Travel - Saigoneer

Hà Giang's Thôn Khun Is a Soothing Oasis for the World-Weary Traveler

2026-09-28T10:00:00+07:00

Located in the heart of a valley surrounded by verdant stretches of forest, the little hamlet of Khun retains much of its pristine natural charms. From the enigmatic beauty of the local Bó Mỳ Cave to babbling creeks, Khun is a must-visit destination during northern Vietnam’s sweltering summer season.

Khun is located in Bằng Lang Commune, 8 kilometers away from central Quang Bình District and 95 kilometers from Hà Giang City.

Compared to Hà Giang’s better-known localities, Khun has neither the majestic karst cliffs of Đồng Văn in the east nor Hoàng Su Phì’s terrace fields in the west. Khun, however, doesn’t host throngs of tourists, giving local areas a laid-back, easy demeanor that won’t overwhelm first-time travelers.

Khun is a sleepy hamlet at the foot of a mountain amidst the multitudes of green shades from the vegetation and endless paddy fields.

The humble hamlet, at its core, might seem like any village in the countryside, with stretches of rice fields, bamboo thickets, and stilt houses dotting the vista. Khun is gentle, tranquil, and calming like a maiden enjoying a perpetual slumber under the jungle canopy. This rustic simplicity tugs on the heartstrings of nature lovers like me. Arriving at Khun for just a moment, I found myself losing my grasp on the passage of time, dipping in and out of reality and the call to my past with childhood memories, their vivid colors and sounds.

Experiencing a day in Khun

Much of my time at Khun Hamlet was spent roaming about. I took long strolls on narrow, meandering paths along the edge of the fields, in between luxuriant bamboo bushes, and across crystal-clear brooks. Many stretches are still dirt paths. From afar, the routes into the hamlet seemed to be tiny threads tangled in the thick of the jungle. I made a conscious choice to walk as leisurely as possible to keep pace with the sleepy ambiance here, only stopping to enjoy a melody of hát then or mellow tính tẩu tune coming from uncertain corners of the village.

Palm fronds help to protect local farmers from the sun.

After finishing with the rice harvest, local residents move on to collecting peanuts.

Lychee is also a common crop in Khun.

Standing in the field amid the aroma of fresh hay, I watched puffs of cloud languidly inch past the sky before disintegrating into nothing. In a hurry, the sun sent the last few rays past the curtain of dusk before mellowing down behind the jungle. A lugubrious evening beckoned. Summer nights in Khun are often the time for sporadic bouts of rain. The deluge of water rushed onto the ground, forcefully shaking trees and flimsy structures. Throngs of amphibians began their loud opera sessions. The watery symphony brought me back to days spent in my hometown decades ago. I miss my hometown.

Pathways in Khun are often not paved.

When the morning came, Khun jolted awake. Once again, I phased out of slumber thanks to a cacophony of nature noises, the wilderness’ built-in alarm clock: the cock-a-doodle-doos of local roosters, the quacks of happy ducks, and the ballad of songbirds. I completely forgot to crane my arm to turn off my digital alarm clock like I always do while in the city. Early sun rays snuck in right beside my bed, and just outside the window, heavy clusters of ripe lychees enticed me to get up. Here, just existing and breathing air was enough to fill my being with a sense of palpable contentment.

“Arriving at Khun for just a moment, I found myself losing my grasp on the passage of time, dipping in and out of reality and the call to my past with childhood memories, their vivid colors and sounds.”

Khun is exceptionally green. The tiny hamlet seemed lost in the middle of a valley in between swaths of heritage forest. Greenness cornered the village from four sides. The entire hamlet spans 1,513 hectares, but 961 hectares are protective forest. The forest safeguards the land. The forest has long kept the livelihood of the people safe for generations. It helps maintain the clean atmosphere. Looking outside from the village, it’s not difficult to spot multitudes of palm-covered hills. The fans of palm fronds act like umbrellas for farmers on the field and for buffalo herders. Palms also provide materials for roofing. The people of Khun grow up under the protective shade of palm trees.

Much of my time in Khun was spent on walks through nature.

Exploring the Bó Mỳ Cave

The forest welcomed me into its embrace when I visited Khun. At times, I felt like an innocent doe eagerly gallivanting around the forest. Following the footsteps of local Khun residents, the forest path led me to a natural masterpiece that Mother Earth gifted the hamlet — Bó Mỳ Cave. The cavern spans 2 kilometers, with the highest stretch reaching 50 meters tall and the widest 20 meters across.

In the cave, an underground lake molds itself along the contours of the rock. This acts as a reservoir for many hamlets of the local commune. The water is crystal-clear and refreshing. Some parts of the lake can be quite deep, over 2 meters, so people installed wooden rafts for ease of crossing. This waterbody is also home to many a local delicacy, including cá dầm xanh, a type of regional carp. Because of this region, the cave is sometimes called the Dầm Xanh Cave.

Bó Mỳ Cave acts like a reservoir for many local hamlets.

Setting foot inside the cave felt like entering an alternate dimension. It was cool to the touch, as the inner temperature is almost always 5°C lower than outside. Just looking around, one can’t help being in awe of the nimble hands of Mother Nature, being able to create such a breathtaking sight.

The heart of the cavern featured numerous stalactites in whimsical shapes and forms, fashioned by the movements of wind and water. One might look like a bridge, another resembles a castle, a hand, or even a weaving silk sash hung across the wall. After hundreds or even thousands of years, mineral-rich water droplets fall from the ceiling to crystallize into exquisite stalagmites protruding from the ground. The cave formations rest in silence every day away from prying eyes, but when there are visitors, like me, they come alive with every brush of my flashlight, showcasing a fantastical elegance as if the setting of a magical tale.

There’s no light inside the cave, so explorers should remember to bring along light sources.

After my adventure inside the cave, I let my legs soak inside the outside stream’s chilly water. Perhaps sensing my fatigue, a school of fish excitedly started grazing my feet like nature’s own version of a pedicure. The shallow water outside the cave entrance is so translucent one can clearly spot the pebbles below. These gentle creeks come from the surrounding mountains, flowing in between rock formations to reach the field, nourishing rice fields and peanut plantations, and drenching local childhoods in their cooling water.

The creeks provide local children with a cooling source of freshwater, where they spend most of their summer days frolicking.

The tastes of the valley

Life in the heart of the mountains is unsurprisingly very peaceful. There are only 178 households in Khun, comprising four main ethnic groups — Tày, Dao, Nùng, and La Chí. Khun residents have retained the customs and traditions of their cultures. Along the base of the mountains, Tày people built stilt houses from local materials, especially palm fronds as roofing. Families gather beneath these structures every meal.

Here, I was treated to a diverse range of local dishes like colorful sticky rice, gỏi cá, and pickled meat, all prepared by my host. Right by the wooden walls, weavers are hard at work creating bamboo baskets and brocade textile. Every year, the Nùng community holds ceremonial offering events to express their gratitude to nature, the Dao community undertakes coming-of-age rituals for adolescent boys, while Lá Chí families use rice as a main offering for their own customs, and more.

A banquet platter prepared by Tày cooks.

The Bằng Lang Commune market is assembled every Saturday.

Fish salad, a local specialty.

The end of May brought along a golden hue to the valley. From above, the land is a mosaic of green, yellow, and ochre patches thanks to squares of ripening paddy. The harvest season also casts a joyful mood over the village. In the wind, the fragrance of harvest-ready grains and hay spread to every corner of the valley. Gaggles of children follow their parents to the field to play.

Gold rice paddy coats the valley during harvest season.

A traditional stilt house of the Tày people with a thatched roof.

Inside local houses, created from timber, bamboo, and palms.

Traces of tourism have just started showing up in Khun over the past few years supported by a small amount of homestay accommodations. There are no malls, amusement parks, or cafes; so much of the hamlet still retains its pastoral attributes — truly a place for nature-seekers hoping to escape the chaos of crowded cities.

This article was originally published in 2023.

The Enigmatic Neon-Lit World in the Mist of Sapa

2026-08-31T09:00:00+07:00

Is there a more atmospheric place in Vietnam than Sapa on a misty night?

Sapa needs no introduction. It is one of the country’s most popular tourist destinations thanks to its promise of breathtaking treks among rice terraces, traditional villages and colorful markets.

It is also often synonymous with the thick fog that frequently covers the mountainous town and its surroundings. Unwelcomed by travelers eager for endless landscapes, the mist wraps the city in an otherworldly atmosphere at the end of the day.

Take a walk around Sapa on a moody, low-visibility evening below.

The mist has consumed almost everything in sight.

The fog adds an eerie cyberpunk hue to central Sapa.

Contrasting styles of light.

People are little more than dark silhouettes.

Views similar to trying to recall a dream after waking.

Umbrellas and phones keep passersby dry and entertained.

If all color was drained from it, perhaps this is what the world would look like.

How Quy Nhơn's Old Cemetery Slowly Expands up Vũng Chua Mountain

2026-08-20T10:00:00+07:00

You might miss it if you were driving past, but once you walk down a small hẻm off Quy Nhơn’s main Tây Sơn Street, the massive cemetery sprawls in all directions.

Saigoneer had to take to the skies to get a full scope of the unfurling assemblage of colorful graves. From humble plots to ornate, multi-generational mausoleums, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn, or Quy Nhơn’s Old Cemetery, is an astounding collection of monuments honoring loved ones that stretches back into the verdant hills.

Reading the names and looking at portraits etched in stone, one cannot help but think of all the stories buried here: wives that outlived their husbands by decades thanks to war buried, almost cruelly, next to couples that lived together until their 80s; untended plots falling into disrepair beside graves where fresh ash still hangs on placed incense sticks. One looks at the names below which the death date hasn’t yet been added and wonders, How much time do they have left? What will they do with it, however long?

Despite the savage sunlight and unrelenting heat on the morning we visited, not to mention the beauty of Vũng Chua mountain in the background and the nearby sea, it is impossible to not fall into such somber thoughts when visiting a cemetery.

It wasn’t until after we left that our emotional ponderings gave way to logistical ones. What is the story behind such a massive cemetery in central Quy Nhơn? How long had it been here and, considering the encroachment of the developing city, how much longer could it remain?

We went looking for answers and discovered a more interesting history and future exists for the Quy Nhơn Cemetery than we had imagined. Long the burial site of nearby Quy Nhơn residents, the cemetery is also home to the Quy Nhơn Martyrs Cemetery, Trung Cao cadre burial cemetery, and a Buddhist cemetery. Like many cemeteries in Vietnam, it started small, as exemplified by this photo from 1965.

By 1994 the space was full, and the city built two new ones approximately 20 kilometers from the city center: Bùi Thị Xuân Cemetery, which opened in 1997. Later, as that one is also filled, Bình Định An Viên was opened in 2019. Both rest well outside of the city center.

Yet, Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn kept growing. In 2000, it was 137,000 square meters, and by 2018 it hit 148,000 square meters, with much of the newly occupied space encroaching on Vũng Chua mountain in the back. This prompted the city People’s Committee to issue a policy that no new or re-burials could take place in the cemetery.

That didn’t stop people, however. In 2019 people could still buy plots upon which a fake grave had been built to secure the space. Depending on the location, these plots go for VND20–40 million. Authorities claim that there are not enough resources to monitor such a large space and families are willing to perform quiet, subdued funerals to avoid detection.

Many people are upset with the policy to cease all new burials in the cemetery because, as they see it, there is available land beneath the mountain. Moreover, a trip to either of the new cemeteries can take 40 minutes each way. Such a distance may represent a mere logistical hassle or a spiritual separation from one’s ancestors, depending on your perspective. Either way, it helps explain why people continue to build in this “full” cemetery.

Ironically, many people who have family buried in Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn have moved away or are too busy to visit frequently. Given this reality and the sheer size of the cemetery, an informal system of paying people to tend to the graves has arisen at Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

Women who stand at the front gates selling fruits and flowers will also burn incense and give offerings for families unable to do so. One such woman who spoke to Người Lao Động explained her role: “Have you been busy with work? It's been a long time since I've seen you burn incense for this grave. Why do you let him lie so cold? He’s probably upset at you. If you don't have time, I'll help you. Here, I help a lot of people for only VND100,000 per grave a month.”

Quy Nhơn’s development has been remarkable in the last several decades, with the population growing from 60,000 in 1965 to 160,000 in 1986 to 280,000 in 2013 to present estimates of nearly half a million citizens. This has simultaneously increased the need for places to inter people, while also making land more valuable and in-demand. Nothing exemplifies this more than the size of and situation surrounding Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn.

To reach Quy Nhơn’s far-flung airport, one travels through sparsely populated farmland. The rice paddies are dotted with the small graves of those who have tended the land for generations. One wonders how long they will remain here untouched, and what is lost by not having one’s ancestors within eyesight of where one works and sleeps.

Darkroom is a Saigoneer series documenting the beauty and stories of Vietnam and beyond via photographs. If you have a compelling story you wish to share, send us an email via contribute@saigoneer.com.

How Colonial Steamship Transport Transformed into Casual River Cruises in Southeast Asia

2026-08-10T06:41:00+07:00

The relaxed, historic-looking river cruise ships emblazoned with the Pandaw name that you may witness meandering up rivers in Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and even India have a much stranger backstory than you’d suspect.

Historic scene on the Rangoon River.

In 1865, Scottish businessmen launched the Irrawaddy Flotilla and Burmese Steam Navigation Company to transport passengers, supplies, goods, mail, and eventually oil field equipment up and down Burma as the British colony thrived. Serving locals, regional traders, and colonial officials, the paddle steamers were crucial to the colony’s infrastructure and growth. By the 1920s, the fleet had reached more than 650 ships on the Irrawaddy and surrounding rivers and had been immortalized in a Richard Kipling poem.

The PS Mindoon, 1886, sister to the Beloo of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, as pictured in 1886.

The entire operation sank, quite literally, during WW2. As the Japanese moved through Southeast Asia, colonial officials decided it was better to lose the entire fleet than see the highly capable ships fall into enemy hands. In 1942, every ship was intentionally scuttled. After the war, river travel never returned to the previous scale and efficiency, hastening the decline of the entire colony.

An old Irrawaddy Flotilla company boat on land.

One might rightfully assume that this is where the Irrawaddy Flotilla story ends. However, Paul Strachan, a Scotsman who had spent some of his youth in Burma, returned to the country in the 1990s, hankering for adventure. While living in the country writing a novel from a local monastery, he noticed the potential for river cruises in the region and invested his life savings in a boat and took on the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company (IFC) name. Looking back on the rather risky decision he made with his wife, Rosa, he told Saigoneer, “There was no plan at all.”

Paul and Rosa in recent years aboard one of their boats.

A little luck and an adeptness at navigating political and cultural situations allowed the couple to become the first company since colonial times to offer river cruises on the Irrawaddy. In 1998, they located and restored a boat from the original Irrawaddy Flotilla Company, named Pandaw, to replace the local boats they had been chartering. The steamship’s now-classic design sat in the water differently than modern boats, allowing it to travel to unique areas on the river, stop for sandbank cocktail hours alongside locals, and even navigate the treacherous Tonle Sap Lake.

“Fun!” was how Paul described these early voyages, which always carried the potential for unexpected adventure. On the very first trip, for example, the boat got caught on a sandbar and required a nearby mining operation to use their equipment to dig it out. Rather than be frightened and take a rescue boat, the passengers found the unexpected situation thrilling and stayed on-site to watch the action and continue the journey.

The ship specially designed to travel the Kerala Backwaters beginning in Kochi, India.

During the first five years, Paul and Rosa joined each trip, offering lectures aboard the ship in the evening and overseeing the expedition. But as demand grew, they employed more professionals, including Burmese shipbuilders. Using modified plans from the original IFC vessels, the skilled craftsman created additional ships that they sent to Vietnam, where river cruises were launched in 2003 between Saigon and Cambodia on the Mekong River. Word spread of the professional operations and friendly on-board atmosphere, allowing the company to expand to tours on the Ganges River in 2008, trips in Laos and Northern Vietnam in 2015, and the Brahmaputra River in India in 2023. And just this year, they have deemed portions of the Irrawaddy River safe to return to.

Paul, Rosa and the crew and staff are eager to welcome guests and help local communities.

Amidst all the expansion, Paul and Rosa have been quietly giving back to the local communities. In 2008, for example, Cyclone Marvis devastated the region, so the renamed Pandaw Company repurposed two of their boats as floating hospitals to provide healthcare for months. They also started an NGO called Pandaw Clinics and provided funding for local schools and medical services while making systemic efforts to reduce waste and plastic.

Paul admits that these acts of generosity are not ultimately why people choose to travel with Pandaw. It’s not the history either, especially as the original fleet and its role in the region disappear from living memory. Moreover, while the ships are still novel in design, many major international companies have arrived offering similar services. But the convivial spirit and respectful appreciation for slow travel that attract mostly Western travelers who want relaxed comfort with a suggestion of adventure cannot be duplicated.

Comparatively small passenger numbers foster a togetherness amongst travelers that continues after the final docking. Paul noticed that friendships develop, and groups reunite every few years to relive the experience and try new routes. The welcoming vibes benefit from expert crews attuned with local cultures, so all aboard can experience a journey seemingly untethered from the rush of the modern age.

Staring out across the river at dusk, the setting sun dappling the water’s surface with flecks of orange and pink, if you’re lucky, you might catch a family of Irrawaddy dolphins playfully leaping. Steadying your hand on the metal railing, remind yourself that you are connected to a legacy extending back to colonial rice transport, wartime calamity, and more recent medical heroism. But beneath the boat flows the primordial currents that churned with an elemental diligence that brought you to this moment and will gracefully take you away faster than you realize. All you’ll be left with are the memories and the friends who accompanied you.

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All Aboard the Languorous 35-Hour Train From Hanoi to Saigon

2026-08-07T10:00:00+07:00

The train connecting Vietnam’s largest cities takes 35 hours. Yet even after the first time I finished the trip, I was already coming up with excuses for why I needed to do it again. For me, the journey is much more than a chance for great views and time to reflect. It’s an exploration of life itself.

Every time I take a train in a new country, I’m fascinated by the interactions and activities that occur within the carriages. Somehow, through all their quirks and oddities, they represent a microcosm of a nation’s wider culture.

Hanoi Central Train Station.

You see people meeting for the first time and forming friendships, long-haul passengers relishing the ride, and families reuniting or saying farewell. You see kids playing with their toys beside old people passing the time. You see men drinking beer together after lunch.

None of these things would seem out of place in any Vietnamese city. Here, they are framed by the windows and aisles of a slow-moving train, adding color to days that would otherwise be mundane.

Take a ride below:

Boarding.

Two men killing time.

Lunchtime in the restaurant carriage.

Thuốc lào time.

A staff member checks tickets.

Sleeping, resting, playing on phones in the carriage.

Kids playing together.

A child plays with his toy on a window sill.

The conductor's hat.

A young boy enjoying the view.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2021.

In Thổ Hà Village, Rice Paper Spills Onto the Streets and Wraps Around Daily Life

2026-07-17T09:00:00+07:00

A few hours after sunrise in the small village of Thổ Hà, Bắc Giang Province, alleyways morph into picturesque tunnels of drying rice paper, while ladies toast crackers over fire in the streets.

Alleys run like arteries through the village, clogged by rows and rows of bamboo panels, each drying a sheet of rice paper (bánh đa nem) made at 5am that morning.

On sunny days, villagers bring out thousands of rice-covered panels (phên) and stack them along the village streets. They fix them high up in the alleys too, and early morning sunlight flows over the sheets creating creamy, translucent light patterns.

Alleyways clogged with drying rice paper panels.

When wolfing down fresh bánh xèo, you would never think how much work goes into making a single sheet of rice paper. Every day they can, in this village just 45 kilometers outside Hanoi, locals work from before dawn to make as many as time allows.

In recent years, Thổ Hà has developed a name for itself due to its photogenic rice paper trade and ancient architecture. Yet Thổ Hà used to be known for creating ceramics, and you can read this history in the alleyways. Porcelain boxes (tiểu sành), which store the bones of deceased relatives, were used in the past as bricks. Those they failed to sell, or that were damaged in the kiln, formed the building blocks of new walls.

Moving rice paper into direct sunlight to dry.

With no land to plant paddy in, villagers depended on the river for trading and earned a living by creating goods by hand. Much of the sand from the river has been used up now, so since the 1990s, they have moved away from ceramics. Like the river, their way of life has shifted, with rice paper the new beating heart of the village.

Bamboo panels stacked high up in the alleys creating little tunnels.

Hundreds of bamboo panels line the alleyways.

Porcelain boxes, normally used to store the bones of the dead, are used as bricks.

A lady toasts rice crackers over an open fire.

Not just the streets, but the insides of houses were stacked full of drying rice paper.

Grass-fiber broom temporarily relieved of its duties.

Preparing the rice paper for removal.

Peeling rice paper off the bamboo grids.

A man carries bamboo panels through the village.

Light streams through the panels, casting patterns on the wall.

Transporting huge stacks of rice paper through the streets.

A man and his son walk beneath an ancient gate.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

Watching the Sunset From Lai Châu's Fansipan, the Roof of Indochina

2026-07-10T10:00:00+07:00

Conquering Mount Fansipan’s 3,147 meters was once a feat reserved for those willing to take on the potential multi-day hike from Sapa to the summit and back.

It’s now available to all those willing to spend around VND1 million each on the return cable car journey.

Taking the cable car allows for expansive views of the Lao Chải Valley, with its curved rice paddies eventually giving way to steep cliffs and seemingly impenetrable jungle. At a certain point, the cable car steepens its ascent and takes you through the lingering clouds, revealing Fansipan’s jagged ridge.

The view from the cable car, looking towards the pass at the top of the Lao Chải Valley.

The view evolves as you gain altitude, revealing hidden valleys and prehistoric waterfalls. However, before you know it, you’re swinging into the station, reminding you that you’ve yet to reach your destination.

The valley’s intricate terraced farming from above.

The visitor center and gift shop were bypassed on this trip as it was late in the day and the light was fading fast. The 630 steps to Fansipan’s summit were taken at pace, not least because of the cold and wind. The many steps wind around a multitude of statues and pagodas on your way to the summit, each with a different and seemingly more impressive view than the last.

Looking back towards Sapa with Hàm Rồng (Dragon Head) mountain perched above.

By some stroke of luck, this visit afforded good visibility in every direction, and Fansipan’s summit did not disappoint. The low, rolling clouds. The ragged peaks extended into the distance. The setting sun illuminated all in its glow.

Ascending — Fansipans’s peak and assorted pagodas and statues are silhouetted on the narrow ridgeline above.

Bích Vân Zen Monastery.

The summit was quiet at this point as most tourists had departed and left the freezing wind behind. The few that remained rubbed their hands and stamped their feet in an effort to stay warm. Their reward? Seeing the sun dip below the horizon from Vietnam’s highest point.

The sun sets on Vietnam’s highest point.

Descending on the cable car allowed for cold bodies to thaw as a twinkling Sapa re-emerged from the mist.

There was a fear that the cable car would somehow dilute the experience, removing the sense of adventure and accomplishment found in the hard-earned summiting of mountain peaks. While that could easily be argued as being the case, the ease of which these views and this experience can be accessed makes for a memorable trip.

Left: A secluded waterfall hidden in the dense jungle. Right: Mist rolls down the near-vertical cliffs.

Left: Inside Kim Sơn Bảo Thắng Pagoda, sheltered from the cold wind. Right: Kim Sơn Bảo Thắng Pagoda perched below Fansipan’s summit.

The last light catches a ridgeline leading into the distance.

This article was originally published in 2021.

China’s Natural and Cultural Splendor on Full Display in Guilin

2026-07-08T21:13:00+07:00

China has no shortage of natural splendors, from Zhangjiajie National Forest Park in Hunan, which inspired the world of Avatar, to the spectacular waterfalls of Sichuan’s Jiuzhaigou Valley. One could spend a lifetime exploring the hidden corners of each of its 22 mainland provinces, but Saigoneer recently traveled to Guilin, an area becoming increasingly popular with Vietnamese tourists. There we felt a comforting sense of familiarity.

Situated in Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, Guilin has long been famous for its limestone karsts, caves, cliffs, and valleys. These landscapes are strikingly similar to those of Ninh Binh, which lies relatively close at a distance of about 700 kilometers, though visitors may incorrectly assume the two are geologically and tectonically related.

The difference is also evident in scale, with the tallest karst in Guilin stretching 300 meters into the sky, about 100 meters taller than those in Ninh Binh. This scale also frames the rivers and plains below, which are best appreciated from both their highest and lowest points.

The highlight of Guilin is undoubtedly the Ruyi Peak Cableway Scenic Area. A cable car brings visitors 240 meters to the tip of a karst, where a suspension bridge, glass skywalk, and cloud-top observatory offer sweeping views of the verdant valley below, the Li River and a seemingly infinite sea of karsts.

In the valleys, particularly a 66-square-kilometer stretch in Longji, rice terraces have been cultivated by farmers since the Yuan Dynasty over 600 years ago. Visiting the plots of rice that resemble dragon scales, one can take in the scenery while better appreciating the grueling work of the farmers. Their use of analog plows and hoes to aerate their fields reminds one that in China and across the globe, rice terrace farming remains a largely unmechanized process. The experience may lead one to appreciate not only the natural beauty of the area, but also the farmers who are often taken for granted and deserve more appreciation than as elements of the scenery in travel photos.

Humans also add a cultural layer atop the natural beauty, again with a sense of familiarity. The Red Yao people, whose women are known for their Guinness World Record-settin g long hair, have an entire museum dedicated to their sacred follicles, which are also the subject of many of the group’s traditional dances. They also share a linguistic connection with the Mường, as both are Tai-speaking populations.

Culture and landscape merge at the celebrated Impression Sanjie Liu show, the brainchild of Zhang Yimou, best known internationally as the director of the 2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony. The Li River and surrounding karsts serve as the setting for the show, which features hundreds of local Zhuang people. Zhang and his team created what can only be described as an epic interplay of light, with projections cast onto karsts many kilometers away, across the river in the foreground, and even onto the performers’ costumes.

The urban core of Guilin, meanwhile, has its own unique heritage, spanning both ancient and modern eras. The city prospered during the Tang and Song dynasties and later became home to Chinese intellectuals and artists fleeing the Japanese occupation of China’s coastal cities during World War II.

Guangxi Normal University is of particular importance, occupying the grounds of the Jingjiang Princes’ Palace. The palace, which predates Beijing’s famed Forbidden City by over 600 years, was converted into a university in 1932 and features a globally renowned chemistry department. It also doubles as a park and tourist attraction, representing the city’s intellectual soul not only through its facilities, but also through its artifacts. At the center of the palace lies Solitary Beauty Peak, which features stone inscriptions and poems dating back to the Ming Dynasty.

It is here that one will find a poem attributed to Southern Song Dynasty official Wang Zhenggong containing the phrase “桂林山水甲天下” or “Guilin’s scenery is the best under heaven.”

Though it’s a highly subjective take, after taking in Guilin and its environs, it’s hard to come up with a counterargument to Zhenggong.

For the Freshest Fish of the Day, Head to Hội An's Coast Before Sunrise

2026-06-10T10:00:00+07:00

The alarm goes off at 3am. By 3:30am, scooters laden with empty crates and baskets are already moving through the dark lanes and sandy passages towards Hội An's coast. Long before the old town wakes, the beaches along the shore are coming alive with engines, head torches, waves, and fishermen preparing to return to land. Thankfully, coffee is readily available almost anywhere.

A woman walks the shoreline before sunrise as fishing boats wait offshore near Hội An.

This is a different side of Hội An and its surrounding region, away from the lanterns and Instagram cafés, from the topless tourists and coconut boat rides. Here, the coastline wakes early. Boats return through rough surf, while buyers wait eagerly in the water, ready to pull the morning catch onto the sand.

Local fishermen arriving on shore and are pretty pleased about it.

Fishermen haul a coracle through heavy surf at sunrise on the coast.

The sea controls everything here. Timing is everything. Boats wait beyond the breakwaters before committing smaller coracles to the shore. Crews and buyers alike jump into the surf to steady them, rushing the catch in baskets and sacks to the shoreline.

Women await the arrival of the fishing boats from deeper waters offshore.

For photographers, that unpredictability and almost constant action is what makes mornings like these so rewarding. No two mornings are the same, and the conditions change minute by minute as the light slowly illuminates the sky before it reaches the shoreline.

Buyers rush into the water as boats arrive with the morning catch.

A woman carries the squid she has purchased to sell at market.

As daylight reaches the beach, the shoreline becomes a temporary seafood market. People crowd round and jostle for position as impromptu auctions take place. Fish are sorted directly beside the water while traders move quickly between boats, baskets, and waiting scooters. There is no performance to it. People are working against time, tide, and heat before the sun fully rises.

Local vendors crowd around the morning catch as simultaneous auctions hurriedly take place.

Crates arrive at market.

Unloading the fresh catch at the market.

One of the things I enjoy most about photographing these mornings is how connected everything feels to the people around you and the sea itself. The surf shapes the pace of the market, the movement of the boats, and the rhythm of everyone working along the shoreline. Just be ready to get into the waves. It helps. I promise.

Sardines brought ashore.

Keeping the books correct as the market begins to slow.

Further along the coast and river mouths, the morning continues as catches are unloaded and sorted before heading inland towards local markets and restaurants across the region.

Negotiations tend to ramp up in intensity as the morning gets lighter.

Ongoing negotiations over the fresh catch.

Preparing squid for transport to market.

Freshly caught sardines.

For visitors wanting to experience a more local side of Hội An, these fishing beaches offer something entirely different from the old town. The mornings are raw, fast-moving, and shaped entirely by offshore conditions.

Fishermen return to shore after a night at sea.

Pete Walls is a Hội An-based photographer. To learn more about his photography practice and tours, visit his website here.

In Saigon's Bửu Long Pagoda, a Meditative Escape and Pan-Southeast Asian Architecture

2026-06-08T10:00:00+07:00

It all started with a sparkle on the horizon, a beam of solar brilliance bouncing off a garish metallic surface.

Scanning the skyline from my Biên Hòa home, I notice a golden spire glimmering in the midday sun. Could my vision be deceiving me, I wonder, forcing my eyes to focus on the distant object, or am I, in fact, looking at something completely ordinary — perhaps a feature of the industrial landscape which surrounds the city?

It can only be one thing, I conclude, after brief deliberation: a stupa, and one of ambitious proportions. The enormous bell shaped tower dominates the vista. But you don't get these in Vietnam, I recall. Thailand, Cambodia, or Myanmar, yes, but surely not here. It turns out there is one here, and I had just found it, a mere 40-minute drive from downtown Saigon.

Bửu Long Pagoda is an idiosyncratic hodgepodge of pan-Southeast Asian architecture, and the bold vision of one man — Lê Văn Giảng — a doctor, civil servant and first abbot of the sanctuary. Established in 1942, the temple complex incorporates sacral forms seldom found in Vietnam.

It is most likely Giảng's extended stay in Phnom Penh that inspired the structure's unique design. The Cambodian doctor, as he is known by the monks, is also widely believed to be responsible for the most recent reintroduction into Vietnam of Theravada Buddhism — the most ancient doctrine of the philosophy, also referred to as Southern Buddhism due to its popularity in Sri Lanka, Thailand, Laos, Burma and Myanmar.

Located in District 9 on the banks of the Đồng Nai River, the temple complex offers a tranquil getaway from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Surrounded by a thick, shady grove, the site is a perfect place to escape the chaos of Saigon, unwind, meditate, and explore the many meandering paths and contained temples.

A monastery found on the site houses ten monks and 30 nuns. They spend their days meditating, chanting and maintaining the 10-hectare property. Typically, those involved in the Buddhist monastic order will renounce meat, intoxicants and earthly possessions, in addition to vowing to remain chaste for the duration of their service.

Devotees come to the pagoda to participate in meditation sessions and chanting led by the monks. These visits are particularly important, as those living in the monastery rely on the daily food donations made by the congregation.

Tuệ Quang, a senior monk at the temple, said the pagoda is open to anyone, regardless of their background or spiritual beliefs. “Pagodas are made to be visited,” he said. “Lê Văn Giảng would not have it any other way.”

Planted in 1959, the enormous tree found behind the main temple was brought to the complex as a sapling by a Sri Lankan monk named Nanda. The tree is thought to be a direct descendant of the Bodhi Tree that once grew at the Mahabodhi Temple in India, believed to be the site of Guatama Buddha's spiritual enlightenment.

Chameleon-shaped dragon heads are among the many foreign elements incorporated into the temple's design. Others include intricately patterned metal features, ubiquitous dharma wheels and, of course, the characteristic gilded towers.

I was told the peaceful atmosphere found at Bửu Long Pagoda is the result of two main factors: the temple's cool, shaded location, and the energy produced by its resident monks during chanting and meditation.

The lush greenery which surrounds the temple complex is particularly striking during the wet season, when daily precipitation fuels plant growth and floral blooms, attracting a multitude of colorful butterflies to the area.

A visit to the area would not be complete without taking a short ferry trip to the nearby Phước Long Temple, located on an island on the Đồng Nai River.

The short ferry ride provides spectacular views of the stupa, framed by the rapidly industrializing banks of the Đồng Nai River.

The gaudy, traditionally Vietnamese Phước Long temple complex, filled with Chinese influences and various deities derived from local folklore, offers a stark contrast to the relatively austere interiors of the buildings found at Bửu Long, where only the Buddha is venerated.

Packed with stalls selling a multitude of offerings, the island is a popular pilgrimage destination for the region's devotees.

The island's vendors sell souvenirs, jewelry and talismans, which can be injected with additional powers through a monk's blessing.

A fortuneteller offers her powers of foresight. Unfortunately, even genuine clairvoyance isn't able to bypass the language barrier, and my fate remains a mystery.

Before leaving the island I'm talked into buying a cage filled with house sparrows — the act of expressing mercy by releasing captive animals is a common practice throughout Asia. Mere minutes later, walking back to the ferry, I slip in a puddle of primordial slime, bruising my tailbone and scraping my ankle — blood and parasitic sludge mixing before my eyes. I'm not sure I buy the whole karma thing.

This article was originally published in 2018.

A Special 'Doraemon' Episode Taking Place in Vietnam Will Be Released in May

2026-05-19T11:00:00+07:00

After decades of watching Doraemon and his close friend groups adventure to all sorts of strange lands from the deepest trenches on Earth to fantastical planets, fans of the beloved cat robot in Vietnam will finally see our country in the cartoon series.

Japanese television station TV Asahi announced earlier this month that a special episode of the long-enduring children’s series Doraemon will take place in Vietnam, the third foreign location the characters have traveled to after Thailand and Spain.

The premise of the Vietnam episode, titled ‘The Gift Is a Trip to Vietnam,’ revolves around Shizuka’s birthday celebration in May. After she expresses interest in visiting Vietnam, Nobita, as usual, asks for Doraemon’s help to make the trip happen as a birthday gift to her. The plan is derailed once they discover that their go-to instant travel gadget, Anywhere Door, is broken.

The Vietnam adventure will take place anyway, if the episode trailer is any indication, as many iconic destinations and landmarks in Vietnam are shown: the Saigon Post Office, Hội An Ancient Town, the Dragon Bridge in Đà Nẵng, Hạ Long Bay, and more. Dressed in áo dài and wearing nón lá, the characters will need to enlist the help of Translation Konjac, which comes in the form of Translation Bánh Mì, to communicate in the Vietnamese language with locals.

The episode is scheduled to be broadcast on TV Asahi on Saturday, May 23 in Japanese. According to Tuổi Trẻ, it will be available for watchers in Vietnam via the PopKids YouTube page, but an official premiere has not been announced at the time of writing.

Have a look at some screenshots from the trailer below:

Images of the trailer via Facebook page Mon Fansub.

ACV Proposes Moving 90% of Saigon's Overseas Flights to Long Thành

2026-04-23T08:00:00+07:00

The Airports Corporation of Vietnam (ACV) has proposed plans to transfer flight operations in Hồ Chí Minh City from Tân Sơn Nhất Airport to Long Thành International Airport in Đồng Nai Province. The plan aims to transfer 90% of HCMC’s international flight operations to Long Thành by 2027.

The roadmap for the plan consists of two phases. In phase 1, all long-haul international flights — accounting for approximately 19% of Saigon's international passenger traffic — will be moved from Tân Sơn Nhất to Long Thành. This first stage will span the start and end of the Winter 2026 flight schedule, beginning December 1, 2026 and ending in March 27, 2027.

In phase 2, the remaining international flights will continue to be transferred, with the exception of short-haul routes under 1,000km operated by Vietnamese airlines — a radius which roughly encompasses regions in Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, and Malaysia. The second phase would start March 28, 2027, the beginning of the Summer 2027 flight schedule, through 2030. By the end of the second phase, the aim is to have Long Thành handle 90% of international passenger traffic.

After 2030, all international flights would operate exclusively out of Long Thành. According to ACV, the state-owned joint-stock company that manages 22 airports across Vietnam, the goal is to establish Long Thành as a global aviation hub.

To develop operational expertise ahead of Long Thành’s opening, the ACV is implementing workforce training programs and has signed a consultancy agreement with South Korea’s Incheon Airport Consortium.

According to the ACV, it will be crucial for domestic airlines to move their operations to Long Thành promptly in the early stages of the plan. Hesitations to do so could pose significant risks to achieving project goals and diminishing investment efficiency. Citing analysis by consulting firm IAC, the ACV also warned that failing to concentrate international routes in Long Thành will fragment the flight network, causing Vietnamese airlines to lose significant market share to foreign competitors.

Prime Minister Phạm Minh Chính has set a hard deadline for Long Thành Airport to launch by late 2026. Major challenges remain, however, most recently concerning a shortage of 6,000 workers to finish construction on time.

Photo via Pháp Luật.

Insights, Polished History Lessons Await in Hanoi's Massive, Brutalist Military Museum

2026-03-27T08:00:00+07:00

When I pitched a review of Hanoi’s massive new Vietnam Military History Museum to the Saigoneer editorial staff, I expected to find the museum somewhat boring. After all, although I am a historian, I am not really that interested in military stuff, and I’d been to the original location on Điện Biên Phủ Street several times — how could this new museum improve on the old one? What could this new museum say that the old one didn’t? What could I learn here that I haven’t already learned at Saigon’s War Remnants Museum and Hồ Chí Minh Campaign Museum, at Điện Biên Phủ’s war museum, at Hải Phòng’s naval museum, and at the countless other shrines to Vietnamese martial prowess across the country? Quite a lot, it turns out.

Opened in early November 2024, the museum covers 386,600 square meters and cost approximately VND2.5 trillion (US$98.5 million) to build. Within the severe concrete walls are 150,000 objects related to several thousand years of conflict in Vietnam. Construction, hampered by COVID-19 delays, took almost five years. The opening roughly coincided with the 80^th anniversary of the People’s Army of Vietnam, which was founded on December 22, 1944.

The museum campus’s architecture is something one must experience in person. The main building and the Victory Tower soar higher than they look in pictures; cameras can’t capture the scale of the new campus’s courtyards and hallways. The main building rises from the plains of Hanoi’s southern suburbs like nothing else nearby. The only other structure close to the museum is a Vincom Megamall, which is hidden behind an elevated highway. The museum is a symphony in concrete, so far beyond Soviet-style brutalism that it becomes almost neo-Neolithic, a cement Uluru in dull grey. The museum is more than half an hour’s drive from Hanoi’s city center, and it is worth taking the journey just to marvel at the building. As many of the north’s old socialist brutalist buildings fall to the wrecking ball, there is something heartwarming in seeing new constructions taking those classic design principles to new heights. It seems especially fitting that the military museum’s architecture and its contents both owe so much to the ghost of the Soviet Union.

The next thing that hit me, quite literally, was the crowd. On a Wednesday morning, the museum’s courtyard had more than a thousand guests already, all Vietnamese, milling about and marveling at aircraft, tanks, and artillery pieces. Many of them were school groups on field trips. I was invited to join several photos — I stopped counting after 30 — and told a hundred kids that my name was David, I was from America and that I loved Vietnam very much. I was soon overwhelmed and had to take refuge behind a mask and a pair of sunglasses. This did not help much, but I was able to float around the rest of the outdoor exhibits mostly unbothered.

In front of the museum are two large collections of vehicles: the western courtyard holding French, American, and RVN equipment; with the DRV, Soviet, and Chinese in the eastern courtyard. Highlights in the west include a Chinook twin-rotor helicopter, a Lockheed Martin C-130, and the amazingly sculpted tower of French and American aircraft debris that used to rise above the old military museum. To the east are some T-34 and T-54 tanks, Soviet aircraft like the AN-26 and some MiG fighters, and various SAM missiles. The Victory Tower, 45 meters tall, looms over the whole space. Though I’d seen the photos and heard the reports of unruly crowds climbing over everything when the museum first opened, that behavior seems to have stopped. The visitors I saw were well-behaved and respectful, though perhaps that was due to the watchful eyes of the many museum guards in full military uniform sitting around every major exhibit.

Moving inside the main building, it was clear to me that despite having opened a few months ago, the museum is still very much a work in progress. Stairs and hallways were cordoned off with caution tape. Plywood and construction tools lay piled around dusty corners of rooms filled with empty display cases. Half of the exhibit halls on the map were not yet open. Because of this confusion, I ended up looping around through several hallways, wandering in search of an exit or an exhibit, before I finally found where I was supposed to go. The crowds of schoolkids and army officers did not make navigation any easier, though being a head taller than anyone else sure helped me keep my bearings in the sea of uniforms. I ended up going through the main historical exhibit halls backward, just because it was not clear where I should start my tour.

The museum exhibits are laid out in chronological order in four main halls, beginning with 900 BCE and ending in the present day. All the exhibitions’ messages are variations on a theme: for thousands of years, the Vietnamese people have fought to remain free. This message is neither new nor surprising; it was the main theme of the older military museum in the center of Hanoi, and it is an important element of modern Vietnam’s foundational mythos. In its previous incarnation, the military museum showcased many objects but often neglected to contextualize them within the broader arc of Vietnamese history or explain their use. The new museum does not make this mistake: the informational panels, videos, and audio guides are a big improvement to the way that this museum tells its stories.

To keep history personal, every gallery is full of small panels about individual heroes throughout history who were committed to the Vietnamese cause, many of whom sacrificed their lives for the nation. I stopped to read as many of their stories as I could, but I would have run out of time trying to read them all. Even people with the loosest grasp of Vietnamese history can follow along and, hopefully, learn something new. Around me, plenty of other people were. Though the museum had its share of the ever-present TikTok selfie squads, the diverse group of Vietnamese visitors around me — elementary school kids on field trips, teenagers in their trendy jackets, military service members in uniform, older aunties and uncles, and grandparents — were all engaged in reading the signage and marveling solemnly at the martial artifacts imprisoned in glass displays.

The first exhibit hall focuses on ancient, medieval, and early modern Vietnamese history. Through interactive displays and little cartoon shorts, I learned about several important battles in early Vietnamese history. Display cases along the wall held rusty spearpoints and sword blades, sharpened stakes pulled up from northern riverbeds and Đông Sơn bronze drums, long entombed and oxidized beneath paddy fields. Larger artifacts include a crossbow and some cannons. As a scale modeler myself, I loved exploring the intricate models of Cổ Loa Citadel (3^rd Century BCE) and the Battle of Bạch Đằng River (938 CE). Naturally, the common thread running through these exhibits is Vietnamese resistance to various Chinese dynasties’ invasions; though some attention is given to inter-Vietnamese conflicts like the Period of the Twelve Warlords (965–968 CE) and the Tây Sơn Wars (1771–1802 CE), there is little information on Vietnamese military interventions into Khmer, Chăm, or Highland spaces, which I was interested in learning more about.

After that came the struggle against the French. The exhibits breezed through some of Imperial Vietnam’s early defeats and instead cast a spotlight on various resistance movements after the French colonial takeover in the latter half of the 19^th century, most of which were unsuccessful. The part of the exhibition on the First Indochina War from 1945 to Điện Biên Phủ covered the creation of an independent Vietnam, and the successes of the People’s Army against the French colonial forces. Most of the exhibit space in this hall is filled with display cases holding rusted guns, but the signage is interesting, and I learned more about some lesser-known revolutionary heroes like Đội Cấn (for whom my home street is named) and highlander Đinh Núp. One spot that I found particularly affective was a life-size recreation of a barricaded street during the 1946 Battle of Hanoi, in which almost a third of the city was leveled, the event dramatized in last year’s hit film Đào, phở và piano. I was also interested in an exhibit on the “Deer Team,” a group of American spies with the OSS (the precursor to the CIA) who parachuted into northern Vietnam towards the end of WWII to assist Hồ Chí Minh in fighting the Japanese occupation. At the end of the hall is a semi-circular mini-theater with a scale model of Điện Biên Phủ and an audiovisual light show that goes through the definitive battle of the First Indochina War, which was a beloved fixture of the old museum campus. I was delighted to see that it had survived the move.

Then came the Second Indochina War, variously called the American War and the Vietnam War. I’ll admit I didn’t really pay close attention here. As an American and a historian who has lived in Vietnam for a while, I am getting tired of being asked about this conflict. Nonetheless, I suspect that ongoing domestic and international fascination with this tumultuous period of Vietnamese history will make it a favorite hall for many visitors. Different subsections of this hall covered the usual main points: Ấp Bắc, the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, the Tết Offensive, the war for the Central Highlands, the Hồ Chí Minh Campaign, and the Liberation of Saigon. Within this hall are plenty of guns and uniforms, as well as larger and more notable objects like a SAM missile launcher from Hanoi’s air defenses, a Renault Juvaquatre car, a MiG 21 fighter plane, and T-54B tank number 843, which played a critical role in the liberation of several southern cities during the Hồ Chí Minh campaign in 1975.

The final hall, which covered the period from 1975 to today, was more interesting to me. The two major sections here explored the border wars with China in 1979, with Cambodia from 1979 to 1989, and the ongoing troubles in Vietnam’s East Sea islands, delving into the rationale and method behind the literal nation-building projects in the Hoàng Sa and Trường Sa archipelagoes. At the end of the hall, a coda explains how the People’s Army of Vietnam is not just for fighting wars but also is ready to assist the public in case of natural disasters. This is the smallest of the historical exhibit rooms and has fewer artifacts than the preceding three halls, but I was engrossed in reading many of the panels here because I am less familiar with the history of the recent border wars than I am with the older anti-colonial conflicts.

The map I had showed several other exhibit halls, most of which were still under construction. The only other one I was able to see was a gallery featuring military-themed artwork. The gallery was seemingly unfinished — the floor was just exposed concrete and dust hung in the air, swirling around the spotlights — but the art was interesting. Like the rest of the museum’s exhibits, subjects ranged from ancient Vietnamese history to the modern day, and materials varied from painted canvases to sculptures. My favorite painting here was one depicting the Vietnamese victory at Điện Biên Phủ in 1945, with three scared-looking Frenchmen surrendering in the center of the canvas.

The one inconvenience — besides the fact that the museum is more than 20 kilometers from downtown Hanoi — is that, like many of Vietnam’s other museums, this one closes from 11:30am to 2pm for lunch. I don’t usually mind these long lunchtime closures, since so many of Vietnam’s museums are located in semi-urban areas where it’s easy to find a meal and a café to wait out the siesta, but this museum is truly in the middle of nowhere. It’s also so expansive that it takes several hours just to walk briskly through the exhibits, way more if you want to actually stop and read the signage or sit and watch some of the many videos playing throughout the halls in small semi-circular cinema rooms. I had to cross several lanes of busy highway to get to an overpriced but air-conditioned lunch at the Vincom Megamall nearby, though there were a handful of carts selling trà đá and various other refreshments by the museum entrance. The museum map said that there was a café on site somewhere (allegedly in the basement), but I never found it or the souvenir store.

Having finally visited the museum, I understand the hype. Though parts of it are still under construction, I can tell that a lot of care went into every step of the exhibits’ designs. These are not the dusty halls and wonky translations that characterized a visit to the old museum. There are 3D interactive models, exhibits that utilize light and sound, searchable touch screens, and more than sixty different videos, both animated and live-action. With a phone and mobile data (only one of the exhibit halls has free WiFi), a visitor can access a whole extra layer of multimedia experience. There are QR codes and audio guides available to stream for those who wish to dig deeper.

Despite my general disinterest in military history, this massive stone cathedral to steel and gunpowder is now my favorite museum in Hanoi. Although I liked the charm of the old military museum on Điện Biên Phủ Street in the old pale-yellow French colonial office building, this museum has weight and presence in a way that hits deep in my brutalism-loving heart. It would have been so easy for the government to just build some generic glass-and-steel museum full of airy, well-lit atria. I am glad that they did not. I’ll be back.

This article was originally published in 2025.

Tourists Generate Up to 3 Times More Plastic Waste Than Locals, UNDP Finds

2026-03-19T15:00:00+07:00

A recent report by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) warns that plastic waste pollution poses increasing problems for both the environment and the economy of the tourism industry, especially as the sector continues to grow rapidly.

On February 6, the UNDP, in coordination with the Vietnam National Authority of Tourism, organized a consultative workshop titled “Baseline Assessment of Plastic Waste Pollution in Viet Nam’s Tourism Sector,” and presented key findings from the report, which focused on the two cities of Ninh Bình and Đà Nẵng.

According to the study, tourists are the primary source of plastic waste, producing anywhere between 1.7 and 3 times more plastic waste than local residents. The study also reports that overnight visitors in coastal tourism destinations such as Đà Nẵng generate more than twice the amount of plastic waste as visitors to ecotourism-centric cities such as Ninh Bình. Nonetheless, the report doesn't specify whether the tourists studied are domestic or international.

UNDP further explains that, while nearly all businesses in the tourism industry acknowledge the harms of plastic waste, a majority of them nonetheless provide single-use plastics to guests. Plastic products, such as PET plastic bottles and plastic bags, constitute more than 90% of the total plastic waste at such tourist destinations. About 72% of tourists visiting Ninh Bình use over three plastic bottles every day, while about 95% businesses in Ninh Bình and 81.6% in Đà Nẵng provide visitors with plastic items.

In addition to harmful effects to the environment, plastic waste pollution also poses significant economic challenges. The UNDP report quantifies the “cost of inaction” (COI) of plastic waste pollution. In Đà Nẵng, the total COI is estimated to be VND1,743.7 billion per year, while in Ninh Bình, the total COI is estimated to be VND606.7 billion per year. Notably, factors that contribute to the COI include the costs of waste collection and treatment and infrastructure maintenance, as well as “brand” damage to the destination.

A few key solutions were recommended to tackle the issue across the areas of policy, infrastructure, and business: the integration of plastic waste reduction into the government’s tourism quality assessment criteria and accommodation rating systems; significant improvements to infrastructure, both for the collection and segregation of plastic waste; and strategic incentives to promote a phased transition away from the use of single-use plastics for businesses.

“Based on empirical evidence, the approach must shift from a passive, end-of-pipe response to prevention at source and the active engagement of the private sector through appropriate investment and financing mechanisms to support innovative tourism business models that gradually replace single-use plastic products and move toward sustainable development,” urged Vũ Thái Trường, head of the Climate Change, Energy and Environment Unit at UNDP Vietnam.

Last year, in 2025, Vietnam welcomed a record-high number of more than 21 million tourists to the country, marking a 20.4% increase compared to 2024. In hoping to continue the momentum, Vietnam’s tourism authorities have set an ambitious target of attracting 25 million international visitors for 2026. Tourism remains a key economic sector as Vietnam pursues a new phase of socioeconomic development for the 2026–2030 period.

Photo via Unsplash.

'Chuyện Của Pao' Turned a Historic H'Mông Home in Hà Giang Into a Tourist Attraction

2026-03-13T11:00:00+07:00

The photos don’t do it justice. That’s what you’ll often hear from people who visit Hà Giang to cruise its famed highway loop.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Roads ribbon down the sides of unhemmed cliffs and a seemingly endless rise and plummet of mountain peaks skewer the soft, cloud-filled sky. Careening around curves reveals fields that have erupted in flowers and everything is covered in vegetation that exposes the inadequate range of the word green. One can see the stars and taste the rich soil whisked off fresh harvests.

Like photos, my words cannot accurately capture the immensity of the area’s beauty or the perspective one gains while traveling there. Hà Giang was one of the few major tourist spots in Vietnam that I had not yet traveled to during my seven years living here and I was thus eager to experience it this past fall. While I was confident the landscape would astound, I feared finding an area straining under the weight of overdevelopment like Sa Pa, Đà Lạt or Phú Quốc. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to discover that the region is not yet inundated with large resorts, exploitative tour groups or locals who had altered their lifestyles in drastic ways to appeal to outsiders’ notions of adventure.

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

While there is of course development in the province that caters to the many who come to travel the loop, it is less invasive than I had expected. Quaint homestays are still operated by families who grew up in the area and prepare delicious meals in rustic kitchens before joining travelers at their living room table to toast homemade rice wine. When I woke early in the morning, I watched farmers lead their buffalo out to graze, elderly women stoke fires beside the stacks of wood collected to last the approaching winter, and throughout the day, people of all ages, occasionally in ethnic minority attire, trudged along the highway; their backs laden with collected crops.

The house at the center of it

The house. Image via Đài Phát thanh và Truyền hình tỉnh Hà Giang.

Besides the incredible views, harrowing roads, and friendly people I met on the journey, and not counting the truly strange 500 million-year-old trilobite fossil presented on the path up to the Lũng Cú Flag Tower, the site that left the most lasting impression was a traditional H'Mông house in Lũng Cẩm village in Hà Giang’s Đồng Văn District directly off National Highway 4.

Photos via Bắc Giang Newspaper.

During the colonial period, the area produced mainly opium plants in addition to corn but has since transitioned to rice, buckwheat, flowers, fruits and corn. Built in 1947, this particular house owned by a wealthy H’Mông family provides a good example of traditional architecture with a wooden gate standing in the middle of the stone fence that circles a spacious courtyard surrounded by fruit trees. The home’s foundation, base and porch are made from local green limestone while the support columns and trusses are wooden and the walls are earthen. The large attic space is still used to dry corn and other crops and the four-generation family continues to live and work inside, though their activities now include attending to the hundreds of tourists that visit every day.

Fields of flowers and various crops grow on the plateau beneath rising gray-faced mountains. To reach the house, one must walk beneath a gate announcing the Lũng Cẩm Tourism Village and pass dozens of stalls selling dried fruits, nuts, herbs, roots, seeds, grains and mushrooms. Intricately sewn H'Mông dresses, blankets and scarves hang beside a woman selling buckwheat cakes. Local beer, shredded bamboo and honey are all sealed in bottles to be transported away and gifted as souvenirs. The tour buses pulled over beside the road during my visit attest to its popularity, and during the peak buckwheat flower season in the fall it’s reported that upwards of 1,000 people visit per day.

Movie poster via IMDB.

The particular home would not have been established as a tourism site if it were not for the movie Chuyện của Pao (The Story of Pao) which premiered in 2006 and won numerous awards including four Golden Kites and was introduced at the 2007 Cannes International Film Festival. The house at the end of the pathway was used as the main filming locale for the movie.

Chuyện của Pao focuses on the namesake character, a young H'Mông woman raised by her father’s first wife, but born to a different woman in accordance with the culture’s patriarchal traditions and expectations. She is reaching adulthood while navigating her family’s complex unhappiness when tragedy strikes at the movie’s onset.

Movie still via Zai Tri.

The difficulty of life in Hà Giang looms throughout the film as characters are constantly plodding through fields burdened with manual labor to scrape together a livelihood. But a gentle lute song drifts through the cold air, bringing a tinge of sweet tenderness to the movie thanks to the joys of youth and the first pangs of the mature romance Pao is pursuing. While technological limitations make the film look older than it really is and fail to capture the area’s natural grandeur, and the slow pacing and art-house style may turn off some viewers, it is a masterful and heartbreaking work of acting and writing that everyone should watch.

When May became Pao

“A cold wind blew in from the mountain, the old pear leaves were falling with a soft rustling noise as they landed on the stone gate.”

This quote is not a description of the movie, but rather the final line from 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' (The Sound of the Liplute Behind the Fence), the short story by Đỗ Bích Thúy that Chuyện của Pao is based on. Films may represent a more popular form of storytelling than novels nowadays, to say nothing of short stories, but like film industries all around the world, Vietnam has long looked to literature to find core narratives and characters for films, as is the case with Chuyện của Pao.

'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' won the 1998-1999 short story prize in Văn nghệ Quân magazine and has been reprinted in her collections of stories with an English translation forthcoming in a collection of female authors that I was able to get an advanced copy of. Despite the characters all having different names (May becomes Pao in the movie, for example), the fundamental setup of the story is the same. May must face the infrequent arrivals of her biological mother to the home where her father and his wife, the woman that raised her, live. Meanwhile, a young man in the area woos May by playing his lip lute on the other side of her home’s wall. Only 10 pages long, the suspenseful story succeeds thanks to its tight plot and fully realized characters with clear but complex motivations. The unforgiving realities of filial expectations and fates beyond one’s control are exacerbated by the harsh climate where crops must grow on farms where “rocks rose to the surface of dirt that held seeds awaiting germination,” an apt metaphor for how people develop in the story, as well.

Đỗ Bích Thúy (right) in her hometown. Photo via Văn Hoá Doanh Nhân.

Reading 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' and then watching Chuyện của Pao reinforces my belief that short stories make for better source material for movies than novels. Simply, novels contain too much stuff for a film to hold. Putting aside the challenges of capturing internal monologues and omniscient narrators able to offer sweeping expositions, novels feature too expansive of plots with too many characters. Upon viewing a movie based on a novel, audiences typically focus on what was removed, simplified or altered, as well as what characters and scenes looked different from what they had imagined. While relying on a short story instead doesn’t solve all of these issues, it does help.

Chuyện của Pao doesn’t omit major elements from the story, but rather adds significant ones by including a dramatic third act that is set up by a new opening scene. Faced with more choices to make that occur across a larger span of time and geographic region, the characters reveal different elements of themselves. One will have a different view of Pao’s mother, in particular, and the work’s greater commentary on patriarchy, after watching the film compared to the story. This is not to say that one is somehow better than the other. But rather, the stories they each tell are well suited to their formats and equally pleasing. I’d suggest consuming both if one has any interest in either, though start with the story first.

Given evolving understandings of cultural appropriation and increased discussions of the concept, both here in Vietnam, and abroad, it's worth touching on the fact that the story and the movie are the works of Kinh people yet focus on the lives of H'Mông individuals. Đỗ Bích Thúy was born and raised in Hà Giang in a hamlet consisting of Kinh, H'Mông and Tày families and many of her stories, spread across more than twenty books, focus on the diverse lifestyles and cultures in the region. One of her closest friends, Giàng Thị Thương, became the foundation for May in 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá.' When she became a writer, she was intent on presenting the resilience of the woman who raised but did not give birth to Thương, just like in the story.

Recent photo of Giàng Thị Thương via Báo phụ nữ.

When I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy about the subject of cultural appropriation, she explained in Vietnamese via email: “I was born and raised among Hà Giang’s ethnic minorities, even though I am not an ethnic minority. I see myself as part of their community and I appreciate and am proud of our traditional cultural values. I use these values in my creative works as a way to promote and introduce the beauty of my community to others; at the same time I also hope that members of my community feel proud of what we have.”

Meanwhile, the film stars Đỗ Thị Hải Yến who was raised in Hanoi while Hải Phòng native Ngô Quang Hải wrote and directed. Đỗ Bích Thúy had no involvement in its making, and she was happy to enjoy it like an audience member without expectations. And while there was seemingly no backlash at the time regarding the film lacking the involvement of people inside the community and culture it focuses on, it is worth noting that a 2022 film titled Khu rừng của Páo (Pao’s Forest) stars a H’Mông actor in the lead role, pointing to the possibility that notions of representation are changing in the industry.

The legacy of Pao and May in Hà Giang

While most Vietnamese tourists are likely familiar with Chuyện của Pao, I doubt that many come to Lũng Cẩm Village because of their appreciation of it. Rather, the spot offers a convenient place to stretch their legs, take some selfies and buy some unique souvenirs. A few photos from the filming days hang on the wall with minimal signage, but otherwise, there is little that would lead someone to watch the movie after visiting. Unfortunately, the story the movie was adapted from is even less present. Visitors have claimed that local tour guides mistakenly told travelers that the film was based on a work by Tô Hoài. A sign even featured a misprint in the story’s title that was recently corrected with expanded details about the writing.

It’s useless to bemoan how infrequently people read. Rather, my energy is better spent being proactive and looking for small opportunities to entice people to pick up a book. Hà Giang, a locale that needs little promotion, is an obvious place to do so. Independent of the story, be it the book or the movie, it's a great place to visit, but with the characters fresh in one’s memory, it takes on a much greater weight. I was able to feel a slightly more significant understanding of the experiences and endurance of the people working and living in the area. Whatever tiny glimpse the works of art afforded me helped provide a sense of connection and appreciation, which is a main reason we travel, after all.

Looking for a happy ending

While the characters end the film and story in very different places, their futures are open-ended in both. Upon completion, the viewer or reader is gifted the opportunity to imagine their futures and fates, one of the most satisfying elements of a work of fiction. I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy what she thought might happen to the characters after the story’s conclusion and she shared: “I always hope my fictional characters have a happy ending in their lives, because even though they are fictional, they carry with them figments of real people living lives filled with more misfortunes than luck, more sadness than contentment.”

If I had read the story when it was first published over twenty years ago, I certainly would not have imagined that a representation of the home May lived in would become a tourist destination. But one can now question if such a third-wall-breaking moment would represent a happy ending for the fictional May and her family. Given the financial resources and opportunities that tourism has ushered into the region along with improved living conditions, it's reasonable to assume the characters’ lives would be better now than at the conclusion of the stories.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As an outsider, it's not my place to offer a definitive judgment about any net positive or negative to the area as a result of increased tourism as seen in places like Pao’s home. I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy about the matter and she explained that in her hometown, “people place their hope on tourism as the most important solution to grow the economy. There’s nothing wrong with that. I was born and raised in Hà Giang so I know firsthand how rough and daunting life here can be. Wherever the wind of tourism sweeps past, the material life of people will change for the better. But along with benefits are more losses. The most obvious loss is transformations in local customs, ways of life, agricultural methods, languages (because they will start speaking Kinh Vietnamese), loss of traditional costumes, architecture, etc. — in short, it’s an erosion of traditional values. Every day, they are going away, little by little… With every step of tourists, a gust of wind will form, sweeping away all the tangible and intangible values, things we once thought are indestructible after years of formation, but are actually quite fragile. They take centuries to create, but only a few decades to be destroyed. And once they’re gone, it’s very hard to get back.”

She continued by stressing the importance of sustainable travel that can balance the preservation of cultures with improving living standards. With that in mind, perhaps the most responsible and satisfying way to travel to Hà Giang is to read 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' and then watch Chuyện của Pao. Certainly doing so will result in a richer, more intimate experience if one does journey there.

This article was originally published in 2023.

From Dark to Dawn, an Early Morning at Hội An's Duy Hải Fish Market

2026-03-01T15:00:00+07:00

At 3am, Hội An’s streets resemble dog-gnawed pork bones, licked clean of all scent and viscera. No light, no noise, no movement. But that’s the time you must venture out to witness the Duy Hải Fish Market in action.

After you cross the Cửa Đại Bridge leading away from Old Town, you’ll turn into a warren of homes and notice the first signs of activity. A few motorbikes rumble in the distance, some homes have lights on, and finally, on the tiny streets that lead to the water, small restaurants and coffee shops emerge, brightly lit against the lampblack dark. In a simple wooden-walled shop playing bolero, middle-aged men slap playing cards onto plastic tables filled with phin filters and drinking glasses. Their workdays are already over and it is time to relax now that they are back on firm ground. At the docks, women are just beginning to work as sanguine light clots on the horizon.

A fish market is a testament to the messiness of making things work. All-purpose plastic bins and baskets fill with fish, their mucus-slick scales shimmering on the cement like dropped costume jewelry. Women weigh, sort and separate the catch before selling them to the wholesalers who will take them into town for use in restaurants and grocery stores. These are family operations: the women work in concert with their fathers, husbands or brothers who steer the boats towards the dock. This is not a place for fashion. Mismatched pajamas. Stained sweatshirts and tattered hats are the ad hoc uniforms for those crouching in knee-high rubber boats, occasionally splashed by the water seemingly trickling everywhere. Fish blood and exhaust linger in the air.

While removed from the immediate action, the commotion is no less intense on the water. Duy Hải’s handful of docks service a good number of boats coming in from the sea, and smooth coordination is required to bring them in efficiently and without collision. The conventions governing the order and procedure of their arrivals is beyond outsiders, instead it operates with a mysterious mathematics not unlike the currents themselves: we don’t understand it, but we trust it.

The sun is not up yet, but its rays foretell its entrance.

Streaks of yellow and orange ward off the curtains of dawn.

Frayed and tangled nets with stained floats and bobbers pile on the boat decks. Weather-battered wood boasts brightly colored, peeling paint; the familiar eyes at the front are chipped and fading. A sluice of salty muck, algae, oil, and sweat lay a damp sheen to every surface. Only the ocean surface below or the cloud cover above hints at purification, some clean future; a hot shower, and the clear broth the catch will accompany

Collecting fish from nets.

Freshly catch sea creatures are sorted by types and sizes.

As 6am nears, there is little end to difficult work to be done, but the daylight ushers in a new hazard: tourists. With matching paint jobs and helmets, motorbikes near the dock, and camera-gripping visitors descend on the scene. The men transferring fish to shore, and the woman shouting prices and preferences to each other must now be mindful of the interlopers. Duy Hải, like many sites of traditional activity, has now become a spectacle for foreigners and locals alike. It’s a good time to depart. And looking back from the bridge, the chaos imperceptible, a hint òf the day’s heat already draped on the mountains in the distance, we are reminded of the peculiar, frail shuffling our species does along the hem of the great oceans.

Vietnam Welcomes 21m Tourists in 2025, Highest-Ever Figure in History

2026-01-20T10:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanoi's Proposal to Stop Train Service Might Spell the End of 'Train Street'

2026-01-13T11:00:00+07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Kon Tum's Đăk Đrinh Lake, Life Slows to a Therapeutic Pace

2025-12-29T08:00:00+07:00

Đăk Đrinh Lake lies in the northern reaches of Kon Tum, where the hills rise in slow, deliberate waves and the pace of life is set by the land. The Ca Dong ethnic communities remain here, maintaining their language, stilt houses, and routines that have shaped this corner of the highlands for generations.

Greenery surrounds the man-made lake.

I travelled here in May, during the Vietnam national holiday period, looking to escape the crowds elsewhere in the country. It was a time of transition into the wet season with greener hills, heavier air, and a chance to find some quiet among places where pleasures are simpler and days move more slowly.

The direct route round here will always be on the water.

In a town hanging in the hills along the lake's shoreline, one local homestay owner has taken it upon himself to build a small English-language school for children from surrounding hamlets. He funded it, stocked it, and continues to run it on his own — a quiet act of community care in a place where resources are limited and long daily walks to and from school are still common. Classes are held in town, with those staying at the homestay often volunteering their time to help teach basic English or contribute practical materials, bringing lessons to life in more informal and interactive ways.

The school, built carefully by hand, on the edge of town.

Around the lake, mornings begin with wooden boats cutting across the water, fishing nets thrown by hand. Fields on the slopes fill with families working through the heat in steady routines. Evenings settle slowly, with people taking to the lake to cool off, while thunder rumbles through the hills and fields begin to flicker with fireflies.

Children gather before an impromptu football where the photographer is happy to report that he lost, comfortably.

Have a look at more of the photos from the weekend below:

The owner of Đắk Đrinh Lodge in the school he built with his own hands.

Children of all ages are introduced to English

The best welcome to the village anyone could ask for.

Staggered rice paddies give way to the man-made lake.

Friendly locals always happy to greet new guests.

Late afternoon light settles on a stilt house veranda as the day begins to wind down.

An elder looks over the village while a dog lies close by.

Inside a house, the evening routine continues: cooking, sorting, and preparing for night.

An elderly woman sits quietly inside her stilt house while a child leans against her shoulder, a small moment of closeness framed by the interior of the home.

A stilt house set up for life here.

A stilt house amongst the golden rice fields, typical of the village.

A man sleeps in the open doorway of his stilt house.

Rounding up the local children before class starts.

A child practices the English alphabet during a community-run class, held in the village for children from surrounding hamlets.

Harvested fields are watched over by poncho scarecrows.

Distant agricultural fires burn long into the night.

A concrete road cuts through the hills, one of the few signs of recent change in an otherwise slow landscape.

Everything travels by boat here. To take the road is the long way round.

Banana trees at the lodge.

Houses dot the hillside, connected by a series of well-trodden pathways.

Đắk Đrinh Lake in full calm — mountains, cloud, and water holding the same color.

Late afternoon light settles over Đắk Đrinh Lake, where steep green hills fall quietly into the water below.

A Place to Live the Sea: Inside InterContinental Residences Nha Trang

2025-12-24T14:26:59+07:00

Between the pulse of Trần Phú and the hush of the ocean lies a place where the sea begins to feel like home.

A Morning that Belongs to You

Nha Trang greets the day with light that moves softly across the bay. From the balcony, you’ll see the horizon flicker from silver to blue while the city slowly wakes. Waves brush against the sand while the sound of scooters rises with the tide.

From here, the rhythm of the coast feels closer, more personal. Maybe this is because InterContinental Residences Nha Trang was never meant to be just another hotel, but a space to live in and inhabit. Its 113 residences, from compact studios to three-bedroom duplexes, open wide to sunlight and ocean air. Inside, everything feels considered: a kitchen where breakfast stretches into late morning, a living room that flows naturally into an ocean-view balcony, a sense of home that lingers in the small rituals of daily life.

For families, there’s space to breathe. Children can drift between the pool and the sofa, while their parents prepare dinner together as the last light fades over the water. For couples, it’s the quiet luxury of privacy: mornings with coffee on the balcony and evenings when fishing boats glow faintly in the distance. For long-stay travelers, it’s the rare ease of having all amenities like the washer and dryer within reach, yet never losing the warmth of being looked after.

Where the City Meets the Sea, and You Find Your Own Rhythm

Step outside and Trần Phú Boulevard stretches along one of the world’s most beautiful bays, a long, sunlit ribbon connecting the hum of the city with the calm of the sea. This is the pulse of Nha Trang, where the scent of grilled seafood mingles with salt air, where cafés spill onto sidewalks and island cruises depart just beyond the surf. From here, everything feels effortlessly close. Temples perched on quiet hillsides, the Po Nagar Towers, and the coastline curving endlessly toward the horizon are all within reach

Back inside, the pace shifts again. Guests of the Residences simultaneously enjoy the freedom of a private home and the elegance of InterContinental service. Some days are for indulgence: a breakfast at an open-air restaurant on the ground floor on the side of Trần Phú Boulevard, and an afternoon tea followed by a memorable dinner at a cozy lounge overlooking to the ocean, or a rejuvenating treatment scented with lemongrass and frangipani at the sister hotel’s spa right next to the residences. Other days, simplicity is enough: cooking your own meal, opening the balcony doors to the sound of the tide, and letting the sea fill the silence.

Everyone can find their own pace here at the Residences: families escaping for a month, travelers who unpack for a week and end up staying through the season, professionals who trade city noise for the rhythm of the waves.

Cam Ranh Airport is only forty minutes away, but once you arrive, that distance seems to stretch on. Time softens. The day slows into something gentler when it consists of a morning walk along the promenade, a coffee at the same corner café, and a quiet swim as dusk sets in.

In a city filled with hotels, InterContinental Residences Nha Trang stands apart not by grand gestures, but by quiet confidence. It doesn’t rush to impress. It invites you to stay, to settle in, while deliberate comforts reveal themselves over time. The sound of the coastal city life and the unspoken warmth of service combine to make each stay into something far more lasting than a getaway.

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InterContinental Residences Nha Trang |32-34 Trần Phú, Lộc Thọ, Nha Trang, Khánh Hòa 650000, Vietnam