Culture - Saigoneer

Under the Sky, Above the Water: Into the Heat at Ninh Thuận's Salt Fields

2025-07-06T15:00:00+07:00

A 3,000-kilometer coastline is one of nature’s best gifts to Vietnam, bringing about not just ample seafood, but also a motherlode of sea salt.

Salt fields in Cà Ná, Ninh Thuận, whose salinity is highest in Vietnam.

For centuries, salt has entered Vietnam’s collective memory as a cultural symbol that’s both familiar and profound. In our folklore, salt often represents deep affection: “Muối ba năm muối đang còn mặn / Gừng chín tháng gừng hãy còn cay” (The salt remains salty even after three years / Gingers are just as spicy nine months later). Besides, “đầu năm mua muối, cuối năm mua vôi” (buy salt when the year begins, buy lime when the year ends) is a tradition that reflects ancient Vietnamese’s belief in salt as a token of luck, because the pureness of salt can dispel the bad mojo of an unfortunate year.

Vietnam’s coastal communities have made full use of seawater to produce salt for hundreds of years. Along the length of the country, salt farming exists in 19 provinces across all three regions. Amongst those, Ninh Thuận is the “salt capital” of the central region thanks to ideal geographical conditions allowing it to put out nearly 50% of the national yield.

Salt is an indispensable part of life and a symbolic icon in Vietnamese culture.

Mother Nature bestowed on Ninh Thuận breathtaking landscapes, but also a type of acrid climate that will deter even the most enduring visitors. Luckily, it is this constantly dry and hot weather with low humidity and precipitation that makes the province the holy ground for salt farming. Moreover, Ninh Thuận’s 100-kilometer long coastline gives it ample access to saltwater to produce tasty salt grains. Here, salt production concentrates in communes like Phương Hải, Tri Hải, Nhơn Hải (Ninh Hải District) and Cà Ná, Phước Diêm, and Phước Minh (Thuận Nam District). Salt farms, in total, account for almost 3,000 hectares of the province’s area.

Harvesting salt in Tri Hải.

Only by driving past Ninh Thuận during July and August did I finally understand why this place is nicknamed the land of razor-sharp wind and blistering sun. Spectacular hills flow through the foreground while in the distance, mountain ranges stretch straight into the emerald ocean. Each blow of the wind carries that distinctive maritime brackish taste. Once the hills are gone, you’ll immediately be greeted by patches of fields full of mounds of stark white salt. Some squares have been irrigated recently, looking like a placid lake. Others are sparkling with salt crystals, as white as fresh snow. Here and there, conical hats bobble as farmers move about to rake in salt. A sense of urgency lingers in the hot air of August. The more intense the sun is, the more evaporation takes place, so working outdoors in extreme heat is a built-in part of the job. The hotter the day, the busier the work.

Bùi Trọng Hòa, a salt farmer in Phương Cựu, rakes salt into a mound.

I dropped by a salt farm in Phương Cựu, Ninh Hải District, one of the central region’s oldest and largest salt co-opts. I met Bùi Trọng Hòa as he was collecting salt crystals. “The salt trade is mainly active from December to August of the next year. July and August are peak months as the heat is the strongest in the year. It rains very rarely in Ninh Thuận, but when it does, it can destroy an entire [salt] field that’s drying,” the uncle told me as he continued raking. Hòa shared that, if weather permits, his two sào (500 square meters each) of farmland can produce 4 tons of salt after one harvest. Usually, salt crystals will form after 7–10 days of drying. If the sun is consistent and there’s no rain, it only takes 5–6 days from when the field is irrigated with seawater until the first batch can be collected.

Under the searing summer sun, Hòa’s shirt was soaked with sweat. His hands gripped the rake tightly. He deftly moved the salt from one field to another. Pyramids of salt started piling up on the water surface in neat rows. The field surface became a giant mirror reflecting the scenery; the symmetry was astounding. In the middle of everything, salt farmers were like artists painting white brushstrokes on the canvas of Ninh Thuận.

Võ Văn Lâu, another farmer in Phương Cựu, harvests salt.

On the field, everyone has their own task. One rakes salt into mounds while another shovels the final product onto wheelbarrows, each transporting outside into a larger pile. Võ Văn Lâu couldn’t give me the exact number of trips he takes every day because there were just so many: “Salt farmers like me sell our bodies to the trade. If nature blesses us, we have salt. When it’s time to harvest, we rake and transport countless fields until there’s no more salt to collect. There are times in the middle of the day when dark clouds start forming everywhere. We’re very nervous because if it rains, the past few days of waiting are wasted.” He then slowly pushed the heavy wheelbarrow down the field paths to a gathering point just outside. From there, wholesalers will take the salt to distributors and refiners.

The collected salt is moved from the fields to a central gathering point.

Salt farming requires not just strength, health, and endurance, but also ample folk knowledge and experience, as farmers need to observe the working conditions and make adjustments accordingly. The process might involve several steps, but overall, the two main ones are prepping the field surface and salt crystallization.

According to Hòa, around the lunar October every year, farmers will begin treating the field surface before irrigation takes place. The fields are cleaned to remove trash, weeds, and moss, then the ground surface is flattened. After that, farmers form the raised edges of the fields before drying out the earth's surface in the sun to minimize water seepage. Long before, salt production followed the sand-drying method, but over time, this has shifted to industrial-scale methods. Farmers also make use of tarps to cover the field surface to retain seawater. Salt created this way is cleaner and purer, containing fewer contaminants. At the moment, around 2,400 hectares of fields in Ninh Thuận use tarps and around 630 hectares follow the naked ground method.

There are two main ways to produce salt: sand-drying and tarp-drying.

Once the field surface has been treated, farmers irrigate the fields using seawater through a custom system of pipes. In the first stage, the fields are referred to as “ruộng phơi” (drying field). After some of the water has evaporated, the remaining saltwater is channeled to another field, “ruộng ăn,” to promote crystallization. Whether evaporation is fast or slow depends on several factors such as field surface area, the ground’s thermal absorption, and weather conditions. After 7–10 days, white salt crystals would appear like snow.

The rate of crystallization depends on field surface area, the ground’s thermal absorption, and weather conditions.

Salt-making is a physically demanding job that hinges a lot of weather patterns. During wetter months, the salt fields must rest. But as the farmers told me, “each trade has its own joys.” If fishermen are delighted to see boatloads of fish every morning, the happiness of salt farmers lies in the white flakes of salt that glimmer in the sunlight. Thanks to the tireless work of farmers in Ninh Thuận, the distinctive flavors of the central ocean are enjoyed by Vietnamese from every corner of the country, encapsulated in tiny grains of sparkling salt.

More Than Just Prosperity, Ông Địa Is My Personal Patron Saint of Misplaced Things

2025-06-28T15:00:00+07:00

I was maybe seven when I first clasped my hands and whispered a plea to Ông Địa.

I had lost a cheap red plastic ring, which was a treasure in my childhood world. I searched everywhere, crawling under the bed, shaking out my schoolbag, and suspecting the dog. Still nothing. Teary-eyed, I turned to my grandmother. She didn’t scold me, only smiled and said gently: “Pray to Ông Địa, honey. He’s very fond of little ones.”

So I did it awkwardly. I folded my hands and muttered a promise to eat my vegetables and stop hiding report cards. Minutes later, I found the ring on the lowest step of the stairs, somewhere I was sure I had already checked. It felt like a wink from the universe.

From then on, every time I lost something: a pencil, a chair tie, a wallet; I turned to Ông Địa. Not in ceremony, but in habit. A whisper under my breath. A pause. A breath of hope.

We never talked much about faith in my family, but folk spirituality was everywhere: altars tucked into corners, rice offerings on ancestor days, bowed heads, and burning incense. These weren’t rules we followed, they were rhythms we lived. Folk beliefs weren’t taught so much as absorbed, like steam from a simmering pot.

To others, Ông Địa is the plump, smiling figure perched beside Thần Tài at storefronts, guardian of wealth and luck. But to me, he was something quieter: the gentle keeper of misplaced things, the listener of small requests. He was a presence that lived in the cracks of daily life: in the kitchen corner, beside the potted plant, and inside the quiet act of asking.

As I grew older, I sometimes wondered if praying to him was silly. I didn’t always believe he’d help. And yet, the ritual remained. Not because I thought someone was listening, but because it gave shape to my worry. In the small chaos of losing something, the act of pausing to ask made the world feel kinder. Less random.

I’ve come to realize that my little prayers weren’t just about finding things. In whispering his name, I wasn’t just asking for help. I was recalling my grandmother’s voice, the warmth of home, the belief that unseen things still matter.

Even now, when I misplace my keys or phone, I find myself stopping to issue that quiet plea. And sometimes, the missing thing shows up. Sometimes it doesn’t. But always, I feel a little steadier.

Maybe that’s the gift folk beliefs offer: not answers, but companionship. Not certainty, but care.

An Homage to the Sounds of Saigon Past That Are Going Extinct

2025-06-19T11:00:00+07:00

After someone or something reaches the end of their days, which aspects of their existence in the minds of those who remain would be the first to succumb to the erosive brush of time? Is it sight, smell, touch, taste, or sound?

Sight is perhaps the most enduring of all. I keep a small passport photo of my late father in the inner pocket of my wallet. The wallpaper of my sister’s phone remains a picture of him beaming over a cake and candles we took on his last birthday we celebrated together. If I close my eyes right this moment, I can immediately transport myself to the days of my scrawny past, walking out the school gate at sunset and seeing his face there, strands of his curly, unwielding hair poking out from underneath a white helmet. There are visual reminders of his time with us safely stored in stacks of albums in our attics at home.

But these days, with every daybreak, it’s getting harder and harder to remember what he sounded like. He was a boisterous northern man whose every phone exchange would echo across whichever public space that was unfortunate enough to host us at the moment, so I remember the volume, but try as I might, I’ve lost the ability to conjure up the texture of his laughter, the timber of his reprimand, the twang of his call for me every time I step out of the school gate. He passed away in 2015, just a few months before I got my first phone with video recording capability, so to me, his existence today is purely confined to static poses in printed photos and soundless technicolor moments that my memory could retain. The voice of my late father, in the grand scheme of Saigon’s audio ecosystem, is entirely extinct.

Museums are there to slow down the decay of visual artworks; libraries are the archivists safekeeping the sanctity of knowledge past; and when it comes to sounds, perhaps our biggest ally in sound conservation is the internet, because, as the old adage goes, “the internet is forever.” My existence in Vietnam somewhat overlaps that bizarre timeline spanning the two extremes from “what is the inter-web?” to “every minutia of life is online,” so of the multitudes of sounds that I miss from my formative years, many have fortunately been documented, even though their original sources are no longer around. Amongst these functionally extinct audios include the theme song of comedic variety show Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần, the jingle of ice-cream brand Wall’s, and the diverse meows of my orange cat Taxi, who passed away in 2020.

The opening sequence of Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần. VTV has blocked embedding so you can listen to the theme song again here.

There was nothing particularly evocative of humor in the 30-second opening sequence of Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần (Weekend Hang), but for a generation of millennials, that bass-heavy, bouncy tune was the prelude to the weekend. The show used to air on national channel VTV3 every Saturday at 10 am, so it often stretched over that magical weekly moment when I woke up realizing that I didn’t have to go to school, followed by an hour of lazing around in bed watching the show until my mother called me down to have lunch. Gặp Nhau Cuối Tuần only ran from 2000 to 2006, and even though it was recently rebooted this year, the new season didn’t revive the old theme song, which, for all intents and purposes, now only exists on old YouTube accounts.

The Wall's mobile cart jingle.

At times, I wonder if Wall’s was so culturally significant to me just because I was a child born into an era when we didn’t have many options in terms of entertainment, or because its jingle was truly a timeless earworm. It was only 10 music notes, rendered in rudimentary MIDI and broadcast by scratchy speakers attached to mobile vendors traversing every alley of Saigon to dish out refreshing popsicles with flavors like Dâu Rừng (Jungle Berries), Khoai Môn (Taro), and Sô-cô-la Chuối (Banana Chocolate). And yet, nothing could perk up a prepubescent Saigoneer the way those 10 notes did. We learnt them by heart and even invented childish lyrics to sing along, like “kem đến rồi, kem đến rồi, không có tiền thì không có kem / ice cream is here, ice cream is here, no money no ice cream.” In 2003, Wall’s was bought out by local F&B group KIDO, which rebranded the ice cream branch and phased out mobile vending. Those magical 10 notes were also gone from the sonic landscape of Saigon.

Jingles and theme songs often suffer the same tragic but simple fate: ceasing to exist the moment the creations they’re supposed to promote cease operation. But tracing the extinction of some other sounds is less straightforward.

The iconic cân sức khỏe as seen on a reality TV show.

I remember my first-ever visit to the supermarket with my parents vividly, when I was still in primary school, not because of the variety of colorful snacks or the smorgasbord of sights and sounds, but because the cân sức khỏe điện tử (electronic scale) that were parked outside of it. These scales towered over me back then, comprising an metallic disc above to measure one’s height while they stood on the scale, both functions were rather basic, but what made these scales so out-of-this-world to me was the fact that after a turn on the height-weight measure, the scale would deliver a health assessment and give blunt recommendations based on your stature, like “you’re 2 kilograms underweight, please nourish yourself” or “you’re slightly obese, please exercise and pay attention to your health.” Everything, from the promotional recording to the body weight commentary, was delivered in a distinctive northern female accent — which was strangely foreign to a southern child’s ears.

From a fairly recent interview with a mobile laminator, I’ve since learnt that this cân điện tử didn’t appear out of thin air. In the early 2000s, entire villages in the north where she lived were producing them and moved to Saigon to make a living weighing strangers. The music, promotional lines, and health assessments were all recorded there. However, this trade was not sustainable so scale vendors have gradually moved on over the years, her included. It’s impossible for me to tell if cân điện tử, and its idiosyncratic sounds, has been lost forever in the city, but I haven’t seen one for over 15 years, and finding a complete recording of its soundtrack online has proven to be a herculean feat.

Sticky traps might not be the most effective way to catch mice, but they might have the most memorable promotional material.

The audio of cân điện tử is just one artefact amongst thousands of street calls that are all extremely challenging to keep track of as, at times, they’re often considered not culturally significant enough to warrant documentation. The calls that come from tapes — like that of cân điện tử, mice sticky traps, bánh mì Sài Gòn, and hột vịt lộn — might be more accessible thanks to their uniformity and prevalence. Alas, the unique ones that hail from the dialect, creativity, and distinctive tonal qualities of their vendors will be gone for good once the vendors stop hitting the streets, be it due to a change in career, relocation, or worse, death. I’m still convinced that the COVID-19 pandemic has taken from us more than economic growth and citizens: when the people are gone, so are their culture, community, and lived experience.

In Tây Hồ, an Artisan Community Holds Fast to Their Lotus Tea Traditions

2025-06-16T14:00:00+07:00

Every sip of lotus tea encapsulates all the essences of the natural landscapes of Tây Hồ.

The arrival of lotus season in Quảng An Ward, Tây Hồ every year ushers in a flurry of activities for local tea dryers. Venerated by many as “the best tea of the ancient eras,” Tây Hồ’s lotus tea is not just flavorful, it also represents the essences of heaven and earth, and the dedication of Quảng An residents over the past centuries.

Tây Hồ’s lotus is of the Bách Diệp cultivar.

The cultivar that Quảng An tea artisans use to perfume the leaves is Bách Diệp lotus. The flower is a rare local breed characterized by its numerous petals in a bright shade of pink — “bách diệp” means a thousand leaves. The outer petals are broad and graceful, and their sizes get smaller closer to the core. The land near Hồ Tây is blessed with the ideal climate to produce lotus blossoms that are exquisite and capable of producing ample lotus rice (flower anthers).

Starting from 4am every morning when the flowers have barely bloomed, Quảng An artisans sail their boats into the lake to pick lotus blossoms, their oars slicing in between verdant swaying leaves. Their fingers pluck the stalks with care and then arrange the flowers into piles on the boats. Male members of the family are often in charge of harvesting flowers. The harvest ends around the time when the earliest sun rays hit the water's surface. Bundles of hoa sen are transported back to their home workshops to be processed.

Flower harvest must be done early in the morning to minimize scent loss.

Lotus buds collected from before sunrise are the most fragrant.

Phương Huy, a tea maker in Quảng An, told me: “We have to pick the flowers as early as possible when the sun hasn’t shown up, because the flowers haven’t fully bloomed yet and can retain their scent. The longer they are exposed to the sun, the more the scent will fade.” After the flowers are harvested, workers will extract lotus rice grains to infuse with tea leaves.

I arrived at the village on Đặng Thai Mai Street in Tây Hồ at 7am. It was very obvious which households were traditional tea artisans. During that time of the year, their homes are inundated by thousands of lotus blossoms. The entire family gathers in a common space to de-petal the flowers, package tea leaves, and harvest lotus rice.

Lotus tea artisan Phương Huy.

Pink petals take over tea-making families in the morning.

As the flowering season of lotus is very short, Quảng An is only busy with tea operations for around three months of the year. How many lotus blossoms are harvested also depends on the day and month. Commonly, the beginning of the season in May will yield fewer flowers than in mid-season (June, July).

After walking along Đặng Thai Mai’s many lotus ponds, I stopped by the homestead of Ngô Văn Xiêm and Lưu Thị Hiền, both famous tea artisans in the area. Their household is among the handful of families still producing lotus tea this way in Hanoi. Xiêm shared: “I don’t remember when this tea-making trade became a thing here, but even when I was a little boy, I grew up with lotus. Every May comes a busy time when we pluck lotus, remove lotus rice, and scent our tea.” Over the years, his fondness for the family trade swells. He’s always toiled over how to maintain the aroma of tea in the household, as to him, lotus tea is not just a beverage, it’s a cultural space with enduring longevity. Xiêm has passed down the family trade to his children — the fifth generation of tea makers.

Ngô Văn Xiêm, one of a handful of Tây Hồ residents who continue to make traditional tea today.

From a humble but elegant treat for visitors in one’s home, Tây Hồ’s lotus tea has earned a reputation as one of Vietnam’s most valuable teas. While dismantling the petals from a lotus flower, Xiêm explained to me: “It takes 100 flowers to produce 100 grams of lotus rice. So to scent one kilogram of tea leaves, 1,000–1,500 flowers are needed. There are many steps involved in making a batch of high-quality tea. That’s why Tây Hồ’s lotus tea is so expensive.”

Lotus blossoms from the pond are dismantled carefully.

During the height of the harvest season, Xiêm’s family could pick up to 10,000 lotus flowers per day. Arriving from the lake, the flowers are de-petalled and the lotus rice grains are extracted and filtered to select the purest grains. The work must be done in the morning to prevent aroma loss, so even the petal removal involves several workers. One person plucks out the outer petals while another removes the inner petals to leave behind only the pistil. Finally, the final person painstakingly picks out the rice and shakes off the dirt. “Lotus rice removal might look simple, but it’s actually quite finicky,” Xiêm commented while showing me the steps. “A tea maker can’t hurry. This is a test of patience and meticulousness.”

"Lotus rice" refers to the white-colored anthers in the middle of the flower.

It takes 100 flowers to scent 100 grams of tea, so a kilogram of lotus tea might require up to 1,000–1,500 flowers.

Next, grains of lotus rice are used to infuse tea, a type of high-quality leaves grown in Thái Nguyên, dried completely, and packed with tiny lotus petals for preliminary scenting before the rice enters the picture. The final product goes through seven rounds of scenting, each spanning three days and followed by one round of one-night drying. From the moment the lotus flowers are harvested, 21 days of scenting, infusion, and drying are needed to arrive at the final lotus tea. “Tea scenting needs someone with years of experience,” Xiêm shared. Currently he’s the only person in the family who’s qualified to do this step.

Besides tea leaves scented with lotus rice, there's also a "lite" version (ướp xổi) in which the leaves are poured into the lotus bud and wrapped tightly using lotus leaves.

As this method doesn't require long infusion sessions, the lotus fragrance is not as strong.

Because of this level of complexity in the making and scenting of Tây Hồ lotus tea, drinkers should practice care and respect when offered lotus tea. To make lotus tea, naked, unglazed earthen pots are often used, in addition to small ceramic cups. “To enjoy lotus tea, you must be patient too, because hot-headed drinkers can’t fully relish the flavor of the tea,” he cautioned. A sip of Tây Hồ lotus tea yields complex notes of flavors, from the floral fragrance to the tannic, bitter notes of the tea to a faintly sweet aftertaste that lingers on your palate. More than that, what's special about lotus tea is that even before taking that sip, just bring the tea cup close to your nostrils, and you can already smell the tender aroma of lotus buds — an evocation of the sky, earth, water of Hồ Tây and swaths of blooming lotus unfurling right before your eyes.

Driking lotus tea means drinking in the essences of summer and flavors of nature in Tây Hồ.

An Ode to Our Childhood Games and the Days of Being Wild

2025-06-06T10:00:00+07:00

This season, chò seeds drift through the air, their tiny wings twirling in the wind before settling softly onto pathways. It feels as if someone, unseen, has scattered a handful of memories across the breeze. I watch from under the eaves as each chò wing tilts and dances. The sight takes me back to a courtyard echoing with the laughter of children, caught up in the games we knew by heart — nhảy dây, bịt mắt bắt dê, ô ăn quan, bắn bi. Summer, in those days, wasn’t only about the blazing sun. It lived in the whirl of chò seeds overhead, the humming cicadas at noon, and the tender chaos of our childhood.

The yard in those late afternoons would glow as pale sunlight filtered through the leaves, stretching across the damp earth still carrying the scent of rain. Cicadas buzzed in the green canopy above, mingling with dog barks and the bright chatter of children calling out to one another: “We're here, come out and play!”

Back then, our playground was nothing more than a patch of open ground in front of or behind the house, a bamboo fence, and an old guava tree that would drop its ripe, fragrant fruit now and then. But that was all we needed. Somehow, it was more than enough for the games to go on and on. Enough for us, a ragtag band of village kids, to live fully in those brilliant, fleeting afternoons.

Bắn bi (marbles).

The gatherings happened without much planning. No game was ever decided in advance — one kid might bring a rope for nhảy dây (jump rope), another an old milk can for tạt lon (a game where you throw objects to knock over cans). Someone would twist a dry banana leaf into a grasshopper, while another carried a jar filled with green and yellow marbles for bắn bi (marble shooting).

Once everyone had arrived, we’d vote on what to play first. When boredom crept in, we’d switch to something else. Some games didn’t need any tools at all — just our voices and feet — like rồng rắn lên mây (where members form a “dragon” by holding onto each other and try not to let the tail get caught) or trốn tìm (hide and seek). Before long, the whole gang was laughing, chasing each other through the yard, sometimes scattering all the way across the neighborhood.

Nhảy dây (skipping).

Our childhood games offer a glimpse into the simple life of rural Vietnam. They were as humble and unassuming as the countryside itself. No need for modern gadgets or fancy setups; our creativity shaped these pastimes into activities full of cultural identity and meaning. In them, you can see a small society where people lived in harmony with nature, using whatever was around to create joy.

A checkered scarf became a blindfold in bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff), a few stones scattered on the ground turned into a board for ô ăn quan (mancala), and even a short bamboo stick could transform into a mighty sword for fierce pretend battles. Each game carried traces of daily work, customs, and the spirit of the people.

Ô ăn quan (mancala).

Ô ăn quan, for example, challenged us kids to think hard, strategize carefully, and gather as many pieces as possible to capture the king quickly. Kéo co (tug of war) taught us the spirit of teamwork — without pulling together, the whole team would lose. That same spirit is what adults still carry into their fields, building homes, and tending to the levees.

No matter what game we played, we learned to be patient, to wait our turn, to follow the rules, and to never win at any cost. From these lessons grew discipline, honesty, and pure friendship. These simple folk games were more than just play, they were the most authentic environment for children to develop character.

Rồng rắn lên mây.

Folk games are tied to memory not just through images, but through sound — the nursery rhymes whose origins no one can quite trace, passed down orally through countless generations, known by every village child by heart. Each game seems bound to its own melody, its own rhythm of childhood. These rhymes, linked to the games, are simple and easy to remember by young minds.

I still remember the lines we all raced to shout when playing rồng rắn lên mây:

Rồng rắn lên mây / Dragon snake climbing clouds
Có cái cây lúc lắc / There’s a tree that sways and bows
Hỏi thăm ông chủ / Asking the owner
Có ở nhà hay không? / Is anyone home now?

And when we were tired from running, we’d sit quietly under the banyan tree, hands open, playing úp lá khoai (slapjack):

Úp lá khoai / Turn the taro leaf around
Mười hai chong chóng / Twelve spinning tops go round and round
Đứa mặc áo trắng / One wears white
Đứa mặc áo đen / One wears black
Đứa xách lồng đèn / One holds a lantern on its back.
Đứa cầm ống thụt / One holds a bamboo tube
Thụt ra thụt vô / Push it in, then pull it through
Có thằng té xuống giếng / Someone falls into the well
Có thằng té xuống sình / Someone’s stuck in muddy hell
Úi chà, úi da / Oh dear, oh my

No technology or phones, only the harsh midday sun, dusty yards, and a few simple things. Still, we played for hours without tiring. We grew up surrounded by laughter, dust, sweat, and scraped knees, and those moments made childhood genuine.

Úp lá khoai (slapjack).

Our society today has changed so much. Kids have new games, new tools, new ways to grow. But I still believe there are some things you can’t replace: real experiences; the feeling of being in the world around you. Those simple folk games were more than just play. They were the glue of the community, the first place where feelings, thinking, and values all began to take shape. Everything has its time, and these games had theirs. They were born from a life of simplicity, and as life changed, the space for them slowly disappeared. Now, some of those games only live on in books or pop up here and there during school festivals, like echoes from the past.

Bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff).

But I still hold on to hopes. Maybe one afternoon, under soft, golden sunlight, a child will look up from their screen, pick up a marble, and call a friend to play. Maybe someone will find an old rope, spin it around a few times, and laugh out loud as they jump in time. And just like that, we’ll remember that joy isn’t far away. It’s in the laughter that rings clear, the sweat that beads on our skin, and the little scrapes that come with a childhood fully lived.

In Chợ Lớn, Leaf-Wrapped Rice Dumplings Abound Every Tết Đoan Ngọ

2025-05-30T10:00:00+07:00

The fifth day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar is a day of great importance in Chinese communities all over Asia.

Celebrated as Tết Đoan Ngọ in Vietnam and Duanwu Jie (端午节) in Chinese, the day is widely celebrated by numerous cultures with several purposes. In Vietnam, Tết Đoan Ngọ honors mother Âu Cơ, the legendary fairy figure who married king Lạc Long Quân of dragon descent and produced an egg pouch which hatched a hundred successors that became known as the Bách Việt, the ancestors of all Vietnamese people.

In Japan, the day is now celebrated according to the modern Gregorian calendar, on the 5^th of May, and is known as Kodomo no Hi (こどもの日), or Children’s Day in English. In the western world, it is better known by the name Dragon Boat Festival, an reference to the traditional boat races that Chinese communities organize to mark the day.

A standard bánh bá trạng with salted egg yolk and mung beans.

Different cultures celebrate the special day in a variety of ways for different reasons, but there is one universal similarity: leaf-wrapped rice dumplings. Chinese legend has it that a patriotic minister and poet by the name of Qu Yuan committed suicide in a river when his nation, the Chu, was captured and defeated by the Qin king, who then established the first unified empire in Chinese history. The people recognized Yuan’s love of his country and tossed rice dumplings from their boats in hopes that ravenous fish would eat them instead of his body. Their boats became the basis for the dragon boats of Duanwu traditions.

The rice dumplings are now known by an assortment of names: bánh ú in southern Vietnam, bánh tro or bánh gio in northern Vietnam, bánh bá trạng to some Hoa Vietnamese. In our neighboring cultures, the rice-based treat has many names, such as zongzi (粽子) or bazhang (肉粽) in Mandarin and Fujianese, and chimaki (粽) in Japan.

Saigoneer recently visited cô Cầm and cô Trân of Phùng Hưng Market, hoping to get a glimpse of the taste and tradition.

Cô Cầm lives in Chợ Phùng Hưng. Every year her family makes traditional bánh ú for Tết Đoan Ngọ.

“I’m of Cantonese descent, we’ve been making these dumplings since my ancestors came,” she exclaimed. “We fill them with pork, salted eggs, lotus seeds, mushroom, chicken and mung beans. The vegetarian ones are made with ash water and red beans.”

The result was neither greasy nor overwhelmingly salty; it was as though all the ingredients had morphed into a single, new and delicious entity.

“We boil the dumplings for more than eight hours after wrapping the ingredients in bamboo leaves. It’s painstaking. Người Tiều (Teochews) used to saute the raw sticky rice with lard, soy sauce, dried shrimp and other ingredients. I guess we don’t do that anymore because it makes the dumplings rather oily. Those were very tasty, the real Chinese bá trạng! I just call mine bánh ú.”

The cooking process is not unlike bánh chưng.

We were tipped off by knowledgeable locals about a bá trạng-making celebrity, cô Phượng. With her home nestled deep within District 11 near to Đầm Sen Park, we braved the blazing Saigon sun and chaotic traffic on a pilgrimage to discover the "queen of all Saigon rice dumplings."

“We’ve done this for three generations, only four days every year for maybe almost 80 years,” cô Phượng shared in Vietnamese. “For our largest and most premium dumplings, we use a total of twelve ingredients ranging from the simple stuff such as mung beans, chicken and pork to the good stuff such as abalone and even shark fin. We make almost everything from scratch…even the dried shrimp. We don’t use any chemicals or preservatives, I roast the chicken and pork in my own ovens.”

A platter of premium ingredients for cô Phượng's upgraded bánh bá trạng, including roast pork and chicken, abalone, and shiitake mushrooms.

It was an impressive sight. Each of Phượng's bánh bá trạng weighs almost a kilogram. They are cooked for at least ten hours and sold in pairs for auspiciousness. Her dumplings resemble bánh chưng. I asked why it was made as a square rather than a typical pyramid as with most traditional Chinese bá trạng.

“Well, because the Vietnamese love it this way. To be honest, back in the old days our dumplings were very simple when only the Chinese consumed them. Now I have more ethnic Vietnamese than Hoa customers. People are becoming more affluent, they want the best in these dumplings. They use these as offerings before consuming them.”

Making bánh bá trạng is a multi-generation affair at cô Phượng (in orange)'s house.

“We don’t use the ‘pure’ chinese stuff like chestnuts and sausages these days It’s hard to achieve consistency with those things. A bad chestnut can ruin the entire dumpling and it’s hard to tell before it’s cooked.”

The truth was indeed bittersweet. Food and culinary habits adapt and transform according to changing preferences and regional influences. What defines traditional and authenticity? The soul. When we asked cô Phượng about the secret behind good food, she left us with a sliver of wisdom: "Nghĩ ngon là mình làm." (If it's tasty, we make it.)

This article was originally published in 2018.

Inside Chôl Chnăm Thmây, the Festive New Year of Saigon's Khmer Community

2025-04-29T11:00:00+07:00

As April's fickle weather shifts between sunlight and breeze, Candaransi Pagoda sheds its usual solemnity, becoming animated with a festive spirit. The air hums with the resonant sounds of temple bells and the rhythmic beat of the wooden fish drum, a vibrant counterpoint to the warm laughter shared by monks and lay Buddhists. Anticipation builds as everyone awaits the midnight chime, signaling the arrival of the Khmer New Year.

Celebrated annually in mid-April, Chôl Chnăm Thmây holds deep spiritual and cultural significance for the Khmer people. Originating in 7^th-century Cambodia, the enduring traditions of this important festival have been carefully preserved and passed down through generations by Khmer communities worldwide.

Vietnamese media often frame Chôl Chnăm Thmây as a traditional “Tết” holiday, noting compelling parallels with Tết Nguyên Đán: both serve as pivotal junctures between the old and new year, offering a cherished occasion for familial reunions, expressions of ancestral gratitude, and the celebration of the fruits of their labor.

Yet, in contrast to the Kinh majority, Khmer society maintains an intimate and profound connection to its faith, particularly Theravada Buddhism. From the rhythms of daily life to the observance of national holidays, representations of the Buddha command the most venerated position. Chôl Chnăm Thmây, fittingly, is deeply resonant with this spiritual ethos.

The festival's progression is dictated by the Buddhist lunar calendar, its ceremonies and traditions drawing deeply from Buddhist lore. Communal gatherings, acts of worship, and the performance of meritorious deeds within the serene compounds of pagodas are indispensable threads in the fabric of the sacred occasion.

Established in 1946, Candaransi Pagoda stands as one of the two principal centers of Theravada Buddhism in Saigon. Within its walls, religious ceremonies, language classes, and significant cultural festivals for the Khmer community are regularly held. The pagoda not only serves over 24,000 Khmer residents of the city but also warmly welcomes visitors from other ethnic groups seeking to learn and explore. Each Chôl Chnăm Thmây, Candaransi Pagoda transforms into a vibrant gathering place where people converge to joyously celebrate the New Year according to Khmer traditions.

The Khmer tradition of celebrating their New Year in April traces its origins to the zenith of the Angkor Empire. It was during this golden age that the Khmer monarch decreed the shifting of their own new year from the 11^th to the 5^th lunar month, aligning with April in the Gregorian calendar. Speculation suggests the sovereign behind this edict may have been either Suriyavarman II, the visionary builder of Angkor Wat, or Jayavarman VII, the first Buddhist king of the Khmer realm.

The inaugural day of the grand celebration, known as Sangkran Thmây, marks the pivotal moment of transition. According to Venerable Danh Lung, the abbot of Candaransi Pagoda, the Khmer understanding of this transition differs from the precise “zero hour, zero minute” of the Gregorian or Lunar New Year. Instead, it is defined by the descent of a celestial being — one of the seven daughters of the creator deity Maha Prum — to Earth. These divine emissaries sequentially descend to assume the responsibility of watching over the world, succeeding the deity of the preceding year.

A statue of Maha Prum, the four-faced creator deity in Khmer mythology.

The most significant ritual of this day, therefore, is the welcoming ceremony for the celestial beings. On the morning of Sangkran Thmây, Khmer people don their finest attire and gather within the grounds of Candaransi Pagoda. Here, monks and lay Buddhists offer incense to the Buddha and beseech the descending deity for a year filled with blessings. The time for the welcoming ceremony varies each year, calculated according to the lunar cycle, typically adding six hours to the previous year's time.

Throughout the celestial welcoming ritual, the senior monks dedicate time to expounding upon the Buddhist narratives that underpin the Chôl Chnăm Thmây observances. Within the attentive crowd, one can observe not only Khmer faces but also those of Thai, Lao, and Myanmar individuals studying and working in Saigon. Notably, a considerable number of Kinh, Chinese, and Chăm compatriots also join in the festivities, lending their support to the significant day of their neighboring community.

Each year, the descending celestial being is depicted with distinct imagery, colors, and symbolic accoutrements, varying according to the lunar calendar. In certain years, the deity might be portrayed astride an elephant, clad in deep blue, wielding a ring and a firearm; the symbolic offerings also shift, featuring sesame and beans in some years, and other food in others.

In recent years, to accommodate the needs of expatriates unable to return to their ancestral homes, the celestial welcoming ceremony at the pagoda is also broadcast live across social media platforms, allowing those far away to immerse themselves in the atmosphere of the observance.

Following the welcoming of the deity, visitors gradually stream into the prayer hall to participate in the offering ceremony, the ritual presentation of food and alms to the monastic community. This act embodies gratitude, expressing reverence for those who uphold the Buddhist faith. All offerings are voluntarily contributed by lay devotees. Families undertaking the primary responsibility for preparing the offerings are known as “đăng cai,” while those assisting are called “sớt bát.” Before partaking in the meal, monks and lay practitioners together perform an incense offering and chant prayers for ancestors and departed souls.

Among those presenting offerings, not all are Khmer. “My husband used to live in Cambodia, and he had a sister who passed away there," shared Ngọc Lan, one of the sớt bát participants. “My mother-in-law always reminds us that every year during Khmer New Year, the whole family should contribute to the offerings for her. It's only once a year, so I try my best to be here for the end-of-year ceremonies. Rice, soup, whatever I can manage, I'll do it.”

As the morning of the New Year's transition concludes, the gravity of the preceding rituals gracefully recedes, giving way to the animated murmur and laughter emanating from the assembled crowd. A palpable warmth fills the air, evident in the embraces and handshakes exchanged between compatriots, individuals from all walks of life and ethnicities drawn together by this singular occasion.

Offerings have been presented to the deities, and a generous feast awaits their pleasure. Above, the vibrant Buddhist flags stream in the wind, a promise of Khmer New Year blessings spreading across the land.

If Every Province in Vietnam Has a Mascot, What Would Your Hometown's Be?

2025-04-23T11:00:00+07:00

Do you know Bé Sen?

Bé Sen (right) welcomes tourists to Đồng Tháp. Photo via Pháp Luật.

The playful smiling baby lotus flower is the official mascot of Đồng Tháp. It appears on various signs, information materials, and a few products in the delta province. But unless you have traveled there, you probably are unaware of its existence. This nearly anonymous presence reveals a missed opportunity for Vietnam.

Bé Sen merch for sale. Photo via Bé Sen Đồng Tháp Facebook page.

I first learned of Bé Sen when a colleague was placed in Đồng Tháp for a fellowship year, and it immediately called to mind yuru-kyara. Japan is notorious for these cute, anthropomorphized characters that represent cities, towns, events, companies and organizations. Drawing inspiration from local cuisine, flora, fauna, traditional arts, and historical events unique to the areas they hail from, wacky examples include a towering strand of natto, a melon-bear hybrid, and a carton of soy milk. Tooyooka-shi, where I lived for two years, has three yuru-kyara: a cuddly endangered stork named Kou-Chan; Ou-Chan, a giant salamander; and a lump of granite named Gen-San who is said to have originated 1.6 million years ago in the nearby Genbudo Caves. Their popularity and shenanigans were covered in a must-watch episode of Last Week Tonight.

Tooka-shi's yuru-kyara. Photo via Kinosaki tourism site.

Yuru-kyara are not just enjoyable amusements, they are powerful branding initiatives that encourage tourism and cohesive identity development. Creating a mascot requires an examination of a locale’s unique gifts and a concerted desire to share them. They act as ambassadors that compel people to explore the nation, and because we cannot avoid the caustic tentacle-grip consumerism has on our modern world, they can be commodified, slapped on products, and shared on viral brain rot to entice travel with lucrative spillover to other industries.

This brings us back to Vietnam and the recent announcement of province consolidations. It represents an ideal time for the introduction of unique mascots for the new provinces alongside cuddly, charismatic representations of old towns, neighborhoods, and regions. There could be local contests to raise awareness, beauty pageants, flags and phone case stickers. Tourists would want to travel to meet them all and collect limited edition gewgaws that will put to shame all the lines for Babytree and Labubu.

As Vietnam continues to explore tourism efforts in a seemingly random “throw shit at the wall,” why have mascots like Bé Sen not been piloted? Perhaps even Saigoneer should develop one.

In the Latest Issue of 'No One Magazine,' 15 Stories From Vietnam's Queer Communities

2025-04-11T12:00:00+07:00

No One Magazine, a print publication about underground queer nightlife around the world, is focusing on Vietnam for its second issue with corresponding launch events in Hanoi and Saigon.

Despite growing up on opposite sides of the world, Việt and Jeremy Raider-Hoàng established No One Magazine out of shared experiences. As they explain on the magazine's Instagram page: “One day, on the dance floor, amidst steaming heat and pulsating beats, being queer felt free for the first time. Rather than something we continued running away from, we ran towards it. There, we all shared movements, smiles, and tears while connecting with one another. Suddenly, being queer didn’t feel so wrong, so predetermined, so isolating. We created No One for those who identify as queer, and our allies; sharing stories we wish we had growing up. With each issue, we aim to highlight new perspectives and conversations about the many facets of queerness; in the context of where it most often flourishes and is treasured: the nightlife. Whether a queer kid in the suburbs or an elder (re)finding their community, we hope this magazine exposes you to the beauty that we each are, and gives you the courage to discover yourself and your communities.”

Issue 02 announcement. Video via No One Magazine's YouTube.

The issue “No One in Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi” aims to present “an all-enveloping world of Vietnamese queer nightlife, swerving between its cities’ euphoric fumes, sobering humidity, celebratory shrieks, and ongoing dialogue between past and present” via 15 stories by more than 20 contributors who are Vietnamese, queer, and part of the diaspora. The diverse selection includes examinations of past queer expression including the origins and evolutions of Lô Tô, a decolonized folk art led by trans performers; genderfluid religious rituals; and meaningful queer spaces in Hanoi since the 1970s. There are also personal narratives that reveal how it feels to encounter and contribute to the queer nightlife scene, with vantage points provided by performers, artists and attendees. The entire issue is filled with vibrant photographs and typography that capture the bold, self-assured, and exuberant energy emanating from the communities and their members. It all comes together as a testament to “shaping the future of nightlife as both refuge and revolution.”

Three Generations of Lô Tô. Photo by Jonathan Poirier.

To celebrate the issue's release, the organizers are hosting upcoming events in Hanoi and Saigon. Taking place in the capital city on Saturday, April 12, the first will be presented within the Snug x Peach at Savage drag night and include a presentation about the magazine with a reading of the ‘Letter by the Editor’ by editor-in-chief Việt Raider-Hoàng as well as a reading of ‘About Our Place’ by the party's very own in-house photographer Gio Dionisio. A Lô Tô performance by Hanoi-based HaLaZa will follow. A DJ set by BuruN ĐăngA, a Dutch-born Vietnamese multi-disciplinary artist based in Amsterdam will then lead into Peach’s drag show and Snug’s own DJ lineup of Ouissam, LYDO, l0yb0y, Xi, and Hocking.

Tạ Mong Manh performs a traditional dance where performers balance objects on their heads to rhythmic music. Photo by Bung L0n.

The Saigon event will then go down on Saturday, April 19 as part of the Anime Showdown Kiki Ball at Úm Ba La. Following a short intro about the magazine and a reading of the letter from an editor, Kat Joplin will share their piece ‘Homecoming,’ about visiting Vietnam for the first time as a member of the diaspora raised in the US and now living in Japan but performing in a ball event in their home country. The night will continue with a drag performance by local collective GenderFunk and then a múa bóng rỗi performance by Tạ Mong Manh with more ballroom action. Plans are in development to celebrate the issue with launches at Club RAUM in Amsterdam and New York's queer bookshop Hive Mind as well.

Issue 02 cover.

More information will be released about the events on No One Magazine's Instagram page, People can also pre-order copies of the issue as well as the first iteration, which focused on Amsterdam, there as well. The events are free to attend but guests must RSVP here.

[Top image: GenderFunk Drag Collection. Photo by Mat Bet]

In a Hẻm in D8, a Scrumptious Halal Feast Comes Alive Every Ramadan

2025-03-26T10:00:00+07:00

At noon, we make our way through a narrow alley off Dương Bá Trạc Street (District 8) and stumble into a lively scene of Muslim community life. More than a place of worship, this neighborhood unfolds into a diverse culinary fest, a testament to the cultural crossroads that thrive within the city.

Once a year, this otherwise-quiet alley becomes a hub of activity, welcoming believers as they gather to embrace the spirit of Ramadan.

Taking place in the ninth month of the Hijri calendar, Ramadan is among the most sacred observances in Islam, commemorating the period when the prophet Muhammad received the first revelations of the Quran. For the faithful, it is a time of deep reflection, self-discipline, and spiritual renewal.

Alley 157 on Dương Bá Trạc Street is home to nearly 3,000 Muslims, making it the largest Islamic community in Hồ Chí Minh City. Most residents are members of the Chăm ethnic minority who migrated to the city from outer provinces like An Giang, Ninh Thuận, etc. The area has a long-standing religious history dating back to the establishment of the central Jamiul Anwar Mosque in 1966. The mosque was later renovated into its present form in 2006.

During Ramadan, Muslims fast from dawn to dusk as an expression of devotion, a practice that strengthens willpower and fosters gratitude for daily sustenance. They follow a Halal diet, adhering to Islamic dietary laws prohibiting pork, alcohol, and certain restricted ingredients. Only after sundown do they come together for Iftar, breaking their fast in a shared moment of nourishment and kinship.

To cater to the dining needs of locals, a lively street market specializing in Halal cuisine takes shape around the mosque during Ramadan. Open from 3pm to 6pm, this market operates only during the holy month, offering a variety of home-cooked dishes. Stalls line the walls, showcasing everything from traditional Chăm specialties like curry, roti, and sakaya cakes to popular street foods such as fresh spring rolls and sausages.

The food, prepared in home kitchens, is arranged in generous displays, filling the narrow alley with rich, inviting aromas.

In recent years, the market has welcomed an increasing number of non-Muslim visitors eager to experience Halal food and learn about Islamic customs. Beyond a place for breaking fast, this culinary space serves as a window into a distinct culture and a bridge connecting different communities.

Explore this unique market through the images below:

The Harrowing History of Vietnam's Rubber Plantations

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

"Oh it’s easy to go to the rubber and hard to return, / Men leave their corpses, women depart as ghosts."

Visitors to a colonial plantation might have heard this sorrowful song drifting above the soft, unceasing drops of latex dribbling from the ghastly, slashed flesh of trees. As 19^th-century plantation employee and writer Trần Tử Bình explains, Vietnamese were forced to "become fertilizer for the capitalists’ rubber trees."

As much as any other singular substance, rubber helps one explore the brutal exploitation of colonial rule, as well as a variety of political and economic developments in Vietnam during the 20^th and 21^st centuries. Rubber plantations provide evidence of some of the worst abuses of natives at the hands of the French, while later serving numerous purposes for a range of private and public actors. Investigating their complex history and ecological footprint helps articulate the complex interplay between commodities, exploitation and development, as well as man and nature.

White Blood of the Forest

Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

From tires to sandals to medical instruments, rubber is a ubiquitous part of the modern experience, yet few people know much about its origins or the complex, exceedingly violent history that accompanied its ascension to one of the world’s most important commodities.

Various trees and plants evolved natural latex as a defense against insects. When the outer layer of bark is ruptured, the sticky, milky substance flows out to deter hungry invertebrates. The first recorded use of the material by humans dates back to the 1600 BCE Mesoamerican Olmecs, or “latex people” who used it to make a ball for a game they played. They also applied the latex to capes to create crude rain jackets.

An early Mesoamerican game played with a rubber ball before the arrival of the Europeans. Illustration via National Geographic.

Intrigued by latex, European explorers quickly imported it from the Americas, but the long ocean voyage revealed a critical flaw in the raw good: when it becomes too cold it cracks; when too warm, it melts. In 1761, amateur American inventor Charles Goodyear accidentally discovered vulcanization by adding pressure, heat and sulfur to natural rubber, which made the compound’s chemical bonds simultaneously stronger and more elastic. This, according to National Geographic Society explorer Wade Davis, transformed rubber “from a curiosity to a fundamental component of the industrial age.”

Bicycle and wagon tires, sock garters, shoe soles, toys and cable insulators: a variety of sectors saw the value of rubber. In response, Europe rushed to produce it in their colonies as the ideal tree; Hevea brasiliensis, colloquially known as the “rubber tree,” only grows in tropical climates. A rubber boom in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries resulted in enormous colonial plantations and collection efforts in South and Central America, Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Africa.

Manaus theatre. Photo via Trover.

These rubber efforts brought about enormous wealth. In the Amazonian city of Manaus, for example, plantation owners were rumored to be so rich that they gave their horses champagne to drink and paid upwards of US$8,000 a night for imported prostitutes while filling the city with extravagant and absurdly impractical buildings, such as an ornate opera house. Horrific crimes against humanity accompanied the wealth. The slavery, murder and battles accompanying the collection and trade of rubber continued into recent times, as exemplified by its role in supporting Liberia’s murderous warlord Charles Taylor. The stories of great bloodshed and barbarism certainly warrant further discussions outside the scope of this article’s focus on rubber in Vietnam, while providing illuminating parallels.

Indigenous people forced to work on a Peruvian plantation. Photo via Sapiens.

Rubber Comes to Vietnam

To explore the role of rubber in Vietnam, we have to first look to Henry Ford, the namesake founder of Ford Motors. He attempted to satisfy America’s automobile-fueled rubber needs by creating his own latex-centric city in the Brazilian rainforest. Complete with housing, churches and community buildings, Fordlandia was a massive development. It was also a massive failure. When planted in neat rows, rubber trees in the area were susceptible to a devastating plague known as South American leaf blight. It quickly ravaged entire crops, dooming the project.

Ford’s folly didn’t immediately stop the western world from sourcing rubber from South America, however. Natives were forced to harvest latex from trees growing naturally in the forest. Such a setup not only left workers even more susceptible to malaria and the many other pathogens lurking in the wild, but also came at a great financial cost that ultimately left them unable to compete with Southeast Asian plantations where the blight was not found, and thus systematic planting could be implemented. Thus, by the turn of the 21^st century, Asia was supplying more than 90% of the world’s rubber, with Vietnam serving as an important player.

Early on, France considered their Indochina colony a means to make money. They believed that extracting goods such as coffee, tea, rice and sugar, in addition to controlling local markets for items such as alcohol, could pay for their costly presence in the region. In some cases, such as rubber, independent foreign companies and individuals, rather than the government directly, controlled commodities, with the profits spilling over in the form of taxes and tariffs in return for financing and favorable land deals. In his expansive book, Rubber and the Making of Vietnam, historian Michitake Aso goes into great detail about that process and its particulars, of which this article provides a shallow overview.

In 1897, a French pharmacist on a mission to Java sent Hevea seeds to the Saigon Botanical Garden, which later became the Saigon Zoo. There, a number of colonial scientists experimented with it alongside other plants while the first plantations were being introduced. In line with the thinking of the time, colonial officials had little interest in researching or developing native plants such as fruit and rice that locals were proficient in harvesting, and instead looked to use land for foreign botanicals. An ambitious, disjointed and often inefficient scientific approach was taken to exploring the best ways to exploit rubber for profit in and around Saigon.

The climate in the highlands of southern Vietnam offered ideal conditions for rubber trees. Colonial officials knew it was in their best interest to present the region as uninhabited, and thus free for the taking. In truth, numerous quasi-nomadic ethnic minorities, such as the Stieng, lived on the land. The colonial government nevertheless made vast swaths of forest available to European companies to start plantations while also establishing necessary transportation infrastructure and providing financial support. The development allowed the colonial government to exert political and social influence in the region, which partly explains their preference for large foreign plantations as opposed to smaller-scale operations run by Vietnamese. In the first decades of the 20^th century, plantations were established in the south and Central Highlands, and by the start of World War II, the industry produced more than 60,000 metric tons of rubber annually.

Conditions on Plantations

“Every day one was worn down a bit more, cheeks sunken, teeth gone crooked, eyes hollow with dark circles around them, clothes hanging from collarbones. Everyone appeared almost dead, and in fact in the end about all did die.” — This was the reality for the Vietnamese who worked on the plantations, as observed by Trần Tử Bình.

The working conditions of colonial rubber plantations. Photos via Alpha History.

Data from 11 of the 20 biggest plantations exceeding 700 workers reveals death rates between 12% and 47% in 1926 and 1927. This cruel reality seemed to matter little to the colonial overseers, who viewed the workers as expendable.

When establishing new plantation areas, workers were forced to labor from sunrise to sunset, chopping down gargantuan trees and clearing thorn-strewn brush beset by menacing sun and swarms of biting insects, tigers, elephants and poisonous snakes. Binh claims it was rare for a week to pass without someone being crushed by a tree, while broken limbs were commonplace.

Work was no easier once the rubber trees became seven years old and their latex could be harvested. An average tapper was expected to cut between 300 and 600 trees a day. Making matters worse, malaria and other illnesses ran rampant, with insufficient medical attention available. At Micheline’s Phú Riềng plantation, 90% of workers suffered from malaria. Rather than the wholly inadequate health services offered to people uprooted from their homelands, companies attributed the abysmal health to the “primitive lifestyle of Annam people when it comes to hygiene and their attitude to disease.”

Inside the home of a plantation operator. Photo via Belle Indochine.

Workers' shacks. Photo via Belle Indochine.

In exchange for such physically devastating labor, workers faced violence and abuse from their overseers. Beatings and rapes accompanied lesser forms of torture, including meager wages and insufficient food. The cramped barracks consisting of little more than wood floors and sheet metal roofs made even leisure time insufferable.

To justify such mistreatment, owners depicted the Vietnamese in exceedingly degrading ways. At best they were spoken to like subservient children unable to care for themselves, and at worst, categorized as depraved sub-humans prone to a multitude of moral ills including gambling and dishonesty. According to famous rubber baroness Madame de la Souchère, “the natives of the region have the defect of being unstable.” The Micheline Plantation described them as “often depraved (opium addicts, public girls, lazy) having only an idea: desert to go to Cholon.”

This acknowledgment of a worker’s desire for escape once they’d experienced plantation conditions resulted in devious recruiting methods. As the plantations grew, companies increasingly looked to source labor from the Red River Delta, thus bringing workers south to the highlands. Separated from their families and communities, they were far less likely to flee. By 1928, more than half of all workers employed on the plantations were recruited from Tonkin.

Migrants in Tonkin bound for southern plantations. Photo via Bao Moi.

Rebellion Takes Root

Considering the living and working conditions, it should be of no surprise that colonial plantations became places of radicalization and rebellion. Communist activists saw great potential among the workforce and actively infiltrated ranks to gain supporters, form unions and instigate strikes arguing for better wages and treatment. A letter intercepted at the Phủ Lý post office exemplifies the type of rhetorical positioning the political agents used to gain support:

Fellow countrymen and women! Our country is ruined, we are wretched, we pay heavy taxes and duties, we are beaten and thrown in prison for the slightest offense. Now they are recruiting coolies, whom they first stupefy with drugs, then forcibly transport far away to their deaths.

And while ultimately quelled, on several occasions workers overwhelmed their overseers and occupied the fields and mansions, including famously at Michelin’s Phú Riềng plantation, as detailed in Binh’s memoir. The earlier murder of Alfred François Bazin, a Hanoi-based labor recruiter for the company, revealed both the resentment plantations had fomented and the lengths at which Vietnamese were willing to go to put an end to them.

These activities represented the first instances of native communist parties in Indochina taking an active role in mass labor struggles. Therefore, rubber plantations occupied a formidable role in the political structures, aims and experiences of indigenous resistance that would manifest itself in the nation’s subsequent wars with France and the United States.

Rubber During Wartime

Japan’s arrival in Vietnam in 1940 stymied rubber production. From over 60,000 tons produced annually to virtually none, the industry fell into disarray. Meticulously maintained fields returned to jungle, equipment was lost or destroyed, and the workforce scattered, taking with them with their valuable knowledge and experience.

Workers cleaning up a plantation after Japan's departure in 1948. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

The foreign companies and French colonial administration weren't willing to abandon their lucrative latex dreams, however; upon the defeat of the Japanese, they set about re-establishing rubber production and bringing back or re-training as many workers as they could. Thanks to improved technology, partly developed to fuel the massive military machines involved in World War II, they were quickly able to surpass previous output, with plantations in Cambodia and Vietnam hitting a combined 75,0000 tons annually.

Despite this financial success, rubber plantations were becoming increasingly dangerous places, as political hostilities festered. Conflicts brewed as competing forces with opposing ideologies turned to them with different aims. The Việt Minh successfully used them as examples of colonial exploitation and placed them at the center of propaganda campaigns while recruiting among their workforce. More than mere symbols, they also aimed to destroy plantation trees, equipment and infrastructure to harm the French economy. As one Vietnamese journalist, Diệp Liên Anh, noted: “One rubber tree equals one enemy. To destroy one rubber tree is to kill one invader.” All told, 10% of all high-value trees and 17,000 of a total 150,000 plantation hectares were ruined.

The plantation’s combination of orderly rows of plants adjacent to more rugged terrain played into the advantages and needs of Việt Minh forces. They could easily slip in and out to wreak havoc while also traveling into and through areas their more mechanized foes could not. So in addition to places of rebellion, the rubber plantations became sites of sabotage and death, as well as safe havens, way stations and valuable supply caches.

Not all revolutionaries, however, condoned the wanton destruction of the plantations. Vietnamese members of rubber unions in particular, argued that while they could serve important roles in resisting and overthrowing the French, their basic functionalities and infrastructure needed to remain intact so as to provide the future Vietnamese economy with necessary funds. They preferred a more restrained approach and condemned the devastation performed by their more aggressive peers.

Colonial opinions were not much more united. Companies and private individuals faced a back-and-forth with government officials. They requested protection to keep their interests safe. While the French did eventually station troops at some locations, often to meet their own means of launching military maneuvers, they also refused to guard others, which necessitated their abandonment. In their retreats, colonial forces would occasionally destroy the rubber trees so they wouldn’t offer economic or strategic value to their enemies.

Rubber as Fighting Intensifies

American troops fighting among rubber trees. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

The French defeat at Điện Biên Phủ and subsequent national partitioning did little to stabilize conditions on the rubber plantations. Recognizing their economic importance, the government in the south sought to increase rubber output, and before American forces arrived in significant numbers, it had replaced rice as their most important export. Benefiting from improved methods and attention, the southern region produced more than one metric ton of rubber per hectare per year between 1957 and 1961.

The new government, however, chose to operate the industry in accordance with colonial structures that showed little concern for workers and gave preferences to the large foreign companies that remained. Starting in 1943, large estates began to occupy a much larger percentage of rubber-producing lands, peaking at 82% in 1970. Such realities ensured that plantations would continue to offer revolutionaries with opportunities for recruitment and sabotage.

For their part, the French corporations were accused of excessive tapping and unsustainable practices so as to exact as much short-term profit as possible in light of the uncertain political future. These French operators were often caught between adversaries and played one off another as it suited their interests. They paid bribes and ransoms to insurgent forces while requesting help and providing support to the southern government. With some exceptions, their preference for profits demanded they take a bet-hedging and pragmatic approach to politics, hoping to remain in good enough standing with whomever ultimately prevailed in the wars.

When America ramped up its presence, it mostly picked up where the departing French left off. A 1964 CIA memorandum that the US government only declassified in 2006 provides a remarkably straightforward and cynical assessment of the “gloomy” situation. It notes that Vietnam produced the fifth-most rubber in the world at the time, tallying US$33.5 million in profits, of which US$13.4 million went to the government, accounting for 57% of the nation’s foreign earnings.

A rubber plantation in Biên Hòa, 1964. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

But while the CIA recognized that rubber was of the utmost importance, they levied numerous criticisms and presented a pessimistic evaluation of the industry: under the southern government, the sector was unable to properly grow and adapt to the increased competition posed by synthetic alternatives; revolutionaries would continue to use plantations for recruitment and cover as well as economically devastating attacks; and French companies, which produced up to 90% of exported rubber, ultimately may pull out due to declining global prices, continued insurgent harassment and lack of support from the government. If high taxes, cumbersome regulations and lack of protection were to lead the French to divest, the Americans argued that the southern government would be unable to take over operations thanks to limited experience and knowledge, as well as military resources.

Such thinking perhaps contributed to the United States' attempts to prop up the southern government, while ultimately doing little to safeguard rubber plantations. French companies controlled rubber plantations well into the 1960s, but production declined, hitting near zero by the 1970s. No longer seen as a source of income, American actions hastened rubber's demise. Defoliants and Agent Orange laid waste to vast stretches of plantation land in an effort to expose and impede supply chains and troops seeking shelter and safe passage through the thick canopies.

It's worth noting that whatever disregard the American military held for rubber holdings, it was worse for Vietnamese people. The National Coordinators of Vietnam Veterans Against the War once wrote: “We supposedly valued human life while our enemy did not. Yet we paid the owners of the Michelin plantations $600 for each rubber tree we damaged, while the family of a slain Vietnamese child got no more than $120 in payout for a life.”

The aftermath of a November 27, 1965 battle at the Michelin Rubber plantation that claimed more than 100 lives. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

By the time the Americans fled in defeat, the rubber fields had suffered great damage, and the people living in their proximity were filled with toxic chemicals whose effects would continue to be felt for decades to come. While reunification would usher in a period of peace and prosperity, nothing represents a greater what could have been than the rubber industry, which took years to rebound following decades of senseless devastation.

A Complicated Commodity for Modern Vietnam

Rubber production in Vietnam slowly recovered after reunification, with growth coinciding with the general economic boom the country has experienced in the decades following đổi mới reforms. As of 2018, Vietnam is the world’s third-largest producer and exporter of rubber, boasting shipments of 1.58 million tons, worth over US$2.1 billion, a 14.5% increase in volume over the previous year. This makes the nation a key player in an industry that sources 97% of its raw rubber from Southeast Asia.

In addition to the general funds it brings to the country, the rubber industry is quick to point to the way in which a commodity positively impacts the lives of people, especially ethnic minorities and those in rural locations. It provides more than 5,000 jobs with annual salaries of VND7 million per month, compared to the national average of VND3.2 million a month, though figures vary greatly across region and occupation. Moreover, plantation development results in roads, schools and other key infrastructure projects in remote regions of the country, including northern areas where production has expanded with the advent of hybrid species and advanced cultivation methods.

Rubber production. Photo via Phnom Penh Post.

Yet global rubber prices have fallen to a third of their peak in 2010–2011, and may not truly recover before 2030 due to a complicated set of international and cross-sector factors that determine its global price. This is cause for major concern in Vietnam, as the nation exports 80% of the latex it produces. So even with last year’s considerable increase in total volume, the industry netted 6.1% less money. This has a tangible effect on the number of jobs rubber can support, as well as the wages it pays.

And while French plantations vanished in favor of state-owned enterprises after 1975, the battle between large operations and smaller family- or community-run operations continues. Authorities point to the efficiencies of large plantations — owning only 38% of land, they produce 60% of total latex — and higher quality standards stemming from technological advantages to justify the continued support of them at the expense of small plantations. In doing so, however, individuals and small communities, often living on the margins of society, miss opportunities for economic independence and security, instead placing themselves at the mercy of large bureaucracies.

In some cases, people that sold land to large companies in exchange for promised jobs have been left waiting with nothing to support themselves while the large enterprises decide not to tap the rubber trees planted because of economic circumstances. Quàng Văn Dính, head of Thẳm A Village in Sơn La Province, told Vietnam News: “Before, when they [the rubber corporation] called upon the people to contribute land, they said the yield would come in seven years and the money would help people escape poverty. After the villagers handed over all their land, they only had some 12ha fields of rice left. How could we produce enough to fill our bellies with those little fields?”

Moreover, in the near-term, the trade war between China and the US threatens to further depress Vietnam’s rubber profits. China is the world’s largest latex consumer, and any decrease in manufacturing or increased prices could destabilize the commodity, though some theorize India’s increased consumption could offset a drop in China’s.

Working conditions on Vietnamese rubber plantations demand consideration as well. While treatment at the hands of colonial exploiters sets an exceedingly low bar that is easily surpassed today, the work remains physically demanding and dangerous, with risks from snakes and insects, as well chemical poisoning during processing. Perhaps most troubling is the industry’s use of child labor. A chilling report issued by the Vietnamese government estimated that 10,224 children were involved in rubber production, 42.5% of whom were below the legal working age of 15, and 22% of the children were between five and eleven years old. Serious allegations of trafficking and slavery abound.

Another significant area of concern involves Vietnam’s apparent assumption of the role of colonizing force in respect to rubber plantations in neighboring nations. As Vietnam cultivates its own expertise and experience, companies have increasingly looked beyond the borders to Laos and Cambodia to establish plantations. Businesses and governments in these areas are less able to effectively make use of their land, which thus creates a vacuum that Vietnamese companies and workers have rushed in to fill. In a trend eerily reminiscent of colonial activities, these corporations are rarely snatching up unoccupied lands; instead, they force ethnic minorities to relocate, often through illegal or immoral means. When displaced to new land they are unfamiliar with, the people struggle to adapt their traditional ways of life and agriculture, as depicted in the short film, Rubber in a Rice Bowl and Rubber Barons:

Video via Global Witness.

Environmental Concerns

Growing rubber on an industrial scale can devastate natural environments. The transition from diverse forests to monoculture plantations results in soil erosion, reduced soil quality and increased likelihood of landslides. Because rubber trees evolved in an ecosystem with constant rainfall, their natural growing cycle does not sync up with Southeast Asia’s monsoons, and thus they disrupt the complex balance of water systems, often burdening local streams and aquifers. In Vietnam, much of the damage has already been done, and people are left to lament what has already been lost. But as rubber expands to new areas in the region, little is being done differently, while modern machines and techniques make deforestation even easier.

Rubber also plays a role in carbon emissions, in regards to both the trees and the energy needed for latex processing and transport. While the trees do serve to collect and store atmospheric carbon, they do so at a lower rate than that of a more diverse ecosystem. This hasn’t stopped officials around the world from attempting to classify plantations as “forests,” as opposed to “agriculture,” for the sake of carbon credits under various programs.

In addition to the environmental impact of rubber production, the industry still faces the risk of the South American leaf blight arriving and devastating plantations. Rather than the previously offered idea that the parasite can’t take hold in Vietnam’s ecosystem, it is possible that the geographic distance that has so far kept it out, but experts are not quite sure why an outbreak hasn't occurred here yet. Moreover, plantations have long relied on cloning trees, which means they all have the same susceptibility to infection. As global movement becomes faster and more frequent, the risks increase exponentially. The disease, which one pathologist observed to move “like a blowtorch through the plantings,” could strike at any moment, and destruction would result.

Photo via National Geographic.

Synthetic rubber, meanwhile, has limitations that make it unsuitable for use in tires. The average pickup-truck tire consists of nearly 50% natural rubber, while larger industrial vehicle tires are 90% and airplane tires practically 100% rubber. Attempting to land a plane with synthetic tires would put all cargo and passengers at great risk every flight. A nose-dive in natural rubber production because of the blight would certainly have a calamitous effect on aviation, shipping and transportation, rippling across all aspects of modern-day life.

Conclusion

Without rubber, you could not enjoy the life you have now. From traveling in a car and typing on a computer to practicing safe sex and undergoing a medical operation, the commodity is essential for experiencing the world as you know it. If production conditions and environmental impacts have drastically improved since the 19^th and 20^th centuries, we could possibly justify the continued use of rubber, as long as we acknowledge those who suffered in the past to make that possible. That, sadly, is not reality.

The 2016 horror movie Cô Hầu Gái (The Housemaid) takes place on a Vietnamese rubber plantation during the colonial era’s waning years. At the end of the film, the ghosts of abused workers rise from the earth to enact their revenge on their villainous overseers. We should fear such a comeuppance. Our consumer-centric commodification of nature may soon lead to an inhospitable planet, to say nothing of the suffering of our fellow humans along the way. Who among us doesn’t have hands so stained with the white blood of the forest that they resemble the operating gloves of a sadistic scientist?

This article was originally published in 2019.

In Vietnam, Joss Papers Link Life and Death, Modernity and Tradition

2025-02-01T10:00:00+07:00

Joss papers and effigies consumed my experiences before I began to even question their meaning. On the anniversary of my grandfather’s death (giỗ), my grandmother routinely set up a large pot in our tiny front yard and burned a stack of replica paper money. It is quite a scene to watch — the fire turned the paper to smoke and ash, and within minutes it was as if the paper never existed.

Burning joss paper is a ritual offering of money and wealth to the dead which is most popular during death anniversaries, Tết, and the ghost month festival. People who grew up or live in Vietnam, or other parts of Asia such as China and Japan know it well. Its popularity hasn't seemed to wane: just stroll through any market in Saigon — from small, local markets to the biggest and most claustrophobic like Bình Tây, and you'll pass at least one shop selling joss paper and incense.

People burn joss paper as a standalone activity or incorporate it into larger occasions. One of the most popular times to do so is during the Hungry Ghost Festival (rằm tháng 7 or xá tội vong nhân), a month dedicated to giving offerings to wandering ghosts who had no families or homes while alive. Paper replicas of currency and other effigies are accompanied by fruits, sugarcane, sweets, and incense, arranged on a round tin tray. They await immolation while the host murmurs prayers. The ritual is called cúng cô hồn, and halfway through the process, it is likely that a number of young kids from the neighborhood have already arrived at one's house gate, anticipating the goods (giật cô hồn) that remain after the ritual is complete.

I asked a random person in a market and was showered with advice on how to burn spiritual money correctly: “You have to make sure that everything is well-burned, in order for them [the ancestors] to be able to receive them,” said a lady in a local market in Phú Nhuận.

There is no single philosophical or moral explanation for the practice. People, however, often claim that the afterlife resembles the world of the living. Anthropologist Heonik Kwon explains that Buddhism spread the idea that life is a type of bank loan and when a person dies, it is up to their descendants to pay their debts. Kirsten Endres and Andrea Lauser connect this notion to the concept of filial piety (hiếu). In Confucian philosophy, it is the duty of one's descendants to repay a person's moral debts (trả ơn). Kwon suggests that wealth retains relevancy in the afterlife, and thus can be given to those who cross over.

Although it is hard to pinpoint a particular period when such practices emerged in Vietnam, researchers attribute it to Chinese colonization, since the money offerings date back to the country's feudal period.

The names giấy vàng mã or giấy vàng bạc refer to the traditional form of replica paper money which is made from white coarse bamboo paper and features a thin edge of gold or silver, which gives it the name vàng (gold) and bạc (silver). Effigies such as horses and clothes are other popular forms of spiritual money. Today, one can easily find these types of paper money in standard joss paper shops, adjacent to more modern and foreign replicas.

In Burning Money, Fred Blake, while comparing historical joss paper examples with contemporary ones, laid out two main differences: one being the emergence of foreign currencies such as dollars and euros; and two being the inclusion of modern commodities such as smartphones.

Such diversification of votive commodities can be seen in shops throughout the country. Besides the ubiquitous replica dollar bank notes (đô la âm phủ), a walk around the outer rim of Tân Định Market revealed a mass of Ipad paper effigies; and while wandering through Binh Tay market, I spotted houses, and clothes with superimposed luxury brand names. The second most popular type of items besides the đô la âm phủ is pre-made packets that include all necessities a typical middle-class earner would own: modern clothes, smartphones, perfume, credit cards, and watches.

Despite being associated with a tradition dating to feudalism, money burning only regained its popularity after the late 1980s. The practice was banned in the 1970s for being wasteful and ideologically opposed to the building of a socialist society. However, the socialist project that involved a centrally-planned economy was quickly abandoned in favor of a capitalist market-based economy. After đổi mới, money burning became legal and it resurfaced alongside many ritual practices. In The Country of Memory, historian Hue-Tam Ho Tai called this turn a “commemorative fever," and explained how public memory is reconstructed as part of a larger framing narrative in which is “embedded a sense of progression and vision of the future for which the past acts as prologue.”

Gates described the plethora of spiritual currencies today as “a material symbol of the penetration of the religious imagination by petty commodity capitalism.” Fred Blake also touched upon this notion of commodity capitalism pointing out the differences between the traditional way of producing these effigies (handmade gold silver) as a symbolic reconstruction of money or wealth compared to the printed and mass-produced bank notes that resemble the real things being no longer a symbolic reconstruction, but a simulation. In Vietnam, these replicas looked so realistic that in 2010, the state bank of Vietnam had to ban all varieties of Vietnamese dong replicas to prevent forgery.

Current discourses surrounding the practices place a great emphasis on framing burning money, or at least, the excessive forms of this practice, as superstitious. The term superstition, despite its pan-Asian equivalence (mê tín in Vietnamese, mixin in Chinese, meishin in Japanese), is a neologism adopted from a European phrase coined at the turn of the 20^th century. Mê means being deluded or illusory, and tín refers to beliefs and religions, so mê tín refers to a deluded or wrong religion, which therefore suggests that there is a proper and legitimate religion. The term finds itself at paradoxical odds with a society arguing for modernity, science, and secularization.

After đổi mới, the nationalistic discourse in Vietnam turned its focuses simultaneously to "modernity" and "tradition." Thanks to the move towards a market economy, “modernity” became a term referring to development and wealth. Authorities, however, feared that modernization would invite Western influences. Thus, in the hope of counterbalancing these forces, there has been a call to return to the Vietnamese traditional culture, including a consistent national identity amidst the inevitability of opening up to global markets. The ubiquity of ritual commodities involved in modern Tết celebrations now seems like an embodiment/reflection of such conditions: a range of social and political forces at odds with each other.

This article was originally published in 2018.

Every Mùng Một, My Family Organizes Our Own Temple Run to Visit 10 Temples

2025-01-28T15:00:00+07:00

According to Vietnamese traditions, the first, second, and third days of Tết are reserved for one’s paternal family, maternal family, and teacher’s family, respectively.

This is perhaps the most typical Tết schedule for visitations for most Vietnamese. For my household, however, before we make the trek to my dad or mom’s family, there’s a ritual that we must complete — visiting 10 temples to pray for happiness on mùng một, the first day of the lunar new year.

I’m uncertain about where this yearly custom originated. When asked, my mother’s explanation is also quite vague: “I heard people say that visiting 10 temples on the first day is very good for a family’s peace in a new year.” Historical sources share that this tradition is called “du xuân thập tự,” with “du xuân” meaning “spring journey” while “thập tự” referring to the 10 temples. Every mùng một, it’s like we all have entered a race against time to squeeze in 10 temples in our outing, trying to meet a KPI set by the deities.

Historically, Vietnamese have placed great importance on the visitation of temples and pagodas at the beginning of the year to seek peace, good health, and prosperity for themselves and their families. These pilgrimages are also a great occasion to find inner peace, put aside worries, and focus on doing good deeds. Apart from lighting incense and providing offerings, Vietnamese people participate in festivities like asking for blessings, calligraphy, or plucking young tree buds.

Each year, to meet the quota of 10 temples, we always have to devise a meticulous itinerary right from the last days of lunar December. This planning stage is just as elaborate as mapping out a three-day, two-night trip. Usually, I am tasked with optimizing our journey. I am admittedly not that great at mathematics but am well-versed in Google Maps, so my mom entrusts me with these crucial steps: determining our starting time, the order of temples, time spent at each location, etc. Which temples to visit often depends on our personal preferences and the locations of our homes. My mom’s taste in temples is quite eclectic, ranging from majestic, historically significant temples to tiny, lesser-known shrines near where we live.

When mùng một comes, we dress up in our finest Tết garbs and make sure to complete all home-based rituals — like midnight altar offerings and well-wishing exchanges — before 8am, in hopes of finishing our itinerary before succumbing to the noon sun. Much of the trip is spent traveling from one stop to another, even though visitations usually don’t take more than 15 minutes each.

If I said I entirely revel in spending most of my mùng một morning under the heat as we ferret from one temple to another, I’d probably be lying. Still, I’m not against doing this with my family every year. After all, the typical Saigoneer’s Tết, my family's included, is relatively simple and doesn’t consist of large family gatherings, so I view this as a chance to travel and bond with my parents.

Sometimes I wonder if visiting all 10 temples would mean that my luck for the year would increase 10-fold, but at the end of the day, I don’t think I can ever be objective enough to test that hypothesis. After all, isn’t it human nature to remember bad times more than good times?

All told, if I ever have the chance to develop this tradition, passing it down to my own children and grandchildren, I will spread the temple visits evenly across the first three days instead of just one day, or even reduce the number of stops by only visiting the major temples. My mom often says: “Giàu sang tại số, phú quý tại trời” (Fortune is destined by fate, prosperity is the work of the heaven). So I’m comfortable with letting the gods determine my luck — having my fortune increase by just 5 times is more than enough.

To me, during these Tết days, being lucky simply means being able to celebrate a wholesome and eventless new year with my family, and having the chance to rest up to get ready for whatever the year ahead holds.

On Hội Xuân, the Harbinger of Tết for High School Students

2025-01-24T14:00:00+07:00

When I was a high school student, Lunar New Year brought with it a lot of excitement. Not only did we get a week-long break, we also got plenty of fun school activities leading up to the holidays. For me, one of my most anticipated events during this period of time was the high school Tết concerts.

These concerts were usually a part of what schools referred to as the “Spring Festival,” or “Hội Xuân” in Vietnamese. During the festivals, students would be able to participate in various activities such as playing traditional Vietnamese folk games or setting up a class-wide kiosk to sell food, handmade items, etc. And after all that jazz, a music concert would serve as the grand finale.

The best part about these concerts was that famous Vietnamese pop stars took these gigs seriously, but ticket prices were very student-friendly. During my time in high school, it only cost about VND300,000 to see artists like Trịnh Thăng Bình, 365DaBand, or Ngô Kiến Huy perform live. Of course, in return for the affordable tickets, the stage and sound quality were often inferior to an actual concert. However, they still felt special due to the small-scale, intimate atmosphere. For a high school student, being able to interact up close with musicians you regularly see on TV was a totally rad experience.

Moreover, I could attend the Tết concerts of other schools, and my friends and I often took this as a fantastic occasion to catch up with friends from other schools, or old classmates whom we hadn’t seen since our secondary years. So in a way, before the Lunar New Year kicked in and our schedules were packed with visiting relatives and trips to our hometowns, these concerts gave us a chance to reconnect with friends we couldn’t make time for during the year.

The Tết Board Games That Help Foster (and Destroy) Family Relations

2025-01-23T12:00:00+07:00

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as beating all your siblings and cousins in a heated game of cờ cá ngựa.

Tết is truly a time to revel: most shops and restaurants are closed; work is suspended; and family members gather to catch up and gorge on heaps of decadent food gathered for weeks beforehand. This cordial setting wouldn’t be perfect without a few — or hundreds — of rounds of Tết-specific board games. Usually involving tokens, cards, or both, these games can be played any time of the year, but are most commonly associated with New Year.

To celebrate these wonderful inventions, Saigoneer takes a look at the four most popular Tết games of the bunch: cờ cá ngựa, bầu cua, lô tô and playing cards. While the assets of each game are similar across the country, each region and family might have their own rules on how to play. For the scope of this article, we will focus on southern ways to participate.

1. Cờ Cá Ngựa

Cờ cá ngựa’s literal translation is “seahorse chess,” in which four players compete to send all their horse tokens back to the stable safely. Players take turns rolling the dice (up to two dices per game) to determine the number of moves. The first competitor with four “horses” in the 6, 5, 4 and 3 slots of their stable wins the match.

The rules of cờ cá ngựa are akin to that of classic Cross and Circle games, which have local versions in many cultures in the world. Korea’s version, called Yut, is also played during New Year. India’s rendition, named Pachisi, has been played since the 16^th century and is the sole foundation for Spain’s Parchís and the US’s Parcheesi, both bearing close resemblance to cờ cá ngựa. However, Vietnam’s version, in both form and function, takes after France’s jeu des petits chevaux, which simulates a horse race.

2. Bầu Cua Tôm Cá

Its full name is bầu cua tôm cá, or bầu cua cá cọp, after the animal figures present on the game sheet. Vietnam’s roster of animals and objects is similar to its Chinese origin called Hoo Hey How: bầu (gourd), cua (crab), tôm (prawn), cá (fish) and nai (deer). Thailand, on the other hand, switches deer for tiger, while a western iteration called Crown and Anchor uses suit symbols of playing cards instead.

The game begins with a banker and a few players who put wagers on at least one animal on the sheet. The bank then rolls three special dices, whose sides also bear the symbols. The banker has to pay players according to the number of times the symbols turn up on the dice.

3. Cờ Lô Tô

If cờ cá ngựa can sometimes bring out the most aggressive traits in people, lô tô is a game of pure luck. Every player is given a sheet with numbers in random orders. Each turn, a number token is picked from a sac and called. Whoever gets to five tokens in a row first yells “kinh” to win the round.

4. Bài Tây

Western playing cards have been a part of Vietnam’s Tết culture for decades, spawning dozens of different rule sets, such as cào, mậu binh, xì dách, etc. However, the most popular remains tiến lên, a shedding-style game played across the country. Four players are each dealt 13 cards and then take turn playing card combinations, which could be a single, a pair, a triple, a sequence or even more complex ones. Combinations played must be more powerful than the previous. The most powerful suit is Hearts, followed by Diamonds, Clubs and Spades. The ranking of the cards from highest to lowest is 2, A, K, Q, J, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, and 3. Whoever sheds all of their cards first wins the round.

This article was originally published in 2019.

Bored of the Traditional Zodiac? A Case for the Shipworm as a New Con Giáp.

2025-01-23T10:00:00+07:00

From games to sweet treats to flowers to traditional attire, the nostalgic elements of Tết often tug people to the past. Saigoneer writers have reflected on the enticing, acidic aroma of once-legal firecracker smoke; the versatility of tear-off calendar pages; and hours laboring over handmade coconut candies, amongst other fond recollections. However, the holiday has no childhood connections or coming-of-age associations for me. Achieving personal relevance when I was nearly three decades into life, Tết instead offers me an opportunity to look ahead, ponder potential, and imagine what could be.

The delight I take in the natural world means the namesake animal associated with each new year captures my fascination. It’s an excuse to indulge my inner biology nerd. Immersing in the critters’ natural behaviors and cultural import yields interesting tidbits, such as why Vietnam is the only nation that celebrates a cat instead of a rabbit. This can be a sad undertaking, though, when it forces me to confront the devastations we’ve unleashed upon the planet.

Despite its name and appearance, the shipworm is not a worm, but instead a mollusk. Photo via Nature Photographers Ltd/Alamy Stock Photo.

While contemplating the animals every year, I find myself daydreaming about what animal I would prefer to hold the annual honor. Settled on centuries ago with dubious legends to match, perhaps it’s time for a change because they no longer reflect the characteristics and qualities our societies aspire to; maybe it's just time for a style makeover. In this fantasy, I have been appointed the singular decision maker, beholden to no voters or feng shui cognoscenti. The choice is mine alone, and this year I have decided on the shipworm.

As a marine bivalve mollusk belonging to the family Teredinidae, shipworms are notorious for boring their soft, squirmy bodies into wood that is immersed in seawater. They latch their toothless mouths to wood and bacteria in their guts dissolve the cellulose so they can feast. Their gormandizing destroys piers, docks, and ships. Many great naval vessels have been lost to these tiny ocean mollusks.

Before you question how one could replace a snake with a slow, blind, stupid invertebrate, remember what the average snake looks like whenever you encounter one.

Why not give them the honor in 2025? Then we could say things like: “The Year of Shipworm did not ruin me. But by gnawing away at my cellulose-rich soul, it has left me feeble, flimsy, fully unfit to withstand whatever maelstroms lie ahead.”

Parents could praise their children born in the Year of the Shipworm as being diligent and able to impart great change in the world with little commotion or need for attention. Those born in the Year of the Shipworm will be lucky in love and business because they are calm, confident, and self-assured.

Picture these replaced with playful shipworm statues at the Saigon Zoo. Photos by Paul Christiansen.

Such musings are all a matter of fun, of course, made possible, in part, because Tết is a joyous season that puts one in a carefree mood with free time for whimsy. I know there is no chance we will ever have the Year of the Shipworm. But as I travel the city next week, marveling at all the ridiculous snake statues, I will squint my eyes a bit, imagine them without tongues or eyes, and wish myself a happy Year of the Shipworm.

[Top image by Reuters/Alamy Stock Photo]

What Will Become of Chợ Quê in the Era of Widespread Online Shopping?

2024-11-27T16:00:00+07:00

Firmly taking root in everyday life, our hometown markets — chợ quê — are not simply a place to trade, but also puzzle pieces that make up childhood memories, holiday excitement, and even tales of hardships and life milestones of countless people.

Whether on urban streets or in the countryside, each market has their own set of cultural charms. Still, compared to markets in Saigon, which are always buzzing with packed kiosks housing diverse merchandise from all corners of the country, the countryside markets in my memory are much more rustic and casual.

Having moved away from my hometown for several years, I’ve lost that connection to its market, something I once found familiar with everyday interactions — as a tiny child waddling behind my mom as she picked out veggie bundles and the best fish from her regular vendors. Today, as convenience stores and supermarkets have sprouted on every road, popping up even in the most hidden corners of the countryside, it seems that chợ quê’s busyness has waned, but they still hold a lot of importance for generations of local kids.

Whenever I return to my hometown, in the morning, my mom and I pick up our usual ritual on our usual motorbike: stopping for a piping hot bowl of porridge in front of the market, then roaming the market to fill our basket with tasty treats that one can only find in chợ quê.

I recall with crystal clarity the way to school during my primary school and middle school years. Walking past the village market every day, I learned by heart where every vendor is, to whom they belong, and what they sell. Porridge, bao buns, bánh mì, bánh đúc, bánh canh, chè, beancurd — these were the delicious flavors I would never forget. Alas, the market nowadays is not what it was; many of them are still the same vendors, but a few have been gone for years, so some of my cravings might remain forever unfulfilled.

According to the Vietnamese-language dictionary, “chợ” (market) is defined as “a public place for many to buy and sell products during fixed days and hours.” Our society’s development has expanded on the above-mentioned definition. Markets have grown so much since they first appeared, chaotic and disorganized, to versions that are regulated and established by local authorities.

Markets have also entered Vietnamese literature as a theme reflecting the colorful range of human moods, like when Nguyễn Trãi took in the sounds of a calming, prosperous life of his constituents, the market appeared in his poetry: “Lao xao chợ cá làng ngư phủ / The bustling fish market of the fishing village” (Bảo kính cảnh giới, Vol. 43). Later, Nguyễn Khuyến, one of Vietnam’s most prominent impressionist poet, painted a picture of Đồng Market, professing his love for his homeland:

“Tháng chạp hai mươi bốn chợ Đồng / On December 24 in Đồng Market
Năm nay chợ họp có đông không? / Is this year’s session lively?
Dở trời, mưa bụi còn hơi rét / Overcast, drizzling, and slightly freezing
Nếm rượu tường đền được mấy ông / How many sat sipping spirits by the temple?
Hàng quán người về nghe xao xác / Stalls were noisy with the sounds of returning villagers
Nợ nần năm cũ hỏi lung tung. / Asking after old debts from the old years.”

Poet Đoàn Văn Cừ opened his piece ‘Chợ Tết’ (Tết Market) with a stanza awash in warmth and vivid colors.

“Dải mây trắng đỏ dần trên đỉnh núi / Strips of white clouds redden on the mountain peaks
Sương hồng lam ôm ấp nóc nhà gianh / Pinkish blue mist embraces nodes of thatched roof
Trên con đường viền trắng mép đồi xanh / On the white path dotting the edge of green hills,
Người các ấp tưng bừng ra chợ Tết. / Villagers head to the Tết market with joy.”

These lines demonstrate a scene of the traditional market immersed in village culture. The late Professor Trần Quốc Vượng believed that markets have transcended its mere economic function to be a ground to cultivate social interactions that are tied to Vietnamese cultural values. Perhaps that is why tourists often stop by local markets in their itinerary, as apart from purchasing indigenous products, they can experience the colorful civic life of that locality.

When I have a chance to host my friends in my hometown, I always make sure to take them to experience chợ quê, observe the vendors, immerse in the quotidien life, and have a taste of local delicacies, just so they have a better idea about where I grew up. They often recall these trips with a yearning for a bowl of steaming porridge from the front of the market.

It just goes to show, if one hopes to understand a place better, visit the local market. Not just my usual hometown market, I often drop by the markets of every place during my travels for work or fun to see the host of goodies that perfectly reflect local flairs — unnamed bundles of jungle greens, drops of wild honey, bánh bò thốt nốt, spicy bánh tằm noodles, or even hunks of yellow xôi vò that smell of coconut milk. Markets are like a mini culinary world, encapsulating all the delectable offerings of a place, both rustic and extraordinary.

Naturally, when it comes to the market, our minds jump straight to food, but to me, another element that begs to be mentioned is market sounds. The familiar symphony of market noises is composed of regional dialects that are both lively and fast-paced, the clunking of metal, the sharp thuds of knives chopping meat, the splashing of fresh fish in basins, the calls of vendors, and the clamorous bargaining of shoppers.

One session a day, as regular as the sun, this symphony has remained just as cacophonous and dynamic, and only seems to abate when the market session is about to finish and people head home for the day. Markets are also a conducive space for people to exchange pleasantries, discuss farmwork, and give out invitations to special occasions like weddings and death anniversaries. My trips to the market are often truncated by the greetings of the vendors who have known me for decades, not just to sell me stuff, but also to show their affection to neighbors.

These days, chợ quê has advanced greatly compared to before; my mom used to tell me stories of how small markets were, decades ago. With just a few dozen fixed vendors, the sessions often finished early, and late afternoons were desolate and empty. The fields back then were immense and the canals were distant, so people only did their shopping twice a week. Gradually, means of transportation improved, so market visits became a more frequent part of life.

Existing in today’s economy in modern times, one must accept the fact that without adapting and renewal, traditional markets risk being replaced. Most urgently, online shops, convenience stores and supermarket chains have majorly impacted the livelihood of traditional markets, chipping away their past market shares in the retail pie. To preserve chợ quê, localities have improved the way they maintain and run markets.

Over the past 10 years, provincial officials have organized events and activities to attract private investments and renovate markets to fix worn-down infrastructures. For older adults like my mother and grandma, these new changes to markets are a welcome change, as to them, in spite of the range of modern shopping options, market trips are still an addicting hobby and an ingrained habit that can’t be replaced.

Besides, luring more tourists is also another solution to help pad over the voids left by shoppers who took their wallet to online platforms. This could help vendors have sustainable income and create new tourism products for rural provinces. That way, markets can be more than just trading places, but also a venue for localities to preserve their local heritage. Naturally, a trip to Mũi Né might require a visit to Hòn Rơm’s fishing market, or to Ngã Năm floating market in Sóc Trăng, and Đà Lạt Market while in the Central Highlands tourist town.

In addition to daily market sessions, some markets are famous nationwide for their special annual sessions. Nam Định Province’s Viềng Market is only available from the evening of the 7^th day of Tết to the early morning of the 8^th. Across regions of Vietnam, there are also chợ phiên that’s held weekly, monthly or even quarterly. Each of these infrequent markets offer visitors a chance to buy special goodies from regional artisans — a rare community space for locals and tourists to interact.

Mũi Né's fishing market. Photo via Dân Trí.

Nam Định's Viềng Market. Photo via Dân Trí.

Ngã Năm Floating Market. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Whether large or small, regionally famed or just simply makeshift, each market contains a wealth of delights that stay in your mind. Each era and each locality might spawn a slightly different variation of chợ quê, but as long as the market has been with you through your formative years, nurturing your mind and body, you’ll always find it endlessly fascinating.

I firmly believe that, even though many new commercial platforms might appear, traditional markets will endure, rooted deep in the daily routines of our moms and grandmas. Conserving slivers of our traditional lifestyle requires not only protection, but also promoting and sharing their unique qualities so they can become part of the pulse of our modern life.

An Argument for Why Võng Should Be a Staple Amenity in Every Home

2024-11-12T13:59:35+07:00

Everyone should have a võng in their home.

I have a lot of contentious opinions — all food is better cold; cash is preferable to digital transfers; film studios should never make a sequel; Saigon’s best feature is its zoo. Most of the time I can understand the perspective of those who disagree; I’m the odd one. Yet, I’m confident about my võng opinion. They are the best home item one can purchase and should be in every living or bedroom.

Depiction of an early American hammock. Photo via Academia Salvadoreña de la Historia Facebook page.

Võng gets the English name hammock from the Spanish hamaca, which, in turn, was appropriated from a Taíno Arawakan word. When Europeans first came to South and Central America, they encountered its widespread use and adapted it as the preferred accommodation for centuries of subsequent naval voyages, because sailors could be cramped into tight spaces while tolerating ocean waves. The first astronauts to walk on the moon even had them in their landing module to rest in between lunar strolls. But hammocks likely evolved independently in Europe centuries earlier as evidenced by old medieval artwork and vague description of “hanging beds.”

Photo of a high-ranking mandarin in a võng-like palaquin. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

In Vietnam, võng’s precise origins are uncertain, though it's known to date back at least as far as the 13^th century. In that era of extreme class distinction, kings and nobles would be carried by servants atop palanquins, which are just sturdy võng; while lower-ranking officials were afforded more rustic versions to save them the labor and indignity of walking.

While folk songs mention võng in the context of babies being lulled to sleep in idyllic countryside scenes, they also have a connection with war. When Nguyễn Huệ and his scurrilous Tây Sơn rabble-rousers took their rebellion on the road and stunned the Trịnh Lords in the north, they are said to have traveled in groups of three without stopping; two men would run while supporting a third who rested in the hammock carried between them.

Photo of a man taking a break in a hammock in decades past. Photo via Flickr user manhhai.

Alas, today võng seem mostly associated with old-fashioned, unsophisticated lifestyles and rural poverty. They indeed populate miền Tây with cafe võng lining the dusty roads connecting the outskirts of towns devoid of big city sheen or glamor. If you observe one in the city, it's likely occupied by an auntie, grandfather or blue-collar worker who has strung it up to escape the brutal heat at a construction site. They certainly aren’t offered at trendy coffee shops, bars or high-falutin corporate breakrooms.

For a brief time, I had a võng set up in the Saigoneer office much to the chagrin of my co-workers. When I transferred it to my home, friends similarly scoffed at the concept, suggesting it belonged outside. They said it's unseemly for a man nearing his 40s to have such a piece of furniture in his living room.

But why?

My bedroom hammock (with Mimi for scale).

For pure comfort, few can beat a hammock. The gentle distribution of weight thanks to gravity and cloth caught in delicate balance is as close to floating as one can get outside of water. While the research is incomplete, and it depends on the specific hammock and one’s health, they might actually improve one's back condition and sleep. Moreover, they are cheap and, thanks to sturdy, foldable stands, convenient for just about any location. When reclined in one you can imagine yourself to be a powerful feudal bureaucrat, a mighty Tây Sơn soldier, or even an astronaut. I personally like to daydream about fond memories of taking a break from careening around the delta with my friends to have relaxed conversations with strong coffee. How is that not cool? Besides, it doesn’t matter if someone else thinks it is cool, võng are for people who care about comfort over superficial expectations.

In Nam Định, a Village Goes All out in Festivities to Honor Their Holy Ancestor

2024-11-04T14:00:00+07:00

Comprising a range of ceremonies and traditional activities reflective of Vietnam’s rice-growing culture, Keo Hành Thiện Pagoda’s annual festival is a momentous occasion for locals to pay respect to their community’s Đức Thánh Tổ (Holy Ancestor) — Zen master Dương Không Lộ — as well as his religious importance and good deeds.

Around the middle of the 9^th month of the lunar calendar every year, Hành Thiện Village in Nam Định Province (northern Vietnam) buzzes with festivities as part of the Keo Pagoda Festival. This tradition plays a crucial role in the community’s yearly routine and in the minds of Hành Thiện inhabitants.

The front of Thần Quang Tự.

Hành Thiện — the carp-shaped village with rich learning traditions

Hành Thiện Village is part of Xuân Hồng Commune, Xuân Trường Ward, Nam Định Province. It’s an archetypal northern Vietnam village based at the joint between the Red River and Ninh Cơ River. In the final days of autumn, flecks of gentle sunlight caress tree canopies and the moss-draped roofs of local temples in the quaint village. Alongside the embankment, clumps of fox-tailed grass flowers turn the riverside white while the wind from Ninh Cơ River brushes its coolness against my skin. Once I set foot on Hành Thiện’s land, I could almost sense the echoes of hundreds of years in the past on every roof, market corner, and banyan tree.

Albeit an ancient site that has existed for a long time, the village was only named Hành Thiện 200 years ago by Emperor Minh Mạng. Throughout its history from its founding until now, Hành Thiện has been renowned as a land of scholarly learning. The saying “Cổ Am in the East, Hành Thiện in the South” has been passed down to praise this tradition. The village is also the cradle of many treasured customs and traditions, once recognized by Emperor Tự Đức with the four characters “mỹ tục khả phong” (a royal commendation given to places with beautiful customs).

Hành Thiện Village lies on a carp-shaped patch of land and is known for its pedagogic customs.

In addition to tradition and spiritual values, Hành Thiện’s heritage also includes historical and cultural monuments of great significance. Keo Pagoda is one such example. The pagoda comprises two parts: Inner Keo Pagoda (Thần Quang Tự — built in 1612) and Outer Keo Pagoda (Đĩnh Lan Tự — built in 1788).

According to historical records, Zen master Dương Không Lộ founded Nghiêm Quang Pagoda in 1061 on the land of Giao Thủy, Hải Thanh District, later renaming it Thần Quang. The pagoda is also called Keo Pagoda because “Giao” sounds like “Keo” in Nôm Vietnamese. Initially, the pagoda was quite grand, serving as a major Buddhist center in the southern Red River Delta region. However, in the years of 1588 and 1611, the more than 500-year-old pagoda was devastated by floods due to the breaking of the Red River dike. Locals had to abandon their homeland, relocating to establish new villages along the two banks of the Red River. On the left bank, they founded Dũng Nhuệ Village. On the right bank, village elders chose a piece of land shaped like a carp, with its tail facing north and head south, to establish the village of Hành Cung (later known as Hành Thiện). The carp shape combines the natural landscape with human aspirations, embodying the hope of “the carp jumping over the gate” held by the village founders.

Villagers on both sides built new pagodas, keeping the original name, Keo Pagoda, and adhering to the rule of “first Buddha, then the holy saints.” In addition to worshiping Buddha like other pagodas, Keo Pagoda in Hành Thiện also venerates their Holy Ancestor, Zen master Dương Không Lộ, to honor his merits. Dương Không Lộ was a national monk who built pagodas, helped the people, and served the court of the Lý Dynasty and the Đại Việt Kingdom; he is revered by the people of Hành Thiện as the village’s Patron Saint. Beyond his achievements in flood control to protect the people, Zen master Lộ also helped shape local cultural values and introduced traditional crafts in the northern delta region, teaching locals how to fish, make herbal medicines, cast bronze, and weave objects.

The Keo Pagoda Festival reflects the region’s agricultural traditions

Every year, in the second and ninth lunar months, the village of Hành Thiện holds the Keo Pagoda Festival. The festival in the ninth lunar month, called the autumn festival, takes place at the Outer Keo Pagoda (Thần Quang Tự). The grand event lasts several days, continuing numerous rituals and folk activities evoking the culture of the Red River Delta community. For many descendants of Hành Thiện, no matter how busy, they make time to return to the village for this occasion.

As an important, large-scale festival, preparations begin at the start of the ninth month. The pagoda grounds and worship areas are cleaned and decorated. In every corner of the village, people eagerly decorate and purchase new outfits in anticipation of the main event. Festive flags adorn street nooks and walkways, fluttering in the merry ambiance.

The festival lead (center) is trusted by the entire village to make important decisions about the festival.

A respected, kind elder is chosen by the village to serve as the festival leader. During the feudal era, the leader also had to be a high-ranking official. The criteria for this selection were strict, as this person was entrusted with making critical decisions for the festival. On the day of assuming the position, the leader is escorted to the pagoda in a ceremony and stays there until the festival concludes. Each leader can only serve one term.

The festival officially begins with the resonant sounds of drums, bells, and gongs during the launching ceremony. In the following days, a number of rituals take place, such as the procession of the saint and the raising of ceremonial banners, along with many community games like athletic events, traditional folk games like boat racing, lantern processions, tug-of-war, and water puppetry.

On the 12^th and 15^th days of the lunar month, the morning procession ceremony takes place around the pagoda. Elderly villagers recall the grand processions of the past when it circled the village, passing by every hamlet. Whenever the palanquin ambled past, the families would set up banquets of offerings to the Holy Ancestor. Nowadays, the route has been shortened to three rounds around the heritage site. The procession team — consisting of 300 people collectively called phù giá — dress in beautiful attire, carrying the palanquin and flags, and parading with parasols around the pond in front of the bell tower. The procession stretches for kilometers, and wherever it goes, vibrant colors and majestic music follow. When it reaches the waterside, boats tag along. On the boats are 10 young children seated in two symmetrical rows, with one steering, one beating a wooden bell, waving flags, and chanting to keep rhythm.

The procession launch, in which the palanquin is carried three times around the pagoda, is held on the mornings of the 12^th and 15^th of the lunar month.

The procession team consists of 300 people, dressed in beautiful attire, carrying the palanquin, flags, and parasols — collectively known as phù giá.

The ensemble accompanying the procession includes trống cơm, kèn tàu, hồ, nhị, níu, đàn tứ, and đàn nguyệt.

The kiệu sắc carries the royal edict bestowed upon Đức Thánh Tổ by the emperor.

Boats row in the lake as the procession moves along the shore.

Villagers pray for good fortune as the palanquin passes by.

Keo Pagoda does not have a resident abbot, so all rituals, ceremonies, and religious practices are performed by monks.

Hành Thiện residents of all ages eagerly watch the festival.

In addition to the procession, the Keo Pagoda festival includes many other formal worship rituals, such as phục miều y, thánh đản, and lễ tiễn đàn. Unique to Hành Thiện’s festival, alongside typical offerings like incense, candles, fruit, and tea, is a special offering: bánh giầy, a local delicacy.

In addition to the procession, the Keo Pagoda festival includes other worship rituals.

The ceremonial flag-raising ritual.

The ceremonial flag is a red silk strip with green borders, about 10 meters long and 50 centimeters wide.

The ritual flagpole is linked to a parable about the transformative power of Buddhist teachings, guiding beings to abandon wrongdoing and embrace righteousness.

To most visitors, the most exciting part of the festival is perhaps the traditional boat race of the 10 hamlets, held on the 12^th and 15^th. This boat race evokes Đức Thánh Tổ’s humble beginnings as a fisherman.

Each boat team consists of 10 people, distinguished by their uniform colors.

The boats used in the race are made of lightweight wood, shaped like a shuttle, with five compartments. They are painted, polished, and beautifully decorated. Each boat crew consists of 10 people: nine rowers and one helmsman. For Hành Thiện’s young men, being part of the racing team is a great honor. The crew is selected from the village’s most athletic young men. The helmsman must be experienced, skilled in tactics, and capable of organizing the team formation, as well as knowing how to take advantage of wind and wave directions to speed up the boat when going downstream and reduce drag when going upstream. Each team wears a different color for their uniform.

Rowers maintain a standing position throughout the race.

At the starting point near Keo Pagoda, along a canal section, the boats are anchored to poles along the bank. The race begins with three beats on the large drum. The boats move along the canal, then out onto the Ninh Cơ River. On the river, the boats must complete three laps before returning in the original direction. Unlike other types of boat races, in this race, rowers keep a standing position instead of sitting throughout the course. The back leg is extended, the front leg bent as a pivot, leaning forward while rowing. The teams in green, red, purple, and yellow uniforms chase each other fiercely. Their synchronized oars slice through the water creating a trail of white foam. Along the racecourse, buoys serve as checkpoints that the boats must pass. Each buoy is a bamboo pole; attached to the pole top is a leaf cluster that the teams must touch as they row past. If they can’t, the boat will be penalized.

Villagers cheer for the boat teams.

Young men from the hamlets swim in the river to cheer on the teams.

People from the hamlets gather, crowding along the banks of the Ninh Cơ River to cheer for their teams. The crowd stretches for over a kilometer. Shouts, applause, horns, and drums resound across the village. Many from various hamlets even swim into the river to support the teams, splashing water at the boats as they pass. The atmosphere is both intense and lively. After three hours, the boats begin returning to the starting position to present themselves. In the finishing ritual, the boats bump into the starting poles in reverse order amid applause and cheers from villagers lining both sides of the canal.

Amid Saigon, a Traditional Lantern Craft Village Stands the Test of Time

2024-09-17T21:00:00+07:00

Cellophane lanterns, the nostalgic anchors of our past full-moon festivals, are still alive thanks to the nimble fingers of craftspeople at the Phú Bình lantern “village” in Saigon.

Just take a stroll in the neighborhood of Phú Bình on Lạc Long Quân Street of District 11’s Ward 5 these days, you’ll feel a palpable sense of anticipation for mid-autumn celebration.

Phú Bình Lantern Village is the most vibrant during the Trung Thu season. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I can’t take my eyes off the houses here which are enveloped from floor to ceiling with finished lanterns of all shapes, designs, and sizes. This tiny artisan village evokes in me a wistful feeling about the mid-autumns of my childhood, when our old customs were safeguarded like a treasure amid the city.

Lanterns on sale. Photo by Cao Nhân.

According to the lantern makers I meet here, around the 1950s, thousands of people from Bác Cổ Village in Nam Định Province migrated here to make a living, carrying with them their ancestors’ signature craft. This historic artisan village has been making traditional lanterns since then.

Cellophane lanterns are Phú Bình's specialty product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

In their heydays, around the 1970s–1990s, the bustling scene at this lantern-making community was once the talk of the town, as there were hundreds of families in the trade, producing enough to supply across the southern region and even export orders.

Over time, due to changing demographics and the advent of battery-operated lanterns, few of those hundreds of families have maintained their trade. Today, artisan families mostly produce for wholesale orders instead of retail as before. Each handmade lantern costs around VND30,000 to a few hundred dong, though more elaborate designs can cost even more.

New competition from battery-operated lantern toys has made it harder to sell traditional lanterns. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I’m mesmerized by the swift fingers of the artisans as they weave bamboo strips, make the frames, paste on the cellophane, and deliver the brushstrokes of colorful paints. The lantern makers tell me that it is not too hard an art, but it’s time-consuming and involves many steps.

Lanterns are made from bamboo, colored cellophane, and powdered paint. Photos via Tạp chí Du lịch Tp. HCM.

To form an aesthetically pleasing and durable lantern, it’s important to prepare all the components properly. The bamboo strips must be from old bamboo trees that are freshly cut to retain their tensile strength and prevent termite damage. The cellophane must be glued on smoothly so the painted patterns appear clean. Each step of the way requires high levels of detail from the artisans to produce final products that are neat and visually striking.

The frame for a star-shaped lantern and the finished product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Phượng, a lantern producer I come across here, shares with me: “Anyone who’s been doing this for long enough will tell you that this is not difficult work, but you just need to be meticulous and precise in every step. For me, I’m most happy to see my family create something together, bringing to life pretty lanterns and playing our part in preserving a beautiful facet of our culture.”

Lanterns are decorated with powdered paints. Photo by Cao Nhân.

As I sit there marveling at the completed lanterns, my fingertips caressing the sleek surface of the red cellophane, I can’t help thinking about that time when my grandpa helped me make a giant star lantern for a competition at school, and how I had so much fun assisting him in cutting the cellophane, drawing the design, etc. I both miss and feel for this art form, and I wonder how long it will persist, and whether the children of future years will be able to marvel at those vivid shades of red and yellow like I am right now.

A star lantern. Photo by Cao Nhân.

That is perhaps the same concern I share with the people here who've been marking lanterns for decades. Of course, to keep the passion going, Phú Bình’s lantern makers have created new designs to follow the market’s taste and trends, like lanterns that are shaped like dragons, crabs, and rabbits.

Apart from brick-and-mortar retail, the artisan households here have started listing their products on e-commerce platforms and social media channels to reach more young consumers and promote the image of a traditional craft village.

Artisan Nguyễn Trọng Bình. Photo via Tạp chí Du lịch TP. HCM.

Nguyễn Trọng Bình, a third-generation member of Phú Bình, tells me: “This year, the number of orders has increased significantly compared to past years. This made us incredibly happy. Since March, right after the Lunar New Year, I’ve already started working. In any other year, it would have taken until May or June for the first orders to arrive.”

A batch of lanterns ready for shipping. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Nguyễn Thị Tươi, another lantern maker, shares with me: “My family’s lantern business has been around for over 20 years. We are lucky to be well-loved by many so we can still maintain our trade until now. Our younger generation is trying to promote our brand more so more and more people will know about traditional mid-autumn lanterns.”

It makes me happy to hear about these positive developments in the livelihood of the lantern makers here, because as long as the craft exists, the village remains. Just like they’ve always done, over decades, the craftspeople here will continue to breathe life into thousands of lanterns every year, keeping the lights on so that everyone’s childhood is filled with the colors of Trung Thu.