To say that Tết gathers together everything most beautiful in Vietnamese culture would not be an exaggeration. More than a threshold between the old year and the new, it is also a time when people feel they can return to, and relive, the traditional values that define them.

It is there in those year-end markets, where one searches for the familiar flavors of home. It is there in the square bánh chưng, shaped like the earth, and the cylindrical bánh tét, round like the sky. These are humble offerings, yet deeply reverent, placed before one’s ancestors. And on the afternoon of the 23^th day of the last lunar month, families erect cây nêu (tall bamboo pole) in front of their homes. A small wind chime hangs from it, trembling in the breeze as a quiet gesture meant to ward off misfortune.

Whenever strips of red paper begin to appear along Hàng Mã Street, I find myself thinking of ông đồ who once wrote characters on dó paper. What does the person who comes to ask for a character truly seek, if not something beyond a few strokes of calligraphy? And what does the giver offer, if not something beyond a flourish of black ink?

Silk robes and scholar caps

In the Confucian civil service examination system, candidates who passed three rounds and earned the degree of Tú Tài, a licentiate-level qualification, were known as “ông đồ.” Many never entered official service. Those who advanced only through the lower examinations would continue preparing for higher rounds such as thi Hội (the metropolitan exam) and thi Đình (the palace exam). In the meantime, they often supported themselves by teaching, hence the name “thầy đồ,” literally "scholar-teacher,” or by writing on commission.

Ông đồ reading, 1915. Photo by Léon Busy.

In the book Traditional Vietnamese Customs, compiled by Toan Ánh, a passage reads: “Elementary learning had no state-run schools, yet in every village there were a few ông đồ who taught children. Books were handwritten, as printed books were very expensive. Every ông đồ kept a small library, and students copied their lessons from the master’s books…”

Being recognized as an ông đồ required more than just wearing a traditional robe and knowing how to write. The title was reserved for those who possessed both literary skill and wisdom. Even if they had not achieved high academic honors, they maintained their integrity, lived honestly, and followed tradition. This was because, in earlier times, education was seen as a way to learn not only how to read and write but also how to be a person of virtue. The scholar was a symbol of intellect and character in society. People revered them not just for their elegant brushwork but for their clear conscience and steadfast values.

In the past, people sought out ông đồ when they needed “special scripts” (xin chữ) or someone literate to help with formal documents. This gave rise to the tradition of requesting and giving calligraphy. During festivals and especially at Tết, students and those devoted to study would ask for specific characters as a way of absorbing good fortune and intellectual blessing.

There was an unspoken etiquette to asking for a script. The petitioner would bring a modest offering such as betel and areca, tea, or tobacco, and come to the scholar’s home. The scholar, in turn, had to be solemn and respectful, giving his art only to those who truly valued the written word, rather than those merely pretending to be cultured.

Ông đồ on the street of Hanoi, 1913–1917. Photo by Léon Busy.

Characters were written in calligraphic form and rendered on many styles on sheets of red paper. Red, in eastern belief, is the color of luck and auspicious beginnings. The writer would let mood and instinct guide the brush, shaping letters into forms that were sometimes striking, sometimes unexpected. Each character that emerged beneath the scholar’s hand was more than a work of calligraphic art. It carried temperament, personality, feeling, and the distinct creative imprint of the individual who wrote it.

A word worth a thousand in gold

The old saying “nhất tự thiên kim,” meaning “one character [is] worth a thousand gold pieces,” is associated with Lü Buwei, as recorded in Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian. The powerful Chinese chancellor once hung his book at the capital gate and offered a reward of gold to anyone who could add or remove a single character. His authority was so immense that no one dared step forward to revise it. Over time, the phrase became a classical allusion to writing of exceptional value.

Beyond its physical form, the written character is a means by which humanity preserves memory, opens understanding, and connects across time. That is why words are likened to gold. Dr. Cung Khắc Lược, a veteran calligrapher, explains: “Thought, emotion, and the inner life are always expressed through language, through vocabulary, through text. A single character written on a page, a word from the heart and mind offered to another, is worth a thousand gold pieces. It surpasses material wealth.”

Ông đồ stationed in front of Hương Pagoda, Hanoi, 1995. Photo via Flickr user lonqueta.

Over the years, the practice of asking for characters has grown more widespread, becoming a cherished custom each time Tết returns. From the mountains to the delta, regardless of wealth or status, anyone who comes with sincerity may ask for a character.

Each brushstroke carries a particular wish or intention. One might request Cát Tường (auspiciousness) or Như Ý (fulfillment) to pray for peace within the family. Others ask for Phát, Lộc (prosperity, fortune), or Tài (excellence) in hopes that their work will prosper and unfold smoothly. Young people often request for Chí (resolve) or Đắc (achievement) as a way to steady themselves in the face of hardship.

The ritual is no longer bound by the formalities of the past. The giver need not be an elderly scholar in traditional robes with silvered hair and beard. There are now modern calligraphers, western-trained writers, and women who are taking up the brush.

The art, too, has moved beyond black ink on red paper. Characters are carved or brushed onto wood, stone, bamboo, silk, or brocade. Seal script, clerical script, regular script, cursive, running script, every form has its place. Along city streets and in temple courtyards, people queue patiently for characters that unfurl across the page like phoenixes in flight and dragons in motion, a beautiful custom that feels inseparable from the first days of the new year.

Modern calligraphic masters come from all walks of life. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Dedicated “scholar streets” have also emerged to honor this traditional custom. In the north, the Temple of Literature is widely regarded as a symbolic “village of examination candidates.” In the south, the practice of asking for calligraphic characters dates back to the 17^th century, when the Nguyễn lords expanded southward to develop new territories, followed by waves of migrants from the north and central regions. It was not until the late 17^th century, however, when Chinese communities began settling and cultivating the areas around Biên Hòa and Đồng Nai, that the custom truly flourished. The long coexistence of different cultures has, in subtle ways, shaped the distinctive character of this southern tradition.

Today, more than half of the calligraphy masters are students of classical Sino-Vietnamese studies or simply lovers of the art. Those who come to request characters span every age group, social background, and profession. This is not a fleeting trend. I see it as an act of cultural transmission. Whatever changes in form or setting, the essence of the custom remains intact. The person holding the brush pours care and craft into every stroke. The one who asks comes with respect for learning and for the traditions that have shaped it.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image by Léon Busy.]

Every year, as the pages from my block calendar peel off, bringing me towards another Vietnamese New Year, my mind once again fills with nostalgia about an old Tết. Tết in my memory begins with my childhood in a small house nestled under a coconut grove on the outskirts of Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. Those were days of hardship, yet my parents worked hard so that Tết could bloom magnificently for all of us.

Born into the Year of the Buffalo (1973), I grew up during a time when poverty was common among Vietnamese people. Those who survived the war struggled to make ends meet. Everyone I knew didn’t have much to eat all year round, and children had to do all types of odd jobs to help put food on the table. Like all my friends, for the entire year I looked forward to Tết because it was the only time when we could eat good food and receive a new set of clothes, and even some lucky money.

A time to shed old leaves and apply new paint

In my memory, Tết preparations started months before the lunar year’s end. In September, my father tended our pond to make sure that our fish would be ready for Tết. We planted chilies, onions, cabbages and leafy vegetables, which my mother and I would bring to the market to sell in order to buy the many necessities for our celebrations: pork, dried green peas, sticky rice, dried shrimp, fruit, firecrackers, and offerings for the ancestors’ altar. If we were lucky, there would be enough money left for my parents to buy each of us — their three children — a new set of clothing.

A few weeks before Tết came, my father studied the weather patterns, talked to his friends and decided on the day to pluck the leaves of our apricot tree, mai. I watched in amazement as the barren tree started to sprout countless green buds which grew fuller and fuller as Tết drew nearer. My father monitored the watering and fertilizing of his tree every day to ensure they bloomed at the exact right time. As was true of the peach flowers we used to have in the north, if our mai blossoms bloomed brilliantly during the first day of Tết, our family would be blessed for that entire new year. 

Regardless of how poor we were, Tết was the time to look and feel good, so every year, about two weeks before it arrived, we scrubbed and painted our house. My brothers and I moved our wooden and bamboo furniture out to the front yard and gave it a good wash, splashing water at each other while we worked. We then crawled into our most tattered clothes and covered our walls with a white paint we mixed ourselves using limestone powder and water. We laughed and joked while we worked, feeling happy as the gleaming white spread under our hands.

A family in Sa Đéc in the Mekong Delta with rows of apricot trees that are stripped off old leaves. Photo by Andy Ip.

After the house was scrubbed and cleaned, I spent hours helping my mother prepare a special pickled dish using onions and scallions we bought at the market. They had to be fresh, still attached to their leaves and roots. More importantly, they had to be bite-size. Bringing them home, we washed any dirt and mud away, then soaked them overnight in water diluted with ash I collected from our cooking stove (we cooked mostly with rice straw or tree branches during those days). The ashy water helped tame the onions and scallions so that the next morning they no longer made my eyes weep when I peeled off their outer layers to reveal their glistening whiteness. Sitting side-by-side with my mother in our front yard, I talked to her about our plans for the New Year, about the food we would cook, and whom my parents had chosen to be the first person to step into our house on the first day of Tết.

Many hours of squatting on low stools to prepare our pickled dish always made our backs sore, but as we spread the peeled onions and scallions out on thin tin trays to dry them in the sun, we felt happy to watch the white alliums grin back at us. They looked like flowers that had sprung up from the earth, like the purest type of beauty. While waiting for them to dry, I gathered small twigs to start a fire in our kitchen while my mother measured and mixed vinegar, sugar and salt into a pot.

Once it cooled, we poured the pickling liquid over our onions and scallions, which we had arranged artistically into glass jars. From time to time, I would help my mother carry these jars out to the sun, to make sure that our pickled onions and scallions would "ripen" in time for Tết. They always made the perfect side dish, to be savored with dried shrimp, sticky rice cakes, and boiled or stewed meat; their fragrant sour-sweetness melting in our mouths.

The week before Tết was the busiest, but also the happiest. One of the most exciting events was to drain our pond to harvest our fish. We had no motorized pump back then, only a bamboo bucket we connected to two strong ropes and took turns swinging to get the water out of the pond. Our hands would grow tired and hours passed before we saw fish jumping up and down, trying to escape the increasingly shallow water. Our pond was not large, but large enough to reveal different secrets each year. Besides the tilapia fish my father farmed, we also often found mullet, catfish and perch.

For quite a few years, I was not allowed to go into the drained pond to catch fish with my two elder brothers. Standing on the pond’s bank, I burned with jealousy as I watched my brothers jump around in the mud; their faces blackened, their teeth gleaming in the sunlight as they cheered and laughed. Each time a fish was captured they would scream with excitement, lift it high into the air while it wiggled madly, and then throw it on the floor.

My job was to scoop the jumping fish into a bamboo basket and release it into a large tin bucket filled with water. Sensing that I was unhappy, my parents would tell me that catching fish with your bare hands was not a task for a small girl like me. Of course, they were right. My brothers’ hands were often injured. One year, a catfish pierced its sharp thorn into my brother’s finger. He ran into the house and when I found him half an hour later, he was under his bed, clutching his hand to his chest, crying like a baby. I laughed at him so hard, but a few months later, I too was stung by a catfish’s thorn. The pain pierced into my bones, so hot, deep and searing, that I could not help but crawl under our bed and bawl like a newborn as well.

Candied coconut by any other name

Tết would not be fully ready without mứt dừa, a type of candied coconut ribbon. As someone with "monkey genes" who could climb well, I was tasked with the responsibility of picking several fresh coconuts from our trees. Our small garden was filled with fruit trees, and my favorite were the coconut trees that spread their protective arms over our house, singing us lullabies by rustling their green leaves against our tin roof. These coconut trees bore plenty of fruit all year round. I quickly got up to the top of a tree, leaned my body against the biggest leaf and selected the coconuts which gleamed with several golden stripes on their dark green skin. The flesh of these coconuts would be perfect: not too thin and not too crunchy. Hanging on to the tree with one hand, my other hand would swing a sharp knife to chop the chosen coconuts from their stems. They made happy thumping noise as they kissed the ground.

Just like catching fish for Tết, preparing candied coconut ribbons was a joyous family event. My father and brothers chopped and then peeled away the thick outer layers of the coconuts. We then drilled holes through the hard shells, tilting the fragrant juice into a large bowl. Later, my mother would reward each of us with a glass of delicious coconut water. The rest we would be put aside to make thịt kho trứng — pork and eggs stewed in coconut juice — an essential Tết dish that's common in the Mekong Delta.

Braised pork and bittergourd soup are two popular Tết dishes. Illustration by KAA Illustration via Behance.

Making candied coconut ribbons was fun, but it was also a test of our skills and patience. After separating the white coconut flesh from its hard shell, we peeled the brown, inner-skin away, then shaved the coconut flesh into thin, long ribbons that we dipped into hot water. After draining them, we mixed them with white sugar. Our neighbors often added food coloring to make red, pink and even green coconut ribbons, but we preferred ours to be white and natural.

After a few hours, when the sugar had completely dissolved into the ribbons, I would make a low fire in the kitchen for my mother to cook the coconut ribbons in a large frying pan. To help the sugar crystallize, she occasionally stirred the ribbons with a long pair of chopsticks, giving them an equal amount of heat while not breaking them. My job was to keep the fire very low, so as not to burn my favorite Tết dish. It was the most delicious job as I only needed to put out my tongue to taste the sweetness of Tết in the air. About an hour later, we would have a basket full of long, curly coconut ribbons, crystallized in their fragrance.

The craft behind bánh chưng

As the mai tree’s golden flowers started to bloom, a breeze would sweep across nearby rice fields and waft to my nose, whispering that Tết was about to knock on our door. With this aroma in the air, we made traditional sticky rice cakes, or bánh chưng. Bánh chưng is a must-have for northern Vietnamese during Tết. My parents, who had uprooted themselves from the north and planted themselves into the soil of southern Vietnam during the late 1970s, embraced their northern heritage by making bánh chưng every year while our southern neighbors prepared bánh tết.

Both of these sticky rice cakes use the same ingredients, including sticky rice, dried green peas and pork. However, bánh chưng is wrapped with lá dong (phrynium leaves), which grow abundantly in the north, while bánh tết is wrapped with lá chuối (banana leaves) which you can find anywhere in the south. In addition, bánh chưng is square and thick, while bánh tết is long and round. Lastly, while bánh tết can have a “sweet” version (made with sweetened bananas), bánh chưng only has a savory version that includes pork and green peas.

The night before the important day of making our bánh chưng, I helped my mother soak dried green peas overnight to remove their skin. We also soaked sticky rice and separated good grains from the brown and yellowish ones. My brothers squatted in the yard as they helped my father split bamboo stalks into thin, flat strings. These strings would be used to tie the leaves around our cakes. My mother explained that bánh chưng needed to be boiled for hours, so plastic or nylon strings would not be healthy.

Once these tasks were complete, my father would ask me to help him cut down lá dong leaves from our garden. When we moved south, he searched all over for dong plants, which were hard to find and harder to grow in the tropical climate. With these plants growing in our garden, we felt we had brought with us a part of our ancestors’ village. We cut the precious leaves from their stems, piled them up gently, and brought them to our yard to wash away any dirt and insects. We took care so that no leaf was torn. Softening them under the sun or over hot coal, we set them aside.

On a large working area, my mother spread out a clean, large straw mat. Onto the center of the mat we placed the dong leaves, bamboo strings, bowls of the drained sticky rice, dried green peas and marinated pork. As we had no fridge, my mother had to wake up at five that morning to go to the local market to buy the best pork available. It needed to be fresh, with a precise balance of lean meat and fat. Bringing it home, my mother washed and cut the pork into large pieces, then marinated it with freshly ground pepper, fish sauce and salt.

One of the extraordinary things about my father is that except for boiled or fried eggs, he can’t cook, yet is a master at making bánh chưng. While my mother, brothers and I struggled to form our bánh chưng into square shapes, using wooden molds to guide us, all my father needed was his bare hands.

He started by arranging several lá dong leaves on to the mat and placing a layer of sticky rice, green peas and marinated pork on top, which he then covered with another layer of green peas and sticky rice. Covering his artwork with several more lá dong leaves, he folded the four sides, tugging the leaves into each other so that they made a perfect square. He then tied the square cake with the bamboo strings he had made with my brothers.

Tranh Khúc Village in Hanoi is known for their special bánh chưng.

My father explained that the strings had to give space for the rice and dried green peas to expand when they cooked. Yet they had to be tight enough for the rice not to spill out. He said that in northern Vietnam, where the weather was cold around Tết and families didn’t have refrigerators, bánh chưng would be released immediately into deep wells after they were cooked. Resins from the lá dong leaves, once meeting the cold water, would form a thick protective layer over the cakes. The wells would act as refrigerators, keeping the cakes fresh for weeks.

My father was so famous for his bánh chưng-making skills that many of our relatives and friends often asked us to make bánh chưng for them. While there was a lot of work involved, we did not mind since it would be more economical to make and boil over 30 bánh chưng at one time, sufficient for seven families and for the entire duration of Tết.

After we were done with wrapping the bánh chưng, my mother took out a gigantic pot that she had borrowed from our rich neighbor. The pot was large and expensive, thus in our whole neighborhood, there was only one family who could afford it. Families took turns borrowing the pot to boil their bánh chưng and bánh tết. The owner was happy to lend it because although we were financially poor, we were rich with generosity towards each other.

For the boiling of bánh chưng, my brothers dug a hole in a corner of our garden and my father started a fire with the biggest logs he could find. It takes up to 10 hours for the bánh chưng to cook, and therefore, this was the only time all year that my brothers and I were allowed to stay up all night to look after the fire. We huddled against each other in the dark, telling scary ghost stories that made us giggle and huddle even closer to each other. In the early morning, we scooped out the small bánh chưng, which we wrapped ourselves, and had them for breakfast. They tasted delicious, even though they looked shameful compared to my father’s perfectly square cakes.

The last night of the year

My father knew a lot about bánh chưng because he is the eldest son of my grandparents. He also knows a lot about the rituals of worshiping ancestors because Vietnamese ancestors are believed to "follow" the eldest son from north to south. On the last day of the old year, my father carefully cleaned the family altar and arranged a special display, which included an incense bowl, a pair of bánh chưng, fresh flowers, a bottle of homemade rice liquor, and fruits of many colors. My mother and I cooked special Tết dishes, such as boiled chicken, glass noodle soup, steamed fish, stewed pork and eggs, fried vegetables, and orange gấc sticky rice.

We offered our food to our ancestors around 5pm on the family altar, and after allowing our ancestors to "eat" this sumptuous meal for several hours, we gathered and enjoyed the best food of the year. The cutting of my father’s bánh chưng was a ceremony by itself; after untying the bamboo strings and peeling away the outer leaves, we arranged the strings across the cake’s green surface. Turning the cake upside down, we held the two ends of each string, pulling them towards each other, thus cutting the bánh chưng into square or triangle pieces. The taste of my father’s bánh chưng still remains in my mouth today; fragrant and savory. It tasted perfect, together with the pickled onions and scallions which my mother and I had prepared.

After cleaning up, I would clutch my mother’s hand as we walked to a nearby pagoda. Holding burning incense in front of my chest, my eyes closed, I would pray to Buddha to bless me with lots of lucky money that year. As I was never given any pocket money during the rest of the year, Tết was my only chance to gather savings, which I kept in a clay pig on my bookshelf. If I had enough lucky money, I would be able to buy a new book.

Returning home from the pagoda, I would see that my brothers had hung our firecrackers on our front door, anxiously waiting for the time to set them on fire. I wish I had joined them then, because firecrackers would be banned a few years later, hence the disappearance of this long and special tradition. But at that time, I helped my mother as she hurried to set up a tray of offerings, laden with fruit, flowers, liquor and incense. I carried the tray with her to our front yard and lit the incense. Watching how long my mother prayed to heaven, I sensed how important this ceremony was to her and to our family. I felt that all the gods were coming to join us, and my ancestors were also present.

Chúc mừng năm mới

Finally, the New Year approached with the faint sounds of firecrackers from far away, then moving closer and louder towards us. My two brothers would fight for the right to ignite the firecrackers, while I stood, frozen in fear, my hands over my ears.

We woke up very early the next morning, with yellow mai flowers brightening our living room. Smoldering incense filled my senses, and my happiness soared. Firecracker remnants rested like a blanket of pink and red on our front yard. We were not allowed to sweep anything away during the entire first day of the New Year, so as not to chase our luck away. I admired this red and pink carpet all day as it was twirled up by a dancing wind or rested peacefully under the gold, yellow and white chrysanthemum and mai flowers.

I put on my new set of clothes for Tết that I had wanted all year long, while my brothers burned left-over firecrackers in our front yard. When my parents were ready, they called us into the house, handing each of us a red envelope containing our lucky money. We would bow our heads, wishing them health, luck, success and happiness, before busting out of the house, waving the red envelopes on our hands.

But we were not allowed to go into any neighbor’s home unless we were specially invited. One's luck for the whole year depended on the fortune and character of the first person to enter one's home on the first day of the New Year. My father often chose a senior neighbor whose children were successful and who had a gentle and cheerful personality. The neighbor would often come before 7am on the first day of Tết, bringing my parents lots of good wishes and a red envelope for me, since I was the youngest member of the family.

During Tết, families in Saigon gather at flower markets to pose for photos, buy new plants for their home, or just simply to soak in the festive ambiance.

Around noon our house would be filled with greetings from relatives and neighbors. Everyone visited the house of everyone else in the neighborhood. We served our visitors green tea and candied coconut ribbons. Our family members took turns visiting the houses of relatives and friends, making sure that someone was always home to greet and take care of unexpected visitors. Snacks and food were served around the clock.

All the food my mother and I had spent many hours preparing came in handy; even though we were discouraged by traditions from cooking during the first day of the New Year, we could always serve our guests a good meal with our bánh chưng, stewed pork in coconut, as well as pickled onions and scallions. When the cooking resumed on the second or third day of Tết, we would make sweet and sour soup with our fresh fish, and serve our guests the ripest vegetables from our garden. From our home flowed an endless river of chatter and laughter, while I would occasionally sneak into my parents’ bedroom to count how much lucky money I had received. 

Thinking back, I realize that my parents were very strict in raising me and hardly ever showed their emotions during our daily lives. It was only during Tết that I saw their tender sides. Tết also allowed me to be a bit naughty and not be scolded or punished, and it allowed me the rare privilege of accompanying my parents whenever they visited their friends.

Many Tếts have gone by, though my memories from one particular Tết remain vivid. My mother had taken me to visit one of her good friends who lived on the other side of the rice fields from us. I remember the vast rice fields spreading their green arms out towards the horizon as we walked. The sun was setting, tilting light onto my mother’s long, black hair. Flocks of white cranes rose up, dotting the blue sky with their flapping wings. We walked among the singing of rice plants and the perfume of a spring that embraced us from all directions. I wished then that I could go on like that forever and ever beside my mother.

These days most Vietnamese families, including my own, no longer celebrate Tết the traditional ways due to all the demands of modern life. Still, regardless of how busy we are, we set aside time to enjoy Tết with our loved ones. Families are united for Tết, and friends who may not see each other for the rest of the year will meet and enjoy a meal together. Perhaps Tết is important for all Vietnamese because it reminds us of how happiness can derive from our cultural heritage, and how wonderful it is to stop running after our material desires, at least for a few days, and enjoy what we already have.

This article was originally published in 2020.

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai is the internationally best-selling author of The Mountains Sing and Dust Child. She has received many literary awards in Việt Nam and internationally, including the Lannan Literary Awards Fellowship for a work of exceptional quality and for its contribution to peace and reconciliation.  A version of this article was originally published in Vietnam Heritage.

My favorite candy used to be Hershey’s Kisses. Wrapped in colorful, sparkling foil, these little nubs of decadence made me feel special as a child, not just because of their sugary sweetness, but also because, for much of Vietnam’s contemporary history, you could only enjoy them if you have relatives abroad.

The last war that plagued Vietnam severely fragmented the country in more ways than one, broke up families and eventually resulted in Vietnamese becoming one of the largest diasporic communities in many western societies, known as Việt Kiều in the Vietnamese language. As a kid, I couldn’t fully grasp the complexities behind the term, I just knew that my aunt was one, and she often gave me Hershey’s Kisses when she came to stay with us, so her visits were always a highly anticipated occasion of my formative years.

The first evening on the day she landed, after a family meal, we would gather around the big suitcase as she gave out carefully labelled bags of presents for each person. Over the years, her visits have blurred into one amorphous blob in my memory, so I struggle to remember what I received. I remember the diverse range of Kisses colors, but mostly what remains ingrained in my mind is the fragrance of her luggage — it is a distinctive yet malleable aroma, or even amalgam of aromas that’s hard to put into words, a mystifying mùi Việt Kiều.

Hershey's Kisses once felt like an exclusive treat for Vietnamese kids with relatives abroad. Photo via Tasting Table.

Mùi Việt Kiều, in my memory, was neither a perfume nor from any recognizable artificial smell genres like floral, herb, or fruit. It wasn’t detergent- or food-forward, it just was. As an adult, I’ve forgotten about it, until a few weeks ago, a curious TikTok video popped up on my feed, advertising a bottle of laundry essential oil with “authentic hương Việt Kiều.” It was astonishing because, for the longest time, I’ve always assumed I was alone in noticing its existence, but someone out there has not only identified it but also commercialized it?

I’ve shared my observations with friends and colleagues, and while everybody confirmed they too have sensed mùi Việt Kiều, no one can pinpoint what it is exactly, apart from vague claims like “I’ll know it when I smell it.” The comment section beneath the laundry oil video was much more illuminating and helpful; someone claims it’s the smell of Irish Spring soaps, while others are sure that it comes from Bounce dryer sheets and Aquafresh toothpaste. Energized by possibilities, I made the next best decision: obtain every suggested item in the theories and did smell tests.

The dubious fragrance as advertised on Shopee.

This is the point where I have to admit that there’s no closure at the end of this journey. None of them smells as good as my aunt’s luggage, even though at various points over the years, it too was filled with Irish Spring and Aquafresh. It is entirely possible that they have recently changed their scenting formulae or that my childhood memories have gotten too murky, but perhaps, the most likely scenario is that there’s no definitive mùi Việt Kiều. Each luggage during each visit smelled ever slightly different depending on what it encompassed: a little bit of Hershey, a whiff of Ocean Spray dry cranberries, a touch of Kirkland multivitamins, etc — all piecing together a little smellscape of America that appeared so exotic and quasi-mythological to little me.

Today, globalization, cultural exchange and advancements in logistics have all but dismantled the myth of American products in Vietnam. How I could very easily procure all the scented items for my smell tests from local shops and online platforms is a testament to this shifting dynamic. Hershey is now readily available, but Vietnam’s progress has also given rise to a plethora of local chocolates so excellent I haven’t touched Kisses since. When we didn’t have much, every little thing was so special and treasured.

The most memorable (and tasty) source of mùi Việt Nam. Photo by Hoàng Vũ via Thanh Niên.

Back in the day, as my aunt’s visits inched to a close, her empty suitcase would gradually fill up again — this time chock-full of distinctively Vietnam items to stock up her pantry and to be given out as gifts on the other shore: dried shrimps, coffee beans, lacquer combs, silk áo dài, Thái Nguyên tea, lotus hearts, and a sizable and eclectic collection of various mắm. Sometimes I wonder about that moment, when, after flying halfway across the globe, she would arrive at home and unzip that suitcase. Does it give out a distinctive smell, too? A mystifying mùi Việt Nam that’s hard to put into words.

I have never bought a lịch bloc, or tear-off calendar, for personal use, because every new year, I'm bound to be gifted a brand-new one. In Vietnam, a calendar is often something one purchases as a present for others.

The tear-off calendar has been a typical item in local households for centuries. There were even records of Nguyễn-Dynasty authorities overseeing the production of new calendars to give out during Tết. The act of ripping off a page from the calendar block is so historically relevant that it even gives rise to the crude slang phrase “bóc lịch,” loosely translated as “calendar ripping,” referring to jail time.

Brightly colored calendars sold alongside Tết decorations at a store in District 5.

In recent years, it's reported that all calendar sales have been on the decline because new calendar designs are repetitive and boring; people routinely receive them as free promotional gifts; and since the time and date are readily available on smartphones, tear-off calendars have become somewhat obsolete. The iconic Tết staple is no exception to this drop in popularity.

When it comes to Tết gifts, many prefer to receive aesthetically pleasing items like gift baskets, which can be displayed at home, making rooms feel fresh and new. Calendars, in contrast, simply offer mundane images few remember to tear off. 

Lịch bloc comes in many sizes for every home.

But I feel that we might take calendars for granted because beyond their stated function of time-keeping, they affect our lives in subtle ways. My mother often uses the pages to write checklists for her morning market trips. My family occasionally uses them for food wrapping or as just a placemat to discard fish bones during family meals.

This page will often end up on the dining table as a fishbone holder, or in the trash after a doodle session is finished.

My most vivid memory with calendars, however, dates back to when I was five. I loved drawing and couldn’t fight the urge to scribble everywhere, especially on the wall. My parents had to put a stop to it before I ruined the house. So they gave me spare calendar pages to doodle on and thus tearing a new page off the bloc became an exciting routine.

Lịch bloc may eventually lose its main function, but their spare papers and their offering of marginal conveniences will remain a part of our lives. Even though they may not be as significant as other Tết gifts, they have one advantage over fancy, expensive presents: when Tết is over, decorations are taken down, snacks from gift baskets are all eaten, and we all go back to our normal lives, but there will always be a calendar on your wall for another 300-some days, with all of its Tết visuals, maintaining a touch of festive energy remains in your house throughout the rest of the year.

"In the early 2000s, the market experienced an exodus of painters due to the shift to digital; it was difficult to retain customers otherwise. I didn't want my craft to be forgotten, so I started everything all over,” Nguyễn Hoài Bảo told me in Vietnamese when I visited his studio.

Bảo, born in 1986, is one of the few traditional sign painters who is still practicing his craft in Saigon.

“My father used to run a workshop that made hand-painted signs in Đồng Tháp. I started learning about the trade when I was 13. I would go to school in the morning and help out at the workshop in the afternoon. I got the ropes of the job pretty quickly and my father recognized my potential, so naturally I followed in his footsteps.”

Traditionally, hand-painted signs employed a simple palette comprising red, blue, green, and yellow — primary shades for grabbing attention easily. In their heydays, these signs were a staple for businesses wishing to advertise their products and services. Such high demands kept Bảo’s family workshop booked and busy.

But as times changed, modern methods took over. Plastic lamination, acrylic panels, and LED lighting emerged as more eye-catching assets and soon dominated the market. Many artisans had to give up their trade due to declining income. As the number of customers seeking hand-painted signs dwindled, Bảo's family also made the difficult decision to abandon their lifelong work to keep the business going. “It was tough, and I was devastated. I thought my profession would fade into obscurity.”

In 2017, seeing how vintage aesthetics were trending again, Bảo took a leap of faith and relocated to Saigon to set up a new workshop. “I chose Saigon for a fresh start because there’s so much potential here. When all things nostalgic were becoming popular again, Saigon was one of the very first to embrace the trend," he said. "As I was starting from scratch, new customers didn't know who I was or what I was capable of. It took a lot of passion and sweat to pick up my brushes again and get to where I am today.”

Gradually, he was able to build a customer base steady enough to receive orders every day. Many clients from abroad who took a liking to Bảo designs even came to Vietnam themselves to pick them up. “I remember this one Japanese professor who loved Saigon so much that he visited me and ordered a sign with the '333' beer logo to decorate his office in Japan,” Bảo recalled.

According to the artist, a hand-painted sign's price ranges from VND800,000 to a few million đồng depending on its size. Unlike modern signs, these traditional signs cannot have “add-on” fixtures such as LED lights or letter cutouts. However, they can showcase a distinct brand identity and offer greater durability as well. The longer these signs are put on display, the more rugged and “authentic” of a look they acquire.

Bảo explained the meticulous process behind his work: “After receiving a request from a customer, I design a sample for them to review. If they agree with the design, I will proceed with measuring and welding a metal frame, then fit in onto a metal sheet. Next comes two coats of base paint, with each layer being painted four hours apart. Once the paint is completely dry, I begin sketching, outlining the details in pencil, and then adding in the colors.”

Bảo still uses Bạch Tuyết-brand paint, the same kind he used when he was just an apprentice to his father, as it's durable and reasonably priced while offering a variety of colors to choose from. The painter handles every step from gathering materials to finishing the sign, thus explaining the name of his shop “Một Mình Làm Hết” (lit: Do it all myself).

Since every part of the process is handled by Bảo, he sees each sign as his “child” and puts a lot of care into nurturing it. He told me, “When I'm out on the street, I can spot which signs I've made at a glance. I remember them all. In those moments, I feel proud because at least I know I've made some sort of contribution. And it's not just my own works that make me feel that way; whenever I come across any hand-painted sign, I feel joy.”

Throughout our conversation, Bảo also expressed his admiration for the late artisan Hoài Minh Phương, who devoted his entire life to preserving the art of hand-painted signs despite financial difficulties. Up until his recent passing, he was seen with brushes in hand.

“Up until now, I have a stable stream of orders, but I often worry if my work would become a lost art in the future. That's why I don’t keep any trade secrets. Anyone who wants to learn how to make hand-painted signs, I'm ready to share, so that together, we can preserve what's left of it.”

To live in Saigon is to coexist with clutter. Chaos is perhaps to be expected, when one’s habitat is a gargantuan crowded compressed narrow concretized megalopolis of over 10 million people, but few cities I’ve been to are as cluttered as Saigon.

On the ground, your shoes have to maneuver around physical clutter: parked motorbikes, styrofoam, old slippers, durian rinds, chairs, a web of random strings, wires, and plastics. In the air, the clamor of audio clutter drones on, clanking, thrumming, shrieking, yowling, and bonking away day and night.

Born and raised in Saigon, I’ve evolved to accept them, but for reasons unknown, I’ve never made peace with the city’s visual clutters: signboards, shopfronts, and posters in generic typefaces and contrasting colors of red, yellow, white, hot pink, and every hue in between. I despised them — corpulent letters that scream for our eyes’ attention in their soundless, gaudy rage.

They started popping up in the 2000s and have infected all corners of Saigon’s commercial streets, like a corrosive urban mold digesting local architecture and expelling migraine-inducing spores. I blame the advent of cheap and easily accessible printing technologies for this blight; we can print anything nowadays, but does it mean we should? At the risk of propagating yet another Saigoneer cliché, I remember a time when signage was an art and not just a means to an end: when every sign was hand-painted.

Advertising predates the age of rampant visual clutter by a good few decades, and without instantaneous prints, our parents’ generation relied on the skills and artistry of painters to adorn shopfronts. I’ve long wondered why retro signage appeals to me so much, and came to realize that it’s not the fact that it’s old, but the fact that it’s human. Humanity, unlike machines, is prone to imperfections. A little kerning inconsistency. A fatter brushstroke here and there. An irregular, cheeky twirl at the end of a “Y.” Imperfections are interesting and authentic.

Nostalgia is an ever-churning cycle. In the 2000s and 2010s, I yearned for the hand-painted goodness of the 1970s. Today, in the 2020s, I find myself strangely drawn to the kitschy clutter of the 2000s. It is increasingly exhausting to exist as a creature with eyes in the 2020s, when AI slop is cluttering every corner of our world. It is soul-draining to have to be on alert 24/7, to scrutinize every human figure’s hands, every online cat’s fur pattern, every video’s narrative logic just to detect signs of AI. And there will come a time when the technology has progressed so much that our human brains can’t tell reality from slop anymore. With the release of Dildo Banana Promax — or whatever the fuck Google is puking out these days — I fear that day is already here.

A few days ago, I was on a run and stopped at a red light. I looked up, and there, right in front of my eyes, was a signboard for a bike-fixing shop, all decked out in 2000s-style bombastic palette of red letters on yellow background. However, one letter was hanging on by a thread and the sign corners were covered in moss. And the pièce de résistance was that instead of “sửa xe” (fix bikes), the sign reads “sữa xe” (bike milk). It brought a smile to my face.

Take that, AI slop. Saigon’s visual clutter might be hideous, but it is also incredibly human. As a final act of resistance, I will start loving all shitty art from all eras and all genres, as long as a human created it. It might be shitty, but at least it is ours.

Growing up in America, Christmas meant arriving at my grandmother's house and immediately devouring a handmade gingerbread cookie drenched in sugar; driving with my Dad to “candy cane lane,” where homeowners took particular pride in stringing colorful lights on their gutters, windows and frontyard pines; and sneaking to our living room’s Christmas tree at 5am to sit in the dark staring at the presents, waiting until my mom said we were allowed to wake up and open them. Christmas began when Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas songs played on the long ride home from Thanksgiving with relatives and continued through snowy Christmas tree lots, studies paused for classroom parties with pizza and soda pop, and the 1966 Grinch cartoon played on repeat.

Santa Clause 1863 apperance on Harper's Weekly established his apperance has a fat, white-bearded man. Photo via Wikimedia.

Modern Christmas is, in many ways, intrinsically American. European immigrants to New York brought with them a variety of Christian traditions influenced by pagan rituals, and in the 19^th century’s stupefying swirl of capitalist industrialization, we got Santa Claus, Christmas lights and piles of packages containing the year’s newest toys. Disparate activities such as German wassailing songs and decorated trees, English greeting cards, and St. Nikkolas giving gifts to Dutch children all came together in America’s diverse cities, and became coated in a glimmering shade of consumerism aided by Hollywood and the day’s popular media, particularly Harper's Weekly. The holiday shed its rowdy associates and became the premier time for cherished family togetherness, largely independent of any religious belief. It’s a straight path from there to Hallmark Christmas movies, Toyotathon deals, and peppermint lattes. 

Christmas decoration shops pop up in Vietnamese cities around the holidays, such as these seen in Hanoi.

I offer that as a necessary preface for how I understand Christmas in Saigon. With each passing year, the city seems to embrace it with increased fervor: Mariah Carey sings in Circle Ks selling Christmas tree-shaped pastries, coffee shops hang wreaths and serve candy cane drinks, and nightclubs announce fake snow events. Red and white trinkets, knickknacks and geegaws abound. On December 24, I passed through a hẻm where a local man dressed up like Santa was handing out packages to neighborhood kids assembled for a party beneath lights that had been strung by a man standing on a motorbike. Before Saigoneer had December 25 off, we held an office gift exchange. Huge crowds gather at the large churches as an entertainment spectacle.

Tân Định Church is brightly decorated for the holiday, while Christmas Eve mass attracts so many onlookers that they spill into the street and obstruct traffic.

With a few exceptions, it seems that Saigon has embraced the most bombastic, capitalist elements of the modern American Christmas. It is a shimmering but harmless distraction at best, a soulless carnival for corporate marketing departments at worst. America’s most wholesome facet of the holiday: a day off to gather with rarely seen family, is difficult, if not impossible, for many, with only rushed evening gatherings taking place.

Meanwhile, an evil history lurks in the margins of Saigon’s Christmas. “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” was the coded signal used by the US military on April 29, 1975 to began the evacuation, as alluded to in Ocean Vuong’s poem ‘Aubade with Burning City.’ The charming old photos of 1960s and 1970s Christmases cannot be seen outside the context of the war, death and destruction wrought by the soldiers for whom the decorations were strung up to satisfy. 

Christmas in Saigon 1970. Photo via Đại Kỷ Nguyên.

So when it comes to Christmas in Saigon, maybe us non-Christians should resist its syrupy pull that serves little purpose beyond enticing us to spend money. For those of us who have fond memories of Christmas abroad, let us protect those tender nostalgias without marring them by doomed attempts to recreate them here. But I'm writing this on December 26, anyhow. Christmas is over, so to think of it, perhaps we should turn to a poet, fittingly from America, who recorded the annual taking down of the tree and observed: “all that remains is the scent / of balsam fir. If it’s darkness / we're having, let it be extravagant.”

There was a game I used to play with my dad whenever we would stop at a traffic light. He would point to a random license plate in front of us and quiz me on where it came from.

A typical Vietnamese plate has two lines: the first has a two-digit number, a hyphen, a letter from the English alphabet, and a number from 1 to 9; the second can have four or five numerical digits depending on how long ago the vehicle was registered.

The key to figuring out the plate’s “hometown” lies in the first number. My father, like many Vietnamese dads, as I’ve come to realize, has memorized all the special codes assigned to each of the country’s provinces.

Codes begin at 11 — Cao Bằng in the northern mountains — and generally increase as one moves south. Huge metropolises like Hanoi and Saigon have a range available for assignment: 29–33 and 40 for Hanoi; 41 and 50–59 for Saigon.

Put your hands in the air and learn all the provincial codes!

A fascinating thing about these numbers is how much they can tell you about Vietnam’s administrative history. For example, 13 is missing from the list because it used to belong to Hà Bắc Province, which was split into Bắc Giang and Bắc Ninh in 1996. The new provinces took on 98 and 99, respectively.

Apart from the numbers, the plates’ colors are also indicative of the owners’ affiliation. Blue plates with white letters are government vehicles. Red plates with white letters belong to the military. Yellow plates with black letters are vehicles providing commercial transportation, such as taxis, trucks, and ride-hailing cars. White plates with black letters are for common vehicles.

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.

There’s a particular sequence of sounds that many, if not all, of us would remember by heart: two rings of the phone, a high-pitched female voice saying “Can I help you?”, some dog barks, and then “Ai ai ai, I’m your little butterfly.”

This is what would play if you pressed on the buttons of any toy phones produced in the 1990s and 2000s, likely made in China and distributed to all casual toy shops around the world. These phones come in a vast array of appearances and brandings depending on whatever cultural products that were popular to youngsters at the time of production, from Batman phones to Barbie phones to Pokémon phones. They, however, would all play this sound clip. The other sounds are generic enough, but what in the world is that song?

Not knowing English as a child, I only realized a few years ago that those lyrics were in English, and until recently, I would assume that it was a Chinese song with random English words thrown in. It was, in fact, the chorus of ‘Butterfly,’ a song by Swedish bubblegum dance duo Smile.dk.

An Asian wave was sweeping past the western cultural landscapes of the late 1990s and defined much of the Y2K era. It wasn’t discerning enough to take informed inspirations from specific nations, but more a vague mishmash of Oriental tropes: chopsticks in hairstyles, cheongsam-esque shirts, bamboo patterns, typefaces that ripped off katakana characters, etc. 

Smile.dk made a career out of these proto-weeaboo appropriations, releasing songs like ‘Doki Doki’ and ‘Moshi Moshi.’ ‘Butterfly’ itself references samurai and includes zither-like instrumentation on a techno backdrop. The music video, however, is like a fever dream awash in Y2K futurism, crude 3D animatronics, white women wearing dreadlocks, and flat-textured butterflies. It’s a lot.

The song likely made the cross into Asian consciousness from November 1998 when it was licensed by Konami’s Dance Dance Revolution, an arcade game involving players stomping on dance pads, in Japan. The game and ‘Butterfly’ quickly gained popularity in Asia, so much so that Smile.dk became the first foreign act to perform on South Korea’s SBS Inkigayo in 1999. While the song was known in China, it’s still unclear how it came to be selected for toy phone production.

On the technical side, a single company in China probably manufactured all the sound chips with the sound sequence written, and most toy companies assembled plastic phones using these ready-made chips. Could it have been thanks to a Dance Dance Revolution fan who happened to have the decision-making power in the sound ship company? Either way, because of the phone sample, Smile.dk has since gained a cult following and become a global meme amongst those in the know. Cheap Chinese toy phones are now referred to as “butterfly phones” and the band even toured China in 2016.

Photo via Flickr user morecoffeeplease.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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: