One by one, motorbikes arrived, carrying the tell-tale cages covered with cloth and parked in the gravel lot beside the coffee shop where Saigoneer sat listening to the caged birds suspended above a patch of scrabbly grass.
We had been invited out to the Bình Thạnh boonies to observe a singing bird contest, and after navigating a common quagmire of hẻms and passing through a gate proclaiming “Cà Phê Sân Vườn / Vườn Chim” we assumed the humble arrangement of plastic tables shielded from the surroundings by palm trees and the backs of homes was the right place. Bird cafes, after all, are not uncommon. Towns and cities throughout the country feature these simple coffee shops where patrons, often older men, bring their caged birds. While smoking cigarettes, sipping cà phê sữa đá, and chit-chatting, the birds chip and coo overhead, the presence of other birds inspiring their natural competitiveness to amp up their energies.
“At home, it's just me with my bird, and when it sings, it's just instinctual singing without much encouragement. When I go outside and encounter more birds and opponents, it gives the birds a chance to showcase their abilities,” explained Nguyễn Hữu Duy, a young bird enthusiast we spoke to beside an Oriental magpie-robin (chích chòe than) and a white-rumped shama (chích chòe lửa). “Shy birds might not sing, but confident birds will show off… they sing, dance, and spread their wings. So, we always want to bring them to a place where we can gather and share our love for birds to improve their performance and beauty.”
We ordered from the simple home-turned-shop and prepared to wait for the contest to begin. But we are, after all, complete novices to the sport and a staff member had to approach and tell us we could go to the area in the back because the action would be starting soon.
A large platform beneath a matrix of bars and surrounded by trees stood above a pond covered in lotus, their pink flowers casting shadows across the shallow surface. The cafe owner and event organizer, Thanh Phong, sat at a folding table handing out laminated numbers while the crowd gathered. Men brought their bird cages onto the stage and the cloth hoods were removed to reveal red-whiskered bulbuls (chào mào) leaping from bar to bar issuing anxious trills and shrill three- and four-note refrains. A digital timer on the table with the best vantage point of the birds was set to four minutes. Cell phones were slipped into specially constructed holders to film the event.
Two men in matching powder-blue polo shirts with bird cafe logos began hanging the cages into a tight block so the birds are forced to face one another which activated their competitive mode. As the preparations were underway, a friendly spectator next to us explained more about the competition. The rules are simple: If a contestant stops singing, drops to the ground of the cage, or pauses its dancing to preen, it receives a warning; three warnings during a four-minute round means elimination.
On the Tuesday morning we attended, there were over 35 contestants and it would take some time to whittle them down to the few that would earn their owners a place on the podium looming beside large trophies on the side of the platform. This allowed us to learn more about the activity by speaking with Lê Hùng, a man who has been participating in the competitions for 12 or 13 years but has kept birds since he was a child.
Hùng spoke with the earnest enthusiasm one typically encounters when talking with someone about a hobby they rarely have an opportunity to discuss with outsiders. We asked, simply, what about bird competitions appeals to him. “First and foremost, it’s passion. When you take a bird to compete, it creates a sense of excitement. For example, during the qualifying round, when 22 birds were reduced to 20 by eliminating two, that was when my excitement peaked. I can’t even look at my bird. That’s the thrill. I spend money to enjoy that thrill. When I reach the top 20 and win a prize, I’m already happy, delighted, proud; my bros and I hug each other.”
As we spoke, Hùng would occasionally sneak a peek at the ongoing competition behind us, checking on how the bird in cage #19 was doing. But his calm demeanor and willingness to offer thorough answers betrayed confidence in his bird, for the opening rounds at least. He has four or five other individuals at home, but they were molting so he brought this one, which he had acquired several days earlier from a dealer in Nha Trang. It was their first competition together.
“Luck accounts for about 30%,” Hùng said when asked how one prepares a bird to win a competition. “There's no training. Each bird has its own natural qualities; it has to be good. Each person has a unique way of raising them. There’s no training, but you must have a care routine, with proper feeding, rest, and hygiene to cultivate a good bird, in addition to its nature.”
The importance of a bird’s intrinsic nature and inability to be trained help explain what sounds like an absurd market for the species. Single individuals regularly go for between VND40 and 50 million while winning a competition can bring about much more. When posted in online groups with photographic evidence of a win at a competition like this one, the birds can bring in up to VND200 million VND, one attendee told us.
Red-whiskered bulbuls (chào mào) are native to Asia, including in Vietnam’s mountainous areas, where they must be caught, because they can not be effectively bred in captivity. Distinguished by their black crest and a red blurt of plumage beneath their eyes that give them their names. Their call has been described as kink-a-joo, pettigrew, kick-pettigrew, or even pleased to meet you. They typically gather in small groups but, when an abundant food supply is available, their numbers can swell to 50 which coaxes out their most impassioned mating and territorial calls. While not the only birds used in singing competitions in Vietnam, they are the most popular thanks to their songs’ pleasant tones.
As the competition heated up we made our way back to our seats, allowing Hùng to stand closer to the platform, the nerves clearly getting to him as the field narrowed to 20. The fifty or so people in the crowd were paying rapt attention, occasionally shouting out at some development we were not experienced enough to notice or understand. The announcer offered occasional updates of the birds' behavior, which was at times difficult to observe in the commotion of cage bars and flailing wings. Despite not knowing what was really going on, we were rooting for Hùng's #19. Alas, the bird gods were not going to grant us a Disney ending. It was eliminated after the field was cut to 10.
Still, Hùng seemed pleased with his bird’s first-ever showing and even sent us up to receive his ceremonial banner and trophy for the photo shoot (but not his modest prize money that covered little more than the VND100,000 entrance fee). After the award ceremony, participants lingered to talk, joke, buy feed crickets and, of course, discuss their beloved birds. In our earlier conversation, Duy had alluded to how the sense of community is what really matters. “Gathering in a place with others who share the same passion allows us to connect with each other. We make arrangements to meet and enjoy our common interest, and there are also groups to play and interact with one another,” he shared. This opportunity for in-person socializing seems particularly important in a place like Saigon which is filled with so many people like Duy, who moved here from elsewhere and might not initially know anyone.
While a shared love of birds unites these men, they need a place to gather. This is where Thanh Phong, the cafe owner comes in. Exceedingly helpful when we first contacted him with our desire to visit the bird cafe, he was eager to introduce us to not just the activity, but also Duy and Hùng. We were thus shocked to learn that while he enjoys the sound of birds and delights in their graceful fluttering, he doesn’t actually raise any himself. Rather, he started the cafe because he saw the need for it. “My sister established an antique market nearby for people to gather and exchange antiques. That’s when I had the idea to create a bird café next door, to establish a distinctive cultural touch for this area and space. People can come here if they’re looking for nostalgia and memories; they can visit over there and then come here to listen to the birds singing and admire the birds dancing and singing in this atmosphere,” he said.
While he may be a shrewd businessman, Thanh Phong understands the place is about more than profiting from a niche. Watching men, who in other situations might come across as gruff, fuss and grin over tiny birds filled us with wholesome happiness. It was another situation where the exploration of an object or animal merely brought out an appreciation for humanity and the ways people forge connections in the city. Thanh Phong echoed this sentiment when articulating what he values most about the community: “It’s the customers, the older artisans, and the younger enthusiasts who come here; everyone is very gentle. The atmosphere is very relaxed — people come in, listen to the birds sing, enjoy their coffee, and engage in conversations. There’s no distinction in class; stepping into this space means sharing the same passion.”
One doesn’t need to be a bird caretaker or even an enthusiast to enjoy a visit to Cà phê Vườn Chim or one of the other many bird cafes in Saigon. Simply soaking in the inviting community, and absorbing some of the calm passion by osmosis makes the experience worthwhile.
