In April 2023, in the first downpour of southern Vietnam’s rainy season, the narrow rented room where Mã Thị Diệp and her children were staying in Hồ Chí Minh City was inundated by knee-high water.

“It flooded in from the street and came up from the drain in the bathroom. We couldn’t stop it,” recalls the lottery ticket vendor. “The liquid was black like coal and so stinky I almost fainted.” The water subsided after two hours, and the family cleaned the room until midnight. “My skin got itchy a bit, and it’s lucky we don’t have anything too valuable to get damaged,” she adds, half-jokingly.

Originally from Vietnam’s southern province of Sóc Trăng, Diệp’s family — and many other migrants among HCMC’s 9.4 million residents — live in District 12, to the north of the city centre. Despite lying on the higher and supposedly drier side of the city, District 12 has become one of its most flood-prone areas in recent years. Generally it is Saigon’s outskirts, predominantly home to migrants and lower-income households, that suffer the highest rates of subsidence and flooding.

The 2023 rainy season began a month earlier than usual in southern Vietnam, arriving in April. Heavy bursts of rainfall in which 100mm of water fell in one hour used to happen around once every five years last century, but became a daily occurrence in June and July this year, according to local authorities. Research anticipates that heavy rainfall will inundate the city’s underdeveloped drainage system more regularly in the coming decades.

This dwelling in District 2 of HCMC, which is home to many migrants from the Mekong Delta, flooded following a downpour in November 2021. Photo by Cương Trần.

These extreme weather trends feed into a worrying wider picture. HCMC is one of the world’s fastest-sinking coastal cities, alongside Tianjin and Shanghai in China, and Semarang and Jakarta in Indonesia. The city is also at increasing risk of substantial flooding from rising sea levels: a one-meter rise would be enough to submerge a fifth of the city by 2100, according to a 2020 government report.

The economic engine of southern Vietnam, Saigon produces 22% of the country’s GDP. Chronic flooding is currently estimated to cost the city US$1.3 billion annually, rising to US$8.7 billion — or 3% of GDP — by 2050.

“It is a city built on water,” says Nguyễn Hồng Quân, an expert in environmental hydrology and climate change at Vietnam National University. “And now it is put in front of a new set of changes. Without proper planning, more severe flooding is certain in the future.”

Infrastructure outpaced by urban sprawl

Long-time District 8 resident Nguyễn Tấn Lợi says this swampy region was covered by rice fields and fish ponds until the early 1990s. It has since been built over with university campuses and residential wards. “The city’s surface is now mostly paved by concrete, with little open soil for the water to seep into,” says Hồng Quân. “[Rainwater] is flushed into the outdated sewers, which can hardly handle it and eventually spill it out back to the street.”

In the city’s southern reaches, Nguyễn Trung Hiếu and his neighbors also face inundation. His neighborhood in District 8 — one of HCMC’s poorest districts — is flooded twice a month between September and February by the Bà Tàng Canal that runs through it. “The tides get higher and higher, by roughly 5cm a year,” he says. Hiếu has raised his floor “a few times already” and the residents have all paid towards work to raise their shared road.

Nearly half of HCMC’s area lies less than one meter above sea level. It is also criss-crossed by a network of tide-influenced rivers and canals that covers approximately 21% of the city. This network is one reason why the city has been an important trade port for the past two centuries for ships carrying agricultural goods from the Mekong Delta and other areas of southern Vietnam. Following the war in the 1960s–1970s, it became the country’s manufacturing and financial hub.

HCMC’s District 8 is a low-lying, historically swampy area that has been built over in recent years, hindering water drainage. Photo by Thanh Huế.

This explosive economic growth came with rapid urbanization, stacked mostly upon soft, alluvial soil. Plumbing infrastructure was slow to catch up to the urban sprawl, so groundwater extraction using makeshift wells became widespread. Thousands of these wells remain in HCMC, pumping groundwater for industrial, domestic and agricultural uses. Where extraction of groundwater exceeds the rate at which it can be replenished, this can cause the water table to lower, and the ground above it to sink.

Between 1991 and 2015, Vietnam’s wider Mekong Delta area sank by an average of approximately 18cm during those 24 years; a 2017 study found groundwater overexploitation to be the main culprit. The gradual subsidence of this area is forcing the poorest inhabitants with the least amount of land to migrate, most likely to HCMC and adjacent industrial hubs.

According to a 2015 study, HCMC itself subsided by an average of 8mm per year during 2006–2010. The most severe levels of subsidence, reaching 70mm per year, were noted in the city’s eastern outskirts, along the Saigon River. Following municipal efforts to reduce groundwater extraction and defend against sea-level rise, a 2020 study found that subsidence levels had improved to between 3.3mm and 53mm per year during 2017-2019. However, the fastest subsidence rates were still to be found in the city’s outskirts. Meanwhile, rising sea levels are projected to displace 78% of HCMC’s inhabitants by 2100.

Disproportionate impacts on HCMC’s residents

A 2016 World Bank study found that HCMC’s slums (“densely built small households and shelters that have [a] predominantly semi‐permanent character”) are disproportionately exposed to the consequences of flooding, with 68–85% being at risk, compared to an average of 63–68% across all of the city’s urban areas.

HCMC is Vietnam’s strongest migration magnet, but the city’s environmental challenges tend to exacerbate the problems faced by many newcomers. “We found migrants were initially healthier than non-migrants, but then their health declined really quickly over time,” says Hang Ngo, a public health research scientist. Last year, her research into migrants from the Mekong Delta found that most live in small, poorly ventilated dwellings with substandard hygiene conditions. If these dwellings are in flood-prone areas, the risk of dengue fever and skin infections increases.

Lê Văn Lợi, a garment worker by day and motorbike taxi driver by night who lives in Bình Chánh District on Saigon’s western outskirts, shares that floods are his biggest fear: the waters can knock over drivers, while fixing a waterlogged bike costs more than VND150,000 (US$6). “Not worth it for a few dollars’ ride,” says the 29-year-old. During particularly rainy spells, Lợi’s income drops substantially.

Crucially, the city’s low-income and migrant populations, who tend to live in areas of high flood risk with underdeveloped local infrastructure, usually have fewer resources to protect them from flooding. “It is like a vicious circle,” says Cao Vũ Quỳnh Anh, a University of Tokyo researcher who has studied how HCMC residents cope with floods.

A road on the outskirts of Saigon’s District 2, flooded following heavy rain in June 2018. Photo by Cương Trần.

Grey, green and communal problem-solving

The Vietnamese government is currently betting on engineering to hold back the water in its biggest city. But progress so far has been slow. For example, a drainage infrastructure project for the city was proposed in 2001, but 20 years later, its construction was less than 50% complete. Another project, which seeks to protect a 570 square kilometer area encompassing the city centre with ring dykes, sluiceways and water pumps, is currently behind schedule. Insufficient interest in such projects from both city authorities and private investors is reportedly a factor in these delays.

Critics have pointed out that these flood defense projects are too limited in scope however, because they are mainly concerned with the old, central areas. HCMC’s urban sprawl is outpacing protection plans. “These ‘grey’ solutions may help soothe the flooding problems, but they are not enough,” says Hồng Quân.

According to research published in June 2023, the deployment of “small-scale rainwater detention measures” (also known as the “sponge city” approach) would be beneficial in Saigon. Such measures would include installing green roofs, rain barrels, porous sidewalks and water-detention basins. The research found that these smaller-scale, fragmented measures are a “highly complementary adaptation pathway” when deployed alongside large-scale engineering interventions.

Quỳnh Anh says the city is following the same reactive adaptation approach as other Asian coastal cities like Tokyo, Jakarta and Manila. This approach means “fewer choices of measures are left and time is very tight for any solution,” she says.

According to both Hồng Quân and Quỳnh Anh, Vietnam’s most populous city currently lacks a comprehensive flood-mitigation plan that connects solutions together. But for such a plan to materialise, Quỳnh Anh says “better communication between the city and its people” is essential. “Understanding is very important. It helps the city to come up with more applicable adaptation plans, and the residents can be proactive in coping with flooding.”

Meanwhile, both Mã Thị Diệp and Nguyễn Trung Hiếu are running out of solutions. Diệp has moved her family to a new neighborhood on higher ground, but she says she cannot afford a more expensive room if this one floods. And Hiếu knows the tide will keep climbing, but he cannot keep raising his home: “If we lift the floor any higher, it will touch the ceiling.”

This story was originally produced by China Dialogue and has been republished with permission.

Some of the world’s most successful women have one thing in common: participation in youth sports.

A recent Guardian article reported that girls who play organised sports after school in the UK are 50% more likely to reach senior professional positions later in life. The statistic coincides with espnW research that found that 94% of female executives played sports when they were younger, 74% say sports accelerated their career, 75% believe competitiveness from sports is an asset to leadership and 67% claim sporting experiences positively influences hiring decisions. 

Those findings are “inspiring, but not surprising,” says Matt Washer, Head of Sports at Australian International School (AIS) in Saigon. “It confirms what we see every day at AIS. Sport isn’t just physical training, it’s character training. When students push through a tough game, deal with setbacks, and celebrate success as a team, they’re developing the kind of inner strength and resilience that will carry them through university, their careers, and life. We see those qualities emerging in our students every day, regardless of gender.”

“Grit is central to sport; it’s what keeps an athlete running that extra lap or turning up for training after a defeat. In sport, children learn that progress isn’t linear. You lose, you adjust, and you come back stronger. That mindset — learning to see failure as feedback — is exactly what allows adults to thrive in competitive workplaces and complex careers,” Washer explains. This determination coincides with AIS’s embrace of the Australian Spirit, which stresses fair play and a “just give it a go” mindset. Failure is part of the learning process, and nothing is lost by putting forth an earnest attempt. Growth occurs regardless of where one ends up on the scoreboard. “We want every student, from the youngest to the oldest, to understand that how you play matters as much as the score,” Washer notes.

Meanwhile, playing team sports fosters empathy, communication and respect which has clear implications for girls’ future roles as leaders, colleagues and innovators where trust and collaboration are essential. The ability to confidently work with others pays dividends long before one becomes an adult, however. AIS’s holistic approach to education involves significant group work with students leading the learning. Such situations benefit from lessons learned on athletic teams.

Matt Washer, Head of Sports at AIS.

Indeed, sports is not an isolated activity separated from academics at AIS. Rather, the athletics embedded in the curriculum and offered as extracurriculars are a core philosophical pillar alongside academics and creative and performing arts. They each build off and reinforce one another. The perseverance, teamwork, discipline, and integrity nurtured by athletics prove essential in conducting science experiments, writing a paper, staging a play, and painting alike. This connectivity has tangible impacts on preparedness for university and careers worldwide. “Sport is education,” Washer stresses. “The confidence a child gains on the field often determines how they perform in the classroom. Sport teaches resilience, time management, and focus — skills that enhance academic learning, not detract from it. At AIS, we don’t separate intellectual growth from physical and emotional growth; they reinforce one another.”

Such integration is made possible, in part, because of AIS’s commitment to world-class facilities. The 1,200 students across its two campuses have access to more than 25 sports and physical activities, including football, basketball, swimming, and volleyball as well as uniquely Australian games such as netball and touch rugby. The Thao Dien campus provides young learners aged 1.5 - 10 with access to a dedicated and supervised gymnasium, early-years playground and swimming pool. Meanwhile, older students at the Thu Thiem campus enjoy a FIFA-sized football field with premium NZ astroturf, swimming pool, multi-court sports hall, and fitness suites, which have benefited from recent, multi-million euro renovations.

Further supporting AIS’s integration of athletics into its holistic approach to education is the school’s membership in the Inspired Network. Washer explains: “Inspired schools around the world share the same belief: sport teaches ambition. Across more than 110 schools, we offer global sporting exchanges, inter-school tournaments, and leadership programmes. Students from Vietnam to Spain or Australia have access to elite coaching, international competitions, and the opportunity to learn from one another. It’s all about giving them a stage to dream big and achieve more.” Indeed, when AIS hosted Asia Games 2023, it was a perfect opportunity to witness how athletics expands borders and broadens global outlooks.

Even when acknowledging the importance of sports, parents may have difficulty assessing what constitutes success for their child. “Success isn’t only measured in medals — it’s in growth. When a student who was shy in Year 3 becomes a confident team captain by Year 9, that’s success. When students cheer for each other’s progress, not just the final score, we know our culture is working. Winning is great, but it’s the character behind the win that matters most,” Washer says.

This potential for growth will be on full display during the upcoming Open Day at the Thu Thiem Campus on Saturday, November 22. Not only can families see the world-class athletics facilities, but they can also hear from students directly about how athletics have been an integral part of their development as learners and people. Meanwhile, Washer and other members of the leadership team will share firsthand experiences and underpinning philosophies for why sports are a powerful means of transforming girls into strong, independent, and successful women who will lead our world in the future.

What will the world look like when today’s students enter it as adults?

As society evolves at an unprecedented speed, education systems everywhere are being asked to prepare students for professional and social futures that don’t yet exist. The OECD’s Future of Education 2030 notes that young people will need not just knowledge, but also skills, attitudes, and values to thrive in a fast-changing, interconnected world. The World Economic Forum predicts that by 2030, nearly four in ten current skill sets will be obsolete, while research by McKinsey & Company highlights the growing importance of creativity, collaboration, and self-management alongside traditional academics.

For families in Vietnam, these shifts are redefining what it means to choose the right school. It’s no longer just about obtaining test results that lead to a clear next step on a narrow and defined progression. Rather, children must be placed in an environment that cultivates curiosity, adaptability, and purpose.

At the Australian International School (AIS) Saigon, that vision is expressed through three simple words: Be, Belong, Become. The phrase captures the school’s belief that students should first be their authentic selves, belong to a nurturing community, and ultimately become capable, confident global citizens. It is this philosophy that underpins AIS’s new Dream Big Scholarship, designed to celebrate talent in all its forms.'

A Broader Vision of Achievement

The Dream Big Scholarship was first launched for the 2025-26 academic year and expanded and implemented within the ongoing annual scholarships, which offer up to 100 percent of annual tuition fees to students who excel across five pillars of excellence: Academics, Arts, Music, Sports, and Service.

The program recognizes that future leadership and life satisfaction as well as university success, emerge from more than one type of talent. Whether a young artist with an eye for design, a musician whose performance inspires others, or a student athlete who leads with quiet strength, AIS believes that creativity, perseverance, and empathy are the hallmarks of the well-rounded graduate.

“You don’t dream big because it’s easy; you dream big because it’s worth it,” says Lee Childs, Executive Principal of AIS Saigon. “At AIS, we encourage our students to see beyond what they already are, to who they can become. That’s the essence of what our education stands for.”

Five Pathways to Excellence

The five pillars assessed for the scholarship are defined and described to reflect the holistic learning the school promotes. They are core elements of all AIS students’ experiences, and essential for preparing students to graduate as well-rounded, high-achieving and motivated individuals confident in their abilities to make positive change in the world.

Outstanding achievement and potential in academic, arts, music, sports and service are all considered and rewarded. Most conventionally, AIS looks for students who display exceptional scholarship, curiosity, and a love of learning, which are the intellectual foundations for IB success and lifelong inquiry. The school also celebrates imagination and originality in visual or performing arts, from painting and design to drama and photography, which reflects the spirit of creativity at AIS. Similarly, the scholarship supports instrumentalists and vocalists who bring skill, passion, and joy to performance, composition, or ensemble works and honors the athletic ability, teamwork, and integrity that are hallmarks of the school’s “spirit of fair play” philosophy. Finally, the Dream Big Scholarship rewards empathy and initiative displayed through volunteerism and leadership, encouraging students to make a difference beyond the classroom.

While the pathways each identify unique gifts that are expressed according to students’ particular passions, backgrounds, and goals, they have much in common. They each offer students a chance to grow through challenge, express individuality, and contribute meaningfully to the world.

A Launch Pad to the World

The new Dream Big Scholarships are in line with the values that have helped AIS Saigon earn its place among the city’s most respected international schools, as attested to by conventional metrics. It delivers the Cambridge curriculum and the International Baccalaureate (IB) program from Kindergarten through Year 13, with graduates consistently achieving outstanding results. 36 percent of the Class of 2025 are attending Top 50 global universities across the US, UK, Australia, Canada, and other prestigious locations around the world. 

But beyond destinations, the true measure of success lies in transformation and a sense of who students become as people. Such holistic growth is possible because of the school’s approach, which blends academic achievement with creativity and character, giving every learner the confidence to take bold steps forward.

“When I applied for the Dream Big Scholarship, I didn’t think I fit the ‘academic’ mould,” says Jessica, a recent recipient of the scholarship. “But AIS saw how I could eventually thrive in my academic performance, then lead, and give back. Now I’m aiming for a top university overseas — something I never imagined before.”

For some, like Jessica, dreaming big means studying at a world-ranked university. For others, it’s composing music that moves people, creating art that challenges convention, or leading community projects that spark change. What unites them is a shared sense of purpose and a desire to become something greater than themselves. As Lee Childs puts it: “We expect our scholars to be leaders, role models who stay motivated about learning and embody the Australian values we hold dear: integrity, respect, courage, and a commitment to excellence as lifelong learners. Our scholarship students don’t just achieve highly; they inspire others to do the same.”

Discover the AIS Difference

Families can experience this philosophy in action at theAIS Saigon Open Dayat the Thu Thiem Campus on Saturday, 22 November, open to students from Kindergarten to Year 12.

Visitors will explore the contemporary learning spaces, meet teachers and students, and speak with the Admissions Team about the Dream Big Scholarship and other learning opportunities for 2025–26.

Parents seeking a school that nurtures both ambition and authenticity and helps every child Be, Belong, and Become, should consider AIS Saigon. It offers a community where the next generation of thinkers, artists, and leaders can truly dream big and achieve even bigger.

Learn more about the scholarship and Open Day here

Compared to the average Vietnamese, I might be thinking about trashcans a smidgen too much — not just any trashcan, but the infamous penguin-shaped trashcans that are ubiquitous at every corner of our public spaces.

You know what I’m talking about. These bins are usually the size of a burly child, made of glass fiber-reinforced plastic, and are shaped like penguins with their mouths agape. Sometimes a call-to-action text is painted on their belly, with the most commonly seen phrase being “hãy cho tôi rác / please give me trash.”

Vietnam’s relationship with littering, recycling, and waste management is complicated, to say the least, but our relationship with trashcans is very simple: we don’t have enough of them, and the ones that are available aren’t treated with the respect they deserve. This shortcoming makes each can’s presence quite noticeable wherever they’re around, especially quirkily designed ones like the penguin bin.

Cute but creepy, mostly creepy, in a Five Night at Freddy's kind of way.

Novelty trashcan is an uncommon genre of public amenities, but not unheard of; I’ve encountered all manner of bins in the shape of animals, fruits, and even famous cartoon characters like Mickey Mouse. Their natural habitats, however, tend to be areas that children often frequent, like playgrounds, amusement parks, and kindergartens. Only the penguin trashcan proliferates indiscriminately across the country, like Vietnam’s equivalent of the basic bird Pokémon you would spend 5 Poke Balls to catch at Level 5 on Route 1.

Why penguins, you may ask. I’ve thought about this a lot too, but alas, haven’t found a definitive answer. A handful of internet memes allude to the possible existence of a similar penguin design in the Anglosphere; they bear the text “use me,” the main reason why the internet found them funny. The majority of search results point to their significant prevalence in India and Vietnam; neither has endemic populations of penguins, but they share a similar public littering problem.

Perhaps it was a generic stock design that a contractor had readily available for park officials to buy in bulk, or perhaps the penguin was chosen for its unique biology that mirrors the gulping movement of trash — it doesn’t have teeth and consumes food by swallowing fish and crustaceans whole. We might never know. If you have the answer, please reach out.

When Pokemon Go first came to Vietnam, one of the penguin trashcans in Saigon got marked as a PokeStop.

Whatever the reason might be, some research has shown that visually striking can designs — including the use of eye-catching colors or unusual shapes — can help reduce littering by attracting human attention. There might be a method to the madness, after all, and the penguin shape might serve a public cleanliness purpose rather than being whimsical just for whimsy’s sake. 

Sometimes I wonder if the animal trashcan can be elevated into part of a larger effort to educate the Vietnamese public on our native species. The penguin is a distant entity, but the endangerment of animals like sao la, Irrawaddy dolphin, and Mekong giant catfish hits much closer to home. Could the bins be shaped like them instead?

Then again, as someone who appreciates the animal kingdom at large and Vietnam’s biodiversity in particular, I have always felt a vague sense of unease over putting trash in the mouth of a penguin, even though that penguin is a plastic object specifically designed to receive trash. It begs the question of who we’re tidying up for? We’ve all seen that tragic video a few years ago showing rescuers removing a straw from a sea turtle’s nostril. Am I trying to save a turtle by putting my bubble tea straws inside a penguin? Perhaps wild animals, be it in trashcan form or real, might not be the best receptacle for our disgusting trash.

I stood on the top floor of a building on Khâm Thiên Street, feeling grateful for the cold air. I came out here to take a break from the other side of the floor, which was divided into three rooms — three dance studios.

In one studio, five middle-aged adults were in a sports dance class. In the other, around 10 teenagers were practicing K-pop moves. The one in the middle, where I came from, was blasting house music, with close to 100 people inside. 

The middle studio wasn’t hosting a class, but a dance battle. Coming here, I originally planned to be a fly on the wall and observe the house dance community. But the spirit of the room was so vigorous that I got caught up and jumped on the dance floor, even though I had never danced before in my life. It was impossible to resist the pull, and I didn’t want to fight it anyway. I finally grasped that feeling all these dancers had been telling me about. 

A few weeks before the battle, I caught up with some dancers in a coffee shop. “When dancing to house music,” Linh Tôn said, “I feel happy, free, like I was…high. And house music itself is more pleasurable than other genres because our brains like its speed. It gets us high! I read that somewhere, but you should probably verify that online.”    

Linh Tôn wasn’t too far off from what science had been learning about how music could affect our mood. House music typically has a speed of 120–130 beats per minute (BPM); a study has shown that a tempo of 120 BPM with a rhythmic beat can induce the feeling of happiness. 

Sitting next to Linh, Đỗ Minh Anh — nicknamed Vịt, or Duck — chimed in: “When listening to house music, we feel freedom. We get to let go and be free, we get to float in the music. I love that feeling, that’s probably why I like house dance.”

“But why house dance?” I asked. “Why not other types of dancing like tap dance or ballet?”    

“I studied at the Dance Academy,” Vịt answered. “I learned ballet there, and now I’m also taking a tap dance class. Our community is like a buffet, each dish has its own flavor. House dance has the flavor of freedom; it’s not as structured as ballet, it's not as small as tap dance.”

Linh added: “Also, house music started in the clubs, where there are all types of dancers and non-dancers. It doesn’t have a limit, like ballet has to be like this or hip-hop has to be like that. With house, you just dance.”

“For me, sometimes I learn some house steps but I don’t do house dance, I do popping,” Phạm Đức Anh — who goes by Red — the final member of our table, spoke up. “But I have listened to house for a long time now, even before I started dancing. I just like it. It’s hard to say why. Like if you have a lover, why do you love her and not another one? Even when the other is hotter, why do you love this one?”

“Don’t ask ‘why’ when in love!” Linh declared.    

Linh, Red and Vịt belong to a team called House Dance Hanoi (HDH), they come together every week for a dance session. They also run events to promote house culture. They organized the battle that I was at — a playground for all to display their skills. There were more than 50 contenders, and each had their own style of dancing: locking, popping, breaking, hip-hop, etc. But one style in particular gave me a whole new view of freedom. 

“Waacking was born in the gay bars of Los Angeles,” Nguyễn Văn Minh (pseudonym), a competitor, told me, “and the moves of waacking are closer to the feminine side…I love all that is willowy and beautiful. Waacking feels natural to me because it aspires to beauty. And waacking is opening your body, let it be free. It is liberating!” 

Though Minh hasn't come out yet to some of the people closest to him, he has learned to accept this part of himself. “I think being gay is actually a catalyst for me, it is the characteristic for me to open everything. I am not tied to the social pressures of a man or a woman. I don’t have to be the provider of the family, I don’t need to be gentle and sweet, I can just be myself. And maybe only because I’m gay that I came across waacking. If I had been born straight then maybe I would not have danced at all.”

Some dancers didn’t just stick with one style but combined moves from different forms. Vũ Hoa Cầu, another HDH member, told me that his was a combination of house, soul, popping, and even some martial arts moves. “You just pull out whatever you have in a battle,” Cầu said, “but the most important thing is to feel the music and express yourself.”  

I quickly realized that he was right. The best dancers reacted to the tiniest changes in the music. They were so in-tune that they could predict a change of rhythm or when a drop was coming. It was like a battle of who can be the most present.

In between battles, there were showcases by different dance crews. HDH had a show, too. Their performance wasn’t just dancing, they were telling a story, a love story between four people, it seemed to me. They looked so happy, like a bunch of kids playing together. The whole room was enthralled. Then, towards the end of their performance, they started pulling people up on the floor to join the dance. I got up, too. For a moment I was one with the crowd, flailing my arms around and floating in the music. I was so touched that tears ran down my face. My nose was running, too, but luckily no one saw that because I was wearing a mask.

At the end of the battle, Cầu was crowned the champion. But from what most people had told me, winning or losing wasn't important. The important thing was being a part of the atmosphere. I had a massive headache leaving the studio, I guess I’m just a bit too old to hang with these kids. But the adrenaline that I got from being on the dance floor was still pumping in my veins by the time I got home. It was exhilarating to be so free; it was ineffable. And if you want to try it out for yourself, House Dance Hanoi is more than happy to welcome new people.

Follow House Dance Hanoi on Facebook to learn of their many activities and how to join.

This article was originally published in 2022.

With plastics claiming many of the headlines worldwide and constituting a major issue in Vietnam, scant attention is being paid to other recyclable materials, namely cardboard and aluminum.

On any given day, in every neighborhood, local collectors can be seen pedaling bicycles or driving motorized carts, piling on mounds of flattened cardboard boxes and bags of aluminum cans. These industrious individuals, along with trash collectors, are at the forefront of the recycling industry in Saigon.

Living in proximity to recycling centers in District 7, I have trod the dusty, two-kilometer-long path along Dao Tri Street numerous times, bearing witness to the daily parade of local collectors gathering their materials. This labor-intensive work is mostly carried out by women who have migrated from rural areas. Talking with a few of them, I found that their lives are generally not easy, having left family and farm for higher wages in Saigon. They live together to defray costs and send funds back to their families each month.

I asked one of the women, Uyen, about a typical day in her life. She generally starts her daily rounds at 7am, when stores open. Stopping primarily at mini-marts that get daily deliveries of goods in cardboard cases, she completes the first sweep by 11am. From there, she delivers her haul to a collection shop or “recycling middleman.” She is paid VND2,000 per kilogram of flattened cardboard. Most of these women have established good relationships with stores and businesses in the area and receive their flattened boxes and cans, as opposed to them being left in the street for collection.

Uyen dropping off her morning haul of cardboard and cans at the collection center.

After a brief lunch break, she begins a second collection cycle, at times supplementing her haul with plastic bottles (for which she is paid VND7,000 per kilo) or flattened aluminum beer cans (at VND19,000 per kilo). Her day ends around 6pm, unless another collection sweep is warranted. Belying the fact that this is a day job, I have seen these collectors working late into the night, separating the various materials for delivery the next morning.

Late-morning delivery activity at the collection center.

Members of my friend Hung’s family have been acting as recycling middlemen or collectors/processors for over 20 years, and have developed a rapport with a number of these grassroots laborers. Their family business collects and separates plastic bottles, scrap plastic and metal, aluminum cans and cardboard.

Hung (center) and his family at their recycling collection center.

Su, Con and Muoi separate assorted plastic into the proper containers.

They alerted me to a cardboard drop-off run, so that I could drive with them for a short distance to the recycling facility and witness the process. Entering a cavernous building, roughly the size of a basketball arena, the truck is first weighed with its complete cargo; then unloaded onto the floor. The truck is then re-weighed after disgorging its load, and the vendor is then compensated on the delivered weight of the cardboard.

Truck after truck arrived, and suddenly the building was transformed into a beehive of activity. Two bulldozers wrangled the growing mounds of cardboard toward the conveyor belt. The bales, which average 1,100 kilograms each, emerged inexorably from the compactor to await their stacking onto a flatbed truck for delivery to a larger processing center.

An employee at the compacting facility sorting packing material from the cardboard boxes.

One of the two bulldozers pushing boxes onto the compacter unit. Finished bales are in the background.

Operating the cardboard compactor forming the bales.

The cavernous cardboard facility with compacted bales in the foreground.

Speaking with the plant manager, Nam, I was told they handle three types of cardboard: foldable boxes, like a cereal box; rigid boxes, like computer or phone boxes; and corrugated shipping boxes, for moving and storing goods.

According to Cardboard Balers, a company based in the United Kingdom, recycling cardboard requires just 75% of the energy needed to make new cardboard, so it makes sense that recycling cardboard is a more sustainable option than cutting down trees to make virgin paper products. Cardboard is made from wood fiber, so recycling saves both landfill space and trees. Most cardboard products can be recycled, including boxes, paper towel and the inner rolls of toilet paper, which also reduces the amount of paper which countries have to import. Recycling one ton of used cardboard saves approximately 46 gallons (174 liters) of crude oil, while the majority of the world's shipped products use cardboard packaging, so it's advantageous to recycle from a cost-benefit perspective.

After returning from the cardboard run, I sat with Hung to get his perspective on recycling. “My uncle started this business about 30 years ago, and my dad studied from him and opened his own business, with another uncle handling machine parts for recycling,” he shared.

Hung discussing the future of recycling in Saigon.

The business has changed over the years as it grew.

"Twenty years ago they just bought plastic, aluminum and metal. Now we take in a variety of products, including cardboard,” Hung said. “Loyalty is a big part of the equation when it comes to attracting collectors. We pay a fair price and the locals know they can trust us. Everyone’s involved. My dad runs the business now and drives the truck to the various processing centers. My mom supervises the scale and payments, and [the team and I] do the heavy lifting.”

The rotund, heavy-duty sacks which hold aluminum cans top off at around 60 kilograms each, and the ones for plastic bottles can top 90 kilograms.

Hung lifting a delivery of cardboard onto the scale as his mom, Muoi, watches and records the weight.

Hai, Hung's dad, sews shut one of the massive bags containing plastic bottles.

Muoi recording deliveries at the shop.

Su lifting a huge bag of aluminum cans.

Hung went on to explain that he expects to graduate from university later this year with a degree in environmental engineering. When I asked if he would then join a larger recycling company, he said that he would apply his knowledge to help grow his family business, but he also wants to pursue a PhD in the field.

A similar scenario of truck weighing before and after unloading was evident when I accompanied the team on a run to out to Binh Chanh District to the aluminum can recycling center there.

Crushed aluminum cans before being baled.

Unloading 10 bags of aluminum cans and miscellaneous metal items, weighing up to 750 kilograms in total.

As to the future of recycling in Saigon, Hung reflected that other countries or states have comprehensive policies in place, whereas Vietnam still has no complete plan which includes tax exemptions or incentives. So if waste facilities become overloaded, he hopes this will drive new policies to address the issue. Looking ahead, he would like to concentrate more on plastics, and even buy a machine that cuts and washes small volumes of plastic for more efficient recycling.

While plastic and other man-made products continue to be major issues as urbanization spreads across the country, the intelligent use of recycled materials, such as cardboard and aluminum cans, can help alleviate some of the strain on the city’s resources, and the people doing this back-breaking work should not be overlooked.

This article was originally published in 2020.

Before Vietnamese could hop on social media sites such as Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to share our hot takes of the week, there was an era of past cybersphere when online forums were the crucial online space to connect local netizens.

In online forums, discussions happen in topic boxes, or “threads,” created by members; other users will participate by publishing strings of reply posts below. Forum members have the freedom and safety to express themselves because they can be as anonymous as they wish. In Vietnam, there used to be many different forums specialized in a vast array of topics, some have managed to endure until today, such as Webtretho (childcare), GameVN (gaming), Tinh Tế (tech), and more.

Some major gay community forums popular in the 2000s: taoxanh.net, vuontinhnhan.net, tinhyeutraiviet.com, thegioithu3.vn. Screenshots via Wayback Machine.

While most of us probably use forums to get answers and advice, and participate in many activities, the anonymity and safe nature of forums made them especially conducive to function as social hubs for the Vietnamese LGBT community in the early 2000s, a time when social stigmas against them were common and severe. 

Among the earliest LGBT forums in the country, there was Táo Xanh (Green Apple), a prominent community for gay Vietnamese that first stepped into the world wide web in 2005. Táo Xanh started out as a humble and small circle, but would eventually become one of the biggest LGBT-centric forums at its prime in 2014.

Photo taken from the Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2014 (top). A tattoo of Táo Xanh’s logo (middle). Screenshot of Táo Xanh forum policies page (bottom).

It started at an... Internet cafe

“Back then, to know about a forum like Táo Xanh, you usually discovered it through word of mouth,” Mạnh Quân, a frequent member of many LGBT forums, tells me in Vietnamese about how he came across Táo Xanh. “I remember reading a piece in the newspaper warning people about inappropriate activities of LGBT people in online chat rooms.” The cautionary newspaper write-up, ironically, spiked Quân’s curiosity about these online spaces, so he joined those chat rooms and was introduced to a number of major online gay forums. Táo Xanh was one of them. 

Back cover of the book “Hãy để anh thương em,” a collection of short stories written by members of the forum. Photo via Facebook page Táo Xanh.

For Quân, while he spent a fair share of his time on multiple LGBT forums, Táo Xanh had a noticeable user difference thanks to its name: “I often accessed these forums while in Internet cafes, so sometimes people would glance at my screen and give me a judgemental look. But not Táo Xanh, because at the time, people outside of the community didn’t know what Táo Xanh was, they probably thought it was just another forum.”

Interestingly enough, the subtlety of the name “Táo Xanh” somewhat mirrored the identity of the forum at the time. “I remember spending sleepless nights at an Internet cafe, chatting with two friends to come up with the idea for the name Táo Xanh,” Minh Thảo, one of the forum's founders, reminisces about the forum's early days. At the time, Thảo and his friends meant to create the forum as a space for closeted gay people, so they wanted the name to be more indirect and less conspicuous. 

When brainstorming for the name Táo Xanh, Thảo and his friends were inspired by the symbolism of the apple. As the apple is a symbol of love, in some cultures, it is also thought to be the forbidden fruit as per the ancient story of Adam and Eve. “But those apples have a red color, so we went with the name Táo Xanh [Green Apple], as a way to represent a different kind of love.”

The virtual life of Táo Xanh

When Táo Xanh went online for the first time on September 19, 2005, the forum came with very strict rules and regulations. Because Thảo’s goal in creating Táo Xanh was to make it a secure place, where the gay community can come in and unwind, share hobbies, and make meaningful connections. So things such as NSFW content or vulgarity were banned on the forum. “We even had a rule about members having to use legible Vietnamese with accent marks when posting and commenting,” Thảo describes how intense the rules were. 

Although, because the initial direction of Táo Xanh was a forum for closeted gay people only, some of its policies were put in place to filter out people who did not identify as closeted gay men. “In the early period of the site, we had rules that restricted girl names as their username, or people using she/her pronouns,” Thảo says. These regulations received a fair share of criticism from the community. “At that time, we didn’t have much knowledge about other communities, so it led to us wanting to exclude ourselves,” he says. 

Minh Thảo at a Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2013. Photo via Huỳnh Minh Thảo/Flickr.

Fortunately, as the LGBT movement in Vietnam progressed, Thảo and his friends had the chance to network with more people within the LGBT community and learn about different sexual identities. Thus, the specific rules regarding names were eventually changed to make the forum more welcoming for the LGBT scene at large.

Thảo was 23 years old when Táo Xanh was first introduced. He remembers spending a large chunk of his time on the site. “Every day after work, I would drive to an Internet cafe to hop on the forum,” he shares. Thảo served as an admin and moderator for Táo Xanh, he would spend days finding and pinning interesting posts for the forum, supervising multiple topic boxes, or socializing with the community. Also, Thảo was the host of Táo Xanh Radio, for which he recorded himself reading short LGBT-centric stories that were posted on the forum.

An episode of Thảo’s radio story for Táo Xanh.

“I listened to Thảo’s radio stories a lot. He somehow found a lot of good and very sad LGBT stories, and for me, his reading voice was very fitting,” Mạnh Quân shares. Quân first joined Táo Xanh in 2007, during his high school years. As he was a student and a gamer, a big part of Quân’s teenage life was associated with an Internet cafe near his home, where he would take root almost every day after school. Quân would lounge around the forum listening to music and the radio's short stories while playing video games. “Whenever I got to the Internet cafe, I would log into Yahoo!, log into Táo Xanh, open NhacCuaTui to play some music, and then immerse in my online game. Just like a routine,” Quân explains.

From forum to parties: The green apple went AFK

Aside from the usual activities common to an online forum, Táo Xanh also had a number of clubs established by its members. There were clubs related to singing, traveling, graphic design, etc. These small groups were where people could share their pastimes and enjoy offline activities together.

“The drama club in Táo Xanh was the place where I got to connect with a lot of people, and also a place where I could develop myself,” says Trọng Nghĩa, a member of Táo Xanh who ran the forum’s drama club named The Gardener Club. It was a place for members who were interested in doing skits about LGBT topics; they would have weekly performances at many theater cafes in Saigon.

A skit by The Gardener Club in 2012. Photos via Facebook user Oril Nguyễn.

Theater cafe, or cà phê kịch, is a type of cafe with a small stage, where independent drama groups can perform to gain a little income and get their name out there. According to Nghĩa, these types of venues were fairly popular during the early 2010s, and every week members of the drama club would run around asking cafe owners for permission to perform at their venues. 

“I always remember how delighted I was doing those performances,” Nghĩa recalls. He remembers how crowded it was at each of the club’s performances. “Each of our sets could have up to 50, 60 viewers. At that time, there were hardly any places for our community to just hang out, so they flocked to places like this, and it feels great being a part of that atmosphere.”

Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2013. Photos via Huỳnh Minh Thảo/Flickr.

Nghĩa knew about Táo Xanh through the forum’s major offline event, usually called “Táo Xanh Big Party.” It was a recurring event usually held as a birthday party for the forum, and these parties were among the most crowded events hosted by Táo Xanh. “I had never seen so many gay people in one place before,” Nghĩa recalls. Quân also has fond memories of his first time being at the Big Party: “I was so shy. There were so many people there that I ended up standing in one place and went home early.” But fortunately, Quân would later feel more included when he got the chance to be one of the people organizing the events, where he could run around helping people and having fun.

But throughout the years, there were struggles along the way too. “Our first ever offline event was small, and all of the attendees came with a face mask. But we understand that everybody just wanted to feel safe, because it was a very different era,” Thảo recalls the early days of the forum. At later events, while attendees were asked to not wear masks while joining the events, photos taken from the events were shared privately in the forum to keep everyone safe. 

Thảo (in red) at the Táo Xanh Big Party event in 2014. Photo via Facebook page Táo Xanh.

“When asking venues to organize our events, we had to be a little bit slick too. We told them: ‘Oh we're just organizing this party for these young, cool people.’ We couldn’t say that we are hosting an event for the LGBT community,” Thảo shares about the struggles in finding a location to hold an event for the community. But for him, the effort paid off: “After most of our big events, the organizing team would gather at a hủ tiếu bò viên place on Trần Khắc Chân street. Everybody, even myself, looked exhausted after hours of running around, but those moments are really memorable for me. It was the feeling that I had tried my best for the thing that I believed in.”

Memories of Táo Xanh

During its 11 years of operation, Táo Xanh at one point was welcoming up to 80,000 members accessing the site. The forum hosted numerous offline events to connect the LGBT community, and they also organized charities to raise the community’s social image. 

Alas, the forum website went offline somewhere around 2016 due to a lack of budget for hosting bandwidth. The administrators and moderators of the forum also ran into some problems during the archival process, which led to the database of the forum being lost. While the Internet only holds very few memories of the old forum, Táo Xanh has undoubtedly remained vividly in the memories of thousands of its users. 

The cover image and background music of the Táo Xanh forum. When users accessed the forum, this image and song would be appear. Image via Huỳnh Minh Thảo.

“I’m a bit of a forgetful person. There were times when I met people [in real life] who referred to me as ‘Sas Ri,’ my username in the forum, and while sometimes I can’t remember who they are, I always know that the time being in Táo Xanh was such a precious time of my life,” Thảo, one of Táo Xanh's founders, said. He's now working as an LGBT activist.

“The forum has given me many valuable relationships in my life, there are people I knew from the forum that I still keep in contact with even to this day,” Quân, a member of Táo Xanh since 2007, shares. He was best known in the community as a host for many of the forum’s events. He is now a working MC and actor.

Nghĩa, the founder of Táo Xanh’s drama club who used to direct the club’s many performances around cafes in Saigon, is now working as a film director. When asked of his memories of the forum, he says: “While I can’t relive everything in detail, I can remember my feelings and how happy I was. It was a beautiful part of my life, because everything has changed now, and those past experiences are something that I can never get back.” 

Women in the Mekong Delta face numerous challenges, including limited access to educational opportunities and agricultural occupations threatened by the effects of climate change. A source of hope in this economically impoverished area, however, blooms in bright pink.

The lotus, widely considered a symbol of Vietnam, has long been used as a metaphor to describe Vietnamese people: from the mud grows a strong and resilient flower that provides nourishment. The plant is literally providing for women in the region thanks to a multifaceted program supported by WWF-Viet Nam as part of the larger Climate Resilient by Nature - Mekong project (CRxN Mekong).

Native to the Mekong Delta, lotus plants grow in rivers and lakes across a landscape significantly altered due to human development and agriculture. For decades, farmers looking to maximize food production have erected dikes during the flood season to grow a third crop of conventional rice per year. Doing so disrupts water cycles, which leads to soil degradation and loss of nutrients, while the chemicals needed for the plants further pollute the ecosystem. Lotus represents an alternative.

WWF-Viet Nam's lotus planting models support farmers growing lotus during the flood season. After four to four and a half months, the stems and seeds of the harvested plants can be processed and sold for consumption, bringing in approximately US$1,867 per hectare, a significant boon to local livelihoods. The environmental impacts of the program are similarly profound, with the model revealing lower greenhouse gas emissions as well as better water retention and quality, improved soil health and sedimentation, and a healthier biodiversity, all compared to a third season of conventional rice.

The vibrant natural ecosystems and human communities in the Mekong Delta depend on one another.

To encourage local farmers to adopt the lotus planting model, WWF-Viet Nam has provided technical and financial support to nine households in Tân Hưng, Vĩnh Châu, Vĩnh Thạnh communes, Tây Ninh province (formerly Vĩnh Đại, Vĩnh Lợi, Vĩnh Châu A, and Thạnh Hưng communes, Long An province). With the guidance of experts from An Giang Climate Change, the farmers are taught cultivation techniques and given organic fertilizers to prevent and reduce disease on lotus plants. Saigoneer visited several of the sites to understand what the project looks like in action and the impact it has on women in the area.

An Inspiring Visit to the Lotus Fields

Amidst the crisp lines of rice fields that make a checkerboard of the landscape, lotus fields are messy scribbles of green and pink. To reach one, we had to take a small boat. Standing on a narrow embankment, we could just make out a group of women working up to their waists in water, their nón lá occasionally coming into view between flower blossoms, hands rising to pluck seed pods and drop them in baskets attached to their backs. After 15 minutes, the group had worked its way towards us, and we were able to speak with Lê Thị Thòng, a local farmer who was spending her morning harvesting the field.

Thòng explained that she had been planting lotus before this project began, but “before, when I planted lotus, it sometimes succeeded, but without this process, the lotus often got diseases. The engineers supported clean lotus planting, and the technique is very good.”

Lê Thị Thòng collects lotus pods.

Being able to plant lotus that reliably yields income has wide-reaching implications for the women in the region. Thòng uses the income for household needs, including more nutritious meals and her children’s education, which is particularly relevant because having work in the fields near her home means she can be available to pick them up from school, as opposed to industrial site jobs that are often unavailable to women because they require traveling great distances.

Nguyễn Thị Diễm Trinh in front of her home lotus field.

Nguyễn Thị Diễm Trinh, another lotus farmer, echoed these sentiments while explaining that the lotus program also expands her role in the community. After speaking with her about the specific methods of planting and harvesting lotus, she invited Saigoneer for lunch. As she was bringing out plates of thịt kho, khổ qua, and stir-fried lotus stems, people kept arriving at the front yard table. A WWF-Viet Nam representative, a neighbor, and a local official all happened to be stopping by for various routine purposes and were quickly told to grab a plate and sit down. The impromptu gathering resembled the more formal meetings held at her house, where “we gather 20–30 people — then we eat and talk together, it’s fun and friendly,” she explained. Indeed, the lotus planting gives women like Trinh and Thòng a role in local conversations and decision-making that elevates their standing in their homes and community.

Sources of Optimism Inside a Lotus Factory

Every few minutes, a truck would arrive and a group of workers would hustle over to unload bundles of lotus stalks for parceling out across the factory floor, where women seated on plastic stools were washing, cutting, and sorting the stems. Large basins soaked and fermented the pieces on the other side of the cavernous space while a small team worked on preparing and packaging them in bags with bright labels, ready to be sent to grocery stores throughout the country and abroad. Tâm Lotus, a small business in Tây Ninh Commune, was founded in response to the fact that the area produces a significant amount of lotus stems, but had limited to no market for them. The company’s existence not only offers easy and reliable purchasing of the plants harvested in the fields, but also gives women vital occupational opportunities.

By acting as a gathering point for distribution via larger companies, Tâm Lotus allows the largely female workforce to work close to home and thus support their families. During our visit, we even met a woman who occasionally stops by with her adopted grandchild. “Everyone here really loves the child. They often buy little things for him. They know the child is an orphan—the parents separated—so Mr. Tâm, his wife, and their family often give things to the child.”

Like the women who plant and harvest the lotus, the women in the factory told us that the work offers them more than a stable income; it brings peace to their homelives and amplifies their voices. Hương, the plant manager, said, “Before, as a woman staying home to care for the kids, without earning money, my voice didn’t carry as much weight. Now that I work and earn money, I can be more equal in discussions.” She continued, “I feel more comfortable. Earning money and having a stable income makes me feel freer to do what I want.”

The improved livelihood conditions for women, thanks to the lotus activities, coincide with positive environmental impacts for the local environment and broader upstream wetland ecosystems of the Mekong Delta. Compared to conventional rice farming, the lotus model results in a 73.2% reduction in greenhouse gas emissions. Moreover, it leads to better water quality and quantity, with over 662,000 cubic meters of water stored per hectare of crop. Meanwhile, soil fertility is improved, which reduces the need for fertilizers in the subsequent season while strengthening the biodiversity in an environment that is home to more than 86 plant species, 51 fish species, and 73 waterbird species.

Nguyễn Thị Diễm Trinh at home with her young son.

One sees the image of a lotus flower nearly every day in Vietnam. From large public fountains and decor to branding elements to fashions, the beautiful symbol of the nation is everywhere. After learning more about its role in the WWF-Viet Nam’s CRxN Mekong project, one can look upon it with an even greater appreciation, knowing it's not merely an aspirational symbol, but a true source of positive change for the people and land.

The Saigoneer team does not consist of golfers. Most of us would struggle to define a birdie, let alone achieve one. And yet, despite our lack of experience, golf proved to be the perfect afternoon activity for us recently. 

To outsiders, golf can be intimidating. The rules, the equipment, and even the clothing come across as complex with a high barrier to entry. Particularly in Vietnam, where golf is a relatively niche and recent pastime, few people have experience with it. This might explain why we initially had trouble convincing members of our team to take a break from their work and venture to out for a ParTee.

A Carefree Approach to Golf

"Golf is the hardest game in the world,” noted Masters champion golfer Ben Crenshaw. “There is no way you can ever get it. Just when you think you do, the game jumps up and puts you in your place.” It’s true: golf can be extremely difficult, even for the most decorated professionals. This understanding affords one a bit of freedom; you won’t be any good, particularly when you are just beginning, so simply focus on having a good time.

To further forefront the fun and limit the frustrations, we opted for a scaled-down version of golf. Featuring carefully-tended real grass greens, water hazards, and sandtraps in the comfortable outdoors, ParTee’s 18-hole minigolf course simulates the authentic thrill and precision of putting far more accurately than neon-light, obstacle-littered, synthetic rug putt-putt courses. But by focusing on putting alone, the arduous elements of teeing off with big swings, followed by the inevitable search for balls lost in the rough, are removed so one can enjoy a more relaxed experience.

Within ten minutes of arriving, we’d secured our personal items in the locker room and were on the greens with putters in our hands. The rules are extremely straightforward: starting at the tee marker, you hit your ball towards the marked hole in as few strokes as possible. True to full courses, the greens are deceptive, with subtle inclines and curves thwarting simple shots. Sometimes our balls raced past the hole, and other times came to a standstill laughably far away. Once or twice, we ended up in a sand trap and required half a dozen strokes to free ourselves. There were also some beautiful shots where the ball rolled smoothly to the hole, and fell in with a satisfying dink-dink: one of the most pleasant sounds in the world.

When Golf is More than Just Golf

The game of golf itself is frequently a background activity on a golf outing. Important business deals often get made on the links while golf buddies give way to corporate partnerships. Saigoneer, however, was more concerned with soaking up some fresh air, enjoying delicious food, and savoring a comfortable space. This was all possible via the surprisingly affordable and inclusive  ParTee 18 Holes Minigolf package.

Lush green space and clear skies! Free from the constraints of high-rises and traffic jams, the golf center, only four kilometers from the city center, provides an immediate sense of peace and freedom. Set beside a natural river lined with palm trees, it offers a much-welcome slow pace that feels like a mini getaway. The fact that we reached it with ease and could return to our normal obligations before dinner made the small slice of recreation feel all the more indulgent. Coaxed into comfort by the surroundings, a sense of lighthearted joy engulfed our group. We didn’t discuss tasks or deadlines, but instead joked and laughed while casually putting the ball.

In addition to its setting, the ParTee seemed designed specifically for us thanks to the availability of food and drink. The new, open-air restaurant and bar below the dedicated meeting and conference space has a selection of drinks as well as delivery from nearby partnering restaurants. While we waited for our quesadillas, poppers, sliders, and chips to arrive, we sipped on refreshing coconuts and draft beer. It proved difficult to sip and putt at the same time, and we instead appreciated the opportunity to sit at a picnic table beside the greens, chit-chatting in the quiet.

While Saigoneer’s time at ParTee, located on the same premises as Wiking Golf, represented the true beginner’s experience, we did notice more seasoned golfers around us. In the distance, players took part in the par-three course, striking approach shots over the water. Meanwhile, the driving range allowed others to practice their long game. While not specifically part of ParTee, we did pick up an iron and try a few shots off the tees before realizing we were better suited to the greens within comfortable reach of the sour cream and salsa. Surely a few ParTee participants will transition to the more serious style of golf. 

Everyone should have hobbies they cannot monetize and are not particularly good at. Pastimes that allow for a bit of exercise, socializing, and an escape from stressful routines are an extremely rewarding part of life. It’s unlikely you will find any members of the Saigoneer team at one of Saigon’s far-flung 18-hole golf courses. But you might find us at another ParTee when we need a break or during planned social events, including movie screenings and live music that transform the golf center into a destination. And you’ll definitely hear us recommend it to friends, family, and co-workers looking to host a birthday party, team building event, or outing. When you take the pressure out of golf and add some refreshments, it really can be quite a bit of fun.

The Mekong Delta is developing faster than Google Maps can keep up with. A stretch of road that was too narrow to accommodate cars and required a transition to motorbikes just six months ago was under construction during our August visit. Gargantuan machines for laying pulverized gravel inched aside to let our 7-seater pass so we could reach the home of Nguyễn Thị Thu Thủy to check in on her small fish drying home business.

A peek into the behind-the-scenes fish drying operation at Nguyễn Thị Thu Thủy's home.

Thủy explained that the expanded road will allow her to more easily sell larger quantities of the packaged, dried fish to a more diverse set of buyers. This theme of increased output and growth filled our conversation: her family produces more of the delicious dried cá chốt than her parents ever did; every season she asks her husband and neighbors to buy more fish from the flooded fields for her to process and dry; she dreams of a de-scaling machine so she can take in more cá lóc; and the drying cabinet WWF-Viet Nam provided her via a revolving fund for women allows her to work on cloudy or rainy days, resulting in more money for household needs.

Increased output across agricultural and aquacultural activities is just one element of broader efforts to improve local livelihoods while safeguarding and restoring natural areas in the Mekong Delta. In particular, programs like the Climate Resilient by Nature - Mekong project (CRxN Mekong) aim to mitigate negative environmental impacts while remaining easy to integrate into traditional lifestyles across the region. In Tân Hưng, Vĩnh Châu, and Vĩnh Thạnh communes of the new Tây Ninh province (formerly Vĩnh Châu A, Vĩnh Đại, Vĩnh Lợi, and Thạnh Hưng communes), six livelihood models, along with access to microfinancing and education initiatives, are building on existing behaviors in coordination with local governments and communities to provide scalable examples for how livelihoods and nature can benefit from nature-based solutions.

The Mekong Delta's many waterways and nutrient-rich soil support thriving market scenes.

Hope Floats in the Flooded Fields

“In the past, our grandparents grew [floating rice], so it has a nostalgic value. Growing it again now feels like reviving something from the past — a way to reconnect with old memories,” Nguyễn Ngọc Điền, the chairman of the floating rice cooperative’s board, explained to Saigoneer. More than a heartwarming means of connecting to homeland and heritage, the ancient variety of rice is opening new economic opportunities while helping to protect and replenish the water and soil.

Nguyễn Ngọc Điền sits beside a floating rice field.

Unlike the modern method of erecting dikes to plant conventional rice during the flood season, growing floating rice requires no manipulation of the flood waters. Because the rice doesn’t disrupt the natural flow of water, nor does it require chemicals and fertilizers, it allows the soil to naturally rejuvenate. These powerful impacts explain why WWF-Viet Nam invites experts from Cần Thơ University for support. Moreover, WWF-Viet Nam supplies seeds and agricultural drones.

Nguyễn Thị Bé plants both conventional and floating rice.

Of course, money talks, and bottom-line economics and familiar habits drive decisions in one of Vietnam’s most impoverished regions. One local farmer and cooperative member, Nguyễn Thị Bé, told Saigoneer that “it has to have benefits. In general, this floating seasonal rice — well, here people are used to eating soft, sticky rice, so eating this one, they don’t really like it. But if you cook it the right way, it’s actually very good.”

In addition to helping introduce ways to cook the floating rice, such as in porridge, to appeal to local tastes, WWF-Viet Nam has been helping to connect the community cooperative with buyers who can sell the rice to overseas consumers who are more receptive to its positive health benefits and accepting of its texture. Processing the floating rice into noodles, milk-based goods, and rice paper before export has proven to be a successful approach. The Khải Nam corporation, for example, is working towards Halal certification for the floating rice products to be exported to Malaysia and other Asian markets, as well as European markets such as England and Germany, which has resulted in a request to increase floating rice plantation areas to 200 ha, up from only 10 ha last year. “This makes cooperative members more confident, knowing their product is reaching international markets,” noted Điền.

Harvesting conventional rice frequently involves environmentally-damaging field burning.

Floating Rice Makes Way for Fish and Mushrooms

The success of the floating rice coincides with other project models, including fish cultivation. Native fish, including cá rô and cá lóc, can thrive in the flooded fields amongst the floating rice. Absent pesticides and chemicals, the fish grow naturally and can be harvested for drying and processing, as Thủy has been doing. Her work is supported by a revolving fund that has provided money from a total initial loan amount of 840 million VND (US$32,000) to 82 women for the acquisition of technologies and materials.

Thanks to new technologies, fish can be dried on rainy days.

Compared to conventional rice, floating rice yields a larger amount of post-harvest organic material. This plant matter, rather than being burned, which releases significant amounts of carbon into the air, can be used for growing mushrooms. This will allow the CRxN program to supply households with clean floating rice straw beginning at the start of 2026, supplementing the technical know-how for cultivating mushrooms that is already being provided. After only 45 days, the mushrooms can be harvested and sold for approximately US$384.

Mushroom growing is particularly appealing because it can be undertaken while remaining close to one’s home, which allows women to participate while caring for children and other household tasks. Word of the project has spread in the local communities, with 18 new farmers registering to receive support for the project. Current mushroom farmer, Trần Thanh Tâm, summarized his experiences to Saigoneer: “What I like most is that I can make use of straw to create a clean product, giving people safe mushrooms to eat. They’re great for vegetarians, and also good for parties — chicken steamed with straw mushrooms is very delicious.”

Trần Thanh Tâm monitors the growth of his mushrooms.

Beside the Floating Rice, Lotus, Hyacinth, and Education Bloom

While floating rice is a pivotal element of the CRxN Mekong project, not all models directly involve it. For example, farmers who do not plant conventional or floating rice during the flood season can use their land to grow lotus. Supported via seeds, organic fertilizer, and the development of commercial networks, farmers can supplement their incomes by growing lotus plants. The seeds and stems are both processed as commercial food. Compared to growing three conventional rice crops a year, switching one to flood-based lotus cultivation produces a significantly smaller amount of carbon. Evidence suggests that the model could be a potential opportunity for future integration in the carbon market.

Even before producing carbon credits, the lotus industry is providing significant benefits to local communities, particularly amongst women. Like growing mushrooms, it allows women to stay closer to home, where they can care for family members. Trần Thị Kim Mai, an employee at a lotus processing facility, explained: “Before, I worked in a more hectic job far from home. Now that there’s a workshop here, I can work very close to my house.”

Moreover, steady work has profound psychological effects. Mai furthered: “The sisterhood relationship here is cheerful, people are sociable … Working here feels like part of my life, something I need every day.”

A similar sense of purpose and value is experienced by the women involved in the lục bình weaving group. A CRxN education project invites consultants to communities to teach women how to transform the weed plant into valuable home goods. This transforms the plant from an onerous clogger of waterways into a flexible source of income that empowers women and strengthens families.

While CRxN Mekong’s education efforts focus largely on increasing flood-based agriculture and aquaculture practices, there is significant attention paid to social and cultural topics, including gender equality courses. These teachings, combined with broad improvements in household incomes, have resulted in “more peace at home,” as one resident shared with us.

On our many trips to CRxN Mekong projects over the years, Saigoneer has been invited into countless homes to share meals, hear stories, and learn about the hope people have for the future of the region. In the midst of these very personal moments, it's difficult to keep sight of the program’s larger impact. In coordination with An Giang Climate Change experts, invaluable data and information are being gathered that can be used to devise and test new ideas for Nature-Based Solutions for implementation throughout the Mekong region.

The natural environment, in particular, lingers in our memory after each visit. Graceful egrets fold wings like book pages in Láng Sen’s melaleuca trees, and turtles disappear in tannin-rich waters that snake and tangle beneath lotus leaves. Soft white cajeput flowers burst open against blue skies, and red-tailed laughingthrush’s calls echo. While in this beautiful, wild place, humans may not be in sight, but their impact is everywhere. From agricultural runoff to disrupted flood cycles to the encroachment of farming practices, the actions of human communities threaten the priceless ecosystem. Only by considering both of them via sustainable livelihood initiatives like the CRxN Mekong can we ensure they both prosper for decades to come.

In the Vietnamese language, the word “cỏ” — meaning “grass” in the literal sense — is often used to signify that something is locally grown, no frills, and charmingly rustic; grassroots, if you will. Chó cỏ is the general term for the adorable mutts, usually mixes between Vietnam’s native dog species, born without the prestige of named breeds, while gym cỏ and net cỏ denote the casual gyms and internet cafes in one’s neighborhood. In the same vein of logic, may I put forth a new name for a special genre of Vietnamese fruits: trái cỏ?

The fruit industry is now a multi-million dollar sector that makes up significant portions of national GDP figures across the world. We have all read headlines heralding the astounding prices of specially bred Japanese grapes or cantaloupes, brought up with classical music playing in the background and watered using ultra-precise drip methods. Malaysia and Thailand have made a name for themselves as leading world exporters of durians, while Vietnam is also gradually building a reputation overseas for tasty dragon fruits and lychees.

Trái cỏ are wild, untamed trees and bushes that exist in unexplored patches of the jungle or homestead backyards, bearing fruits purely for the survival of their species and not for the insatiable appetite of fruit-loving humans.

Over centuries, thanks to major technological advancements in genetics and agricultural practices, the fruit cultivars that we produce today have been bred to be sweeter, larger, prettier, more bountiful, and more shelf-stable than ever, so it is fascinating to learn that at one point in history, they too were once trái cỏ — wild, untamed trees and bushes that exist in unexplored patches of the jungle or homestead backyards, bearing fruits purely for the survival of their species and not for the insatiable appetite of fruit-loving humans.

A 17^th-century painting by Italian still life painter Giovanni Stanchi is particularly beloved by botanists, for his depiction of a half-cut watermelon reveals a curious snapshot in the cultivation history of the cucurbit: Stanchi’s melons are nearly white in the middle, save for the usual pitch-black seeds and a few swirls of pinkish-red that radiate from the center. Watermelons first took roots in Africa as early as the eras of ancient Egypt; while they have always been sweet, the inviting shade of crimson red of watermelons enjoyed these days is the result of aesthetic-minded selective breeding, and past pharaohs were likely to have feasted on dưa hấu cỏ that looked closer to those in Stanchi’s painting than at today’s Co.opmarts. 

Giovanni Stanchi, ‘Watermelons, peaches, pears and other fruit in a landscape,’ oil on canvas, 98 x 133.5 cm. Image via Wikimedia.

Vietnam’s tropical climate and diverse biomes have bestowed us with an abundance of native fruit-bearing species, many of which have been developed and engineered to be very commercially viable while others have remained relatively untouched by the hands of agriculture, happily swaying alongside rural paddy fields and in meandering alleys in townships and hamlets. I have loved fruits since the moment I discovered the magical existence of taste buds; with every fruit species I’ve had the pleasure of sampling, a new friend is made, and a new sweet, tangy, tannic, velvety, spongy core memory is made. The 10 types of trái cỏ I’ve selected to highlight in this Natural Selection feature belong firmly in the latter category, as one probably will never find them in supermarkets and decorated fruit baskets, but in bamboo trays and styrofoam boxes in wet markets and on the pavements, arriving straight from someone’s backyard trees.

1. Lêkima | Pouteria lucuma

Native: Andes Mountains, South America
Distribution in Vietnam: Mekong Delta, South-Central Coast

Photos via Ascension Kitchen.

No fruit in this list is as famous nationwide as lêkima, whose presence is intertwined with the wartime legend of Võ Thị Sáu, a guerrilla fighter who was executed by French colonists on Côn Đảo Island. Her resistance was immortalized in a song that happens to feature lêkima blossoms, a common flora in Đất Đỏ, her hometown. Lêkima is also known in Vietnam as the “egg fruit” thanks to its turmeric-colored, and rich, buttery flesh that brings to mind the texture of cooked egg yolk.

Read Saigoneer’s Natural Selection feature on lêkima here.

2. Trứng cá | Muntingia calabura

Native: From southern Mexico to western South America
Distribution in Vietnam: Nationwide

Photo via Flickr user Forest and Kim.

I grew up with the shade of trứng cá canopies enveloping our front yard, thanks to our neighbor’s particularly fertile tree. Trứng cá, meaning fish roe in Vietnamese, gets its name from its tiny, plump, juicy fruits that burst out their honey-sweet, sandy content upon a bite — like a salmon roe or crystal pearl in a boba tea. As trứng cá fruits ripen, they turn from whitish-green to scarlet orbs peppering the tree’s neatly arranged leaves. During trứng cá’s most prolific fruit-bearing days of my childhood, waking up every day was a joy, as we got to our yard each morning welcomed by a carpet of fallen trứng cá fruits on the terracotta tiles, ready for our little fingers to pick up, to be snacked on as summer’s sweetest offering.

3. Xay | Dialium cochinchinense

Native: Borneo Island and mainland Southeast Asia

Photo via Peckish Me..

Xay might have many different spellings for its name in Vietnamese, but is known in several languages as “velvet tamarind.” The fruit turns black when ripe, spotting a soft, mossy, velvety texture around the shell. To eat xay, crack the carapace to retrieve the flesh inside, a powdery nugget awash in a light coral color that tastes like tropical Tang drink mix. Once the initial tanginess is gone, a subtly sweet flavor remains on your tongue. You munch on the inner membrane, spit out the seed, and pick up another, another, and another — until there is a small mound of xay shell fragments in front of you. Xay is a textbook trái cỏ, as few localities in Vietnam cultivate it commercially; when it’s xay seasons, local natives venture deep into the forest with baskets on their back and return with branches heavy with xay’s velvety black shells.

4. Bình bát | Annona glabra

Native: Florida, US and from the Caribbean to South America
Distribution in Vietnam: the Mekong Delta

Photo via Long Châu.

Bình bát belongs to the same genus as soursop and custard apple, but if the latter two are greatly appreciated by Vietnamese young and old, and are featured prominently in Tết fruit platters and smoothies, bình bát remains an obscure rural treat only known by those hailing from the Mekong Region, like my father’s side of the family. On the boat ride along the canal towards my grandma’s farm in Kiên Giang, I distinctly remember the yellow pops of ripe bình bát like stars dotting a green galaxy. Similar to soursop, the inside of bình bát comprises numerous black seeds enveloped by a layer of thin white flesh that turns sunshine-yellow when ripe. In the delta, it’s most common to peel the fruit and macerate the pulps with sugar or condensed milk. The result, with added shaved ice, is a cooling treat that’s as fragrant as summer itself.

5. Trâm | Syzygium cumini

Native: the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia

Photo via Báo Long An.

Judging by the reactions of my coworkers to trâm, it might as well be renamed “fool’s grape.” Trâm might look like a grape, but instead of a juicy bite, one is immediately taken aback by how big trâm’s seed is, for the fruit is at least 80% seed. The taste, which is concentrated in the peel, is tannic, subtly sweet and sour, the combination of which might prove to be quite astringent to eat on its own, but surprisingly delightful when shaken with chili salt. Walking through markets in Mekong Delta provinces, one will inevitably bump into vendors sitting on the floor beside pot lid-sized bamboo trays padded with banana leaves. On the top, of course, is a purplish black mound of trâm berries that are well-marinated in spicy salt. I am already drooling. 

6. Ô môi | Cassia grandis L.f.

Native: Southern Mexico, Central America, and northern South America
Distribution in Vietnam: Southern Vietnam

Photos by Lâm Long Hồ via Người Lao Động.

Instead of the bright yellow of mai flowers, families living near ô môi trees look at the pink shower of their blossoms as the harbinger of spring. Once the pink arrives, ô môi’s giant fruits will show themselves soon after, first as pods that resemble gargantuan green beans, and then, as the pods ripen, they transform into hardy shells as black as tree bark. To eat ô môi, kids often look for the easiest harvest: fallen pods on the floor. In the middle of the arid black fruits are segments, each housing a seed and sticky pulp that tastes like molasses with a slightly bitter aftertaste. Ô môi is not a particularly delicious fruit, but in the minds of Vietnamese children, it is always free and can double as a sword for make-believe Power Rangers play sessions. What more could a kid need?

7. Tầm bóp | Physalis angulata

Native: Chile and Peru
Distribution in Vietnam: Central Highlands

It’s hard not to be astounded by tầm bóp. At a glance, it might pass for a withering flower bud with brittle petals, but once the “petals” are removed, a golden-yellow orb pops out in the palm of your hand, as shiny and smooth as a gemstone. For years, tầm bóp has existed as bushes that proliferate across Vietnam’s bucolic countryside, but since 2021, social media has elevated its status from wild forages to “superfruits” sought after by wellness blogs. Tầm bóp hails from the same nightshade family as tomato, eggplant, and chili, so I have found that it tastes vastly similar to a cherry tomato with a tropical touch.

8. Nhót | Elaeagnus latifolia

Native: the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia
Distribution in Vietnam: Northern Vietnam

Photos via Người Lao Động.

Every March and April, there’s one thing to expect walking on the streets of Hanoi: the carpet of bright red nhót on mobile vendors, as referenced by poet Phạm Tiến Duật in his poem ‘Lửa đèn’ (Lantern Fire): “Nhót is like a guiding light / shining the path into summer.” The oblong, pudgy fruit epitomizes a success story in which a homely countryside snack has become a serious means to make a living for northern farmers, as urbanites in Hanoi have recently developed a fondness for the sweet flavor of nhót. Unripe nhót is also a popular children’s snack for it allows maximal dipping in chili salt, while homemakers often borrow its distinct tartness to flavor canh chua nhót.

9. Chùm ruột | Phyllanthus acidus

Native: Madagascar and the Indian subcontinent
Distribution in Vietnam: Nationwide

Photo via Wikimedia.

There’s an indescribable joy in looking up into the luxuriant canopies of a chùm ruột tree just to spot clumps of ripening fruits dangling in the air. While apples or mangos grow in separate stalks that might be hard to spot, chùm ruột surfaces in clusters peppering all over the branches, forming a bright yellow scarf that brightens up wherever they appear. Even ripe, chùm ruột is incredibly tart to be eaten raw, but its crunchy flesh means it is great for candying and pickling.

10. Thị | Diospyros decandra

Native: Indochina and South-Central China

Photo via Lao Động.

Thị is a fruit of extremes: it is perhaps one of the most fragrant fruits in the country, but may also take the crown for Vietnam’s least edible fruit. Even though munching on a slice of thị might not kill you, it will not be a pleasant experience, for the fruit’s high tannin content will coat your tongue and cause bowel obstruction if consumed in large quantities. For this reason, thị is fated to be a trái cỏ, existing just to perfume humanity but not to feed it.

Read Saigoneer’s Natural Selection feature on thị here.

Ask a person on the street what Vietnam’s distinctive style of architecture is, and the answer you get might be traditional architecture, like the historic curves of northern Vietnam’s village temples or the ornate regality of Nguyễn-Dynasty palaces. This time-honored style is widely accepted as the hallmark of Vietnam’s cultural wealth. What’s more fascinating but lesser-known is how this cultural vestige — which distinguished our architecture from that of China and Japan — has also managed to evolve in the new age, finding ways to exist right in the middle of our modern lifetime.

From the 1950s to the 1970s, Vietnam’s distinctive architecture has fashioned for itself a new life in the modern era, not just setting itself apart from that of our Asian contemporaries but also from the world.

Traditional Vietnamese homes through colonial periods

The most characteristically Vietnamese style of traditional homes. Photo via Dân Việt.

From after the periods under Chinese rule until now, some could divide the two main categories of Vietnamese indigenous architecture: ancient architecture and modernist architecture. In between these lies the colonial eras. While Vietnamese culture underwent a constant process of fine-tuning and re-imagining through each historical era, from the Đinh to the Nguyễn dynasties, architecture — as part of culture — has also similarly transformed to take on a distinctive identity and taste that can express the Vietnamese quality.

That identity is evident in the grace and modesty of Vietnamese homesteads, surrounded by vast gardens and natural landscapes. The living quarters have always retreated deep beneath a network of shelter protecting the veranda. Wrapping around the interior is a collection of wooden doors and windows that can be closed, opened, folded in, or detached so the homeowner can freely modify their living space to fit the desired levels of openness. This is a clever system that anchors the house right into its native climate. The interior, in actuality, is usually also the exterior. It is this identity that gives Vietnamese architecture its own sensibilities. Thanks to the wide eaves and veranda that shelter the living space deep inside, from afar, it can look as if the roof is hovering above layers of shadows.

The Vietnamese people have fostered a specific sensibility when it comes to playing with shadows — a highly intuitive connection with shadow as a housing “material.” From macro to micro levels, from columns and rafters to wooden reliefs, the traditional Vietnamese home is often a living landscape where the light and the dark, the visible and the invisible, the functional and the ornamental intermingle. It is a delicate balance that has been building over centuries.

The advent of modernism

The V.A.R Building in Hồ Chí Minh City, designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm in 1973. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

This millennium-long process is truncated by almost a century of French colonialism. Right after Vietnam regained its independence from the French, it stepped right into the midst of the modern era. Locals started living in brick homes, wearing pressed shirts and jeans, riding bikes, and working in bureaus instead of in fields. The advent of modernism came rather suddenly.

Yet, it was right within this sudden change that the Vietnamese taste had an opportunity to flourish with aplomb. Using the languages of modernism, Vietnam’s own architectural identity could present itself as a form of indigenous architecture with refreshing expressions. Coming out of French colonization, both northern and southern Vietnam could benefit from the industrial infrastructure left over by the colonial administration. This was the initial factor making modernist architecture possible in Vietnam during this time.

A modernist apartment on Hải Thượng Lãn Ông Street, District 5. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

Moreover, the modernist movement was supported by the local government, especially in the south, seeking to give the urban landscape a new face in the new era, but still rooted in traditional values. A plethora of large-scale public projects in the modernist style were commissioned, such as the Reunification Palace, the HCMC Library of General Sciences, Turtle Lake, etc. These constructions were all designed by Vietnamese architects who were professionally trained at the École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine or the Paris-based École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in the 1930s and 1940s. Each building has its own distinctive charm that distinguishes it from modernist projects elsewhere in the world.

It must be noted that Vietnam’s modernist buildings were part of the modernist movement that started in the early 20th century by thought leaders like German architect Walter Gropius, who founded the Bauhaus school; and Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier, who pioneered the idea that architecture should be logical, functional, and purposeful. Under modernist influences, architects turned away from expensive, ornate embellishments and headed towards a new vision of design that was cost-effective, comfortable, and no-nonsense — an architectural style born of technological advancements with cement, steel, and glass. Still, it didn’t mean that they rejected aesthetic elements. Honesty and rationality themselves became the aesthetic. Modernist architecture is the architecture of reason.

14A Cao Thắng, Ward 2, District 3, HCMC.

The crop of modernist architects in Vietnam back then — like Trần Văn Tải, Lê Văn Lắm, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, and Ngô Viết Thụ — were actively experimenting with modernism in southern Vietnam. What came out of it also stayed close to the principle of practicality. Modernist buildings were designed to be as efficient as possible, employing cement, concrete, steel, and glass to create micro-climates. Specific features were incorporated in order to allay the harshness of the tropical sun and the ferocious attacks of monsoon rainstorms, such as a system of sun shelters and natural ventilation. The modernist structures that materialized during this time, both from the public and private sectors, were the very first steps towards establishing Vietnamese modernism as an independent architectural movement, with lessons taken from traditional architecture.

2 Tống Văn Trân, District 11, HCMC.

Modernist language in daily civil projects

Somewhere in this timeline, something unexpected happened. From the architectural vocabulary created by pioneers, in addition to a strong sense of personal aesthetic, common Vietnamese people started practicing modernist architecture on their own, bringing about a new realm of architecture with nearly no involvement of professional architects and bending the ideals of modernism to fuse with the architectural sensibilities of Vietnamese. Outside of infrastructure and public administrative projects, countless private residences in modernist style sprouted in Saigon from the mid-1950s to the 1970s. These houses could be classified as modernist due to their use of industrial materials, but often don’t exhibit the core principles of modernism, such as rationality. Instead, they came to be, at times, based on purely intuitive choices. Such contrast revealed the crucial way Vietnamese culture surfaced right in the heart of architecture.

57 Đề Thám, Cô Giang Ward, District 1, HCMC.

Across the myriads of urban houses constructed this way, we can detect an aesthetic intuition that’s intense and dense, but also quite graceful. Based on the utilitarian frame of a tube house, the owners carved out their own expressions of taste on the limited space of the house facade.

Walking past a block filled with 20^th-century modernist tube houses, spectators would probably feel like they’re attending a sculpture exhibition. Planters, louvers, brise-soleils, iron frames, and pergolas were all created and added liberally and then polished, installed, and decorated to geometric satisfaction.

Not to mention the materials: house projects gave in to the allure of washed rocks and mosaics, and played with shadow, a strange element in itself, invisible but quite affecting. Just by molding shadows, they created elements that seemingly float in mid-air. Every experiment was encapsulated in the people’s creative consciousness.

227 Trần Bình Trọng, Ward 3, District 5, HCMC.

The spectacular palate of Vietnamese modernist architecture, particularly as expressed in urban houses, is not just a worthy subject to be studied, but also the trace of a cultural pulse that has beaten across the timeline of Vietnam’s history. It’s the physical manifestation of the people’s spiritual life, where their sense of aesthetics can reflect their national identity. The elegance of shadows and their ratio, depths, and intensity; the density of layers upon layers of ornamental elements; and the sharpness of the composition — all were the results of years of distillation of Vietnamese culture, a proof of a civilization’s ingenuity.

176 Lý Tự Trọng, Bến Thành Ward, District 1, HCMC

From Saigon to the Mekong Delta and the central coast

The initial sparks of modernist architecture from Saigon, often considered the southern region’s economic and cultural center in the middle of the 20^th century, have turned the movement into a creative wave that spread to nearby localities, from urban cores to garden estates in the countryside, from the Mekong Delta to the central coast. During these decades, the Vietnamese people gradually accepted concrete houses as characteristically theirs instead of the thatch and bamboo dwellings of the past. Historian Mel Schenck, who happened to be in the country right when this was taking place and the author of Southern Vietnamese Modernist Architecture - Mid-Century Vernacular Modernism, noted that modernist architecture has become Vietnam’s indigenous architectural style.

163 Võ Văn Kiệt, Cầu Ông Lãnh Ward, District 1, HCMC.

The story of Vietnamese architecture at the dawn of the modern era demonstrated the values of a new society of Vietnamese, a modern society. It’s a society of honesty, fortitude, and a passionate pursuit of excellence while remaining open-minded and flexible in the face of a new way of life. Vietnamese modernist architecture, and, in itself, Vietnam’s modernist aesthetics, is proof of the strength and national qualities of past generations and an affirmation of the people’s ability to transform to prosper, even right in the middle of history’s ever-changing tides.

Like many Vietnamese, I have owned more crumpled raincoats than I can count. They're the disposable kind, cinched with a few rubber bands, folded into a misshapen rectangle, then stuffed unceremoniously into a scooter’s under-seat compartment or a desk drawer.

It would not be a stretch to call these a national essential. In Vietnam, they are everywhere, thanks to the weather and the way people move. In the west, life unfolds inside cars or along public transit, and an umbrella often suffices because it can vanish neatly when the clouds pass. 

The tropics play by different rules. A midday sky can blaze over one minute and open into a downpour five minutes later. In a country where motorbikes dominate, you're expected to have a raincoat tucked under the seat out of sheer survival instinct. A raincoat might still be clipped to the drying rack while its owner steps into a spotless sky, unaware this is only the calm before the storm. Minutes later, they would have to pull over at a roadside stall and buy an áo mưa giấy, literally a “paper raincoat,” the name given to a thin, single-use plastic raincoat that works in a pinch and not much more.

When in Rome, wear as the Romans do.

Personally, I have never mistaken them for saviors, or even adequate shields. True to their name, they are so frail that one sharp tug or careless twist can split them. They are waterproof in theory, but far less so in the street. The loose, ballooning cut lets rain slip in at the collar and sleeves and then slow-soak everything underneath. The material feels close to the plastic bags market aunties use for scallions and live fish. Each time I pull one on, I feel like a wriggling sea creature trapped in its final demise; a damp, fumbling, plastic wrap that clings to the skin and never lets go.

These raincoats are also a looming environmental threat. I have waded through knee-deep water and watched abandoned raincoats drift by, waterlogged and translucent, floating like fish through the murk, curling into little whirlpools, then knotting over some unlucky drain. The water stills and begins to rise. What was already a flood becomes something worse.

Sheltered, but not by much.

To be fair, the blame does not belong to the áo mưa giấy themselves. They simply mirror how we consume in a society accelerating faster than it knows what to do with. A long time ago, Vietnamese wore áo tơi, rain capes woven from palm or straw. They looked crude but could endure season after season, even year after year. That was when we lived more closely with the weather and made do with what the land offered.

Then during the state-subsidy era, synthetic raincoats started to appear, though they were hardly common. In photographs from the 1970s and 1980s, people can be seen riding through downpours in their straw hats, or huddling under a single rare sheet of plastic. Scarcity made them prized possessions. Only until recently, as factories learned to spin out millions of cheap goods in a blink, did modern raincoats take on a deliberately short life, made to be tossed away.

Raincoats in the earlier decades. Photo via Báo Thể thao và Văn hóa, Báo Vĩnh Long.

As someone who swears by sturdy things but is reliably forgetful, I have complicated feelings about this wasteful invention. They exemplify a situationship you know will not end well, one that never quite meets the basics, yet somehow convinces you that maybe this time, against experience, it will last. Each time I break my own rule and buy them, I fold them carefully, hoping to stretch them across a few more uses. But the flimsy material and lackluster seams always give out, no matter how gently I try to salvage them.

And still, I cannot bring myself to hate them. One night after a date, the rain arrived without warning. Not wanting my companion to catch a cab, I ducked into a convenience store and bought a nicer áo mưa giấy for VND30,000, mostly to steal a longer ride together. The rain came in sheets and found every seam, and I shivered through nearly ten kilometers before reaching home and going straight to bed with a fever. A few months later, the relationship ended, and the ache that lingered felt as brutal as that summer downpour. Even so, I am glad I tried, thunderstorm and all.

Love them or resent them, these raincoats are an inevitable artifact of our species’ optimism and hubris. We always think we will not forget, until we do. And when that moment arrives, the choreography is oddly uniform, open the under-seat compartment, find the raincoats, lift them, and know they will not survive another storm. We pull over and buy more. The cycle completes itself. Alas, in this city, the rain must come, and with it, the áo mưa giấy too.

In rapidly developing urban Hanoi, finding engaging outdoor play areas for young children is near impossible. But since 2014, the social enterprise Think Playgrounds has colored public spaces across Vietnam with wildly unique and legitimately sustainable designs, engaging with local communities to give children back their right to play.

Founded by architect Chu Kim Đức and journalist Nguyễn Tiêu Quốc Đạt, Think Playgrounds (TPG) was born as a reaction to a surprise encounter with American Judith Hansen, who was traveling through Vietnam hoping to continue a photography series of public playgrounds. “Wherever I go, I look at playgrounds because I think they tell us a lot about a culture,” she states in a documentary made by TPG. Upon her arrival to Vietnam, however, the realization of the rarity of such spaces in Hanoi inspired Judith to attempt to donate a slide, reaching out to Kim Đức and artist Ban Ga for design assistance. 

Nguyễn Tiêu Quốc Đạt.

After months of efforts and negotiations, the slide, shaped in the form of a turtle to echo the legend of Hoan Kiem, was never completed nor accepted by the city and left Kim Đức with a driving motivation. "After she flew back, I and my partner thought we have to do something! Because someone from across the globe has flown here to build a playground and we didn’t manage," she recalls. "And so we tried our first playground on Bãi Giữa (Banana Island). It was very successful, many people were interested and told us they could not find playgrounds near their house."

Compared to other Asian cities with similar high-density urban fabrics, Hanoi is also one of the poorest in terms of square meters of green space per inhabitant at just 11.2 square meters per capita, compared to an Asian average of 39 square meters, according to HealthBridge. That mixed with overprotective parents believing in “stranger danger” and the common obligation of long schooling hours, urban children in Vietnam have very little opportunity to enjoy the highly beneficial act of play. “Outdoor risky play” that is characterized by elements of uncertainty and risk of physical injury is thought to be especially valuable. It seems, in order for children to learn essential skills (and have more fun along the way) a bit of rough and tumble is advised. Acts like playing at great heights, high speed, near dangerous elements or with dangerous tools sound counterintuitive for the well-being of a child but interestingly is a thoroughly studied and developed notion that is expressed spatially through “Adventure Playgrounds.” 

Having first appeared in Nazi-occupied Denmark in 1943, the concept of Adventure Playgrounds was created by the infamous modernist landscape architect Søren Carl Theodor Marius Sørensen in collaboration with school teacher Hans Dragehjelm. Their concerns were two-pronged: first, how to offer urban children the same play opportunities as their rural counterparts; and second, how to attract them to playing in designated areas rather than the junkyards they seemed to prefer. This second element was of high concern as “mischievousness and sneaking around” — understandably important elements of play — had been criminalized and parents feared their kids' innocent play actions could be confused as acts of sabotage by German soldiers. 

This pioneering Emdrup Junk Playground concept quickly spread in popularity throughout Europe, and also appeared in Japan where currently 400 Adventure Playgrounds exist. In these spaces only a few rules apply, the most important being: no adults apart from the specially trained Playworkers whose job is to teach children how to use the available tools and only intervene if there is a very high risk of serious injury. Often these play areas look exactly like junk-yards: piles of broken wood, dismembered electronics and unrecognizable bits of metal challenge kids’ creativity. The children, free to build or destroy their own structures with whatever they find, learn not only motor skills but also how to negotiate, find resources, manage teamwork, and independently create their own world. 

Going beyond the obvious physical benefits, risky play has been proven to encourage the development of the capacities known as the “Four Cs” — communication, collaboration, critical thinking, and creativity. In comparison to “designed” playgrounds that attempt to control the inherently chaotic activity of play, risky play, though difficult to understand initially, has long term benefits and is irreplaceable by indoor activities.

But kids in Vietnam face particular challenges, Kim Đức tells Saigoneer: “Historically, Vietnamese children used to play a lot in nature because we were in agriculture with fields, lakes and forests. My parents' generation could tell us stories of how adventurous their 'play areas' were, especially during the wars. My generation and people living in cities like us still have memories of playing with friends in neighborhoods, on the sidewalks, on the street... My daughter now spends most of the time indoors, has no friends after school, no public playground near our house. It's the common situation in Hanoi and cities in Vietnam. Public spaces are invaded for commercial purposes. Parents think play is useless and a waste of time.”

Some people point fault to the rise of digital technology, a belief corroborated by a recent study finding that 78% of Vietnamese children under six use digital devices, but access to positive spaces for children takes more than just turning off the iPad. “I don’t buy the argument that the screens are keeping the kids from the playgrounds,” said Susan Solomon, an architectural historian and the author of American Playgrounds. “If the playgrounds were better, kids would be there. Better playgrounds would definitely give screens a run for their money.”

That said, the creation of engaging play spaces in Hanoi can be more complex than meets the eye. “Raising awareness of children's right to play is the most important. This affects education, urban design and community development. When the community is engaged in a project and committed to protecting it, the playground is successful,” explains Kim Đức.

The past few years have seen a steady growth in community involvement with now more than 180 playgrounds built across the country. TPG currently creates temporary and permanent playgrounds, complete commercial projects and hold events to promote their philosophy. Notably in 2019, they built Vietnam’s first Adventure Playground in collaboration with Tokyo Play and Ecopark. But the project lasted only a few months as the local community didn't mobilize to contribute to the management costs and the area was taken over to become a “check-in” point for youths. 

“From what I know, Hanoi parents are quite protective, especially when there is a lot of bad news in the media. Besides, I think the current mainstream education is not facilitated for independence in general, which surely affects outdoor play,” Kim Đức laments. But all is not lost, with many projects and collaborations en route, TPG continues to expand Vietnam's play platform, exploring subtle ways to make each original design more educative while taking into consideration children of reduced ability. Their recent work at Vietnam National Children's Hospital was specially designed for children with mental illness and the ongoing project on Bãi Giữa sports a fabulous zipline, the neighboring recycled tires, and wooden seesaws becoming a gathering point for the young and old. 

Typically, TPG projects are welcoming, colorful, jumbled spaces, often composed of organic shapes, natural materials and animal forms, breaking from the cold geometry and sterility of the urbanscape. In the beginning, TPG used 100% recycled materials such as wooden palettes. Although having the advantage of being cheap, the wood rarely lasted more than a few months and now TPG source their wood from local producers, treated organically with mud and biomaterials. Each project design involves as much as possible the local community. Through drawing workshops involving children and adults, the gathered illustrations are then crafted by the designers in their workshop, later returning to collaborate with the community to install, paint and maintain the spaces themselves. By transferring this sense of ownership and responsibility, it ensures the longevity of each space to allow children to enjoy their play for years to come.

Though it may seem in Vietnam we are far from arming children with hacksaws and throwing them up great heights in rubble-filled Adventure Playgrounds, slowly the work of TPG will spread the benefits of free play to the next generation, offering them opportunities to learn and grow, one tumble at a time. 

To learn more about Think Playgrounds and their program of activities, visit the organization's website and Facebook page.

This article was originally published in 2020 on Urbanist Hanoi.

What defines the British Vietnamese International School Ho Chi Minh City (BVIS)?

In today’s competitive academic climate, terms, buzzwords, and descriptions are frequently used with little consistency in meaning, making it a challenge to understand, let alone compare, schools in Ho Chi Minh City. But BVIS is truly different. BVIS is not a bilingual school. It is a truly international school that delivers a single, unified curriculum: the National Curriculum for England, enriched by a strong emphasis on Vietnamese language, culture, and values.

The 1 For Your Child's Global Success via BVIS YouTube.

One Curriculum: The British National System Enriched by Vietnamese Cultural Context

From Early Years through A Levels, students follow the English National Curriculum in full, ensuring rigorous academic development aligned with British standards. This consistent framework fosters critical thinking, independence, and confidence, while evolving teaching practices ensure learning remains dynamic and relevant.

In EYFS and Primary, a consistent teaching approach in English and Vietnamese ensures every child grows with confidence, knowledge, and identity.

What makes BVIS distinctive is how this British academic pathway is interwoven with Vietnamese language and culture, creating a learning environment where students thrive globally while remaining deeply connected to their national identity. From the earliest years, students are immersed in both English and Vietnamese. As their Vietnamese becomes firmly established, the proportion of English use increases — from around 50% in the early years, rising steadily through primary and secondary, and reaching approximately 93% in the Sixth Form.

Graduates earn internationally recognised IGCSEs and A Levels, opening doors to the world’s top universities. At the same time, they leave BVIS with a profound sense of cultural pride and understanding, ready to succeed either on the global stage or within Vietnam.

“If you value a consistent international curriculum that is delivered in both English and Vietnamese during the primary years — enabling students to build strong foundations in both languages and cultures — or if you're looking for a more specialised, subject-focused pre-university pathway through A Levels in secondary, then BVIS is for you,” BVIS Principal Dee Grimshaw succinctly explained.

BVIS offers a world-class international education while preserving and nurturing a deep connection to Vietnamese identity. The curriculum seamlessly integrates the nation’s intellectual heritage, arts, and inspirational role models. Moreover, school events and activities such as Vietnamese Teachers’ Day, Mid-Autumn Festival, and Tết, as well as numerous community service initiatives, all focus on cultivating respect, courtesy, and traditional values, helping students grow harmoniously within their families and communities.

International and Vietnamese-themed events are not only a means for deepening cultural experience, but also for having fun.

The impact of the Vietnamese cultural experiences at BVIS reverberates far beyond the classroom, shaping the character and mindset of every student. Children confidently access an international curriculum and engage in events globally, while remaining deeply grounded in family traditions, showing respect and warmth to grandparents and parents. In doing so, students come to understand that Vietnamese identity is not only a cherished foundation but also a source of strength that fuels their aspirations to reach the world.

One Child: Knowing and Treating Each Student as a Unique Individual

For students to achieve BVIS’s high expectations, each must be at the center of specialized learning journeys. There is a strong emphasis on well-being, alongside academic achievement, and a deeply committed community of educators and families who ensure students receive not just a great education, but the right education for them.

Within the large and state-of-the-art campus, passionate teachers from around the world cater to learning objectives and respond to the needs of each student. A plethora of extracurricular activities and student organizations across performing arts, athletics, and community outreach further help students identify and explore their unique interests. 

BVIS teachers bring extensive experience teaching the National Curriculum for England.

Recruited largely from the UK, BVIS’s teachers have the credentials and experience to engender trust alongside opportunities to further develop their abilities to encourage students to explore, think critically, and express themselves confidently. As part of the Nord Anglia group of schools, they receive subject-specific training from leading institutions like MIT, The Juilliard School, and King’s College London, and collaborate closely with sister-school BIS to exchange ideas and knowledge.

Extracurriculars and collaboration opportunities introduce students to the wider world.

“When students come to our school, academic rigour and individual progress is a given,” Grimshaw told Saigoneer. “However, this cannot be fully achieved without the care and attention to building positive student – teacher – parent relationships that we prioritise at BVIS. Our teaching and non-teaching staff really do make the difference, and our focus upon their own professional development and learning is something that has helped us stay ahead of the curve, both now and into the future.”

One World: Ability to Thrive Everywhere while Maintaining Sense of Self and Home 

Exceptional academic results are matched by confidence in and outside the classroom.

BVIS’s academic results and university placements speak for themselves, with alumni attending some of the top universities in the UK, US, Australia, and across Asia after scoring well above UK averages on the A-levels and IGCSEs.

More than just impressive test scores and placements, the school community emphasizes cultural intelligence, global awareness, and adaptability alongside empathy and integrity. The qualities of simply being a kind and considerate person are mirrored in the behavior of teachers and administrators, put forth in lessons and activities, and praised as an inherent element of the school’s identity. 

Fluency in both English and Vietnamese further the opportunities open to BVIS graduates, with many students progressing to universities abroad and returning to Vietnam to make positive contributions to their families, communities, and country. Being able to seamlessly and comfortably transition across borders and cultures while retaining their identity is essential for a healthy self-worth. Summing up her experiences at BVIS, recent graduate, Nhu Y, described herself as “grounded.”

Since its opening 15 years ago, BVIS graduates have gone on to remarkable achievements here and abroad without losing sight of where their journey began. As Grimshaw noted, “BVIS students know who they really are. They are in tune with their own identity, and no matter where they go or whatever they do, they are clear about where they come from. They tend to fit seamlessly into an overseas environment and equally back into their own culture and setting. Put simply, BVIS delivers the highest quality of education whilst allowing our alumni to truly understand their own identity within the wider world.”

BVIS graduates venture into the world with a strong connection to home.

Countries in mainland Southeast Asia have stark differences in renewable energy strategies, balancing them with ample but controversial hydropower and entrenched interests. While solar power has become accessible and cost effective, many of these nations have struggled to make wind power an essential part of renewable energy strategies, despite having locations with high potential. Meanwhile, others have become regional wind power leaders, such as Vietnam. In this explainer, we explore how various mainland Southeast Asian countries are engaging with wind power development.

Top image: Wind turbines in Phan Rang, a coastal city in southern Vietnam. Photo by Thoại Phạm via Alamy.

Thailand

While Thailand has aggressively pursued solar and hydro, it made a slow start on wind power, despite having high-wind areas in the north and northeast. The first project, in Phuket, began in 1983, but projects exceeding one megawatt (MW) did not begin until 2008. The country only reached around 400MW by 2019. As of 2023, wind makes up only around 3% (around 1.5 gigawatts) of the kingdom’s installed capacity.

There is potential for 13-17 gigawatts (GW) of onshore wind energy across the country. And while most of Thailand’s wind power comes from ground-mounted projects, there is potential for another 18–36GW per year offshore in the Andaman Sea. 

Solar has made huge strides in Thailand in recent years, with a current estimated capacity of 3GW and plans to reach 39GW by 2040. Despite this, Thailand is relying on an energy future ruled by liquefied natural gas (LNG), including the building of new infrastructure in Rayong and the Gulf of Thailand.

The current draft of Thailand’s 2025–2037 Power Development Plan (PDP) aims to achieve carbon neutrality by 2050 and net-zero emissions by 2065. The plan includes installing an additional 7GW of wind power capacity. 

While the draft (due to be passed by the end of 2025) is aggressively pursuing renewable energy in solar, wind and biomass, its critics claim the government’s energy demand projections are too high: it predicts that the current supply must more than double by 2037. Other criticisms are that the current plan is over-reliant on more traditional energy projects, such as LNG, and that it is holding back the development of renewables. 

Traditionally, Thailand’s supply chain for building wind power plants has been provided by foreign interests. As the kingdom ramps up its renewables efforts for net-zero targets, however, a concerted push has been made to produce and develop wind power components domestically.

Thailand’s leading wind energy developer, Wind Energy Holding, currently operates eight wind power plants. In June, the company announced it was preparing 2GW of projects in line with the current PDP. Yeong Guan Energy Technology, a Chinese company, plans to begin wind power component production trials in Thailand in 2025.

Thai companies are also investing in wind power abroad. Late last year, BCPG Public Company Limited, a renewable-energy subsidiary of the partially state-owned conglomerate Bangchak Corporation, announced it was acquiring a firm that operates two wind power plants in Vietnam.

Thailand also funds controversial hydropower dams on the Mekong mainstream and its tributaries, in neighboring Laos and Cambodia. These projects have been linked to declining fisheries and unseasonable flooding and droughts, affecting biodiversity and riverine livelihoods. As such, more emphasis is being placed by environmental groups on the use of non-hydro renewables, such as wind and solar. 

At present, the push for renewable energy is reviving Thailand’s wind power prospects, as is the current Feed-in-Tariff system, in which producers are offered fixed prices to provide power to the grid. But the PDP 2025-2037 will be essential in deciding how diversified the kingdom’s renewable future will be.

Laos

The energy plan of Laos has centered around being the “Battery of Asia,” using the nation’s natural resources to create hydropower that it sells to its Southeast Asian neighbors and China.

However, the use of the Mekong’s resources has been a heavy source of contention in the Greater Mekong region, so Laos has taken steps to include more solar and wind projects. 

The most widely publicized of its upcoming wind projects is the Power China-produced Thai collaboration that was completed this year, the Monsoon Wind Power project (MWP). It is the first large-scale ground-mounted wind farm in landlocked Laos and has been touted as the largest in Southeast Asia. Continuing the Battery of Asia model with wind power, the 250MW onshore Trường Sơn wind project is expected to supply energy to neighboring Vietnam after its planned completion date later in 2025.

The April 2023 groundbreaking ceremony for the Monsoon Wind Power project in Vientiane, Laos. Photo by Kaikeo Saiyasane via Xinhua/Alamy.

Both Thailand and China have played crucial roles in the energy infrastructure of Laos, in terms of development and power purchase agreements. The MWP project was bankrolled by the Thai company Impact Electrons Siam, and is being rolled out as a prototype that could potentially be used in Laos as a viable form of export energy. 

Around 80% of the electricity produced by Laos is exported to other countries. The MWP project features a 500 kilovolt transmission line to neighboring Vietnam, 22 kilometers of which will be in Laos and 43 kilometers in Vietnam, which has signed a 25-year power purchase agreement for the project. 

Straddling the provinces of Sekong and Attapeu, the MWP project contains 133 wind turbines. According to a quarterly environmental and social monitoring report, it has affected 934 households across 26 villages, with agricultural land most affected. The report identified 210 hectares of agricultural land as temporarily or permanently changed, along with impacts on 112 hectares of forest. Projections from the Asia Infrastructure Investment Bank also noted local anecdotal evidence of biodiversity loss in the project development area.

Though the project was only completed in April, Laos is already moving toward a wind farm that is twice as big: the AMI Savannakhet, a 1,200MW wind farm in Savannakhet province, occupying nearly 2,700 hectares. 

In 2023, it was estimated that non-hydro renewables made up less than 0.5% of energy generation in Laos. But analysis of its 2020-2030 National Power Development Plan indicates that — while still relying heavily on hydropower — non-hydro renewables will eventually make up 5%. 

Cambodia

Cambodia has suffered from large-scale power shortages and blackouts. These stem from over-consumption issues and, less recently, drought-based hydropower lapses. According to a 2023 World Bank survey, as many as 43% of firms experienced electricity outages in Cambodia, as the country contends with meeting its short-term power needs. 

The kingdom does not yet have any major wind farms, but in May 2025, authorities approved six wind power projects in Mondulkiri Province that are expected to generate 900MW. Each developer has a 150MW allocation but there are few public details about construction timelines.

HK Oasis Power’s 150MW wind power station is currently the first of the six planned and is expected to begin operating in 2026. These wind projects should become a source of power during the country’s dry season, which usually runs from November to April. 

Another upcoming Mondulkiri wind farm is the 100MW Singaporean Blue Circle project. It will be built in conjunction with Cambodia’s Royal Group, which is also responsible for the controversial, 400MW Lower Sesan 2 hydropower plant.

These projects are a boon for Cambodia’s non-hydro renewable goals but the wind farms raise questions about impacts for wildlife habitats and local ways of life. Mondulkiri’s Indigenous Bunong residents have claimed some of the construction works could impact their lives and livelihoods. For example, one of the companies with project approval, SchneiTec Co, has been constructing a 299-kilometer power transmission line through Cambodia’s Prey Lang wildlife sanctuary.

Previous wind power projects in Cambodia hit permanent snags, such as a Blue Circle project in Kampot, which was set to begin construction on an 80MW wind farm in 2021. It was cancelled after failing to agree a per-kilowatt-hour tariff rate with the state-run energy supplier, Electricite du Cambodge. 

Authorities have stated that wind power will be integrated into the national grid by 2026. But despite these coming projects, Cambodia’s Power Development Plan up to 2040 will lead to only a marginal increase in wind power when compared to other sources, like solar. This is because Cambodia’s wind power potential is comparatively low for mainland Southeast Asia.

Despite issuing a 10-year moratorium on dam building on the Mekong mainstream in 2020, a majority of the renewable energy in Cambodia still comes from hydropower. The rest — just 10.5% — came from solar sources as of 2022, according to the International Energy Agency.

Vietnam

Wind power is the largest source of non-hydro renewable energy in Vietnam, 80% of which was provided by 84 wind farms as of 2023. The country’s status as a regional leader in wind power has been largely attributed to a beneficial feed-in tariff system: the government pays guaranteed, above-average prices for renewable energy. The tariff, along with Vietnam’s government policy and strong potential for both on- and offshore wind energy generation, have attracted investors.

With an installed capacity of nearly 5GW as of 2024, Vietnam has made key changes to its Power Development Plan (PDP8), with a revised draft published in April outlining the country’s energy outlook to 2035. The original PDP8 of May 2023 had an ambitious outlook for onshore wind, including a goal of installing more than 21GW of onshore wind capacity by 2030. This has since been raised to 38GW. This is despite the revised PDP8 also outlining a large increase in expected solar energy, increasing the previous target by nearly six times to over 73GW.

But while Vietnam was an early and enthusiastic adopter of onshore wind power in mainland Southeast Asia, the country has been slow to adopt offshore wind. The original PDP8 planned for 6GW of offshore wind by 2030; this has been revised to 6-17GW by 2035.

Vietnam has signed several agreements for offshore wind projects, including a joint development between the state-owned PetroVietnam and Copenhagen Infrastructure Partners, a Danish renewable energy developer. The US$10.5 billion investment will supply 3.5GW of wind power. Another is the 1.4GW Phú Cường Sóc Trăng offshore wind farm, developed by the Irish company Mainstream Renewable Power.

In July, authorities said construction on the first project is “likely” to begin by the end of this year.

The Bạc Liêu offshore wind farm on the south coast of Vietnam. Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh via Alamy.

Recent studies show Vietnam has the potential to generate just over one terawatt of wind energy in its exclusive economic zone, nearly doubling previous World Bank estimates.

Nonetheless, Vietnam has struggled to generate investments for its renewable projects due to fears that its favorable energy tariffs will end. These policies have created a boom in Vietnam’s renewables sector but they have also created losses for the state-owned Vietnam Electricity (EVN), leading authorities to attempt to reduce them.

The revised PDP8 includes far-off goals for offshore wind projects. This is because, at current estimates, development elements such as permit issuance and construction planning is taking up to a decade.

As the country rapidly multiplies its wind power projects, concerns have been raised regarding the local socioeconomic costs of this. Vietnam’s many nearshore wind farms have faced criticism from fishers, whose incomes have been impacted by government-imposed fishing bans for wind farm perimeter zones.  

Both onshore and offshore wind farms also create risks to biodiversity. They could present problems for migratory birds, including endangered species from Siberia that migrate to Vietnam for winter, such as the Nordmann’s greenshank and spoon-billed sandpiper.

Myanmar

Myanmar, still embroiled in civil conflict at the time of writing, has had a number of wind power projects fall through. These include the high-profile, Chinese-built Chaung Tha project, which fell apart long before Myanmar’s military junta took control via the 2021 coup. 

The current administration is working with Russia to cultivate wind power. The Russian state-owned firm Rosatom, which also has nuclear energy ambitions in Myanmar, began working with a Myanmar developer on plans to build a 200MW wind farm near Mount Popa in 2023.

Despite the civil war in Myanmar and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, the collaboration has seen movement in the past two years. Myanmar claims it is fast-tracking Mount Popa. The energy ministry has also signed a memorandum of understanding for eight wind-power projects across the country. Rosatom is behind three of them.

In 2023, Myanmar agreed to work with China on three wind power projects in Ann, Gwa and Thandwe, all in Rakhine state, for projects ranging from 100-150MW. However, reports in 2024 said the Ann and Thandwe projects had been taken over by the Rakhine people’s Arakan army.

Beyond its domestic wind power ambitions, Myanmar plays a key role in the development of regional wind power. It is a site for the illicit mining of heavy rare earth elements (HREEs). These are used to produce powerful permanent magnets in wind turbines that increase power generation and improve heat resistance, lowering the maintenance demands of larger — especially offshore — turbines.

A 2024 Global Witness report on HREEs states that firms involved in the creation of these magnets are reliant on Myanmar’s supply. Chinese interests are responsible for 85% of all rare earth processing, and China is the world’s number one consumer of HREEs. 

The unregulated and illicit mining of HREEs in Myanmar has led to high environmental and human costs. This is expected to continue. In addition to deadly mining incidents, chemicals used in the mining process such as oxalic acid have reportedly caused skin and respiratory damage, as well as deaths related to kidney failure.

The Global Witness report also highlights the use of in-situ leaching, a process by which ammonium sulfate is injected into pipes in the ground to circulate and extract rare earths. It says the toxins from these processes are flowing into streams where local people fish and collect drinking water. Nearby residents claim this chemical exposure is leading to deaths, the devastation of fish and other animal populations, and the report also notes that surrounding lands are becoming non-arable.

China backs the military junta. Its position as both participant and mediator in Myanmar’s conflict drastically affects global access to rare earth material. Almost half of the world’s accessible rare earth materials are mined in Kachin, Myanmar’s northernmost state. The Kachin Independence Army (KIA) took control of much of these resources in October 2024. The following May, China demanded the KIA stabilize the rare earth supply chain and threatened to stop buying HREEs from Myanmar.

This article was originally produced by Dialogue Earth and has been republished with permission. Read the original version here.

Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm is a project aiming to expand exposure opportunities and application potentials of performing arts into the life of marginalized and minority communities of Vietnam.

The initiative is created by Thân Nghiệm Club and Saigon Theaterland, and supported by the Goethe-Institut as well as HUTECH University. By its second season, the project has explored dance and movement with artists-in-training from Saigon’s Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing* community, in collaboration with hearing artists-in-training and local sign language interpreters.

Though they make up a significant segment of the Vietnamese population, the local Deaf community continues facing many systemic barriers, largely due to a lack of language-related support. A large number of deaf people in Vietnam communicate using their local Vietnamese sign languages, including three notable varieties: Hanoi Sign Language, Haiphong Sign Language, and Ho Chi Minh City Sign Language.

To them, Vietnamese sign language (VSL) is actually their mother tongue as opposed to the Vietnamese language — whose grammatical rules and vocabularies are completely different. As such, deaf people most often rely on sign languages to efficiently and accurately gain access to information. Unfortunately, outside of a special education or Deaf-led environments, spaces that commonly provide other Vietnamese people job opportunities, recreation, health assessment, and other services do not cater to their communication needs. Thus, the Deaf community is denied equal access to the same experiences compared to their hearing counterparts, not to mention the costs incurred for interpreting services due to a lack of governmental support.

Nevertheless, in a discourse that tends to generalize deaf and hard-of-hearing people, or merely discuss them within educational and medical contexts, recreational and artistic avenues created to support the Deaf community thus become noteworthy and refreshing, even if they are limited. There is Nghe bằng mắt, a project that has been fostering collaborations between deaf and hearing artists in Hanoi to create visual and film art projects for many years. Similarly, in Saigon, Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm aims to provide people from the local Deaf community access to dance and movement arts as an alternative career, a chance for self-discovery, and a strategy to foster empathy between hearing and Deaf communities.

*Saigoneer uses the capitalized Deaf to refer to the community and culture of deaf and hard-of-hearing people.

How it began

“Ever since I studied dancing abroad 10 years ago, I’ve already been fascinated with sign languages,” Lyon Nguyễn, told Saigoneer when we visited their rehearsal last month. Lyon is a movement art educator in charge of Thân Nghiệm Club and an organizer and the key instructor for Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm. “I recognize their similarities with dance art: between the artform’s usage of body movements to convey emotions, and sign languages’ employment of movements to communicate everyday contexts.”

Lyon Nguyễn (left) and Phương Nguyễn (right).

Lyon eventually met Hạnh, a VSL interpreter, after he returned to Vietnam in 2023 and signed up for a sign language class. This was a serendipitous encounter for Hạnh herself, as she was trying to find a dance instructor willing to take in her deaf friend, and eventually became connected to artists like Lyon and Phương Nguyễn; the latter is in charge of Saigon Theatreland. “Via suggestions of two visiting Welsh artists, Saigon Theatreland has decided to ensure our productions are more inclusive for our audience,” Phương shared. “I was very surprised to find so many Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing people at the show, and decided to meet up with them and the interpreters.”

Hạnh is a VSL interpretor working with Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm.

All artists audition for Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm via open calls, after which eight to 10 deaf and four hearing performers are chosen. Anna Hương, one of the deaf artists rejoining the project from the first season, said: “I’ve always wanted to learn dancing with hearing people, and be integrated into their movement art field. I joined the project after learning about the art form from hearing folks and became very interested. My dream is to be a dancer, and I believe the project will show people that deaf people can do it!” Meanwhile, Chiêu Anh, one of the second season’s hearing participants and a psychology specialist, said she encountered Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm’s notice on Facebook.

Within a span of three months, project organizers and participants host consecutive movement and sign language workshops once every week as they work towards the season's final performance, but also ensure the project’s sustainability for future seasons by equipping themselves with movement art knowledge and, more importantly, basic VSL skills.

The inclusive beauty of movement art

It might be baffling to some why deaf people would want to engage in an art form that is often associated with music. While incidental music will be composed to accompany the dances, it should be clarified that their work are better described as “movement art,” a term the project’s artists themselves use to describe their avant-garde approach to dancing, distinguishing them from more conventional iterations of the art form. Apart from the objective fact that three-month is a short run time for an art form that traditionally requires years of practicing to achieve choreographed synchronicity, movement art’s comparable approach to acting means there is less focus on following fixed beats, and more on the narrative conjured from the expressiveness and interactions of dancers’ bodies — features that go beyond the boundaries of spoken languages among all people, but those deaf people especially have resonance with and excel at.

Proper stretches are essential to any physical practice.

After a long warm-up session that stretches the participants’ movement potentials, with the assistance of interpreters, Lyon and his co-instructors workshop the movements that hearing and deaf participants have co-created within various groups: a practice called “contact improvisation.” “We move to understand our own bodies, but also to interact with others and understand the intersections that arise out of it,” Chiêu Anh explained. “Such intersections don’t have the language of speech, but they have that of bodies, of contact points, and their pressures. We learn to understand each other in such ways.”

In a group, they initially explore writing their own names using various body parts and upon various surfaces: one could be tracing their name’s letters in mid-air using their left elbow, or the tip of their right foot upon the floor. The contact part eventually comes in when, for instance, one dancer uses a body part of their partner to write their own name: they could be tracing out the letters while lightly supporting their partner’s head as if it were a pen. The choreography is thus built up gradually, whereby movements are experimented with to create poetic tensions, and their meanings are organically discovered along the way. There are also breaks between sessions for performers to mingle and chat with each other, with hearing performers learning to communicate with their accented sign language, before the workshop ends with some reflections.

Anna (left), Hiếu (middle) and Chiêu Anh (right) have all discovered the project via different channels.

For the deaf participants, movement art’s devising process opens up both their own artistic potentials and discoveries into their own emotions and mental health. “Regular dancing doesn’t allow me to understand my feelings, nor the internal struggles that I don’t know how to heal,” Anna shared, “yet once I learnt of this movement art, I feel it can help me thrive, healing the wounds within me, and believe that I can do more things, while also accepting my own flaws.” In fact, this is what sets Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm’s second season apart from its predecessor: the project’s deaf dancers are diving deeper within themselves, harvesting their own lived experiences and Deaf culture, like sign language, to craft stories which are distinctly theirs, while still enabling the audience to connect with them, due to the rich displays of their emotional life.

Movement art’s devising process opens up participants' own artistic potentials.

“The art form enables all kinds of bodies to participate,” Lyon shared. “Everyone can approach the art form, no matter their disability, condition, gender, or skin color. As compared to hearing dancers, I find deaf participants to be especially attuned to their movements, and senses of sight and touch.” Phương also added: “I believe all bodies are equal: no body is more suitable to practice art than another. Sometimes, as with hearing people, our verbal abilities enable us to communicate fast, yet we thus forget that we also have our body language as another miraculous form of communication.”

Overcoming communication barriers with Vietnamese sign language

Supplementary to each movement art workshop is a session of VSL, hosted one day after, aiming to foster community and bridge communication and cultural gaps between deaf and hearing artists so they can better collaborate during the movement art rehearsals.

Typically, participants will first revise the last sessions’ vocabularies and practice finger-spelling among themselves, before the sign language instructors, with the assistance of interpreting volunteers, introduce them to some warm-up games, and new sign language topical vocabularies and grammatical constructions.

As participants engage in these activities, as well as practicing signing in pairs and with the class, they also get to hone their language use, including communication etiquette such as voicing-off during signing, or using appropriate eye contact and facial expressions. “Currently, hearing participants may be shy at communicating in sign language with their deaf peers, while the deaf participants are more confident,” Hạnh shared her observations as the main interpreter. “Nonetheless, I can see that their relationships are getting better: proactive communication is very important.”

Brushing up on communication skills, especially VSL, is important to the group.

Nevertheless, sign language interpreters remain incredibly necessary for the working process. Hạnh elaborated on her role, being the one explaining dance terminologies or instructors’ actions to deaf dancers so they can understand the intentions behind those movements, as well as directing deaf participants’ queries to their hearing instructors. “I feel that a number of hearing people tend to believe that ‘you only need to use gestures to communicate with deaf people, no need to have an interpreter who’d make things cumbersome,’” Hạnh discussed some misconceptions surrounding her role. “However, a sign language interpreter remains a crucial bridge for knowledge to be transmitted clearly and accurately to the Deaf community, in all fields that they want to take part in.”

Moving forward

“Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm has brought to the forefront the awareness that there are many communities around us,” Chiêu Anh shared, with regards to the importance of inter-community and disability awareness. She added: “We need to think: how can we live with each other? Can we grow together? How can we interact with each other?”

Undoubtedly, no one desires to improve the public’s understanding of the Deaf as much as those within the community themselves. “I feel that currently, deaf people are facing a lot of hardships, and I hope models like Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm can be duplicated, and receive systematic governmental support, or support from influential organisations, so that more opportunities are created for Deaf people,” Hiếu, a dancer from the Deaf community, shared.

Chiêu Anh (left) and Hiếu (right).

Anna corroborated on the importance for solidarity between both communities — including between deaf people and their own hearing parents within a family — so as to stop discrimination, and work towards true fairness and equality. “I want hearing people to take the extra step to understand the culture of Deaf people, and can communicate with us,” she said. “That’s why I want them to learn sign language: only by understanding clearly can one respect our culture, and thus can support the Deaf community.”

The project is hoped to be a visible testament to the possibility for communities to work together, make friends, and respect each other’s cultures.

As an organizer, Phương hoped that the project will be a visible testament to the possibility for communities to work together, make friends, and respect each other’s cultures. “I hope we can be motivated to find ways of diversifying our own understanding and experiences,” Phương expressed his gratitude towards the deaf participants, “rather than being comfortable within our own privileges, thus forgetting others’ existence, or pitying them.”

Because the wider public often assumes deaf people are not artistically inclined, Anna and Hiếu and other deaf dancers within the project look forward to be new positive representations of the Deaf community, dispelling stereotypes and inspiring other deaf people, as the project is being publicised across Vietnam on various mass media channels.

Anna and Hiếu and other deaf dancers within the project look forward to be new positive representations of the Deaf community.

In many situations in Vietnam, disabilities continue to be viewed through the patronizing lens of the medical model, and such conditions are seen merely as deficits in need of fixing, but projects like Lắng Nghe Điểm Chạm can present the social model of disability as a healthier alternative. Specifically, the disadvantages faced by people with disabilities should be attributed to the society’s unwillingness to accommodate them, as opposed to shortcomings that are beyond their control, so systematic societal changes become crucial to ensure their equal participation and access.

As such, hopefully in the near future, more communities of people with disabilities and allies will proactively collaborate with each other to create inclusive performing arts, while also equipping themselves with more knowledge to create projects that not only authentically tell their stories but also curate valuable spaces for them to explore, self-advocate, and thrive.

Everywhere I go in Vietnam, I keep my eyes peeled for the incredible birds that call this country home. Sometimes I don’t even realize that I’m doing it. I scan the horizon above low hills for migratory hawks. I stare into breaks in the foliage for passing buttonquail. I peer into rice paddies, fingers crossed for a cryptic snipe. And, of course, there’s Facebook. I refresh Facebook over and over again, waiting for the arrival of the mandarin duck. Its scientific name is Aix galericulata, which one assumes means “prettiest goddamn duck in the world.”

In actuality, “aix” is an Ancient Greek word first used by Aristotle to refer to an unknown diving bird while “galericulata” is the Latin for a wig, derived from galerum, a cap or bonnet. This is the kind of bird so utterly magnificent that you basically assume you’ll never see it. Mandarin ducks breed in the dense and isolated forests on the edge of rivers and lakes in far eastern Russia, China, and Hokkaido, Japan; the total number tallies up to just a few thousand pairs. During the winters they migrate southwards, fleeing the subarctic temperatures of their breeding grounds for the warmer swamps and flooded fields in central China. And every winter there is a single family group that decides to fly a little farther than the rest: about a thousand kilometers farther, to a hidden lake in northern Vietnam.

A family of Vietnam's next top avians.

Ba Bể is the largest natural lake in the country, and the heart of Ba Bể National Park. While only four hours from Hanoi by car, this treasure of the northern mountains is often skipped by Sa Pa trekkers and Hà Giang road trippers. But it is not ignored, thank goodness, by the Vietnamese birdwatching community. Steep limestone cliffs and primary forest all around the lakeshore make Ba Bể a hidden haven for birds, including the too-beautiful-to-be-allowed mandarin duck. My search for the duck during the migratory season begins online, where Vietnamese birdwatchers share their photos, tips and secrets.

Birdwatchers like Nguyễn Mạnh Hiệp, a senior official at the Vietnam Administration of Forestry, who keeps tabs on the ducks by staying in contact with national park rangers. There's also Nguyễn Thanh Sơn, an office worker and wildlife lover in Hanoi who, like me, relies on a network of bird and photography enthusiasts to let him know when incredible species like the mandarin duck are spotted. This winter, when the prodigal ducks returned, photos of them immediately began to pop up among this insular community of dedicated birders. Sơn decided one afternoon that he had to see them, and the next morning he was up at 3am to make his way north. I was on a business trip in Thailand when they appeared, and the moment I returned to Hanoi I was on my way, too, not wasting the hour it would have taken to go home and drop off my luggage.

Mandarin duck is the kind of bird so utterly magnificent that you basically assume you’ll never see it.

The passage into Ba Bể felt very much like entering another world — so much so that it’s worth saying this, despite the cliché. I joined my friend Bùi Đức Tiến, Vice President of the Vietnam Bird Conservation Society, and together we caught an early morning boat from town that coursed down a narrow river feeding the lake. We passed through an enormous limestone cave, coming out on the other end to the secluded sanctuary of Ba Bể. I was, of course, deeply anxious. We did not yet see the duck. It was far from certain that we would see the duck. I'm not sure I can describe how much I wanted to see the duck.

And then, there it was. It was Tiến, of course, who spotted it first: a single male, perched on a tree that overhangs the water. We cut the engine and coasted towards it. I lay on my stomach on the bow, steadying my camera and holding my breath. The duck, who has, in the past weeks, flown on little wings across a significant portion of the Asian continent, was totally relaxed. He was, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful birds on a planet so richly populated with beautiful birds. Purple, indigo and chestnut splayed from his body at odd angles, like ornate shavings of tinted glass. What a thing it is to behold.

Majestically leaping off the water.

The Vietnamese name for these ducks, chim uyên ương, can be literally translated as “love bird.” Vietnamese novelist and translator Nguyễn Hiền Trang points out that the name comes from the Chinese language: yuanyang (鸳鸯). In both Vietnam and in China, these ducks have a cultural significance dating back millennia. Mandarin ducks first started to show up in ancient Chinese poetry more than 1,500 years ago, appearing as symbols of both romantic and fraternal love. In Vietnam, terra cotta mandarin ducks decorated palace and pagoda towers during the Lý and Trần dynasties. The ducks even make a few appearances in the classic Vietnamese narrative poem 'Chinh Phụ Ngâm Khúc' once again as symbols of devotion and love.

Why symbols of love, you ask? The answer is in their duality. With ostentatiously colored males and much more modest females, the mandarin duck embodies the balance of yin and yang — gendered forms of the feminine earth below and the masculine firmament above. Perhaps owing to this legend, people across the ducks’ migratory route believe them to mate for life. But while lifelong monogamy isn’t unheard of in the world of birds, I regret to inform you that, in the case of these ducks, it is indeed a love story that’s too good to be true. Male mandarin ducks may be beautiful, but they are also carousing ruffians, hilariously unfaithful lovers, and absentee fathers.

Mandarin duck is one of the most beautiful bird species that can be spotted in Vietnam.

But that name, love birds, still rings true. One of the joys of birdwatching is escaping the self, and spending time appreciating an animal entirely on its own terms, and in its own world. Love birds may better describe the feelings that the mandarin ducks give us than it does their talent for monogamy. Judging by their prominent place in ancient Vietnamese culture, we can guess that there used to be a whole lot more of these ducks flying around than just this one family, at this one hidden lake. But with a growing number of Vietnamese people committed to protecting these creatures, we can hope that they will remain safe for generations to come. That’s what we could all use in times like these, I think. More birds. More love.

This article was originally published in 2023.

I was a teenage cliché. No matter how much I try to rack my brain to find any other personal connection to the incandescently red tree that is phượng vĩ, I keep going back to my middle school crush and that one tree in the front yard of our school.

Phượng vĩ is the Vietnamese name for Delonix regia, also known as royal poinciana, flamboyant tree or flame tree in English. These names are no doubt inspired by the tree’s uniquely vivid flowers that can light up an entire neighborhood when they bloom. Nothing can signal the passage of time quite as dramatically as phượng does. Every year, from April to June, poincianas across the country erupt in joyful parades of fiery blossoms and cicada symphonies, letting you know that summer has arrived. For school children, this often dovetails with the end of a school year and, if you’re part of the graduating class, time to say goodbye to a chapter of yourself you never thought you would miss. Generations of Vietnamese students have grown up bidding farewell to their formative years with the tint of phượng flowers coloring their most sentimental memories, so phượng has earned a deep-rooted reputation as the symbol of summer, school years, and teenage dreams.

A road in Hậu Giang sandwiched in between rows of phượng trees. Photo by Lý Anh Lam Photography.

For a plant with so much cultural significance in the country, it might be unbelievable to learn that phượng vĩ didn’t originate from Vietnam or even the continent of Asia. But such is the intricate, complex relationship between mankind and nature. Plants, birds, critters, and mushrooms have few thoughts for our arbitrary national borders and would flourish with reckless abandon wherever they feel most nourished. Like lêkima and dragonfruit, which were brought to Vietnam from South America, phượng vĩ is native to Madagascar Island in Africa, but our climate proved hospitable enough for them to take root, prosper, and enchant us into propagating them everywhere.

How phượng vĩ infiltrated our schools

Scarlet flowers light up a road in Nha Trang. Photo by Flickr user Khánh Hmoong.

Historical records point to the French colonial government as the reason behind this botanical migration. In his book Hà Nội còn một chút này, essayist Nguyễn Ngọc Tiến details how the deciduous African tree became a fixture in public schools in the capital. A year after Hanoi was subjugated by the French, in 1889, the colonial administration established a botanical garden in the northern area of the town near today’s Hồ Tây. The garden served two purposes: first, to cultivate a range of vegetables familiar to the French palate but didn’t exist in Vietnam at the time, like lettuce, carrot, kohlrabi, and cauliflower; and second, to be a botanical playground of sort to test out various species of ornamental trees to plant across the city’s public spaces, parks, and government buildings.

Each phượng blossom has four red petals and one variegated petal. Photo by Rohit Tandon on Unsplash.

The push for diversity in tree-planting was meant to ensure trees would shed their leaves during different seasons, reducing the workload of maintenance workers and ensuring local streets would stay luxuriant year-round. Phượng vĩ, palm and African mahogany (xà cừ) arrived in Hanoi from Africa, alongside senna alata (muồng) from South America, and ylang ylang (hoàng lan) from Malaysia. Phượng vĩ quickly caught the eyes of the then-government for many reasons. It grows fast. Its canopy spreads widely instead of tall. Instead of broad, paddle-like leaves, phượng branches are peppered with rows of tiny compound leaves like verdant teeth of giant combs, making them less likely to clog up the sewage system. And, of course, who can resist the allure of those gorgeous scarlet petals?

Generations of Vietnamese have grown up with phượng flowers, so it has earned a deep-rooted reputation as the symbol of summer, school years, and teenage dreams.

Phượng vĩ first appeared on Hanoi streets like rue Paul Bert (now Tràng Tiền) and rue Kô-Ngü (then Cổ Ngư, now Thanh Niên) and by that summer, many French-run schools in Hanoi started planting phượng trees to help provide shade. The southward migration of phượng began a bit later with a decree issued in 1906 by Governor-General Paul Beau to standardize the schooling system, which, until then, was quite messy.

Amongst other operational guidelines, the decree stipulated that school years begin in September and end in May, and that campuses must plant trees for shade. Phượng vĩ had already been sashaying all over schools in town by then, and the new school calendar perfectly timed its most spectacular blossoming with the end of the curriculum, enshrining its status as an emblem of pedagogical farewells. The mayor of Hanoi encouraged new schools to plant it, and as more schools were founded in Central Vietnam, they too adopted the plant in accordance with the decree. By 1912, all 24 of the capital’s private institutions were growing phượng vĩ in their yard.

The cultural significance of phượng vĩ

A "chicken fight" using phượng stamina. Photo via Flickr user Thái Anh Dương.

Like many of its predecessors, my secondary school has a phượng tree right in the middle of the front yard, reinforced by a square granite foundation and surrounded by stone benches. Unrelated coexistence is how I would characterize our relationship. Like two untouched Venn circles, we went about our lives separately, until one day, when the circles began to overlap for the first time. Under the canopy of our phượng tree, my school crush showed me how to do “chicken battles” with phượng blossoms. She would find the biggest flower buds, peel off the outer verdant sepal, and pluck out the strongest-looking contenders from the bud’s stamina. Each “chicken” is a strand of stamen with an anther still attached on top and each battle begins by locking the anthers together and then pulling them apart rapidly. Whichever “chicken” is beheaded first loses. I rarely ever think about phượng flowers or my time in secondary school today, but I returned home that day knowing that rare occasion when the Venn circles overlapped would stay with me for a long time.

How to make butterflies from phượng blossoms

For many generations of financially strapped Vietnamese students, crafting butterflies from phượng petals is the best way to craft keepsakes on a budget, as it doesn’t require anything but fallen flowers and nimble fingers. Once completed, the butterflies could straight away be pressed in notebooks and agendas for drying, ready to surprise you decades later when you accidentally flip through the pages just to see them fall out, looking as faded and sepia-tinted as your memory of their creation. Truly a friend of impoverished students, phượng blossoms can also serve as a free ingredient in student meals like gỏi hoa phượng or canh chua hoa phượng thanks to their subtle sourness.

For my part, I am content with my own teenage cliché, a happy memory of phượng and my secondary school crush, but not everyone is as lucky. Composer Thanh Sơn’s story is instead one awash in longing and the ache of missed connections. Sơn grew up in Sóc Trăng in the 1940s in a family of 12 siblings. When he was 13, one of his classmates was a sweet, affable girl named after the scarlet flower: Nguyễn Thị Hoa Phượng. She attended the school after her family moved to town from Saigon for her father’s job as a civil servant.

The music sheet for 'Nỗi Buồn Hoa Phượng,' first released in 1966.

“We were friends for more than a year and got really close,” Sơn shared in an interview. “Suddenly, the next summer, she told me that her family got reassigned to Saigon, so she wanted to meet me to say goodbye.” When he asked for an address so they could keep in touch, Phượng said in tears: “My name is Hoa Phượng. Every year, when summer comes, if you see the flowers bloom, remember me.” They have lost touch since.

In his young adult years, Thanh Sơn moved to Saigon and became a successful composer. In the summer of 1963, seeing phượng blossoms while walking past a schoolyard reminded him of his childhood friend, so he penned a few lines to express how he felt. Those heartfelt words would go on to become the lyrics for ‘Nỗi Buồn Hoa Phượng’ (Hoa Phượng Sorrow), the biggest hit of Thanh Sơn’s music career and phượng’s most prominent cameo in pop culture, one that has endured until today as a timeless bolero classic. While it was first recorded by Thanh Tuyền, today the iconic summer ballad can be heard via the voice of numerous performers and karaoke sessions all over Vietnam.

Thanh Tuyền was the first performer bringing the song to stardom.

The tipping point

By the 2020s, phượng vĩ’s role as a cultural icon, especially in association with students and school nostalgia, might seem unshakeable, but our relationship with the tree was about to change, perhaps for good. It was a typical morning almost exactly three years ago, on May 26, 2020, at Bạch Đằng Secondary School in District 3 of Saigon. The school entrance at 6am was buzzing with purrs of motorbike engines, vendors of morning snacks belting out street calls, and school children roaming about. Gaggles of kids were sitting around the schoolyard’s phượng tree enjoying their breakfast when the tree suddenly toppled over, trapping them beneath its heavy but hollow trunk. In the end, 18 pupils were injured, and one of them, a sixth-grader, didn’t survive the unexpected accident.

It was later discovered that, even though the tree looked healthy and lush from the outside, its trunk was rotting from the inside. The incident is not unheard of either, as phượng trees have fallen down in Huế, Biên Hòa, and Sóc Trăng, sometimes maiming or even killing passersby. A number of botany and urban planning experts have since cautioned against widespread planting of phượng vĩ in civic spaces. Dr. Đặng Văn Hà from the Vietnam National University of Forestry acknowledges its cultural role, but warns against putting it in schools.

Trần Phú Secondary School in Pleiku decided to fence off the tree to prevent future accidents. Photo via Người Lao Động.

According to Hà, it’s fast-growing, but grows into soft branches and trunks that are prone to rotting. Its roots are shallow and fragile, requiring special care to prevent destabilization. It often has a short lifespan and starts deteriorating by the 30-year mark. The way phượng is planted in school yards, caged in by concrete and hampered by a lack of soil, also contributes to the weakening of roots. There are ways to safely grow phượng in school, Hà shares, but administrators must monitor its health closely and prune it properly during rainy seasons.

No matter what, the fallout of the tragedy at Bạch Đằng was swift: across the country, school management boards ordered extensive trimming and axing of phượng vĩ and other heritage trees in fear of another tree-toppling. From a school icon that entered bolero hits and poetry, many phượng trees were reduced to chunks of lumber strewn on concrete. When tragedies strike, it’s often in our nature to start placing blame. As much as I am fond of trees in general, and phượng vĩ in particular, I can’t blame school principals for not taking risks when it comes to the safety of their students, and I can’t blame trees for trying and failing to withstand the tests of time. Again, I find myself at a loss for a satisfying conclusion to this phượng vĩ soliloquy, because of how uncertain everything is. Perhaps this, not teen nostalgia, is the true meaning behind nỗi buồn hoa phượng.

A drop of the animal’s blood renders the soil barren; entire mountains can crumble and collapse where it landed. Be wary of this slow wayfarer of the forest, for if you catch sight of its glowing eyes in the distant darkness, your trip is doomed and should be abandoned immediately. And if someone brings one back to the village, make all efforts to return it to the jungle, lest you invite sorrow and ruin into your home. Don’t let its meagre stature, a mere 500 grams, and slow, cuddly demeanor confuse you; the cu li guards the gates to hell.

In the year 2025, when all the blank spaces on the atlases have been filled in and any animal’s genome can be mapped, the local myths that surround cu li (slow loris) seem absurd. Yet, these legends are no less misguided than our current understanding of the creature, as evidenced by the way we treat them. Rather, to this day, cu li remains frustratingly misunderstood.

Pygmy slow loris (cu li chậm lùn). Photo via BBC Science Focus.

The trouble with names

Confusion about the slow loris starts with its name. The English name comes from the Dutch word “loeris,” meaning clown, which makes sense because all eight slow loris species have facial markings similar to clown makeup, and the “slow” accurately describes the speed at which they meander along tree branches, particularly if observed during the daytime.

The Vietnamese name, cu li, is more troublesome. The term is most commonly associated with its historical usage to describe unskilled laborers. In that context, cu li is a modification of the word coolie, which is itself likely a bastardization of the Hindi and Telugu word kulī (कुली) or (కూలి), meaning “day-laborer,” which was used by westerners in Asia during the long and bloody colonial period in the region, including France’s time in Vietnam. While cu li today rarely denotes a position of unskilled (and abused) worker in Vietnam, it is sometimes used in the north to criticize someone as stupid and stubborn. We’ve been unable to ascertain if those definitions resulted in the animal’s name, though an expert at Đảo Tiên Endangered Primate Species Centre told us that some places in Vietnam call them “lười” (lazy) or “cù lần” (stupid) because they are slow and sleep during the day. Further complicating matters is the existance of a plant also called cu li, which the slow loris does not feed on.

“While it looks like it is experiencing bliss, a cu li being tickled is actually furious and preparing for violence. Cu li have poison-secreting glands in their arms, so what looks like a cute, smiling primate is actually a deeply upset animal being tortured.”

I first became aware of cu li’s muddled meaning when the film Cu Li Never Cries (Cu li không bao giờ khóc) was released last year (more on the movie later). Some friends had seen the title and assumed it was a period piece about the mistreated workers involved in colonial projects and therefore didn’t see it. The misunderstanding led me to ask numerous friends if they knew what a con cu li was. No one had.

So, for any readers in the same position, briefly, cu li are primates native to South and Southeast Asia. They are more closely related to lemurs of Madagascar than any monkey or ape, and having evolved more than 10 million years ago, they are sometimes thought of as “primitive” primates that have not developed the same level of intelligence or complex social structures as their ape peers. Special capillaries in their hands and feet allow them to hang on tree limbs without losing feeling, enabling them to move at such a slow pace as to not disturb foliage and attract predators. Camouflage is their greatest means of defense when going about at night, solo seekers of tree sap, which can constitute 70% of their diet, along with insects and fruit.

Bengal slow loris (cu li chậm Bengal). Photo via Roundglass Sustain.

Vietnam is home to two slow loris species: the pygmy slow loris (cu li chậm lùn), which lives west of the Mekong River in much of Vietnam as well as parts of Laos, eastern Cambodia, and China; and the Bengal slow loris (cu li chậm Bengal), which has a broad range across Southeast Asia, including northern Vietnam. True to its English name, the pygmy slow loris is the smallest species, reaching just 19–23 cm long and weighing less than 500 grams. Living 10 to 20 years in the wild, they prefer solitary lives or groups of four or fewer individuals. Unlike the commonly imagined behavior of monkeys, cu li cannot swing or leap between branches and instead walk along branches, preferring never to step foot on the ground. 

A problematic place in pop culture

Even if you didn’t know you were looking at a cu li, you might have come across one on social media. Several years ago, they became quite popular online, with a particular craze of tickling them spreading across the web. When tickled, cu li raise their arms, and their already cherubic faces contort into even more awwww-inspiring adorability. 

While it looks like it is experiencing bliss, a cu li being tickled is actually furious and preparing for violence. Cu li have poison-secreting glands in their arms, and they lick them to add venom to their already poisonous saliva as a means of protection. So what looks like a cute, smiling primate is actually a deeply upset animal being tortured. The bite can be extremely painful and cause allergic reactions that result in necrosis, forcing a person to lose a finger, hand, or even arm, the toxins are slow acting and thus not useful for hunting. Rather, it's mostly effective for inter-species squabbles and a natural pest repellent. Cu li are one of the few mammals and the only primate to have a poisonous bite, which should be a source of fascination, but people seem more interested in oooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at the conventionally cute appearance. 

While the tickling trend has seemingly tapered off, there is no slowing of their popularity in the pet trade. Especially in Japan, where endangered animal laws are routinely skirted and cuteness is highly praised, cu li have become popular companion animals. Of course, they make terrible pets. Owners remove their teeth to ensure they cannot bite, and beyond that, their natural behavior and instinct are wholly unsuited to private homes. Unfortunately, videos often show them in such decontextualized settings, leading viewers to assume that keeping one in a private dwelling is anything but cruel. 

Scene from the movie Cu li không bao giờ khóc. Photo via Film at Lincoln Center.

And this brings us back to the previously mentioned Cu li không bao giờ khóc. I do not think we need to make art that delivers public service announcements, but it should be mindful of the messages it may be inadvertently spreading. The film’s subplot focuses on a woman returning from Europe with her deceased ex-husband’s pet cu li. The creature, mercifully an animatronic model, is paraded about in the daylight as one would a fashion accessory with no veterinarian care provided for its discussed skin condition, and kept in a cramped Hanoi neighborhood that surely wouldn’t allow for an appropriate diet. Frustratingly, the film does nothing to discourage people from owning them as pets.

Conservation efforts against depressing odds 

While the pet trade, both domestic and international, threatens cu li, so does hunting it for use in traditional Chinese medicine. It should surprise no one that cu li meat, bones, and even toxins are consumed as treatment for a long list of ailments, ranging from stomach pains to post-pregnancy fatigue to broken bones and even STDs. Little different than the rhino bones taken to make men’s dicks hard, there is no scientific support for consuming cu li as medicine. Ironically, the golden chicken fern (Cibotium barometz) which shares the Vietnamese name cu li, is also taken as traditional medicine to treat back, joint, and bone pain, with scientific studies validating its use as an anti-inflammatory with anodyne properties. It’s thought that people confusing the use of the word cu li furthers the erroneous belief that consuming the animal offers restorative health effects.

Three rescued cu li chậm lùn at Đảo Tiên Primate Rescue Center. Photo via Go East Asian Species Trust.

The pet trade, poaching for medicine, and widespread deforestation from a variety of causes — including farming, mining, and logging — across the cu li chậm lùn’s range, put them in serious danger. Listed as endangered in the IUCN Red Book, experts suspect their population has declined by more than 50% over the last 24 years. Vietnamese law restricts possessing a cu li for any purpose with significant fines of up to VND30 million for illegally keeping one and up to VND15 billion and 15 years in prison for transporting, capturing, or killing endangered wildlife in general. Still, ignorance and greed continue to result in cu li being abducted from their natural environments and kept in unsuitable conditions. If rescued, there is thankfully potential for successful rehabilitation and release under the guidance of organizations such as the previously mentioned Đảo Tiên Primate Rescue Center outside Cát Tiên National Park and the Endangered Primate Rescue Center (EPRC) in Cúc Phương National Park. In addition to their expertise in knowing how and where to re-release the animals, they concern themselves with public education. They have a lot of work to do.

Release of a cu li in Vietnam. Video via Endangered Primate Rescue Center. 

Ultimately, our inability to understand the cu li underscores the motivation behind Saigoneer's Natural Selection series. Animals do not exist to be our amusements, our medicine, our omens, or our food. We will never understand them if we think of them solely in their relation to people. If we cannot simply observe them, marveling at their complexities, then it’s better we don’t know they exist at all. I hope the world remains large enough for dark and secluded forests to provide cu li space to quietly live out their lives in peace, eyes like the distant, dark side of the moon.