-life is short. Each day’s mulberry harvest must be shipped off within a few hours. Mulberries are juicy, refreshing, and full of good vitamins, so families often process them into preserves and syrups to increase their life spans. Ice-cold, sweet-and-sour glasses of purple mulberry juice are a popular way for Hanoians to soothe their parched throats in the summer, dispelling the heat and stuffiness of weather changes.

Mulberry juice is a fantastic third-quencher.

Behind the flashy appearance of mulberries at mobile vendors is throngs of farmers hard at work at their plantations just 30 kilometers from central Hanoi. In patches of land by the Đáy River such as Dương Liễu Commune (Hoài Đức District) and Hiệp Thuận Commune (Phúc Thọ District), mulberry plantations pour greenness towards the horizon. The quietude of the countryside poses a stark contrast with the chaotic traffic and people of inner Hanoi. Amidst the vastness of the land, one can only hear the buzz of cicadas, the soft hum of the wind, and the occasional call of farmers on the fields.

The banks of the Đáy River are the home of Hanoi's major mulberry plantations.

Here, farmland is irrigated year-round by the placid Đáy River. The riverside delta is home to Hanoi’s sought-after mulberries, believed to be juicier and sweeter than anywhere else. As one walks farther into the plantations, the air is thick with the aroma of ripe berries, natural vegetation, and toasty summer sunlight. Rows of mulberry trees are planted neatly, though they barely exceed the average human height. Ripening fruits hug the branch in scarlet clusters. From the main trunck, small offshoots meander over the ground, interweaving like red garlands.

Pickers must hurry to race against the mulberries' delicate constitution.

Each mulberry is just a few knuckles long; the smallest is as tiny as the pinky finger, while the biggest can reach the size of the middle finger. How productive the trees are highly depends on the weather. Sunnier years will yield sweeter, juicer harvest than those when rain is the prevailing weather pattern. In between picking sessions, I can see the bright smiles of the berry pickers when they get to reap the sweet rewards of their labor.

Ripe berries cover every branch.

Mulberry is easy to grow and to care for.

Only after I managed to pay a visit to the hometown of Hanoi’s mulberries could I bear witness to the urgency in the farmers’ work in order to beat the ripening rate of the berries. Paying no mind to the searing sun, they can’t waste any moment, toiling in the plantation from 6am to 6pm to pick berries. Larger gardens might need additional workers to catch up, even with a picking speed of 20–30 kilograms per day. Their fingers nimbly maneuver in between branches to pluck out the mulberries, careful not to bruise them before they get into boxes. Every palm is painted with the intense red-purple of mulberry juice. The fruits are boxed up immediately to catch the next bus trip to the city. Each mulberry tree can provide around 80 kilograms of fruit per season. “Picking mulberries is not difficult, but you must be really delicate so they get to consumers when they’re still fresh,” Vân, a picker, told me.

Harvesting the berries is not tough but the fruits bruise easily.

“Mulberry is the only fruit that’s immediately polished off the moment we finish picking. I’m never afraid nobody would buy them. People take these home to make preserves and syrup. Some manufacturers of canned drinks and fruit wines also buy straight from the plantation,” the farmers shared as they were weighing their harvest. Thanks to suitable weather, this year’s yield is 1.5 that of last year.

Freshly picked berries are immediately bought by wholesalers.

Mulberry likes humidity, sun, and heat, so trees are often cultivated next to rivers. It’s also easy to care for with relatively low costs involved. The delta by the Đáy River has been the most major birthing ground of Hanoi’s mulberries. Here, traditionally, farmers merely grew mulberries to collect their leaves to feed silkworms; planting them for fruits has only been around for the past 15 years. This experiment has been fruitful in both meanings of the word. Since then, Dương Liễu and Hiệp Thuận berries have traveled all over Hanoi and even southwards. Mulberries emerging from the Đáy River delta not only lend their sweet taste to the northern summer, but also contribute greatly to the local economy.

Each plant yields about 80 kilograms per season.

After a fruiting season, heritage mulberry trees are pruned to help them preserve energy for next year’s summer. The cycle continues every year: with summer comes the verdant green of mulberry plantations, and then the striking red shade of ripening berries. Mulberry season goes away as quickly as it comes, leaving fans yearning for a taste for the rest of the year.

At an estimated cost of VND157 billion (US$6.17 million), the controversial renovation work on the square in front of Bến Thành Market is set to begin this fall and be completed by April 2025.

Bến Thành Market roundabout as last seen in 2016. Photo by Brandon Coleman.

Unveiled earlier this month, the plan for the 45,000-square-meter area around the intersections of Lê Lợi, Trần Hưng Đạo and Phó Đức Chính streets is said to include green spaces, trees, granite stones, cement barriers and a lighting system. It aims to revitalize an area that was blocked off and torn up starting in 2014 to carry out underground construction on the metro line.

Overhead of the Bến Thành Market square in 2024. Photo via VnExpress.

Despite previous announcements, the beloved roundabout that occupied the intersection until 2017 will not be rebuilt. Instead, a crosswalk and traffic lights will control vehicle and pedestrian passage. The square was home to a statue of a student protestor, Quách Thị Trang (since 1964) and a statue of 15^th-century military expert Trần Nguyên Hãn atop a horse (since 1965). Both were removed in 2017, but a rebuilt bronze version of the Trần Nguyên Hãn statue and the original Quách Thị Trang monument will be included in the new Bến Thành Market square.

A family poses in front of statues in 2014. Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

The square was re-opened in late 2022 with repaved roads and walkways, and limited refurbishments. A new gas station and bus stop were also constructed at the time. The new plans include mention of public amenities such as benches, water fountains, bathrooms, Wi-Fi, vending machines and security cameras.  

A stylistic and architectural marvel upon when first opened in 1914, Bến Thành Market has endured as a landmark as its function in the city evolved from catering to French colonizers and providing locals with daily necessities to a tourism mainstay. In 2022, officials announced plans to renovate the market building itself for the first time since 1985.

Photo taken outside Bến Thành Market in 1938 via Flickr user manhhai.

Since the new look of the Bến Thành Market square was revealed online, netizens have been vocal in their opinions. While appreciating the attention to the sorely dour space devoid of soul, they have questioned the scarcity of proposed shade and greenery. The images have also caused some to lament the fact the roundabout will not be reconstructed. On the other hand, some have pointed out how there is need to clean up the litter and graffiti that have emerged in the empty space.

Have a look for yourself at the renderings below of the proposed facelift:

Proposed look for Bến Thành Market square (left) and current look (right).

[Photos via VnExpress]

In the decade-plus of Saigoneer’s existence, we’ve had six offices strewn across different parts of Districts 1 and 3. Over that period, my homes have been located in Bình Thạnh and Thảo Điền, requiring significant commuting time.

In a perfect world, Saigon’s first metro line would provide a pleasant trip, but unfortunately, we’re living on another timeline. This means that most of my commutes have occurred on motorbike along the city’s congested thoroughfares, often leaving me drained upon arriving at work.

Sprinklers provide needed hydration to both the grass and passersby.

When we moved offices again last year, I punched the address into Google Maps and a thick blue line insinuated that Võ Thị Sáu would be my preferred route. Having traversed this street during rush hour in the past, I was not particularly excited by this revelation — no disrespect to the street's heroic namesake. Upon a second glance at my screen, I noticed an opaque grey line along Hoàng Sa Street, an alternate route along Saigon’s Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè Canal that's only five minutes longer.

This suggested path has proven to be an utter delight; as close to meditation as one can have on their morning commute in Saigon. The canal twists and turns like a dragon’s tail and is flanked by modest urban development. Tree-lined and car-free before 9am, it’s a sensory cornucopia.

Rows of trees on both sides of Hoàng Sa are a welcome sight in the heat of March.

Automated sprinkler systems add to the whimsical atmosphere, as their malfunction often creates clouds of mist through which drivers have to pass. A mid-journey refresh. On lucky days when the grass is recently trimmed, a sweet scent of leveled green blades fills the nostrils.

A sense of calm is reinforced by the many temples that line the canal, providing a centering energy to my morning rides amid the scent of incense. The 15-odd minutes I spend driving along Hoàng Sa is sometimes the calmest time of my day. How many of us can say that about our morning commute?

Brian Letwin is the co-founder and CEO of Saigoneer.

Water has no hometown.

It flows through streams, oceans, swamps, clouds, fruit, blood and breath, no place more or less its home than any other. It flows through Nhiêu Lộc-Thị Nghè as the canal moves through Saigon the way a rooster cry navigates an alleyway.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Named after Nguyễn Thị Khánh and her husband, Nghè, who helped Vietnamese first settle the area as well as the legend of Đặng Lộc who ferried children across it to the Nhiêu School in later years, the canal once inspired young poets and writers who praised its clear waters that revealed perch, snakehead and mollusks. When the city was young and idealistic, it flowed fresh as clean parchment waiting to be scrawled with songs, stories, wedding invitations and records of rice harvests.

But as the city grew, homes began to encroach on its banks. Poverty spilled out from underneath corrugated roofs and Nhiêu Lộc-Thị Nghè became sullied with sewage, plastic bags, beer cans, and barge oil. Stink engulfed the surrounding neighborhoods. Its water ran black like the ink streaking an overdue bill slipped beneath a locked door.

In 2005, while renovation was still going on, the water quality was still dismall. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Trần Khánh Dư Bridge crossing the canal to connect Tân Định and Phú Nhuận. The canal was quite polluted in 2007. Photo via Thanh Niên.

In early 2002, a plan was launched, more than US$350 million spent, over 50,000 people relocated. Dredging machines rasped their saurian maws across its bed while men with rakes and poles peeled back matted gnarls of trash from its surface. Embankments, drains and sewers were installed, trees planted and sidewalks placed. Dengue and crime fled from its shores.

Today, it’s one of the nicest places in Saigon to stroll. The stench has been whisked away, the tatters of trash drifting across its stained surface are outnumbered by the fish flitting below. You cannot drink from it, should not eat anything caught in it (despite the plentitude of fishing poles dropped in from bridges) and distributaries remain unmitigated. It’s not perfect, but it's nice. It will never fulfill the lofty potential it once held, but its descent into disgust has been reversed, and it has the ability to improve more.

I look down into it and catch my reflection in its rippling waters and recognize it as a metaphor for my life.

There is no way to describe Saigon traffic literally and have it understood by someone who has not experienced it.

Photo by Michael Tatarski.

Saigon traffic is a load of laundry done after mistaking powdered pectin for detergent. Saigon traffic is convincing a child that sweetbread is a dessert pastry and not mashed thymus flesh. Navigating Saigon traffic is swimming laps in a hot tub wearing full hát bội dress and makeup. It wakes late and puts its skin on inside out; walks on stage to offer a bouquet of thistles and poison ivy to the actors after the play; remixes sounds recorded in a slaughterhouse into music for wedding ceremonies. Circus ape cage-scented incense. Week-old milk poured in a termite mound. TV station broadcasting nothing but static. Saigon traffic forces you to take deep breaths through a sandpaper straw. Hot, hot, hot, Saigon traffic is a waiting room built out of bee swarms and tin-foiled laughter. It’s a tongue touching the hot wiring exposed by a diseased tooth. Saigon traffic stuffs your precious nostalgia in a burlap sack and beats it with a rusted length of rebar before tossing it in the sea.

You cannot blame being late on Saigon traffic; you knew it would be like this.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

I learnt of the Blue Dragon Children’s Foundation in my first year living in Hanoi, through friends that had worked for the fantastic organization, or that were regular donors supporting it. This year, I was super excited to see their “Blue Dragon Marathon Walk” annual fundraiser announced, with the main Hanoian event looping around Thống Nhất Park's lake. Embracing the opportunity to contribute, I put my hand up for a 10K walk and enticed friends and family from around the world to send donations to the wander-for-a-cause.

Thống Nhất is my favorite park in the city. And as I liken walking in Hanoi to playing dodge-ball whilst running hurdles in a sauna, I dare say I have not walked any 10K in this fine city. On September 10, as I donned my Thượng Đình kicks and shuffled down to the park, I looked forward to meeting Skye Maconachie, the Foundation’s CEO.

The Blue Dragon Children’s Foundation is a Hanoi-based charity focusing on improving the welfare of children across Vietnam through various programs, such as taking care of street kids, rescuing victims of human trafficking, and providing help for many other disadvantaged young Vietnamese. To date, the organization has rescued 1,388 people from trafficking, represented 256 people in court cases, sent 6,305 kids back to school and training, and more.

The green scenery of Thống Nhất Park. Photo via Kenh14.

The Marathon Walk fell on a fabulously humid day with the park full of its usual mayhem, from the miniature train running shaky loops, children scrambling wild through the bushes to the sweet smell of burnt xúc xích — a fine way to spend a Sunday in an urban frolick. I spotted Maconachie through the mass of walkers.

“I have a long 20-year relationship with Blue Dragon. I actually first came to Blue Dragon, because my dad owned a pub here in Hanoi. I came to visit him, loved Hanoi and it became my homebase for the next decade,” she reminisced. “Through my dad’s pub, I was introduced to Michael [Brosowski], the founder, in the very early early days when it was a few volunteers coming together to teach English to the street kids that were playing weekly football. I jumped in, very happy to help and discovered this amazing group of people that were trying to do whatever was in their means to help these kids. I saw the organization grow, we were growing together at different levels. I would go away and get a Masters and other experience, and finally I decided to fully commit to my relationship with Blue Dragon. Now, for the last eight years I have been working full-time for the organization.”

Skye Maconachie making a speech at the Walk.

Blue Dragon began as a small volunteer group in 2002, when the organization’s founder, Michael Brosowski, arrived to teach English at a university in Hanoi and met numerous street children in urgent need of support. During the past two decades, Blue Dragon’s work has evolved organically, and today it has offices in four Vietnamese provinces and initiatives reaching 20,000 people across Vietnam every year. Blue Dragon rescues children and adults who have been deceived and became trapped in modern slavery across Southeast Asia and within Vietnam. They conduct outreach work on the streets of Hanoi every night to assist street children and youth, many of whom have been exploited, groomed by pedophiles, or targeted by street gangs.

“We work within the legal system and with the authorities. We contribute our strengths and the expertise acquired through our grassroots work to this existing system, in order to make it work better,” Maconachie explained. “It's a long game. We have been doing that for many, many years, but we have seen significant changes in the laws, and in Vietnam's ability and expertise to conduct rescues. All of our work is done in cooperation with the Vietnamese police because it's not just about the rescue part, there is a long process that goes on. The investigation of the crime, working with the victim in order to identify and arrest a trafficker or trafficking ring, etc. There is a whole protection and prosecution process, and the rescue is one part of it. We see through our work that the system is quite functional.”

Supporting street children is among the goals of Blue Dragon.

Supporting girls from underprivileged communities with stationery and equipment so they can continue their education.

Because vulnerability takes many shapes and the drivers of human trafficking vary from one community to another, Blue Dragon tailors all interventions to the specific needs and circumstances of each child, family, and village they assist. For instance, to keep a child living in poverty in Hanoi safe and in school, their family may need some assistance to set up a street food stall that helps them earn a stable income. Meanwhile, preventing human trafficking in remote, mountainous communities often involves training neighbors to form Anti-Trafficking Boards, screen their communities for potential victims, report human trafficking cases to the authorities, and assist their fellow neighbors when and where they need it, and in their own ethnic language.

 “The regional trends in human trafficking that are affecting Vietnamese people are very much driven by the increased vulnerability people are facing post-Covid,” she said. “Before the pandemic, we already worked with people and communities who were very disadvantaged and vulnerable. And post-Covid, we have seen that exacerbated across the country. We have seen trafficking spread from the main groups of people who have been historically trafficked from remote rural areas — most of whom come from ethnic minority backgrounds — to it being so widespread that people with tertiary educations or business owners are now vulnerable to human trafficking.”

Hanoians at the walk.

One of the challenges faced by most non-profit organizations is the sourcing of funding. And Blue Dragon, with over 130 staff across the country is no exception. The Blue Dragon Marathon Walk is a global event that takes place every year to raise funds for the Foundation. Participants can choose to walk or run any amount of kilometers, individually or as part of a team. Maconachie and her 2.5-year-old daughter walked their marathon over the weekend.

“It’s just incredible,” she shared. “I was really moved by seeing all of these people and companies, not only here in Hanoi, but around the country, as well as around the globe who were just so grateful for the opportunity to be able to help people in slavery, and really with all of their heart and commitment. They spent months leading up to this where they were raising money and training and doing different things. So what we saw here in Hanoi was just a microcosm of what was happening around the world.”

Many supporters from the capital came to support the marathon.

The Blue Dragon Walk, however, was not always an international challenge. The first Walk took place in Hong Kong in 2011. Seven walkers from an Australian construction company based there took the challenge of walking 50 kilometers from one side of the island to the other. In 10 hours, they traversed the rugged and often very hilly Hong Kong trail, and in doing so, not only raised US$35,000 for Blue Dragon’s transformative work, but also began what is now an annual tradition for families, friends, and colleagues in Vietnam and around the world.

The next walk wouldn’t take place until 2015, when a team of Blue Dragon volunteers and a team of staff from the chain of Vietnamese restaurants Roll’d undertook the first Blue Dragon marathon walk in Australia, along the Great Victorian trail. Since then, the event has been celebrated annually with the Intrepid Foundation — the philanthropic arm of sustainable travel company Intrepid Travel — providing their support as hosts from 2018.

Runners in Sydney.

Osaka

As a serendipitous consequence of the constraints created by the pandemic, the Blue Dragon Walk got catapulted to the global scene. As walkers did not need to be present in the same location, Blue Dragon supporters from around the world decided to take the challenge wherever they were. Since then, the walk has been an international event, gathering support in places as diverse as Germany, Nepal, the United States, Singapore, and nearly 300 people around the globe joined the walk in 16 countries in 2022.

“A lot of the time in our work, because it is so difficult and challenging, we can become quite insular. So it's just really wonderful to see the support and the solidarity for Vietnamese people who are in slavery, or really at high risks of being trafficked and exploited,” she noted. “To see so many people who care about them and the issue, and that want to stand up and do something to help them, I was really moved, and touched by seeing the Blue Dragon seeping through this wider circle of wonderful human beings who want to see a better world and end human trafficking.”

Điện Biên

Houston

Throughout the years, the Walk has also received the support of companies like Australia Pacific Travel Group, who, for two years in a row, have made matching donations to the amount raised through their teams of staff walkers. Since 2018, the Blue Dragon Walk has raised nearly US$500,000; 2023 was an exceptional year with more than 500 people taking part, raising more than US$200,000.

I must say with a certain sense of pride that I surpassed my fundraising goal, thanks to the generous help of friends and family. My Thượng Đình also miraculously survived, and the layer of sticky sweat was very much worth the glorious trundle. But what about those of you who missed out on the walk? Fear not, there are many ways to contribute. “Contact us!” said Maconachie. “We receive support all year round, not only on the Marathon Walk. If people want to run their own fundraisers they are very welcome to do that. If they want to donate, offer their expertise or time, or want to spread the word about Blue Dragon to family or their community. Every little bit helps, and we have a whole team here who can share information to get people connected to those opportunities to be able to support the work of Blue Dragon.”

The Mekong Delta is called Đồng bằng Sông Cửu Long in Vietnamese — the Nine Dragons River, for the way the mighty Mekong splits into multiple strands as it nears its final destination, the East Sea.

To the estimated 18 million inhabitants of the Mekong Delta, the river is more than just a geographical feature; it defines their whole lives. Annual floods make many roads impossible to use. Meanwhile, the fact that the region boasts around 15,000 km of navigable waterways to only 2,500 km of compacted road offers another hint as to how most people travel.

Market ladies on a motorized boat.

The Mekong Delta is a beautiful part of Vietnam and one I was immediately impressed with on my first visit, an exploratory boat trip from Ho Chi Minh City to Rạch Giá in August 2010.

I was fascinated by how the area's inhabitants lived and their daily interactions with the Mekong River. I was so impressed with how the people of the region traveled that I went back several times and focused on how they crossed the water. The ferries are a microcosm of life along the river. The crossings are generally short and you get to meet all kinds of people on the boat. It’s a pause in your journey, filled with snacks, bargaining sessions and sometimes entertainment.

School day.

This series is the result of these journeys, traveling mostly in the dry season. I crossed with school children, interviewed ferry captains and their crew, attempted to speak Vietnamese with delivery men on massively overloaded bikes and haggled with vendors carting everything from vividly colored fruit and vegetables to toilet paper and cigarettes. I also bought a lot of lottery tickets.

Bringing the goods.

I boarded ferries built for mass transit with trucks and buses, as well as humble vessels fit only for a couple of passengers and a bike. All the journeys were different, all were memorable.

With Vietnam developing so rapidly, it is hard to predict the future of this region. The construction of new roads and bridges has made the Mekong Delta a lot more accessible, thus putting many boats out of business.

However, while the ferries still run I highly recommend you travel there yourself. Crossing is inexpensive and there is so much to discover.

50 Shades of blue.

A pilot's life.

Boat lady.

Embarkation.

A quick review of school materials before class.

Ready to rumble.

Stormy weather.

Portrait of a captain.

Rush hour. 

Sunset on deck.