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

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

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

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

Photo via Hoàng Hậu dragon fruit farm.

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

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image via Reddit user stknrdr]

“What do you guys crave? I’ll send some.”

My sister and I live 600 kilometers away from hometown, a placid town in the middle of green hills. Every month without fail, our mother always sends us a box of food to help out. When we were little, it was our family ritual to gather around the hearty meals she cooked for us. Now that we’ve left home, through her bountiful care packages, it’s like she’s still by our side in a quiet but affectionate way. When we unbox her presents, the tastes of home and our childhoods fill our hearts with warmth.

There’s an exciting seasonality behind mom’s curation. In the rainy seasons, the box will be full of freshwater fish and prawns from her regular vendors at our market. During pond-draining periods, the seafood is always fresh and fat. Dozens of tiny eggs from our chickens are packed neatly in plastic jars in between rice straw as a cushion. Sometimes there will be treasures from the garden she maintains: greens and tubers, chubby bamboo shoots, and handfuls of mushrooms that still smell like wet soil. Whatever the best harvest of the day would end up in the box. In the summer, the box turns into a fruit display: durian, avocado, rambutan, longan, lychee, etc. She manages to squeeze the entire market into the box for us.

Every time I open the box, there’s a feast of precooked dishes that are carefully divided into portions enough for 1–2 meals so we don’t have to reheat too often: from fish braised with young bananas, lemongrass chicken, to beef stew. Pork and chicken from the farm, prepped and frozen; washed and plucked herbs — everything comes with written notes on how to best prepare it. It might seem effortless, but behind each box is usually two days’ worth of preparation, picking and shopping for ingredients, cooking, packing, and arranging transportation. I sometimes joke that she packs her motherly affection inside banana leaves, plastic wraps, and ice chunks in the care packages. It’s a kind of love that’s unpretentious but warmer than anything we’ve received in our lives.

One time, I texted her randomly: “Mom, I really want to eat heritage pork.” A few days later, she sent me 7 kilograms. I was beside myself with astonishment, perhaps this is just how all moms operate. The older I get, the clearer I can feel the strong pull of my hometown’s flavors within people like me, who grew up amongst the red dirt. We can’t help but yearn for those familiar tastes, despite living in the wealthiest and most developed city in the country, where everything is available at our fingertips. That visceral yearning, at times, can be tethered to something as humble as a bundle of vegetables that our moms pack in the styrofoam box.

Whenever the box just arrives at our doorstep, I always unpack it myself and carefully separate each item into categories: vegetables, meat, fish, and fruit. I will wash, freeze, or store them away based on mom’s instructions. This storage process has become my own ritual. I do it measuredly and mindfully. Perhaps subconsciously, I don’t want anything to spoil or be forgotten.

In the middle of our hectic modern life where every convenience is available, how she still painstakingly bundles the produce, layers each jar of shrimp paste, and ties up each bag of fruit is her way to maintain our family bond. At times, when I think of a time when she’s not around anymore, my heart sinks — who will send us care packages?

Anyone living away from home might see themselves in our story. Who hasn’t at least once received a box full of homegrown items? Every time I remove the lid, a rush of nostalgia floods my mind. Sometimes I burst into tears like a child, feeling so loved and cared for. If you are still living with your parents, maybe this can be a reminder not to take your meals together for granted.

Some day, I will too become a mother, doing exactly what my mother has been doing: sending my kids giant care packages filled with the flavors of home.

After analysis, scientists believe that a 12,000-year-old set of human remains found in Ninh Bình belonged to a prehistoric man who died from infection after being struck by a quartz-tipped projectile.

Last week, global news outlets reported on the findings published in a scientific report in the journal Proceedings of the Royal Society B, in part because the skeleton represents the oldest-known human in the area, based on mitochondrial DNA. The discovery also attracted attention because, when investigating the 35-year-old male’s potential cause of death, scientists discovered a fragment of quartz. Based on forensic evidence, they surmise the mineral-tipped projectile struck him in the neck, shattering a bone but not killing him. After weeks or even months of pain, the individual, dubbed TBH1, succumbed to infection and was buried in a cave in the UNESCO World Heritage site,Tràng An. 

TBH1's skeleton, along with the quartz micropoint (top left) and a close-up of the fractured neck bone (top right).

Mysteriously, quartz does not occur naturally in the area, and similar artifacts have only been found thousands of miles away. Scientists remain baffled by the specifics of what was potentially a violent encounter, possibly between disparate groups. Moreover, some of the bones were gnawed on by animals post-mortem but not dragged away, leading experts to believe TBH1 was cared for before and after his death. 

The study’s lead author, Christopher Stimpson, a researcher and honorary associate at the University of Oxford’s Museum of Natural History in the UK, explained the excitement over the find: “Human remains from this time in southeast Asia’s history are relatively uncommon, so the skeletal and DNA evidence that we were able to recover gives us a rare insight into the people living there at the time.”

While the report was just published, scientists have been working in the area known as Thung Bình 1 since 2017. Containing broken pottery, snail shells and animal bones, they believed the ancient dump could provide insights into the life and culture of the humans who created it. Finding a human skeleton, however, was more than the team had expected. “I’d previously worked in a few other caves in the local area, but this is probably the most challenging excavation that I’ve ever conducted,” Stimpson said. “It was a very small and cosy cave to work in, but finding a skeleton of this age in such good condition made it all worthwhile.”

The find is notable for Vietnam in particular. Dr. Bùi Văn Mạnh, director of the Ninh Bình Department of Tourism, said: “This is a groundbreaking and significant discovery — not only in terms of scientific value, but also in its historical and cultural importance. It is a source of local pride and will be invaluable in fostering a deeper appreciation for the heritage of Tràng An in residents and visitors alike.”

The oldest human remains previously found in Vietnam date back only 10,000 years and were found in nearby Hà Nam Province. Scientists will continue to work in Tràng An’s cliffs and caves, hoping to learn more about the ice age humans that lived in the area.

Among Bùi Viện's assortment of xe ôm drivers and street food vendors, Bible-toting religious enthusiasts and other colorful personalities, 66-year-old Nghĩa stands out for his kind eyes and walrus-like mustache.

When we meet for the second time, near a pagoda in one of Phạm Ngũ Lão's wide alleys, Nghĩa rolls up on a well-worn, bright blue xích lô, slowing to a halt just beside me. We'd found each other the week before, when I was hanging around the backpacker area scouting xích lô drivers for a story. Well-versed in introductions, Nghĩa approached me, proudly unfolding the laminated news clippings he keeps in his pocket.

A xích lô driver for over half his life, Trà Vinh-born Nghĩa left the Mekong Delta as a young boy after his father was killed. Shortly thereafter, his mother brought Nghĩa and her four other children to Saigon, raising them by herself.

Though his childhood was fairly normal, Nghĩa's teen years were lived out against a backdrop of war. At 19, he joined the military along with two of his brothers and was injured twice over the next six years.

Around that same time, he met his wife.

“We became friends,” he explains. “She would treat me with fruits from her garden and clean water. Later, [after 1975], we got married.”

It was a difficult time for them both. Along with the rest of the country, Nghĩa struggled to pick up the pieces after years of conflict. Money was scarce and opportunities even scarcer. By the early 1980s, he had invested in a xích lô and began taking customers around at night.

For two years, Nghĩa struggled to make ends meet, earning a meager living from nighttime customers. That is, of course, until the foreigners came.

“Things changed in the early 1990s, when the first tourists arrived in Vietnam,” says Nghĩa. “I still remember my first foreign client, an Australian woman. Her fees were much higher than I was used to receiving. After I understood, I moved my spot to Bùi Viện, got my own team and start making decent money.”

Thanks to his English skills, Nghĩa was able to earn more, allowing him to raise his four children, the eldest of whom is now 42. His youngest, a 16-year-old son, is still in school and wants to be an engineer. This pleases the xích lô driver.

“I want him to become somebody,” explains Nghĩa. “Not the lowest caste like me.”

While he acknowledges the difficult circumstances which put him in this profession, Nghĩa harbors no bitterness about the course of his life. Even at his age, he works 12 hours a day, seven days a week. It's no longer out of necessity — he has grown children who can provide for him — but there's a sense of duty in Nghĩa's efforts. For decades, the xích lô has sustained him and raised his family. He's relatively well-known now, especially among high-end hotels, and routinely ferries customers around the city.

It was nearly noon by the time I clambered out of the weather-worn, 15-year-old xích lô. Along with a small but steadfast collection of other retirees, Nghĩa represents the last crop of Saigon's xích lô drivers. As the city develops and opportunities grow for young people in Vietnam, the tough times which brought Nghĩa into his lifelong occupation no longer exist. On the contrary, city officials are trying to phase out this mode of transportation, he explains. More and more, weary xích lô drivers who are struggling for fares will take the cash payout offered by the city to trade in their wheels for a different job. In another few years, xích lôs may be relegated to yet another nostalgic piece of Saigon’s collective memory.

This article was originally published in 2016.

Wipha was the latest typhoon to batter Vietnam this year, sweeping through northern provinces like Hưng Yên, Ninh Bình, Nghệ An, and Thanh Hóa and causing dangerous floods. It was 2025’s third and probably will not be the last that Vietnam will have to endure this year.

Its name is a female name in Thai, suggested by Thailand in a pool of many others that nations in the region put together. But how are these names selected?

The Japan Meteorological Agency (JMA) has been the Western North Pacific region’s official warning agency since 1981, though there are other tracking bodies. In 2000, JMA started naming tropical storms from a list of 140 submissions by 14 countries and territories in the region, switching from a previous system that only used numbers.

The 14 members include Cambodia, China, Hongkong, Japan, North Korea, South Korea, Laos, Macau, Malaysia, Micronesia, the Philippines, Thailand, the US, and Vietnam.

The names selected come from diverse cultural and national roots, but generally follow similar themes such as species of local fauna and flora, food, famous geographical landmarks, and even folk deities. A complete list of approved names and their meanings as of 2025 can be found here. 

The 10 names that originated from Vietnam in the current list are Trami (camellia), Halong (Hạ Long Bay), Bang-Lang (jacaranda), Songda (Đà River), Saobien (starfish), Son-Tinh (Sơn Tinh), Co-may (lesser spear grass), Bavi (Ba Vì), Luc-binh (water hyacinth), and Sonca (Oriental skylark).

Every year, member countries can request for name changes or replacements based on various reasons, such as easier mispronounced names, controversial spelling or meaning. The most common justification behind replacements, however, is due to the scale of destruction of past typhoons with the same name. For instance, Saola — after the endangered species of bovid — was retired as Typhoon Saola was particularly catastrophic when it hit Hongkong and the Philippines in 2023.

Top image via Denison Forum.

I get my face shaved by sidewalk barbers; stop at every roving laminator I pass to have ticket stubs, photos, and doodles encased in plastic as souvenirs; and will always select a stool surrounded by traffic over a fine dining establishment. Add in the fact that I’ve kept my hair well past my shoulders for decades, and it should be a no-brainer that I regularly frequent tiệm gội đầu. And yet, somehow, last week was my first visit.

I’ll blame my shameful oversight on professional hair-washing’s place in western society. In my native US, paying someone else to wash one’s hair is quite expensive and reserved for fancy salons, and even then, only when accompanying a haircut or treatment. Entirely different arrangements of street and market economies mean one cannot exchange the equivalent of a bowl of phở and a cup of coffee for 20 minutes of careful follicle cleansing. 

After my visit to a shophouse providing gội đầu near my home, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same; I’ll never be content to wash my own hair again. I’ve always considered hair washing to be a yes or no skill; such a straightforward task allows no room for doing it wrong or even poorly. My time with Lan proved such binary thinking to be wildly wrong. From root to tip, her fingers, simultaneously forceful and nimble, found untouched strands and stretches to lather with exuberant efficacy. My hair was left softer, cleaner, and more luscious-looking than it’s ever been.

More than a mere matter of cleanliness, the visit was an opportunity for indulgence. Opting for the elevated gội đầu session with neck massage and shoulder massage, the 40-minute experience included hot stones prepped with phở herbs in a rice cooker eased across my laptop-weary neck along with a yogurt soap to soothe my sun-dried face pores. Full massages may be affordable and accessible in Vietnam, but gội đầu is even more convenient (I didn’t even have to unbuckle my belt). If a full spa service is a hearty meal, gội đầu is a refreshing snack that can satiate a midweek craving.

My typical hair wash routine is regularly a matter of quick efficiency that leaves little room for extended shower thoughts. Yet, with no podcast blaring from a Bluetooth speaker to distract me like normal and only minimal chit-chat with Lan, I had extra time for aimless daydreaming. The joys of letting my mind wander like a jellyfish in the current were only interpreted when Lan asked which type of shampoo I wanted. Bồ kết as an option! I fully expected the gội đầu to provide an immersion into Vietnamese culture in and of itself, but I didn't anticipate such ancillary encounters of unique heritage. 

In addition to its cultural particularity and the value of having fresh locks, the very process of finding the gội đầu shop was an act of immense pleasure. To locate a humble street hair-washing spot, as opposed to fancy salon, it’s best to look for a Zalo number scrawled on a handmade sign or, better yet, ask around the neighborhood. Google is of little help. In an age of increasingly digital existence, where ChatGPT professes to know all the answers and social media serves as sole authenticator of any activity, offline-only experiences remind me what it means to be a member of human society.

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

Dear you,

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

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

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

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

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

Yours torrentially,

Rain-hider.

Bát Tràng has been producing ceramics for over 700 years, but it’s the recent decades that interest me most: a period in which this small village has mirrored Vietnam’s rapid economic growth.

Once focused on supplying the domestic and regional market, Bát Tràng is now a global producer in ceramics, exporting goods around the world while also drawing over 100,000 tourists annually who come to visit its museums, browse the markets, and try their hand at pottery. 

What strikes me most about Bát Tràng is the coexistence of scales: sprawling factories operate alongside more than 1,000 family-run workshops. When you walk its narrow streets, it feels like every household is involved in ceramics in some way, mixing clay, firing kilns, loading motorbikes. Production spills into alleys and courtyards, into kitchens and storefronts.

This photo album traces that ecosystem — from raw materials to finished wares — documenting a working village that sits at the intersection of tradition, industry, and transformation.

Bát Tràng is a microcosm of Vietnam’s economic story: rapid growth alongside deep tradition. Here, something beautiful, sacred, or functional emerges from nothing more than a lump of earth — a quiet, constant act of transformation.

The maze-like alleys of Bát Tràng, where tradition, craftsmanship and mass production take place in almost every home.

Red brick weathered factories overshadowed by towering modern factories amid Bát Tràng’s evolving skyline.

A massive mixing drum processes the raw clay, the starting point of ceramic creation.

A vast pressing machine, a next step in the industrial scale metamorphosis of raw clay into mass-produced ceramics or hand-crafted beautiful objects; everything stems from the same earth.

A freshly pressed clay disc is removed from the machine to continue in the next step in the process.

Experienced hands shape a small figurine.

A worker carries a large pot from the kiln into storage.

An empty break area within a factory, where workers find moments of rest among the ceramics and grab a cup of tea or coffee.

Pots of vivid glazes, ready to be applied, revealing the artistic side of Bát Tràng’s production.

A worker applies glaze to mugs using a machine, a glimpse of the mass production process.

Rows of clay products and machinery in one of Bát Tràng’s larger industrial spaces.

An artisan carefully works on a traditional pot, one of the last studios preserving designs of this type.

After extended working sessions to gather insights from experts and locals, Vietnam’s state government has announced the final version of the country’s administrative map.

Details of the most recent national administrative consolidation were listed in Resolution No. 60, which was officially approved by the central government on April 12, reports Thanh Niên. According to the plan, the number of localities in Vietnam will go from 63 to just 34 after the merger, including 6 municipalities and 28 provinces.

The eventual consolidation was decided based on five main pillars of criteria: area and population; history, tradition, culture, religion, and ethnicity; geo-economics; geopolitical considerations; and national security. 

Eleven of the 63 old localities will remain the same, including Hanoi, Huế, Lai Châu, Điện Biên, Sơn La, Lạng Sơn, Quảng Ninh, Thanh Hóa, Nghệ An, Hà Tĩnh, and Cao Bằng. Every locality south of Huế will be merged with their neighbor(s). Some standout examples include Hồ Chí Minh City, which absorbs nearby Bình Dương and Bà Rịa-Vũng Tàu provinces, growing to a new population of over 13 million residents.

Similarly, Quảng Nam Province becomes part of Đà Nẵng City, Hải Dương Province becomes part of Hải Phòng City, and Sóc Trăng and Hậu Giang provinces will become part of Cần Thơ City. A complete list of administrative changes is available for viewing below.

Apart from changes on the national level, each locality will also undergo mergers on the ward/commune level as the district level and province-level cities will be dissolved. 

Vietnam’s administrative map has gone through numerous rounds of adjustments depending on the economic, demographic, and national security needs of the time. Most recently, in 2008, the entirety of Hà Tây Province and Vĩnh Phúc’s Mê Linh District were merged into Hanoi. In previous consolidation rounds, some old geographic designations have come and go, now only existing in old media and works of literature, such as Sông Bé Province (now Bình Dương and Bình Phước) and Minh Hải Province (now Bạc Liêu and Cà Mau).

Graphic via Vietnam News Agency.

[Top image via Sách Tiếng Anh Nhập Khẩu]

In Chợ Lớn, every Tết, amid the aroma of burning joss sticks and an onslaught of red-color decorations is the echoing beats of lion dance instruments. For generations of Saigoneer, the presence of múa lân, or lion dance, is a sign of festivity and celebration.

On the morning of March 30, Thanh Niên reports, at a ceremony, the Hồ Chí Minh City Department of Culture and Sports announced the official decision made by the Vietnam Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism to welcome Saigon’s lion dance performance art as the latest national intangible cultural heritage.

Though it’s often known by the short hand múa lân, the art form can feature a number of different dances by performers in lion, kirin or dragon costumes. Some versions of múa lân incorporate elements of acrobatics as dancers balance on tall pillars or play ball.

Hoa Vietnamese communities believe that dances performed by mythological creatures symbolizing strength, intellect, and prosperity would ward off unlucky spirits and bring great fortunes. Thus, lion dances are often organized on important occasions like Lunar New Year, groundbreaking ceremonies, or even launching parties for new businesses.

During the recent event, the department also officially recognized seven venues in Saigon as new city-level historical-cultural relics. These include Tân Định Market, Mariamman Hindu Temple, and Trưng Vương High School (D1); An Khánh Pagoda, Long Bình Pagoda, and Long Hòa Pagoda (Thủ Đức City); and the campus of Saigon University (D5). Including the new additions, HCMC currently has 200 such locations.

Being recognized as a national intangible cultural heritage would help emphasize the important role of lion dance as part of Saigon’s diverse ethnic makeup and encourage further actions by the people and policymakers to preserve and promote it. As of 2023, the list consists of 485 entities from across Vietnam, from the nationally famous Bát Tràng ceramic craft to lesser-known bánh pía Sóc Trăng.

In Saigon, some previous cultural heritages that made the list include Tết Nguyên Tiêu, the music performance art đờn ca tài tử, and the Nghinh Ông Festival.

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

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

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

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

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

Photo by Cao Nhân.

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

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

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

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

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

Anonymous benefactors. Photo via VnExpress.

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2024.

What does a mango flower look like?

Despite eating hundreds, if not thousands, of mangoes in my life, until last month I wouldn’t have been able to say. The phalanxes of yellow flowers assembled amongst the lush leaves brought delight followed by existential dread.

I profess to love fruits and have written about this love at length. And yet, what does the flower of a jackfruit, lychee, mangosteen or custard apple tree look like? Without Googling, I wouldn’t know. How can I love something I know so little about? And the two are inextricably linked: fruits form only after a flower has been pollinated with the fertilized ovules contained within ovaries that develop into fruit to protect the seeds. 

The simple process of flower to fruit. Graphic via Klorane Botanical Foundation.

I suspect I share this absolute unfamiliarity with fruit tree flowers with many of Saigoneer's readers. And worst of all, picking from a fruit plate at karaoke, strolling a local market, or placing a sinh tố order has never forced us to reflect on how little we know; how we are wholly untethered from the totalities of an item we crave. It would be like never having thought to ask about a romantic partner's hometown or family.

Left: Passion fruit flower. Photo via Wikimedia / Right: Papaya fruit flower. Photo via Wikimedia.

When sharing this horrific realization with friends, some pushed back, noting that they grew up beside orchards and can still picture the hypnotically purple swirls punctuating passion fruit flowers and the swirling, throwing star-esque papaya flowers. Yet, I fear this is a dwindling experience. As Vietnam urbanizes and farming continues to automate, even fewer people will be able to identify the flowers of different fruit trees. This means we will have a less profound and more incomplete appreciation for fruits in particular, and the natural world in general. 

The word anemoia means to long for something that you may have never known. I now have anemoia for lazy childhood shortcuts through orchards surrounding my house, unconscioulsy learning the flowers that precede each juicy bite of fruit. Fruits are consequential to Vietnam’s economy, culture and identity; we owe it to them to learn about the flowers they transform from.

It is a street, not a river, that comes to mind when people talk about vibrant fish in Saigon. Located in District 5, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is only approximately 500 meters long, but it is home to dozens of aquarium businesses.

From just a few stores at the beginning, Lưu Xuân Tín is now home to rows of aquarium supply shops. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

The short thoroughfare is more than 40 years old, known amongst enthusiasts as the oldest street for ornamental fish in the city.

The street entrance. Photo by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Lưu Xuân Tín Street is not only a well-known place for commerce, but it is also a popular tourist destination in District 5. Aquarium aficionados in Saigon and merchants from all around Vietnam come here to buy aquatic pets and fish-keeping items.

“There were only a few stores when I initially visited, then more and more [appeared]. Fish dealers gradually took up residence here, transforming it into an actual market,” Đặng Thị Thủy, a local beverage vendor, tells me. She has been selling refreshments here since 1992.

Cô Thủy runs the street's refreshment stop. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Traders often sit around her drink stall to conduct business. “My place is kind of a gathering point for aquarium businesses,” she proudly shares.

Fish merchants discuss their trade and prepare fish for customers right on the street. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

Many merchants who do not have brick-and-mortar stores here cut fish deals on the street. “I don't have a store and I sell aquarium fish wholesale,” Phạm Kiều Oanh, an aquarium fish merchant, says. “I've been doing this for nearly 30 years.”

Tank maintenance is a constant task at these ornamental fish stores. Photos by Trần Duy Minh.

In the beginning, Oanh started her business by selling feeder fishes here. Then her trading network grew bigger, and she started selling aquarium fish wholesale.

Apart from aquatic animals, shops also sell a range of knick-knacks so customers can decorate their tanks any way they see fit. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While there are no official business hours, Lưu Xuân Tín Street is open every day from as early as 4am to as late as 5pm. Traders, buyers, and sellers arrive on the street early in the morning to start a new working day.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“I come here to work every day between 4 and 8am. I eat breakfast and have a cup of coffee here, then I meet with the buyers and direct my employees to deliver the fish to fulfill the orders,” Oanh shares.

Fish nets for fish, not fish nets for humans. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Oanh previously worked as an embroiderer. Her older brother then introduced her to the aquarium fish industry. She and her husband are both working in the ornamental fish market, which provides the majority of their family's income.

Trays of aquatic plants. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“This business does not make me rich, but it allows me to live well and support my family. I'm 57 years old now. No one wants to hire me because I am too elderly, this business is a good fit for me,” she says.

Scores of vivid fish species are available for purchase here. Photos by Đỗ Anh Chương.

Oanh runs an aquarium fish farm from her house in District 8. She returns home to take care of the fish when she's not on the street cutting deals and confirming orders.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

“Every day, I take care of the fish as if they were my children. I have been engaged in this business for a long time, and I love it. I don't want to change to another job,” Oanh says.

Goldfish in giant bags on the pavement. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

While the formation of this "aquarium street" was a spontaneous development, its existence has brought about positive impacts on the livelihood of Saigoneers living in the area, whether they are directly involved in the ornamental fish trade.

“I started my business here when I was 28 years old, and I am now 60 years old. My drink stall has many regulars and is well-visited. Thus, my life is nice and stable,” Thủy claims.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên and Đỗ Anh Chương.

Even when she is not present, her regulars frequently come to get drinks on their own and then settle their "tab" later. "I don't have to worry about my drink stand, and I sometimes just leave it there to let it run on its own," she says with a smile.

Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

Thủy has been selling drinks on this street for so long that she has gained a lot of knowledge about the aquarium trade here. When new dealers arrive, she is always happy to help out.

Aquatic plants to be grown in tanks. Photo by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

"I often advise newcomers on how to buy aquarium fish cheaply and efficiently here," she explains. "I love this street because everyone here is cordial. We love and support each other whether we are buyers or sellers, rich or poor."

What is this? Houses for fish? Photos by Lê Thái Hoàng Nguyên.

For some long-term members of Lưu Xuân Tín's little fishy enclave, the street has become much more than just a location to set up shop and gain an income.

A budding fish-keeper accompanies their dad on his morning fish run. Photo by Trần Duy Minh.

"This place is like my second family, and the people here are like my family members. Talking with them is pleasant and fun. The time I spend here is the happiest of my day," Oanh shares.

This article was first published in 2022.

I am not a plant person. So when even I notice the abundance of vườn kiểng — a place selling a myriad of plants — it must mean that Saigoneers truly love buying plants. Some of my friends, who are also Hanoians, asked me one day to visit these vườn kiểng and look for Tết plants: “Let’s celebrate Tết the way northerners do, you know?” And somehow, being amongst the plants brought me right back to Quảng Bá Flower Market in Tây Hồ.

In Vietnam's Tết plant traditions, northerners tend to prefer peach blossoms (hoa đào), while southerners like apricot blossoms (hoa mai); my family’s thing, however, is kumquat trees (quất or tắc). This thought process runs through my mind every year whenever my dad drags me out on January 22 or 23 of the lunar calendar to Quảng Bá to procure our kumquat tree for that year’s Tết.

Generally, kumquat is also a popular Tết ornamental tree in northern families — all of my friends and relatives have (at least) one in their houses too — but it often plays a supporting role to the star that is hoa đào. My family, however, cherishes kumquat just as much as peach blossoms, or even more so. My mom is perfectly happy with buying flowers at the nearby local market, but my dad usually insists on going to Quảng Bá for kumquat — a habit that has been ingrained in me when Tết approaches. That’s why I accept my friends’ invitation with a concrete determination to find myself a mini kumquat tree, keeping the Quảng Bá Market tradition alive.

The journey to find a plant nursery was short and easy. There is a whole “complex” of them on a long stretch of Nguyễn Hữu Thọ Street, which links District 7 with downtown Saigon, so I didn’t even need to search for any specific name, but rather just went there and randomly picked one to enter. It wasn’t intentional either — the last days of a year are always hectic, piling on my own stress over moving — so the trip was made simply because it conveniently aligned with the route required for my other errands.

I was concerned that there might be no kumquat tree sold this early before Tết, but to my surprise, the kumquat trees were not only there but also proudly presented right on the front, lining up like a little army of salespersons inviting people to come in. The trees look spectacular, lush with leaves and adorned with round kumquats, each about the size of two thumbs pressed together. The whole plant can be held within your palms, albeit a little heavy.

Even though the trees are miniature, they hOld the energy for the entire Hanoian Tết celebration. Standing in that bustling vườn kiểng, surrounded by others asking for prices and buying different plants for Tết decoration, I felt a sense of connection to my culture and the shared experiences that come with celebrating Tết. Maybe, the little kumquat tree now placed on my table can be more than just a Tết plant, but also a reminder of my roots and traditions, which can still be kept despite any life changes.

When you get a new toy, it's only reasonable to take it out to play with as often as possible.

Thus, I’ve been finding excuses to ride the HCMC Metro frequently over the last few weeks. This past weekend, I was curious to experience the atmosphere of the first ride of the day; and, because I couldn’t convince any of my friends to meet me at the station before 5 am, I went solo.

A special thrill of metro systems generally, and Saigon’s in particular, is that they provide the perfect music listening environment. It’s madness to listen to music if you’re driving in the city, and even if you’re walking, on a Grab, or even a bus, the city’s sonorous white noise makes music an afterthought. But the calm, quiet metro allows you to foreground your tunes of choice. 

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

But what should you listen to?

In offering Metro playlist advice, I’m not going to bother suggesting particular songs or artists; my niched and dated tastes would certainly fall on deaf (if not Def Jux) ears. Rather, after fumbling through my iPod on the route to Bến Xe Miền Đông and back, I’d like to share a few broad suggestions:

Avoid nostalgia. It can be tempting to reach for favorite songs from formative days that call to mind comfortable memories, but in this context, it doesn’t make sense. Your brain will shudder at the juxtaposition of familiar emotions with the novel experience of swooshing through the cityscape surrounded by scintillating surfaces. Stick to new, or new-to-you music.

Prioritize lyrics. The uniquely quiet setting and freedom from distraction afford ample focus on lyrics. So while you can press play on a jazzy instrumental, go for something whose lyrics you can absorb fully. You might discover profundity lurking in a line you’d otherwise let whisk pass like a racing Metro train on the horizon. Allow me to go back on what I promised and suggest the Silver Jews because of singer-songwriter David Berman: “An anchor lets you see the river move.” 

Go global. Suggesting music unrelated to Vietnam may at first sound odd coming from a publication invested in deep explorations of Vietnamese culture, history and lifestyles. Yet, the metro represents the nation’s further integration into an amorphous global sphere where concepts of unique culture clutch the fringes of multinational touchpoints. The very concept of a metro system is not Vietnamese, nor is it of any singular nation or people. Let your listening be the same. Japanese city pop, Finnish metal, Jamaican reggae, Polish polka; let your ears hurdle through geographic barriers. 

I don’t think I’d be able to make a list of best places in Saigon to listen to music, because the only destination I’d know to put on it would be the Saigon Metro. Maybe, it's not convenient for most people’s routines or commutes, but it’s damn ideal for that, and thus we can consider the entire project an undertaking to promote art while in the city.

Dustbins, tree branches, advertising stands and tarps, leftover Christmas decorations, whatever pot, pan, ladle or utensil left unattended in the family kitchen, and at least one street vendor’s bánh khọt mold: whatever wasn’t bolted down got caught up in the wave of đi bão that filled Saigon’s streets last night. 

When the final whistle blew on Vietnam’s hard-fought victory over Thailand in the ASEAN Cup finals last night, we all knew what was coming. Like a maelstrom that begins with raindrops followed by thunder, it started with plastic horns followed by banging metal and revving engines. 

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

Taking a grab from the Phạm Ngũ Lão Ward restaurant where I watched the game to my apartment in Phú Nhuận was out of the question. Even if I were to get a driver, that would mean missing out on one of the most glorious elements of modern Vietnamese culture: đi bão. 

Photos by Paul Christiansen.

Of the thousands that waved flags and shouted atop bikes in the city, I doubt many were ardent football diehards. Few would be interested in discussing shrewd corner kick arrangement to disallow a ball from bouncing in the box, or transition offense utilizing the wings. The night wasn’t about football, really. It was about celebrating Vietnam, as understood through collective victory. 

The day had begun with concerns over camouflaged neighbors narcing to collect a cut of recently upped traffic violations and ended with bikes violating every rule imaginable in the name of collective jubilation. Drivers extended hands across road dividers in an endless series of high-fives while red lights ushered in opportunities for impromptu hype-man to dismount and lead the crowd in chants. Shirts came off, and cheeky signs scribbled on cardboard went up.

The crowds after Vietnam’s Quarter-Final Victory Against Syria in the 2018 Asia Games. Photo by Sebastia Galbany

Culture is an increasingly sticky word, and the more one examines it in a globalized world, the more one might suspect it's just a gimmick to sell tours and employ academics. Sometimes, I question if culture is little more than whether one removes the anchovy guts before fermenting the fish into sauce. The only difference between Thai fish sauce and Vietnamese fish sauce is often how long it sits in the barrels, after all. But then, a night like last night occurs when Vietnam erupts in an outpouring of national love and pride and fellow feeling. These emotions surely exist elsewhere, but no nation expresses them with the same sights, sounds, smells, and feels. You don’t have to be a football fan, but if you want to understand Vietnamese culture, schedule your trip around international football tournaments and hope you get lucky.

[Top image: After Vietnam’s Quarter-Final Victory Against Syria in the 2018 Asia Games. Photo by by Sebastia Galbany.]

Is “out with the old, in with the new” the new motto when it comes to Saigon's real estate scene?

Saigon used to be full of old apartment buildings; some were built in the 1950s or 1960s while others could be dated back to French colonial times. Many of these buildings have been inhabited by the same families over generations. People know each other. It is almost like a vertical village with shops, markets, restaurants, etc. However, in recent months, more and more of these structures are being torn down due to either safety reasons or to make way for snazzy new real estate projects.

View into the courtyard and hallways of an old apartment building in District 4 (2013).

The photos in this series have been taken between 2008 and 2013; by now, some of the buildings portrayed here have already ceased to exist. These include the Hotel President on Trần Hưng Đạo Street, a former apartment building reserved for American GI’s during the war, and the Eden Building right at the corner of Đồng Khởi and Lê Lợi streets. The former was a magnificent French apartment block with a specific design seeking to keep the its interior cool even on a hot summer day.

The Eden also bore witness to a significant event of the past: it was once home to the AP office where famous war photographer Nick Ut filed the famous photo of Kim Phúc, the girl in the Napalm attack.

Step inside the mysterious realm of Saigon's heritage buildings through the photos below:

A resident of the building using her laptop in the dark.

Residents walk down the makeshift steel staircase in the apartment building formerly known as “Hotel President” in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A young couple looking out of their window into the hallway of Saigon’s appartment building known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2008).

A sofa standing in the hallway of the “President Hotel” an old decaying apprtment block in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

A man doing exercises in the old appartment building formerly known as Hotel President. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2013).

The outside of an old apartment building alongside Saigon's Trần Hưng Đạo Street, District 5 (2013).

A man standing checking his cellphone in the hallway of an old Saigon apartment building formerly known as Hotel President (2013).

An artist in his apartment in Saigon’s Eden building. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (2010).

Christian Berg is a documentary photographer based in Ho Chi Minh City. You can find more of his work on his Instagram account here.

This article was originally published in 2018.

As my palm felt the glossy wrapping paper for my Secret Santa gift, I was transported to my early childhood Christmases — filled with warmth, wonder, and the bubbling discomfort of class insecurities.

My yonder years the mid-2000s were a peculiar time — an era of dial-up internet, floppy discs, knee-high jeans, bad haircuts, and middle-class aspirations ripe for the arrival of western trends and consumption habits.

Though Christmas had been nothing new in Saigon, especially within the Catholic community, it wasn’t until around this point that the holiday really took off among the Vietnamese public, its celebration a patchwork quilt of traditions — some borrowed and some improvised. Slowly but surely, the festivities took over local streets: homefront nativity scenes interspersed with elaborated mall installations and green-red decors flying off the shelves of business-savvy mom-and-pops. “Gift-giving” became the buzzword of the season through the sheer dedication of eager salesmen.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

Despite not knowing all the details, my kid self was intuitively thrilled with the vague concept of Christmas, as I was exposed to too many Disney Channel specials and was convinced that it would transform this period of my mundane life into a remarkable, or even yet, magical one. When my handicraft teacher asked my class to create Christmas cards for one another, I wrote the most heartfelt paragraph the vocabulary of a second grader could dispense.

Imagine my disappointment when I realized that in fact, unlike Disney, we weren’t all in this together, and that Christmas miracles were rather pricey.

Before the big day, I had dropped plenty of hints in hope that the man in the north, or at least my parents, would make my wish come true: I had strived for months to maintain my status as a top student, therefore I deserved a new Hello Kitty or Barbie backpack, especially one of the latest and trendiest models.

Photo via Tuổi Trẻ.

On Christmas night, I left the window open, fearing that Santa would be confused by my Vietnamese house’s non-existent chimney. To my bewilderment, he arrived by early evening through the neighborhood’s front gate. My neighbor’s kids, dressed in matching clothes, squealed with delight as he laughed, handed them their gifts from the crumpled nylon bag and posed for several photos. It was his only pitstop in the neighborhood for the night.

By all account, he was markedly different from the stereotypical depiction of the portly and pink-cheeked Santa Claus. This was a scrawny man with distinctly tan skin and dark eyebrows that contrasted with the faux beard he was spotting. Plus, he was riding a Honda Dream, the same bike that my mom rode and not a deer of any kind. But I didn’t care about logistics or biology, I was upset that I didn’t get anything.

Eventually, I realized that wasn’t Santa culturally adaptive, but a performer paid to play a role for the night. Yet, the oddly transactional nature of it didn’t deter me from wishful thinking — a present was a present. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I had already concocted a plan to ask my mother for a visit from Santa like some sort of bizarre celebrity meet-and-greet.

Visiting Diamond Plaza is a Saigon Christmas staple. Photos by Jimmy Art Devier.

My mother, as the practical person that she was, plainly explained to me how as a family we could not afford the service. My anxiety was only soothed when a compromise was made — we would visit the big-box mall decorations for pictures and enjoy the festive atmosphere, free of charge. Mom made sure we got bundled up in our best attires to take photographs with the Christmas tree that towered over the entrance at Diamond Plaza, glittering with equally giant plastic ornaments, colorful lights, and artificial snowflakes. I was allowed one small offering, a tiny desk-size Christmas tree with miniature trinkets from a church market. It was not the full theatrics of a paid showman, but enough for me to brag with classmates for weeks to come.

As time passed, my Christmases became less about a jolly man squeezing through chimneys and more about finding the best deals at year-end sales. My family’s feast grew a little fancier as the budget allowed more wreaths and log cakes. But memories of my mom and our modest celebrations remain and became more special over the years, knowing now from paying my own utility bills, that my mother provided the best she could at the time.

Perhaps after all, the real Christmas miracle was the parental love we learn to accept along the way.

Christmas is so globally celebrated that even in Saigon, as the coldest time of the year approaches, you can hear Christmas hymms echoing from homes in the alley, and spot houses adorned with Christmas trees, Santas, snowmen, regardless of their cultural relevance to Vietnamese culture. For me, one of the activities that truly embodies this global spirit of Christmas is watching Home Alone (1990). 

I first watched Home Alone in the early 2000s, when I was around 6 or 7 years old. At the time, the only way to see the film in Vietnam was to buy a bootleg copy from DVD stores, which my parents did for the whole family to enjoy. Back then, I didn’t know how to use a DVD player, so whenever I wanted to watch the film during Christmas or at any other time, I had to ask my dad to start it for me. Eventually, my whole family would join in, simply out of convenience since there’s only one TV in the house, and also it’s a fun family movie. This turned watching Home Alone into a family bonding experience for us during Christmas.

Furthermore, what makes this film so special for a Vietnamese kid, despite it being an American movie, is that for a child growing up in Saigon, where the weather is warm year-round, Home Alone was my first time seeing snow, something one only finds in areas distant from Saigon like Sapa. Which makes seeing snow on the TV screen even more magical, as to this day, I’ve never experienced snowy weather in person.

As time has passed, technology and the internet have made it easier for kids to access movies and explore the world around them, so they might view Home Alone as just another fun Christmas movie. But for me, and probably other Vietnamese around my age, the movie — with the hassle of buying bootleg DVDs and a weather phenomenon that seemed almost nonexistent in Vietnam — greatly conveys the Christmas spirit to a Vietnamese kid, even though it's entirely American.

They say you don’t buy a lottery ticket because you think you’ll win; you buy one so that you can fantasize about winning.

Perhaps it’s only because I recently watched Công tử Bạc Liêu, a movie in which a fascinating true story is reduced to shameless idolizing of the rich with pretty costume design, but I’ve been thinking a lot about money lately. In particular, what would I do if I had more of it?

While walking Saigon streets awash in perpetual buying and selling, from fruit vendors to car dealerships, hand-painted signs announcing rooms for rent, to glitzy billboards hawking vacation developments, I find myself wondering what I would do if I experienced a windfall. A winning state lottery ticket, the kind sold by wandering vendors and small shops, pays out a maximum of VND1.8 billion (approximately US$80,000) after taxes. It’s not that much, but it's enough to daydream.

The baubles offered on Shopee promise a painfully transient ointment to the human condition. Ditto any fancier objects offered in shops or boutiques. I’d buy my cat Mimi some of the wet food she likes, but I’m fine with Hảo Hảo. So putting aside the obvious most responsible option of saving it, what would I do with the money?

Công tử Bạc Liêu movie poster via SGGP.

Công tử Bạc Liêu was wealthy by birth, which is just a genetic version of the lottery. There is some further irony that his father amassed that wealth by profiting off the gambling addictions of his relatives and locals. In the film based on legends, Công tử Bạc Liêu uses the fortune to hold grandiose spectacles like cooking chè by burning cash and hosting an opulent prize fight. While these are merely selfish attempts to project an image, he justifies them with the explanation that “wherever Công tử Bạc Liêu goes, joy follows.” 

I know no greater communal provider of joy in Saigon than the zoo, but, sadly, it owes VND846 billion in tax debt, a staggering sum I’d be unable to make a dent in. Ditto the woefully beleaguered projects that could improve people's lives, such as the Bến Lức-Long Thành Expressway or the anti-flood system. I’d probably be better off giving the money to a small charity: Blue Dragon, Save Vietnam’s Wildlife, the Wisdom House project, or Sách hoá nông thôn project. 

Or maybe, the best use of the lottery money would be to simply hand it over to the street vendor who sold me the ticket. Surely they need it more than I do. It’s nice to imagine myself doing something like that. And fantasies, like movies, allow us to wallow in illusory versions of ourselves, even if we doubt we’d live up to them.