“It was my uncle who came up with the design. There are no drawings left; everything was improvised back then,” the owner of a modernist homestay in Ninh Thuận told me. No architect, just an idea and a craftsman to pour it into concrete.

Modernism is usually a language spoken only by architects. But in Vietnam, ordinary people picked it up too. It became the routine way to build a shophouse or a villa across the south. And like any language spoken that widely, it started to develop accents.

Independence in 1954 gave modernism its opening. Years of war had made rebuilding a priority, and for the first time Vietnam's own architects were in charge. They chose modernism as a statement: forward-looking and nothing like the neo-classical buildings the French had left behind.

The style quickly outgrew its architects. In Vietnam, most people build their own homes, and the improvisation the Ninh Thuận homestay owner described to me is probably how the style spread: a homeowner likes his neighbor's brise-soleil, and the house down the street takes it up too. A shape passed from door to door, until it became vernacular: the language of ordinary people.

The whole of southern Vietnam speaks this concrete language, but if you travel from the Mekong Delta up along the South-Central coast, you'll notice each area has its own quirks. Maybe it comes from local folk aesthetics, or the way each town answers its own sun and wind. Either way, communities developed their own dialects. Sometimes it's just an accent: the straight vertical slat of a Saigon brise-soleil can end in a small curve in Quy Nhơn. Sometimes it's whole new slang: a shading device that curls back on itself, which I've only found in Ninh Thuận.

Southern Vietnamese vernacular modernism is a language from the streets, twisted a little by every hand that built it, full of odd wordings too joyful for the polished modernism they teach in textbooks. Like any language, it rewards you slowly: it’s the small thrill of someone learning French who finally hears that everyday conversations in Paris and Brussels don't sound the same. See enough of Vietnam's modernist houses, across enough towns, and you'll start to hear the dialects too: Quy Nhơn doesn't sound like Mỹ Tho.

Clouds of Quy Nhơn

Where a Saigon brise-soleil stays straight, in Quy Nhơn, the concrete lines loosen into intersecting swirls, perhaps an abstraction of clouds. This distinctive brise-soleil shape can also be found in surrounding towns such as An Nhơn.

Pastel-blue painted shophouse in Quy Nhơn city center.

Shophouse with đá rửa finishing in Quy Nhơn city center.

Villa in the outskirts of An Nhơn built in 1987.

Shophouse on Trần Hưng Đạo street in Quy Nhơn city center.

Holes of Phú Yên

An hour south, in Phú Yên, façades are riddled with ventilation holes: triangles, hearts, arrows, more triangles, and in one house, against all odds, a helicopter. This perforation habit reached Quy Nhơn too, but never with the same intensity.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with a perforated red beam.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with blue-contoured motifs and holes scattered across the façade.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, where a helicopter hides among the geometric motifs.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, white-contoured motifs running along the whole house.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with walls tiled in yellow and white.

Villa in Xuân Lộc, with purple contours tracing the holes.

Curls of Ninh Thuận

In Vĩnh Hải, concrete shading devices that frame porches and balconies are curled, often finishing in a hook. Each one is outlined with a raised contour, painted in the blue or white typical of seaside towns everywhere.

Villa in Mỹ Tân, its façade engraved with plants and flowers.

Villa in Mỹ Tường built in 1990, the date set in relief on the porch.

Villa in Mỹ Tân built in 1989, with details painted in blue.

Villa in Mỹ Phong with a street restaurant in front.

Porches of the Mekong Delta

In the Mekong Delta, the modernist dialect is less a motif than a structure: villas set behind a porch, almost always resting on four columns creating a kind of triptych, the beam above held by pairs or trios of concrete fins. Not an accent this time, but a different grammar.

Villa in Vĩnh Long, its frieze alternating diamond shapes with pierced patterns.

Villa in Mỹ Nhơn, Bến Tre, layering different decorative elements: engravings, pierced friezes, fins and unusual vase-shaped bases.

Villa in Bến Tre, with compass-rose motifs along the beam.

Abandoned villa in Sa Đéc, now for sale.

Villa in An Thạnh Thủy, Đồng Tháp, its façade entirely resurfaced in tile. 

As the sun rises over the village of Ban Wichit Pattana in north-east Thailand, 62-year-old Chuchart Srithachum does his morning exercise, walking as best he can on his prosthetic leg along the street outside his home.

Editor's note: Some readers may find certain images in this article disturbing.

These days, Chuchart is unable to work. He gets by with money from his son, as well as government allowances for his age and disability. He used to be a rice farmer, working 2.4 hectares of land on the outskirts of his village in Nong Bua Lamphu province.

Almost nine years ago, he was working in his flooded fields, barefoot as usual, when he noticed a strange greenish tint in the water. He carried on but soon started to feel a tingling in his feet. By the time he got home, the skin on his leg had begun to develop a rash, accompanied by pain. He was quickly taken to a local clinic.

The doctor told him the rash on his leg “showed telltale signs of paraquat exposure,” Chuchart recalls. The damage to his skin allowed for a bacterial infection that had devastating consequences.

An infection linked to paraquat exposure led to the amputation of farmer Chuchart Srithachum’s right leg in 2017. The herbicide, which can cause chemical burns, had run off a nearby sugarcane plantation in north-east Thailand’s Nong Bua Lamphu province, contaminating his paddy fields.

Paraquat is a liquid herbicide used to kill weeds and desiccate leaves, often for commercial crops such as coffee, pineapples, tea and sugarcane. Widely identified as being highly toxic to humans and other animals, it can cause serious internal damage or death if swallowed, inhaled or even absorbed via the skin. Its corrosive nature means contact with the skin can also result in chemical burns and other damage. In north-east Thailand as well as other parts of the country, this has been controversially linked to a rare flesh-eating disease called necrotising fasciitis, which develops rapidly and has led to a spate of deaths and amputations.

Chuchart’s condition quickly became too severe to be treated at his local clinic. He was promptly transferred to the provincial hospital in the town of Nong Bua Lamphu, but by then it was too late — his right leg needed to be amputated to save his life. He spent the next six weeks in hospital recovering.

Chuchart was not alone. When he was hospitalized in 2017, there were more than 50 cases of farmers who suffered severe chemical burns and subsequent infections in sugarcane production areas across Thailand’s north-east region, according to Mana Muangkhun, an activist with the Consumer Association of Khonkaen involved in a lawsuit against importers of paraquat.

Natthanan Photiwong’s leg was infected in 2018 after accidental exposure to paraquat while spraying sugarcane near his village of Ban Dong Sawan in Nong Bua Lamphu.

The infected tissue was removed fast enough to save his leg from amputation, but Natthanan no longer dares spray herbicides himself.

In the nearby village of Ban Khok, Bunrod Yodda was not as fortunate. His leg was amputated after exposure to paraquat that had contaminated a pond he was laying shrimp traps in.

The cases added momentum to an already ongoing campaign led by civil society groups like the BioThai Foundation and Thailand Pesticide Alert Network (Thai-PAN). Using various techniques, including testing fruit and vegetables for pesticide residues to raise consumer awareness and direct advocacy with government bodies, the campaign called for bans of paraquat and two other controversial agrochemicals: the insecticide chlorpyrifos, which is known to cause brain abnormalities and developmental delays in children; and the herbicide glyphosate, which the World Health Organization has named “probably carcinogenic to humans.”

Backed by a growing body of scientific evidence, the campaign led in April 2017 to a recommendation from the Ministry of Public Health that paraquat and chlorpyrifos be prohibited and the use of glyphosate restricted by the end of 2019. What followed was a prolonged and heated national debate, marked by pushback from various stakeholders, street protests from both sides and government policy flipflops.

Bans eventually came into force in June 2020 with the reclassification of paraquat and chlorpyrifos as category 4 hazardous substances, the highest level. This made it illegal to produce, sell, use or even possess the chemicals. In line with this, the Thai Food and Drug Administration introduced a policy of zero tolerance to residues of the chemicals, even on imported foods. Glyphosate was to be included in the reclassification, but pressure from the US government and agrochemicals manufacturer Bayer stopped that. It remains legal, although as a category 3 hazardous substance, its use requires a licence and is heavily restricted, allowed only on specific commercial crops and not within certain zones, such as watersheds and public areas.

Two down, hundreds still in use

Contamination of produce with paraquat and chlorpyrifos has fallen significantly since the ban, according to Thai-PAN coordinator Prokchon Usap. The network and their fellow campaigning organisations count this as a major battle won. But their war is not over. Prokchon sees all agrochemicals as “highly hazardous,” and says there are “over 230” others still in use in Thailand. Perhaps more importantly, she and other campaigners argue these chemicals are being heavily over-used, posing health risks for all those exposed to them, including both farmers and consumers.

A sign beside a rural road in the central province of Nakhon Sawan advertising glufosinate-ammonium, a restricted category 3 herbicide similar to glyphosate.

A shop selling agricultural supplies — mainly synthetic herbicides and pesticides — to farmers in Nong Bua Lamphu province. Few farmers across Thailand are properly trained in how to use the chemicals they buy.

Paraquat is such a well-known name among farmers in Thailand that, until recently, it was still being used to advertise other pesticides. This photo, taken in November 2025, shows a product on a popular shopping app. The name paraquat is used at the top, labelling what is actually an alternative chemical called diquat dibromide.

In their most recent tests of market fruits and vegetables conducted at the end of 2024, Thai-PAN found that 68% of samples had pesticide residues above the maximum limits set by the government, which apply in varying degrees to all foods. This included above-limit residues of restricted category 3 chemicals such as chlorfenapyr, fipronil and carbendazim.

For Prokchon, one of the most concerning chemicals found was carbendazim, a fungicide used on multiple crops to control plant disease that is banned in many places around the world.

“We found carbendazim on almost every contaminated fruit and vegetable sample,” she says. “This chemical is responsible for many underlying health threats, including infertility, as there is evidence linking carbendazim with sperm count reduction in men.”

A forced reliance

Over the past few decades, Thailand has seen a major shift from subsistence to commercial agriculture. It is now one of the world’s top growers and exporters of commodity crops such as rice and tropical fruits. Sugar has played a major part in this — the country is the world’s fifth largest producer and the second largest exporter. This shift has been matched by the growth in use of agrochemicals. Thailand is the world’s 15^th largest importer of synthetic pesticides, and in 2016, before the bans came in, glyphosate and paraquat were the top two imports.

This national trend has played out on steroids in the north-east, which has seen the “rapid expansion of sugarcane and rubber plantations” in recent years, says Patiwat Chalermchart, a leading member of the regional branch of watchdog the Thailand Consumers Council. “These types of commercial farming rely heavily on pesticides to lower production costs and maximise profits,” he explains, adding that this is why “the previous paraquat poisonings had an epicentre here”.

Despite widespread awareness among farmers of the dangers of using pesticides, many still consider it a necessity. They have no choice, says Patiwat, pointing to limited finances and the need to bring labor costs down.

The countryside around Ban Dong Sawan village in Nong Bua Lamphu province is covered in sugarcane. About 45% of Thailand’s sugarcane production is concentrated in the north-east. Smallholders are key to the sector, with 70% of the crop grown on plots of less than 10 hectares under contract to sugar mills.

A field in the same district of Suwannakhuha recently sprayed with a powerful herbicide to kill the vegetation and make way for new planting.

Although pesticides can help limit some labour inputs on sugarcane farms, a lot of the work still needs to be done by hand. Harvesting is especially labor intensive, with many farmers having to hire in extra help.

A farmer in Suwannakhuha waters her vegetable patch right next to a sugarcane field. Many small-scale farmers are aware of the dangers of pesticides and use as little as possible on the food they grow for their own consumption. But contamination from nearby plantations can be unavoidable.

Natthanan Photiwong is a 64-year-old sugarcane farmer with a smallholding in Suwannakhuha district of Nong Bua Lamphu province. He stopped using synthetic herbicides entirely for over three years after he too suffered a necrotising fasciitis infection linked with accidental exposure to paraquat in 2018. But the difficulty of finding workers to clear weeds from his 1.4-hectare plot has forced him to start spraying again.

“It’s a tiring task to clear weeds by hand in a dense sugarcane field. I can hardly find anyone willing to do this job,” he says. “I eventually needed to hire someone to spray herbicide instead, as I still do not dare do it myself.”

In the neighboring district of Na Klang, young farmer Sinaphon Namphrom, whose family grows rice commercially, holds the same opinion.

Although concerned about the health impacts, agrochemicals “are essential materials to make our farming easier to maintain and profitable,” she says. “We try to protect ourselves by wearing proper protective gear while spraying and using as little as possible, especially on the plots where we grow crops for our own consumption.”

An agricultural drone pilot and his assistant mix a concoction of fertilizers and pesticides to spray on a customer’s rice paddy.

The only protective gear they wore while working with the chemicals were T-shirts wrapped around their heads.

A relatively new technology, drones make things much easier compared to spraying by hand, and have seen rapid uptake in Thailand over the past few years. Spray can drift further using drones, contaminating areas beyond targeted fields.

For Thai-PAN’s Prokchon, “farmers are trapped in a vicious cycle of debt and chemical use.” The use of chemicals has destroyed natural processes that previously helped fertilize the soil and control pests, making their continued use unavoidable. In addition, commercial agriculture has introduced an economy of debt in rural areas, with many farmers taking out loans to purchase the products they need.

“The commercial farming sector has not developed new farming methods to help reduce reliance on chemicals,” she adds.

Alternative methods of farming without chemicals have come to be seen by many as unachievably expensive. “Our food production system does not favor organic farming,” says Patiwat of the Thailand Consumers Council. “There is no supporting system to help farmers invest in more costly organic food production.”

A pesticide-free future?

While options may be limited for many farmers, concerns over food safety among Thailand’s growing middle class are driving a growing demand for organic produce, especially in wealthier urban areas. Enter entrepreneurs like Krisana Tamvimol, co-founder of DiStar Fresh, which grows high-value leafy vegetables hydroponically in a vertical, indoor farm.

Launched in 2021 in Nonthaburi province’s Bang Yai district near the capital Bangkok, the 400 m² facility is capable of producing the same amount of food as 64,000 m² (6.4 hectares) of traditional outdoor farmland, says Krisana.

The company advertises its produce as “beyond organic.” Grown in a closed system using a water-based nutrient solution instead of soil — an environment DiStar calls “pristine” — the vegetables are protected from outdoor pests and diseases, so there is no need for pesticides.

An employee harvests lettuce inside DiStar’s high-tech, climate-controlled facility. The company uses hydroponics to grow a limited variety of leafy greens.

DiStar markets its produce as “beyond organic.” It is sold at a premium, mainly to middle-class urbanites.

Against a backdrop of what Krisana sees as Thailand’s considerably weaker agrochemical regulations compared to those in developed nations, his business is doing well. “We already have around 1,000 to 2,000 regular customers,” he says. “Now, the demand is nearly reaching the production capacity of our farm and we are looking for a location to expand our second hydroponic farm in Sai Noi district.”

While Krisana calls hydroponics part of the future of agriculture in Thailand, it’s unlikely to offer a solution when it comes to crops like rice or sugarcane, not least because of the costs. To build a facility capable of growing 3.2 hectares worth of produce requires an investment of around THB20 million (US$643,500), he explains.

Running costs are also high, although Krisana points out they are lower in Thailand than in western countries thanks to cheaper electricity. In developed nations, growing a portion of produce in a hydroponic farm costs an average of around THB15 (US$0.48), compared to THB8 in Thailand, he says.

At an orange plantation in the northern province of Chiang Mai, a worker sprays the trees with pesticides just before harvest to ensure perfect-looking fruit. Thousands of litres are sprayed in one go.

Migrant workers from Myanmar sort oranges at the facility of a large distributor. The company buys oranges from local growers, packages them and distributes the fruit for sale around the country and overseas.

Some orange farmers in the area are trying to do things differently. At the Yoddoy Orange Farm, the owner is keen to limit his use of synthetic chemicals, and now only sprays once a season when the trees first blossom. To give him more control, he no longer sells to big distributors. Instead, he promotes on social media and sells directly to consumers online and when they visit the farm.

Far away from the capital in northern Thailand’s Chiang Mai province, known for the commercial production of rice and various fruits, there’s a growing organic movement of a different sort. Saranarat Kanjanavanit, co-founder of the Nunienoi Wetland and Farm, is just one of many in the area demonstrating how farming can be done without the use of synthetic chemicals, by restoring biodiversity and working with nature.

She says when she bought the property in 2018, it had very poor soil due to the prolonged and intensive use of agrochemicals, including both pesticides and fertilizers. She worked on restoring soil fertility by employing a traditional rotational crop technique, switching between rice and soybeans every season to naturally fix nitrogen.

The farm’s organic rice yields have reached 500 kg per rai (1,600 m²), which is comparable with regular commercial farms that heavily use chemicals, she says.

Saranarat Kanjanavanit, co-founder of the Nunienoi Wetland and Farm, is an advocate of organic farming.

She also has no need of pesticides, as there are plenty of predatory insects and birds living in the restored wetland, helping control the population of pests on the farm.

“In the first few years, many people including my staff did not believe that ecological farming would work, as we had very low yields. But after we gave time for nature to restore ecological balance and regain biodiversity, we have proven that by understanding and working with nature we can assure food security without sacrificing the environment,” Saranarat explains.

Luke Duggleby is a documentary and portrait photographer based in Bangkok, Thailand where he has lived for over 15 years. To see more of his work, visit his website.

This article is originally published by Dialogue Earth and has been republished with permission. Read the article on Dialogue Earth here.

Riding a motorbike is the most popular mode of transport in Vietnam. Albeit convenient and fast, being on a bike, merging in and out of the ever-flowing, hurried traffic, might not afford you the slow pace needed to fully appreciate the urban landscapes and their hidden gems. Vietnamese artist Bờm Sketcher, on the other hand, is fully in support of walking as the best way to document the most fascinating corners of local streets onto his pages.

Bờm Sketcher, also known as Lâm Bờm, is based in Hồ Chí Minh City, but his rich travel history has taken him across the Mekong Delta, judging by the scenes depicted in his works. Bờm is best known for his on-site watercolor sketches, which aim to capture the beauty of urbanscapes as realistically as possible, down to every missing patch of plaster on the wall and overhanging telephone wire. Most recently, however, the Saigon-based artist has introduced a new side project, Con Ốc Nhỏ, with the goal of archiving Vietnam’s architectural riches in a different style.

Con Ốc Nhỏ is a play on the word ốc, which could mean “snail” or “house” in Vietnamese. As a metaphorical “little snail,” he wants to take his own time, wandering everywhere the inspiration calls to jot down the houses that fascinate him throughout his time on the road.

“This project started partly because I do a lot of street sketches. One time, while in Tri Tôn [An Giang], I spotted a few really interesting houses [with styles] that seemed a mix of Hoa, Vietnamese, French, but also Khmer,” he tells Saigoneer in Vietnamese. “These buildings were all very old, running the risk of being demolished. I realized that there are still plenty of interesting houses in other localities, so I want to archive them in my way.”

The result is a collection of dozens of stylized illustrations showcasing the facades of Vietnamese homes in a neat layout, as if they are part of a scientific encyclopedia of architectural styles. Each entry is accompanied by information regarding the house’s hometown, building materials, and a few standout decorative elements like balustrade and wrought-iron windows.

Flipping through the posts on the project’s dedicated Instagram page, one will notice that Bờm doesn’t focus on any specific style of architecture, but offers an eclectic range of houses that simply pique his curiosity. Still, those with some knowledge of Vietnam’s vernacular architecture might immediately recognize a few recurring themes, like Chinese-influenced colonial shophouses similar to those in Saigon’s Chợ Lớn, utilitarian tube houses, or the grey-washed rock mosaic of southern modernism. This mish-mash of styles reflects the cultural makeup of the Mekong Delta, where most of the featured dwellings live, and it was also this interesting diversity that drew Bờm to the region’s houses at first.

“The idea for Con Ốc Nhỏ came during a period when I was wandering around here [the Mekong Delta] to sketch. This is a land of many special facets of culture, food, and people and rich in inspirations for sketching,” he explains the project’s focus on the southern region. “Also, this region has many ‘historic’ towns not too altered by urbanization, so many old structures still exist, forming distinctive architectural clusters. They also exhibit the confluence of different cultures like Vietnamese, Hoa, Khmer, and French; and strong influences of riverine settlements — I was really impressed by both.”

The collection spans many localities in the delta, like Hồng Ngự, Mỹ Tho, Cái Bè, Cai Lậy, Gò Công, Sa Đéc, etc. Some standout entries include a bright yellow colonial shophouse in Cái Bè that bears some striking resemblances with those in Saigon’s Hải Thượng Lãn Ông quarter; and the Huỳnh Thủy Lê villa in Sa Đéc, made world-famous thanks to its appearance in the French film L’amant. According to Bờm, over the months working on the project, he’s learnt a lot about each quirks and building tastes of the localities he visited. The balconies of Sa Đéc, for example, are very frequently decorated with brise-soleil, but those in Mỹ Tho tend to employ cement and geometrical shapes. When it comes to windows, Châu Đốc has semi-circular arches while Mỹ Tho homeowners prefer rows of square windows.

“The process of making Ốc Nhỏ has allowed me to closely observe the architectural styles of each place. If [you] zoom deeper into the details, there are distinctive regional flairs that express the personalities of that place,” he shares. “At the same time, I could recognize the flow of time across the different aesthetics and how the buildings were constructed in each era.”

To view more works from Con Ốc Nhỏ, follow the project’s Instagram page here.

People’s skin erupted with horrific boils that burst open, spilling stinging pus across vicious rashes. According to the Christian Bible, along with water turning to blood, frogs, lice, gnats, diseased livestock, hail, locusts, darkness for three days and the killing of firstborn sons, the boils were one of the plagues God sent down to ancient Egyptians to compel them to free the Israelites.

Some researchers have different explanations for these seemingly divine punishments, however. A known volcanic eruption at the time or a natural algae bloom could have upset the ecological balance in Egypt’s waterways, causing frogs to flee rivers and lakes and die en masse, which would have left insects without predators and an overwhelming supply of rotting meat to feast upon. One such decomposition-loving bug just happens to cause horribly painful blisters: members of the Paederus genus, commonly known as rove beetles, or kiến ba khoang. 

Of all the living things people are afraid of, kiến ba khoang may be the smallest. Hardly larger than a grain of rice, the sight of one scurrying across the room not only causes a person to leap away in fright, but also subsumes one with the fear that there may be more lurking unseen. And it’s the beetles you don’t see that you need to worry about.

The agonizing large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting, but a bacteria-produced toxin in their body called pederin.

The agonizingly painful and astonishingly large sores that result from kiến ba khoang are not due to any bite or sting. Rather, a bacteria-produced toxin called pederin courses through the flesh of females, or males that eat their eggs. As it’s more powerful than cobra venom and perhaps the strongest toxin in the animal kingdom, coming into contact with it — by crushing the insect, or brushing against one, which causes the animal to secrete the pederin — results in the condition known as paederus dermatitis. Anyone who has had the misfortune of experiencing this likely did so without first realizing it, often instinctively flicking at a tickle on one’s arm, leg or face in sleep.  

While they are beetles, many people refer to rove beetles as kiến (ant), which makes sense given how many members of the genus resemble the unrelated insects. Rove beetles evolved hundreds of millions of years ago, and some species took to sneaking into ant or termite colonies to eat. But why break in, if you can be invited in? If you can camouflage as a member of the army, you get all the easy food and safety you need. Thus, over millennia, their bodies evolved to more closely resemble ants, and they even developed the ability to emit the same aromas. 

In Vietnam, apartment buildings, neighborhoods and even entire cities occasionally experience an outbreak of rove beetles. Pesticide use and deforestation have pushed the insects from their normal woody homes into residential areas, particularly during the rainy season. Drawn to light, they end up in houses, where they are inadvertently squished. During such infestations, thousands of people end up seeking medical treatment for the chemical burns. Even if you haven’t experienced it, you have no doubt heard enough about it to dread finding one of the bugs in your home. 

And yet, there is a lot to love about the rove beetle. As with all animals that humans consider “evil” or “villainous,” rove beetles are simply acting according to their nature, as constructed through the merciless machinations of ecological checks and balances. And the toxins they contain have nothing to do with humans, but are the result of millions of years of natural selection before we even existed to repel the spiders that preyed upon them.

Ironically, they probably help us more than they hurt us, because they are critical in pest control, as their main diet is smaller insects that typically threaten crops, as well as mosquitos and other household nuisances. It is only when we started spraying fields with pesticides and chopping down forests that they were forced to migrate to urban environments. Truly, rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Rove beetles serve as an early warning of greater problems to come if we do not rectify our relationship with nature.

Moreover, parents could look to rove beetles as an important teaching tool similar to tales of the boogeyman. Lured to illumination, at night they often invade homes that have lamps on inside. Such energy consumption not only increases electricity bills, but contributes to pollution. So parents would be wise to tell their children, “you better turn off that light, or the rove beetles will sting you while you sleep.” Even if leaving a lamp on only slightly raises the risk of accidentally developing their dreaded rash, this would be an effective means of encouraging responsible energy use.

The medical community has recently begun experimenting with pederin as an effective cancer treatment, as well. While significantly more studies are required, in the future, tumor-eliminating drugs that save you or your loved ones may be concocted with the main chemical found in rove beetle toxins. So even if you do not care about preserving the environment for its own sake, remember that every species lost or forest destroyed is a potentially life-saving substance gone.

On the flip side, if you care about taking life, as opposed to saving it, the rove beetle might be of interest to you as well. It is believed that ancient Indians relied on their crushed bodies to make a powerful poison. While it is extremely rare to accidentally ingest a rove beetle, doing so could have serious implications. I have found no modern accounts of this being done as a means of assassination, though I would imagine there is potential. Of course, Saigoneer is not advocating murder, but if one were to do it, slipping concentrated rove beetle powder in someone’s cà phê sữa đá may be the way to go; it's not like any medical examiners will be expecting it.

There is no domestic or international lobby focused on rehabilitating the reputation of the rove beetle and, because it is a bug, it cannot do this on its own. If one agrees with the need to improve the perceived value of the rove beetle based on all of the reasons offered above, however, I can think of numerous means. 

Conservation agencies could, of course, adopt them as a mascot, given they are a symbol of what happens when we muck around with the environment. Might a fashion brand release a jewelry line featuring glass vials containing live kiến ba khoang catering to “edgy” consumers? 

A much slicker way, I think, would be to create a popular comic or television program with the rove beetle as the starring character. She could have a goofy potato bug as a sidekick, an evil spider as an arch-nemesis. There would be schemes, shenanigans, and hijinks. Perhaps the rove beetle works as a delivery driver and gets into wacky mishaps with mismanaged orders, or maybe she is a detective tasked with exposing a forgery ring dedicated to duplicating priceless Nguyễn-dynasty artifacts; just spit-balling here. 

Graphics by Phan Nhi, Hannah Hoàng, Simona Nguyễn.
Animation by Simona Nguyễn, Phan Nhi.

What makes a Chinese-speaking tourist in Vietnam unique, and how can local businesses attract them? 

Saigoneer recently spoke with Denzel Zhang, founder of Hồ Chí Minh City-based Beast Group, a marketing agency specializing in connecting local brands with the Chinese-speaking market, to answer those questions. He explained that the biggest differentiator is their use of Chinese-based applications such as RedNote (Xiaohongshu), as well as high-quality authentic photos, menus, and staff fluent in not only the Chinese language but also Chinese culture.

Vietnamese business as featured on RedNote.

“If you’re not on RedNote, you’re unknown to Chinese; you don’t exist,” Denzel explained. But being unknown could be better than using the app incorrectly. Inserting the wrong hashtags, obviously Google-translated language or bad photos will leave a company’s page unnoticed and thus amount to nothing but wasted time. Even worse, breaking certain rules such as using declarative statements about being “the best” or providing phone numbers can result in outright banning. 

Denzel has met companies that assumed they could navigate RedNote without familiarity with the app, language, or culture, and seen it fail miserably. In such instances, he offers to manage it for restaurants, resorts, shops, and service providers to ensure it connects properly with their intended audiences. This allows a business to seamlessly integrate with the market as an insider. 

Reaching one’s target audience is made easier with the support of KOCs and KOLs. Most Vietnam-based businesses, be they run by locals or Westerners, couldn’t name a single Chinese-language KOC, let alone know how to identify the perfect one for their brand and then coordinate their support. Beast Group, however, has built its success on knowing the process intimately. They will work on behalf of the business to ensure the posts are shared by individuals who best inspire attention from the families, couples, solo-travelers and high-income Chinese speakers from mainland China’s 50 tier 1 and 2 cities as well as Hong Kong, Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, and diaspora communities from around the world. 

Moreover, Beast Group knows how often one should post to reach the all-important top list for a specific location. If one cracks this ranking, one can be confident the word is being received. RedNote has been popular for some time in Thailand and nearby countries, but it remains developing here. That means that packages of posts to propel one to prominence on the app remain relatively affordable. 

When selected strategically, Chinese KOC have the following and knowledge to bring customers to businesses in Vietnam.

Along with when to post, Beast Group advises and supports businesses with what to post. While users of the app appreciate beautiful, thoughtfully taken photos, they recoil at images that are overly produced. Denzel and his team can help ensure cell-phone shots strike the perfect balance of aesthetically appealing and authentic, with additional insights about what dishes, services, scenes or angles resonate. 

Since starting their operations in 2024, Beast Group has helped a variety of businesses across the country. This includes a Da Nang souvenir shop that has occupied the top position on the city’s list of gift retailers for the last year and a half. Meanwhile, a spa in Thao Dien has proven so popular with Chinese-speaking clients that the proprietors are planning to open a second location catering specifically to the group.

Examples of photos taken to be uploaded to RedNote.

At the end of the day, Chinese-speaking tourists are like other demographics in that they want to be made to feel special. The first step in achieving this is simply being present on the right app with the right messages, shared by the right people. But beyond that, Chinese-speakers want to know they can interface with someone who has made the effort to make communication possible. This can mean having Chinese-speaking staff and menus. Beast Group can even manage RedNote communication pages so all inquiries are responded to by a native speaker able to read between the lines and understand what will make a person truly happy. 

More than five million Chinese-speaking tourists come to Vietnam every year, and on average, spend more than other visitors. This number is only expected to increase in the coming years. With the novelty of Beast Group’s approach in the market, this makes right now a particularly great time to begin building a reputation. 

Natural disasters, illnesses, accidents, breakages, or even deaths: when a series of consecutive tragedies engulf a family, it’s often said that tai ương has befallen the unfornate victims. The term is also the name of a recently published Vietnamese horror game that has been making waves amongst gaming communities both nationwide and internationally, thanks to its layered narrative, chilling atmosphere, and meticulously crafted game environment.

Tai Ương is an especially fitting title considering the mysterious deaths that plague the family of young Lê Đặng Nhật Huy. Upon starting the game, new players are immediately transported into the first-person perspective of Huy, amid the funeral of both his parents, Nhật and Loan. On the side is a smaller shrine to his younger sister, Huyên, whose passing preceded theirs not by much. Even though the window is wide open, letting in a stream of bright sunlight, the room feels oppressively claustrophobic, compressed by the caskets and altars.

A double funeral is the first thing players experience in game.

You take a few steps to arrive in front of their framed photos and kneel down to bow. On the last bow, you open your eyes just to catch a glimpse, in the peripheral of your vision, of the bloody body of Huyên where her altar sits. You start to suspect something is amiss about her death. Later, you move away from home to a rental and embark on a journey into lucid dreaming at the behest of an eccentric medium, in hopes of unraveling the enigma behind your family’s tragedies.

When everyday norms become corrupted

The first chapter of Tai Ương (The Scourge) begins in a fashion entirely familiar to fans of horror cinema and games: a supernatural encounter compels a main character to find answers, just to learn that some curiosities are perhaps best left unsatiated. Nonetheless, Rare Reversee Gaming and Beaztek Studio, the indie teams behind the production, chose to execute this common hook in an exciting, unprecedentedly Vietnamese setting.

The setting is inspired by old apartment blocks in Saigon from the 1990s.

Tai Ương is without a doubt the most impressive portrayal of Vietnam we have been blessed with in a game to date. Some standout set designs include the 1990s home where the family lived when Huy was first born, the gritty Saigon tenement that acts as the story’s setting, and the hellish dreamscapes that Huy wades through in the last chapter. In other creative mediums, like cinema or literature, faithful recreations of our everyday realities in Vietnam are a great cause for delight and perhaps even pride, but in a horror role-playing game, the more that the character is going through parallels with real life, the more heightened the sense of uncanny dread.

A Honda Cub was a signifier of wealth when Vietnam first became open again.

The environment of Tai Ương is familiar in the most frightening way: Vietnamese players will immediately connect with the little decorations and design of the game. Here is the dimly lit corridor you might have played hide-and-seek with friends. There, a mid-century bookshelf that once housed your school certificates and childhood toys. Over there, on the altar, a platter of bananas sits amid photo frames. But wait, did the eyes in the photos just move?

How many things do you recognize from this image?

The puzzles in Tai Ương are overall not too complicated, but for the majority of the game, there is little to no instruction, leaving players to figure out what to do by painstakingly ransacking every nook and cranny of the setting to look for clues and hints, and by dying repeatedly at the hands of the villain.

This process of exploration, however, is not tedious and can be quite intriguing for those patient enough to do a little homework while playing: the game setting is enriched with a motherlode of lore-building fragments that come in a variety of shapes and forms, such as newspaper cutouts, handwritten letters, torn photographs, and even a radio program telling ghostly stories. As Huy progresses through the stages, players will discover alongside him in real time the bits and pieces that reveal the darker sides of his family dynamics.

There's a lot (quite literally) to learn about this dysfunctional family.

My first run at the game was peppered with these little moments of recognition. For one, Saigoneers who grew up in the 1990s will eventually realize that the squalid apartment block in game is inspired by the former President Hotel at 727 Trần Hưng Đạo Street, one that was demolished a few years ago. Just by reading the letters that are scattered across the game levels, there’s also a lot one can learn about Huy’s family history, such as his true parentage or his father’s infidelity, and more.

Ultimately, narrative and lore are two of Tai Ương’s shining strengths that make the role-playing experience rewarding and immersive. Control, physics, and animation, on the other hand, are at times quite underwhelming. The animation is robotic, and the control can be aggravatingly clunky for a game that requires you to sneak around monsters and undertake life-or-death time challenges.

In this nightmare, here is Vietnamese culture, both good and bad

At Saigoneer, we often feel compelled, in everything we do, to showcase Vietnamese culture in its brightest, richest, and most worthy of celebration. It is not a hard job. Vietnam has a rich spiritual life and harbors deep respect for higher beings, as evidenced in our ancestral worship, Đạo Mẫu traditions, and extensive network of temples and pagodas. From young to elderly, members of Vietnamese families are close-knit and highly dependent on one another during hardships. Vietnamese society has a strong sense of community where neighbors, passersby, and even complete strangers can rise to the occasion to care for those in need.

Spirituality is a major part of Vietnamese culture, past or present.

These three qualities are all positive traits, but at times, amid our extolment of their virtues, it’s easy to forget that they too possess a darker side that can take over, causing grievous harm, trauma, or even death. Overindulgence in spirituality breeds superstitions that detach humans from reality. Tight family bonds mean that generational trauma and abuse are just that much harder to escape from. And a society all too eager to involve and pass judgments makes keeping up appearances a desperate and exhausting struggle.

A demonic ritual in the game with architectural elements inspired by Chùa Thầy in Hanoi.

The tragedies in Tai Ương serve as bone-chilling examples of how these ugly sides of Vietnamese culture can drive a family to their gruesome demise. Certainly, the in-game consequences are much more dire, amplified by the manipulations of a demonic supernatural being, but many of Huy’s toxic family dynamics are immediately recognizable in our daily life, sometimes right within the very walls of our home.

Desperate for a son after over a decade of infertility, Nhật and Loan asked a local shaman to perform a perverse dark ritual that resulted in Loan being pregnant with Huy; it’s implied that the shaman sexually abused her. She kept her trauma a secret for fear of public opinions and Nhật’s abusive tendencies. They eventually conceived Huyên naturally, but showed obvious gender bias to Huy. His needs and whims were met without question, sometimes to the detriment of Huyên — like how Loan sold Huyên’s long hair to buy Huy a new pair of shoes, or how Huyên had to quit school during the family’s tough times so they could focus on Huy’s education.

Water puppets are a recurring imagery as stand-ins for human in the dream sequences.

With every memory, family misfortune, and loss that Huy and the player discover in game scenarios, Tai Ương slowly unveils an imperfect family trapped in the confines of societal expectations and their socioeconomic caste. One particular creative decision from the production team that struck a chord with me is how each family member is portrayed in the dreamworld as a water puppet. It demonstrates the team’s conscious effort to keep the setting rooted in our cultural heritage, but also strategically links to the game’s overarching social commentary about their actions — controlled by an unknown force, unable to escape the entrapment of outside expectations.

Even though the story behind Tai Ương is a familiar one, it doesn’t make it easier to live through firsthand. The fast-paced, at times mortally urgent rhythm of the game might make it hard to take a moment to fully appreciate and digest its rich narrative and robust gaming setting, but Tai Ương’s acclaim really comes from the feelings it leaves behind after the fright has faded and the adrenaline has subsided: contemplation, hope, bittersweetness, relief, wistfulness, perhaps a tinge of regret too.

Dr. Trang Nguyễn — a wildlife conservation scientist with a PhD from Cambridge and the founder of WildAct — needs little introduction. She has been recognized as one of Forbes Asia’s 30 under 30, called a conservation “hero” by Sir David Attenborough on BBC’s Planet Earth III, and had her inspiring story, which includes going undercover to bring down illegal ivory poaching rings in Africa after surviving cancer, covered widely. But much of her work has been behind the scenes or at least in corners devoted to conservations. Her recent arrival on the social media scene, amongst memes, music videos, and TikTok challenges, represents a shift in approach.

The relationship between bees and elephants; an introduction to gibbons and pangolins; why migratory birds are at risk in Vietnam; what a forest patrol team member does on duty; the many ecosystems in a single Vietnamese national park; the daily tasks required to run WildAct; how a pair of conservationists juggle work and marriage; the horrors of shopping mall petting zoos and the impact chocolate can have on biodiversity: these are amongst the many topics populating Trang’s Instagram page. While viewers may end up binging a few dozen, the format and intent are clear after viewing just a few. Narrated by Trang, the upbeat, digestible videos introduce subjects related to Vietnam’s wildlife, conservation challenges, what WildAct does and why, Trang’s personal story and experiences, and some helpful advice for how viewers can act more responsibly.

“In the beginning, I was actually against doing Instagram videos,” Trang says of the steady stream content that began appearing on her personal page several months ago. Noting in an email with Saigoneer that she doesn’t consider herself a media person and does not enjoy making the videos, she explained that it’s all for the greater good. The videos, her team convinced her, “could become a powerful way to bring conservation stories from Vietnam to the public, especially stories that people rarely hear — about rangers, local communities, wildlife trade, or difficult social issues connected to conservation.”

“Different people connect through different mediums. Some people are touched by books, some by films, some by documentaries, some by social media… At the end of the day, I think storytelling is one of the most important parts of conservation. Because people only protect what they care about,” she explained. While it took some convincing from Hoàng Nguyễn, WildAct’s communications and fundraising advisor, Trang eventually acquiesced to lending her image, voice and fame to share stories that endeavor to inspire people into caring.

The aims of the videos are straightforward. First and foremost, Trang wants to make knowledge accessible as part of holistic efforts to foster the love and respect for the natural world required for conservation. Hopefully, the videos will also result in donations that support WildAct’s many efforts which include patrolling forests, research that leads to evidence-based conservation, local and ethnic minority empowerment, women leadership training and empowerment, and broad education initiatives.

Hoàng, the leading charge behind the project, explained the decision to make the videos and the process for recording. He recognized that personal channels are more effective in reaching audiences and decided they should be in English, as opposed to the bilingual posts on WildAct’s Facebook, to reach a wide audience that includes educated Vietnamese. He set an ambitious goal of at least 15 new videos per month, but the WildAct team’s expertise and wealth of material developed for other platforms make this more achievable than it might sound. They write the scripts based on what they’ve published elsewhere or what Trang and the team have discussed in regular meetings. Trang always approves the scripts before shooting, which can take a bit of convincing when they involve her personal life. 

While videos touching on Trang’s private affairs, such as one introducing her husband, a conservationist who works with sunbears, attract huge audiences, it is another, more difficult topic that Trang is most proud of. “One of the strongest reactions I received was after we released a video on gender-based violence in the wildlife conservation sector. A lot of people reached out to me privately — through Instagram, emails — sharing their own personal experiences, thanking me for speaking out, and asking me not to stop talking about these issues,” Trang said.

“At the same time, when the video spread more widely in Vietnamese media, there was also a huge amount of backlash and trolling. People reacted very aggressively. But what stayed with me most were the quieter messages from Vietnamese women and conservationists saying: I cannot speak publicly because I’m afraid of the reaction, but I experienced this too. And many told me: ‘Please don’t become silent.’”

Trang’s determination to remain loud not only puts her at risk of public criticism but also leaves her with less time to do what she is truly passionate about. “My perfect working day would honestly be going back 15 years ago — spending months in the forest, following wild animals and observing their behaviour. That was the reason I first fell in love with conservation. It is where my passion is, where my expertise is, and honestly, where I feel happiest. But as you become a manager, a director, or a founder, you slowly lose that privilege. Your days become meetings, fundraising, donor calls, budgets, paperwork, management… and a lot of things you may not even enjoy,” she summarized. 

While Trang is upbeat and the team diligent, conservation is hardly a realm of unbridled optimism. Challenges abound. As the nation prioritizes economic growth and societies around the world gravitate to transitory joys that replace human thought with vapid impulses, nature suffers. Hoàng noted that he has the most hope for younger generations who are more open to discussions of sustainability and viewing wildlife as having intrinsic value beyond its use by humans. Once they are in positions of power, they can implement the institutional stewardship necessary to make meaningful change that isn’t beholden to bottom-line economics. 

In the meantime, WildAct does what it can while recognizing that energy and attention are expensive, and not all issues are equally surmountable. The rise of shopping mall petting zoos, a key WildAct focus, illustrates how and why they select certain topics. “As a wildlife conservationist, I want to say this clearly: this is a horrible idea, for both animals and children,” Trang says of them in a recent video. The terrors of these set-ups are easy to explain and, when supported by heartbreaking imagery, allow the problem to resonate emotionally. Meanwhile, solutions are accessible and achievable: simply choose not to visit and instead support activities that involve animals in their natural habitats so children can learn about actual behaviors and develop an understanding that animals are not sources of amusement for people, but sensitive living creatures of intrinsic value. 

WildAct’s work regarding shopping mall petting zoos can have a significant impact on public perspective and thus impart important change. But small victories such as turning people off these zoos, are not enough. In societies where it's acceptable to lust after US$9,000 a night hotel resorts while organizations struggle to raise the monthly US$300 salary for park rangers who patrol forests protecting endangered species, it’s easy to lose hope.

Trang understood, as she shared with Saigoneer: “I think nowadays it is very easy to feel overwhelmed, disappointed, or even hopeless about the state of the planet. But I think hope is very important. And in order to have hope, you need to act. The good thing is that conservation does not only happen in forests or laboratories. Small daily actions still matter — reducing single-use plastic, consuming less, supporting ethical businesses, changing diets, speaking up for nature, or simply paying more attention to where products come from. Real change happens when people act out of love, empathy, and hope.”

This idea of change occurring from love and hope brings us back to Trang’s realization that “people only protect what they care about.” If we want to save our precious plants, animals, and ecosystems, we must help others know and thus care about them. Share Trang’s social media videos and Saigoneer’s Natural Selection pieces with friends, family and co-workers so they can hopefully develop a deeper respect and appreciation for our wondrous natural world. Maybe you will hear Trang’s voice the next time you are thinking of buying new clothing rather than refashioning something you already own. Maybe you will opt to dine in a restaurant instead of ordering delivery. Perhaps you will hear the haunting cry of a gibbon the next time you are planning a trip and, instead of a luxury room, you settle for something more humble and donate the difference to the operations tirelessly working to ensure we still have a world worth admiring. 

Photos courtesy of WildAct.

Warm weather, delicious food, friendly locals, and a safe community: Saigon is a splendid place for expats to call home. Beyond simply comforts, the city also contains most of the entertainment, services and infrastructure, and medical facilities they enjoy in their home country. Modern health clinics with advanced technologies are can be found throughout the city, but many foreigners delay checkups because they are concerned that the process will be complicated or not meet their standards.

It’s easy to ignore lingering health issues, particularly if one fears a visit to the clinic will be arduous due to language barriers and unfamiliar procedures. Sometimes issues such as headaches, digestive discomfort, chronic back pain, sports injuries, or persistent fatigue go away on their own, but they can also develop into more serious conditions that could have been avoided with early detection. 

Therefore, taking a proactive approach to health management through regular health check-ups is essential. Furthermore, advanced diagnostic imaging technologies such as MRI can play an important role in the early detection and accurate diagnosis of many diseases and health conditions. Such proactive management of one’s health means one can continue to enjoy Saigon’s refreshing cà phê sữa đá da on balmy afternoons with added peace of mind.

CarePlus's advanced MRI (left) and CT machines (right).

Many foreigners are familiar with CarePlus’s clean, modern facilities with English-speaking professionals, often through health check-up programs for work permit applications and routine health screenings. In addition to these well-known healthcare services, CarePlus also offers advanced CT and MRI imaging services that meet international standards at affordable rates. Equipped with AI-powered technology, which helps reduce scan times and enhance image quality, supporting more accurate diagnoses and consultations, they are able to detect conditions like cancer, cardiovascular issues, and brain, spine, and musculoskeletal problems early, making them essential in routine health check-ups.

By providing fast, detailed images of bones, blood vessels, internal organs, and soft tissues, Computed Tomography (CT) plays an important role in the diagnosis and evaluation of a wide range of medical conditions. CT is widely used in the assessment of tumors and cancers, particularly lung cancer, as well as cardiovascular diseases such as coronary artery disease and peripheral arterial disease. It is also highly effective in evaluating traumatic injuries, fractures, and various conditions affecting the chest, abdomen, and musculoskeletal system. Moreover, given the higher levels of air pollution in Saigon, particularly, and in Vietnam in general, as well as the prevalence of respiratory conditions such as tuberculosis and other lung-related diseases, lung CT screening can be particularly valuable for early detection. 

Low-dose CT is especially valuable for lung cancer screening in high-risk individuals, including long-term smokers and those with a family history of lung cancer. By providing detailed images while minimizing radiation exposure, these CT lung scans can help detect lung abnormalities at an early stage, enabling timely diagnosis, monitoring, and treatment. CarePlus' CT machine's interface and patient instructions accommodate numerous native languages, helping to make the experience comfortable for patients and reduce language-related concerns. While English and Vietnamese may be expected, it can also be configured in Hungarian, for example, 

Meanwhile, Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) is renowned for its ability to provide highly detailed images of soft tissues and internal organs, including the brain, breast, liver, kidneys, prostate, uterus, spine, joints, and limbs. By offering clear visualization of anatomical structures, MRI plays an important role in the detection, diagnosis, and monitoring of a wide range of medical conditions.

MRI is particularly valuable in cancer screening and evaluation, helping physicians identify tumors, assess the extent of disease, and monitor treatment response across various organs. It is also widely used in the diagnosis of neurological, cardiovascular, spinal, and musculoskeletal conditions.

In addition, Whole-body MRI is a valuable option for comprehensive health screening, allowing multiple organs to be examined in a single scan and helping detect potential abnormalities at an early stage.

Whether performed as part of a health screening program or in response to specific symptoms or health concerns, CT and MRI examinations begin with a consultation with a specialist physician. CarePlus is home to a specialist team that includes orthopedic and cardiology specialists. They not only assist in screening services, but also provide comphrensive consultation, follow-up care and treatment for more complex medical conditions when needed. After reviewing a patient's medical history, symptoms, and individual risk factors, the specialist physician will recommend the most appropriate imaging study, whether a CT scan or a specialized MRI examination, such as brain, spine, breast, abdominal, pelvic, prostate, uterine, joint, or whole-body MRI. 

To better understand these services, Saigoneer arranged for a lung CT scan and a brain MRI. While both utilized the same state-of-the-art machines we were familiar with from Hollywood films, the process was faster, easier, and more comfortable than we had expected. Scheduling one of the many available time slots required just a few online clicks, and we didn’t need to do any specific preparation, such as fasting. From check-in to doctor consultation to scans, the English-speaking staff was kind and reassuring, removing any concerns we had. Their explanation of the extremely low doses of radiation used ensured us the process was safe, as underscored by the safety precautions taken. From calming music played as we slowly slid into the MRI machine to the English instructions offered by the CT machine as it instructed us to breathe in, the entire process was efficient and expert. 

It seemed as if we had just checked in, and we were done. The MRI took approximately 20 minutes, and the CT scan only about five. After a very brief pause in the cozy waiting room, we were called into the doctor’s room to discuss the results. In front of a large screen, she swiped between screens, revealing different layers of tissues, explaining the images and what they meant for our health. As a matter of saving time and costs, she explained that the images and corresponding explanations would not be printed but could be accessed on the intuitive CarePlus app. They could then be easily referenced in the future, particularly to monitor any abnormalities. The app, like the website, enables simple appointment booking and management.

Life in Vietnam contains many splendors, from exploring sunny beaches and treacherous mountains to encountering enthralling historical sites and sampling flavorful foods. None of this is possible, or at least as enjoyable, when experiencing health conditions. Thankfully, routine checkups at CarePlus can include MRI and CT scans that are easy, affordable, quick, and comfortable. Being healthy while abroad is great, and having peace of mind before health conditions develop is even better.

In the history of architecture, rarely have we seen such a challenging movement as Vietnamese modernism. Not only does it show how a culture evolves and expresses itself across historical epochs through its building practice, from the traditional to colonial and eventually modern period, but the language of Vietnamese vernacular modernism also reveals deeper understandings of human creative potential.

A typical modernist house in Saigon.

Vietnamese modernist architecture is remarkable for its inventive use of modernist elements. Louvers, planters, pergolas, and brise-soleils — initially functional micro-climatic devices — are composed in an extremely intensive way, with elements being placed not only for functional reasons, but also seem to play a role in personal artistic expression.

Started in the mid-20^th century, during the decolonization process, modernist architecture was the language through which the Vietnamese modern state projected its identity. It reflected how Vietnamese architects had mastered the expression of industrial materials like concrete, steel, and glass, using a modernist design philosophy. Functionality and rationality was the spirit of the new architecture, refusing glamorous decorations and arbitrary rules to embrace a modern and free, optimistic and future-oriented architecture.

Saigon's V.A.R building exemplifies modernist principles on a grand scale. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Joyful composition using reinforced concrete.

Buildings like the V.A.R building, Unification Palace, VOH building, Library of General Sciences, designed by the first generation of Vietnamese modernist architects like Lê Văn Lắm, Ngô Viết Thụ, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, and numerous others, had not only brought the modernist language to the public, but also rewrote it for the tropical climate. By learning from traditional architecture, rather than constraints, they harvested the movements of air, water, shade and plants to tropicalize modernism in a distinctive manner, inventing a rich glossary of louvers, overhangs, planters and brise-soleil designs.

Adoption of modernist brise-soleil in individual dwellings.

Unexpectedly, during this process, a parallel development of modernism occurred in Vietnam. For the first time, the population had acquired this new language and used it to design their houses in both urban and rural contexts, without architects. Based on generally accepted templates, the general masses crafted artworks of personal expression on the modernist façades of their houses. The micro-climatic devices mentioned above were reinvented once more.

Ordinary creative display of modernist elements by the people. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

From a widespread use of those devices, a unique language emerged. Rather than sophisticated functional calculations, architectonic elements like planters, louvers, brise-soleils are placed intuitively and spontaneously as in a poetic visual game, without losing their purposes. Ordinary people, across Vietnamese regions, using a common grammar and vocabulary built out of functional elements, crafted creative expressions of personal taste for their houses. Consequently, the language of modernist design was domesticated by the local design culture to become a completely independent creative enterprise; a parallel modernism that is popular and without authorship.

Even though Vietnamese vernacular modernism seems spontaneous, there is an underlying structure common to all designs, a kind of generative code, with its own syntax and lexicon that the population uses to create and iterate. Individual results, despite being unique pieces, are recognizable as members of a common language.

Walking through the urban landscape of Saigon today offers a spectacle of individuals who had picked and tweaked the designs of planters, louvers, brise-soleils to their whims, yet somehow always following certain common orders that automatically integrate passive shading and natural ventilation. An element, like a planter, reappears and travels within a city, or even across cities, but not one single planter is identical to the rest. These features made modernism vernacular in Vietnam, due to its intimate relation with the climatic context, as much as to its relation with the cultural characters, one inclined to the joyful play of structure, elements and their interlocking shade.

Planter design with supporting “brackets.”

The architectural landscape became a display of creative conversations. There seems to be a subconscious forum where ideas were exchanged and circulated. Modernist designs then became a collectively lived experience, yielding an unprecedented architectural current that is more spontaneous, natural, poetic and spiritual than what conventional modernist principles would normally tolerate.

Vietnamese modernism represents a distinctive moment within global modernism. For the first time, the modernist language was extracted from an institutional practice by regular people to be reinjected into their building culture. That culture then became an autonomous, yet largely anonymous modernist current.

This phenomenon sheds light on two subconscious cultural processes. First, vernacular practice can exist in modernity, contrary to the public’s generally perceived ideas about modernist movements. Vietnamese modernist architecture makes the case that culturally and environmentally sensitive architectural responses can be achieved within industrial societies. Through a collective climatic intelligence and a particular aesthetics, these structures attach themselves to the practicality and sensuality of Vietnamese living habits.

Second, it explicates a profound aspect of human nature that spans across cultural activities. Almost identical to a natural language, Vietnamese vernacular modernism exhibits the exercise of a strong collective grammar and vocabulary, with expressions embedded with personal tastes, nuances, and inflections, similar to regional accents or individual speech styles.

There seems to exist a more profound mental language of culture, one that dictates across human expressions. As a part of this creative linguistic capacity, Vietnamese vernacular modernism sheds light on how the human spiritual self manifests through physical expressions, as an individual and as a community. In this sense, architecture, beyond being a professional discipline, is a cultural act, the product of a collective conscience.

These characteristics of Vietnamese modernism invite us to reconsider how architectural value is understood. It is not only the “scholarly” architecture practiced by a few, but rather the popular practice that best reflects the built environment’s cultural and geographical codes. Contrary to a kind of formalism theorized by a private group, Vietnamese vernacular modernism is achieved by the masses, from the bottom up, growing naturally as a language system — a living cultural substance that transforms, matures, and evolves according to the community in which it is spoken, a process that gives form to ideas, styles, and tastes, reflecting that community’s singular relationship with reality.

Vernacular modernism in Vietnam also offers a different way to look at architecture history. One has to briefly forget rigid architectural principles to look at design and build as a social and cultural phenomenon. The anonymous speakers of this architectural language were also the anonymous authors of the vast majority of the built environment. Unlike institutional modernism, it gives us a break from elitist and privileged architectural currents to look at the beauty of everyday people’s ordinary “speech.” In doing so, it advocates for the unofficial and unnoticed in architectural history. It pushes us to think not only outside the “scientistic” sphere of architecture, but also beyond the commonly known modernist centers of the world, to consider architecture as an ordinary yet fundamental activity of human expression.

Too little has been said about vernacular modernism in architecture, just as too little has been said about Vietnamese modernism in relation to the world’s. Perhaps it is time to take a leave from over-theorized aesthetics and start finding poetry in ordinary languages.

Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School offers an approach to education where Vietnamese students can step into the wider world with an international academic foundation, flexible language capabilities, and confidence in their roots.

An “international” education has long been understood as a doorway to the world that differs from local education because of greater English fluency, a more global curriculum, and a wider range of opportunities. Many Vietnamese families today are confident about being able to enter the broader world, and now wonder what they will carry with them when they do.

An education for the future should not require Vietnamese children to choose between global integration and personal identity. Children do not need to become “less Vietnamese” in order to become global. On the contrary, the Vietnamese language, Vietnamese culture, and the values nurtured within their family can become the very foundation that helps them move forward with greater confidence in a wider world. This is the spirit that Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School pursues through an educational model that places Vietnamese children at the centre of an international learning journey.

Located in central Saigon, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is an IB World School officially authorised for the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme. The school is designed around a continuous learning pathway, where students develop academic capabilities, international-mindedness, and an understanding of themselves from the earliest years of learning. What makes this model distinctive is how the presence of an international curriculum benefits from its placement within the context of Vietnam today.

Through the Dual Language Approach, with Vietnamese and English represented with equal standing, students learn to ask questions, explain ideas, tell their own stories, and view the world through both languages. More than mere school subjects, Vietnamese and English are languages of thinking, inquiry, expression, and cultural connection.

This bilingual emphasis is especially important in an age where “global integration” is sometimes misunderstood as a move away from what constitutes one’s own identity. For children, their mother tongue is not only a tool for communication. It is also how they name their emotions, build relationships with family, receive culture, and form a sense of belonging.

From this foundation, the spirit of “It’s Cool to be Vietnamese” at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa is a way of looking at education: pride in identity does not stand in opposition to global thinking.

A child can love the Vietnamese language, understand Vietnamese culture, and appreciate the values of humanity, etiquette, righteousness, wisdom and integrity, while also learning in English, engaging with international ideas, approaching advanced learning methods, and preparing for an open future.

This vision is further extended through the school’s international academic connections. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School has long-term strategic partnerships with ReGenerating Education and Harvard Project Zero, along with academic collaborations with Stanford d.school and MIT Media Lab. 

More important than the names of these organizations, they reveal how new educational thinking is brought closer to Vietnamese students in Hồ Chí Minh City.

Through approaches to visible thinking and deep learning, students are encouraged to think beyond correct answers and focus on how they think, listen to multiple perspectives, and articulate their own thinking process. Through design thinking, students learn to observe problems, understand people, test ideas, and improve solutions. Through the spirit of creativity, making, and learning by doing, students engage in experiences that are closely connected to real life, technology, and a changing world. In the classroom, these approaches may begin with very specific moments, including a question raised by a student, a model created as a group, a product tested and refined, or a discussion where each child learns to express their viewpoint while still listening to others. Learning, therefore, is a communal journey of exploration, collaboration, reflection, and gradually creating value.

This approach is also why Viet Nam Tinh Hoa does not speak about “academics” in a narrow sense. The school views each child’s development as a holistic journey, where thinking, emotion, movement, creativity, language, identity, and relationships all play an important role.

Through an educational ecosystem connected with the arts, sports, mental well-being, and personalised experiences, students are seen as learners and individuals growing with their own potential, pace of development, and voice. As education in Vietnam continues to evolve, this model opens a larger question for the parent community: what does it truly mean for a child to be ready for the future?

Perhaps it is not only a child who speaks English fluently, performs well in assessments, or adapts quickly to new technology, but rather one who can think deeply, collaborate, empathise, create, ask questions in the face of uncertainty, and, just as importantly, feel confident in where they come from.

As Vietnam becomes more deeply connected with the world, schools need to help children understand where they begin, the language they use to name the world, and the values they carry with them as they enter new environments. Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is interested in examining how international education helps children stay connected to their identity, and in doing so, understand themselves more deeply as they step into the world with greater confidence. In a future that is always changing, one of the most important forms of preparation for Vietnamese children will likely be establishing the confidence to know where they are from. 

To give parents the opportunity to learn more about this learning model in person, Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School is organising Open Day 2026 for families seeking a suitable educational pathway for their child in the 2026–2027 academic year.

At the event, parents will have the opportunity to tour the campus, meet the school team, learn more about the International Baccalaureate Primary Years Programme, the Dual Language Approach, the academic development pathway, and the experiences that support students’ holistic development at Viet Nam Tinh Hoa.

Open Day 2026
Time: 09:00 – 11:00, June 11, 2026
Location: Viet Nam Tinh Hoa – The Futures School, 214 Pasteur, Xuân Hòa Ward Hồ Chí Minh City 70000
To register to attend open day fill out this form

Completed in 1973, the V.A.R building at 9 Nguyễn Công Trứ Street in Nguyễn Thái Binh Ward, District 1, is a prominent example of Vietnamese mid-20^th-century modernist architecture designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm. It not only represents the Vietnamese architectural identity in post-colonial eras, but also exemplifies its cultural autonomy.

Following colonization, Vietnam gradually developed a unique architecture style reflective of its culture: a version of modernism that contained specifically Vietnamese traits emerging to take over traditional architecture styles. Lê Văn Lắm was one of the architects that set up the foundations for the movement. He played an important role in tropicalizing modernist architecture to fit the hot and humid climate of Vietnam.

Along with other giants like Trần Văn Tải, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Huỳnh Kim Mãng, and Ngô Viết Thụ, Lê Văn Lắm specialized in the double-skin techniques found in Vietnamese modernist architecture. His buildings — including the headquarters of the Voice of HCMC broadcast station on Nguyễn Bỉnh Khiêm Street and the Library of General Science on Lý Tự Trọng Street, on which he worked as an adviser — all show substantial and excellent use of double-skin techniques. Yet the most interesting and the most intricate of Lắm's portfolio is still the "moving" double-skin of the V.A.R building at the junction between Hồ Tùng Mậu and Nguyễn Công Trứ Street.

This building deserves acknowledgement alongside the former Indochina Bank, the Independence Palace, Notre-Dame Cathedral and Bến Thành Market as Saigon’s most iconic structures. Even though the double-skin front demanded a lot of space on the modest-sized plot, Lê Văn Lắm chose to use it for its microclimate function. The building thus serves as a great example of tropical modernist architecture despite being in a crowded urban setting.

The building’s double skin, created for its function, has become its defining feature. The entire surface of the facade is covered by a reinforced concrete curtain made of an assemblage of layered parts.

An approximately one-meter-wide buffer zone consists of curved edge-beams suspended over overhanging beams. They are vertically braced together all across the floors via a row of thin concrete bars spread across the facade. The surface between this assemblage of horizontal beams and vertical braces is where the incredible happens.

While some other examples of double-skin exteriors consist of a brise-soleil wall multiplied over the facade, the double skin of the V.A.R building was entirely made of reinforced concrete. The texture of this doubled skin was created by a "fabric" of very thin horizontal and vertical concrete bars weaved into one another in a rhythmic pattern. The result is an illusion of rigid elements being able to move.

This makes the V.A.R building an excellent experiment in both structure and sculpture. It reveals how Lê Văn Lắm investigated the ways rhymes, contrast, and depth come together to create a three-dimensional object. With light, structure, and shadow, he crafted a building that subconsciously responds to sensory dialogues.

V.A.R's poeticism is also seen in the typical palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles. The ingenious ensemble evokes a harmonious intensity via the contrasts and slight shifts in colors, textures, or the graininess of the materials. These materials, however, were not applied spontaneously. They were chosen and applied depending on aesthetic characteristics and structural roles in response to climactic situations. Yet, they still come together harmoniously to form a consistent architectural personality.

The palette of finishing materials, including đá rửa (washed rock), slated stones, and mosaic tiles is a harmonious combination.

The V.A.R building was built towards the end of the mid-20^th-century modernist architecture movement in Vietnam, and thus retained style elements developed in the previous two decades. It includes abstractization while remaining excellent both technically and artistically. The V.A.R building, therefore, is an shining example of technology meeting art.

In Vietnamese architectural history, modernist architecture is the direct descendant of local traditional architecture. Traditional architecture was handed over to the modernists who retained links between humans and their territory through time. These links result in a special sense of roughness, a sense of suspension, a rhythmic intensity, and a unique equilibrium that dictated how shades are poured and how layers of building parts are tastefully intertwined for human activities. It is a testament to the cultural lifeblood that keeps flowing even in the face of historical turbulence.

The double skin of the V.A.R building is a testament to how its creator was mindful of the local tropical climate in design.

Vietnamese mid-century modernist architecture fits perfectly in the discourses with the functionalism of global modernism. The V.A.R building responds to pragmatic needs including climactic concerns that did not exist at the site of other modernist structures. It was not simply a "machine to live in,” but rather a humane machine that connects to inhabitants via proportions and intuition that created the so-called "Vietnamese-ness" in mid-20^th-century modernist architecture.

Vietnamese modernist architecture was executed very differently than its counterparts around the world. The institutional buildings, modernist villas, shophouses, and modernist rural houses share a mutual spirituality about the way humans and architecture interact. Vietnamese modernist architecture in the mid 20^th century, unlike that in other centers of global modernism, relied on traditional craftsmanship. And the V.A.R building by Lê Văn Lắm is one of the most concentrated expressions of the unaffected identity manifested during this transformation of Vietnamese culture.

This article was originally published in 2021.

Lush tropical canopies drape shade across exacting balconies and geometric Brise-soleil. Next to these stellar examples of Vietnamese Modernism stand modern structures where students engage with advanced technologies in cool, air-conditioned classrooms and laboratories. While Saigon’s central streets, with their cavalcades of traffic, commerce, and commotion, charge ahead just beyond the gates of Ho Chi Minh City University of Technology (HCMUT) in Diên Hồng ward (formerly District 10), the campus within provides a calm cocoon of education.

Spacious classrooms bathed in natural sunlight have become a core memory for students.

Amongst local Vietnamese, HCMUT is widely regarded as one of the nation’s top public technology institutions, with metrics, accolades, and successful graduate trajectories to support the word-of-mouth reputation. For example, each year, it receives applications from more than 15,000 candidates, but only around 5500 are offered admission. However, HCMUT receives little to no attention from expat communities in Vietnam for its STEM degrees taught entirely in English, let alone the fact that the program is of worldwide value. Foreign students who already live in Vietnam, or have family working here, or recognize Vietnam as one of the region’s fastest-growing technology hubs and thus a great place to explore, are surprised to learn that the university offers undergraduate and graduate programs comparable to those in western or East Asian nations at a fraction of the cost.

Having one of the largest campuses in the city center, Campus 1, located on Diên Hồng ward, covers approximately 14 hectares with lecture halls, self-study spaces, laboratories, workshops, and sports complexes.

HCMUT, known colloquially as Bách khoa, dates back to 1957 when it was founded as the National Technical Center. While Campus 2 is located in the VNU-HCM Urban Area with other member universities, Campus 1, or the so-called main campus, caters to international curriculum, professors, and students. The STEM courses, which combine theoretical knowledge and practical application, prepare graduates to be competitive on the international stage with a strong understanding of the fast-evolving work culture in Southeast Asia.

In addition to four-year undergraduate programs, HCMUT offers 12 majors within the Articulation program that partner with global universities. Students can study in Vietnam to build a solid academic foundation at HCMUT and then complete their degree at a prestigious university abroad. Partner universities include most universities in Australia’s Group of Eight, The University of Auckland, The University of Otago, The University of Birmingham in the UK, the University of Kentucky, and other options in France, Denmark, Korea, and Japan. Such an arrangement allows students to maximize their global flexibility and adaptability, spend less money on tuition and living expenses, and receive a degree from one of the world’s top-ranked universities. Students can also complete an accelerated 3-year Bachelor’s degree from the University of Technology Sydney (UTS). This is a best-of-both-worlds opportunity for students to study in Vietnam while receiving a world-class degree.

The Transnational Education program, established by UTS and HCMUT in 2025, is among UTS’s pioneering fully offshore degree programs, focusing on AI and IT fields.

Beyond the rigorous academic training, students develop essential professional skills through required courses in communication, leadership, and interview skills. What distinguishes public institutions like HCMUT is their strong adoption of the Triple Helix model, in which academia, industry, and government work together to promote innovation, economic growth, and social development. Some dominant industry connections that HCMUT works with include Intel, Marvell, Synopsys, and NVIDIA for semiconductor engineering; Bosch for mechanical engineering, Petrovietnam and VPN for energy; Viettel and FPT for telecommunications; and GSK for chemical engineering.

Such collaborations create valuable opportunities for students through government-backed programs, field trips, internships, and industry-sponsored projects, which enable scientific discoveries to turn into real, impactful applications.

A useful degree obtained at a great value is important, but so is one’s quality of life. Chances to experience “uni life” typically only happen once. HCMUT has its way to ensure international students make the most of their time here in Vietnam through a range of comprehensive activities. Saigoneer visited the campus around noon, and the harsh midday sun ensured the basketball court was empty, but come dusk, it would surely be filled with students laughing and playing. In addition to informal activities, the university has 15 clubs across academics, sports, arts, hobbies, and self-development. Events and exchange sessions encourage students to showcase and engage with their own and other cultures, while volunteering campaigns foster connections with local communities. Last but not least, Vietnamese language courses empower international students to connect with the local culture, people, and way of life here.

Last year, hundreds of international students across Europe and Asia visited for exchange semesters, internships, and immersion programs.

2026 is truly an exciting time in Vietnam, particularly for engineering and technology. As companies, sectors, and fields become regional and even global leaders, helping to fuel staggering national economic growth and development, academics are right in step. With an increase of foreign professors, funding for modern facilities, and deepening ties with international universities alongside more opportunities to apply global-standard education in a local context, Ho Chi Minh City University of Technology is more than ever an ideal place for international students. These efforts coincide with official government resolutions and policies to enhance internationalisation in education via investment, reform, and global partnerships. The quiet, shady campus might not yet be on families' minds, but there is every reason for that to change.

Authorities in Gia Lai Province have approved plans to relocate the Quy Hoà leprosy village from its current ocean-side setting in Quy Nhơn to make room for an ambitious real estate and tourism project.

Founded as the Laproserie de Quy Hoà Hospital in 1929 by Paul Maheu, a French priest, along with Dr. Lemoine of the Bình Định Hospital, the facilities in Quy Hoà include private homes, treatment rooms, a church and recreational areas. It was essential for providing care to patients when the disease was heavily stigmatized before an effective treatment was discovered in 1940, and remained important for treatment services for decades. While populations have declined thanks to improved sanitation and vaccination efforts, as of today, it is home to 250 families and 300 patients. Many families have spent several generations in their homes after a patient recovered from the disease. 

In addition to its on-going medical purposes, Quy Hoà holds significant heritage value. It boasts stunning modernist architecture situated in sight of the ocean and is home to the grave and former home of beloved poet Hàn Mặc Tử. Easily accessible from expanding Quy Nhơn city, including via scenic hiking path, it offers visitors an opportunity to learn about a unique period in Central Vietnam's development, marvel at colorful buildings with bold design choices and even take in some cultural oddities. 

Hàn Mặc Tử's grave (left) and some materials placed in the home he occupied in the village (right).

Anyone who has visited Quy Hoà and witnessed the picturesque ocean with sandy beach juxtaposed by the humble, impoverished buildings of the leprosy colony would be able to understand why it is wanted by developers. The inevitable is finally official with the Gia Lai People's Committee announcing on May 19 that the province is currently accelerating procedures for the implementation of the Ghềnh Ráng-Vũng Chua International Beach Resort Urban Area. Covering nearly 2,900 hectares, the project will require Quy Hoà to be moved to Tuy Phước Commune of Gia Lai Province, approximately 20 km to the north and noticebly not on the ocean.

View looking down onto Quy Hoà.

The new megaproject aims to provide upscale housing for 40,000 people and accomodate an average of approximately 6,900 tourists per day. A sports center, a golf center and hotels will rise above the austere bed where Hàn Mặc Tử once perished in agony. Flying taxis and seaplanes are included in Sun Group's plans. 

Officials have stressed the need for careful planning to ensure uninterrupted healthcare services for the patients. Specific plans for the site of the new leprosy treatment hospital and community are in development. 

Mentioning Chinese and Chinese-speaking tourists to businesses in Vietnam elicits a number of assumptions and misconceptions. Large tour groups consisting of matching shirts following a leader-raised flag to pre-approved and Chinese-owned businesses are largely a disappearing relic of previous generations. Mainland tourists, particularly younger ones, are much more likely to travel independently as couples, families, friend groups or solo and do all their planning themselves. In this way, they are similar to the western tourists that Vietnamese restaurants, resorts, and spas are familiar with.

China is, of course, a massive country, and the travel preferences and requirements of its citizens are diverse. But if one narrows the focus to educated millennials and older Gen Z at a certain income level, typically dwelling in tier 1 and 2 cities, there emerge enough similarities to market towards them effectively. Some of the 50 tier 1 and 2 cities have populations equal that of Hong Kong and the segment coincides with Chinese-speaking tourists from Hong Kong, Taiwan, Singapore, Malaysia, and diaspora communities from around the world.

Food, shopping, selfies, and cultural activities are amongst the top activities of this segment

Vietnam welcomes over five million Chinese-speaking tourists per year, and the nation is the top travel destination for mainland Chinese. These numbers are consistently increasing and represent a large market for local businesses, particularly in hospitality, F&B, and retail. However, various cultural and logistical barriers make it difficult for small and even large businesses to truly tap into this group. Within this context, locally-tailored services and strategies are emerging to bridge the gap.

To learn more about this group and how businesses in Vietnam can reach them, Saigoneer spoke with Hồ Chí Minh City-based Beast Group, a marketing agency specializing in connecting local brands with the Chinese-speaking market. The group’s founder, Denzel Zhang, explained that modern Chinese-speaking tourists from this middle and upper-class group are generally very appealing to local businesses. They tend to spend, on average, 1.5 times as much as other tourists. Moreover, motivated by FOMO, they particularly gravitate towards special-menu or limited items.

Photos that attact attention should be high-quality but feel authentic.

“Photos,” Denzel responded immediately and emphatically when asked what attracts the attention of these Chinese-speaking travelers. The photos have to be high quality, but not so professional as to appear commercial. This typically comes down to images of meals, resort views, luxurious spa interiors, and chic city hotels that are captured on phones by someone who knows what angles and minimal prep will be flattering and how to do minor in-app editing, but isn’t using a lighting setup, extensive post-production, or a DSLR camera.

Having the photos is only the first step. Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok, the platforms most Vietnam-based businesses rely on, are inaccessible to users in mainland China. Instead, they have domestic alternatives, including RedNote (Xiaohongshu), which Denzel explained as a hybrid of Instagram and TripAdvisor. These are the places where Chinese speakers go to share about and discover travel destinations. Chinese speakers in countries without app restrictions use them as well because they are optimized for the Chinese language and foster communities that share cultural values that manifest in dining preferences and resort requirements. 

Pictures say a lot, but businesses that succeed find a way to speak Chinese as well.

In addition to appearing on these apps, Chinese menus and Chinese-speaking staff are important for attracting this powerful group of tourists. Denzel says their English fluency is somewhat limited, and thus, they are hesitant to go anywhere that cannot accommodate their language at least a bit. Moreover, they are shy to make reservations or ask questions over the phone and prefer to text for communication.

If a local business can deliver its message with impressive but authentic photos via these particular Chinese-language apps, such as RedNote, it can tap into a powerful market. However, Denzel cautions against trying to do so without intimate knowledge of the communities and the rules and norms of the platforms. Going alone can ultimately cause more harm than good. Such a reality is why agencies like Beast Group exist. Founded by Chinese speakers in Vietnam and having developed relationships in mainland and diaspora communities as well as local Vietnamese and Western businesses, they understand the landscape and what is needed to navigate it fluently.

As Chinese-speaking tourists continue to arrive in record numbers, Beast Group will play an important role in ensuring restaurants, retail shops, resorts, hotels, spas, and service providers can take advantage. 

Denzel Zhang, Beast Group's Founderc.

In a forthcoming article, Saigoneer will explain exactly how Beast Group targets Chinese-speaking tourists successfully as well as the dangers of going alone with a few case studies. 

As the Iran war crunches global energy supplies and disrupts prices, Southeast Asian leaders may need to diversify oil and gas supplies in order to protect ordinary people.

However, they must also look beyond short-term remedies and seek to get their countries off the fossil fuel rollercoaster. As well as building out renewable energy generation and modernising the grid so it can handle the new power, the region should be more prudent about importing gas and turbocharge electric vehicle (EV) adoption.

Road transport is a key driver of oil demand in the region, and gas is a core part of several countries’ power supply. The crisis in the Strait of Hormuz is disrupting roughly one-fifth of global oil and liquefied natural gas (LNG) flows. Of the gas exported through the strait last year, 90% was destined for Asia.

Southeast Asia has been a net importer of oil for over two decades. With its population growing, the region’s meeting of its demand continues to rely on a 1990s model: more car and fuel subsidies; more imported cooking fuels; and a continued push to build even more gas power capacity. Yet its oil and gas production has been decreasing.

Indonesia’s oil production peaked in the 1990s, and it now imports 60% of its needs while spending tens of billions of dollars annually on fuel and electricity subsidies to keep prices stable for households. Thailand’s gas production has been declining since the mid-2010s, yet it still generates about 65% of its power from the fuel; and, in 2023, it imported nearly half of its gas supply, according to the International Energy Agency (IEA).

Though the region as a whole has been pushing to produce more gas, largely via drilling, the implication is clear: however quickly countries try to ramp up production, demand on its current trajectory will continue to far outpace supply growth. Southeast Asia is on track to become a net gas importer.

To secure its energy future, the region needs to accelerate the electrification of its transport sector via EV adoption and strengthen its clean energy development, opening a credible path towards energy self-sufficiency.

The impact of EV adoption

People often dismiss the benefits of EV adoption when fossil fuels’ share in the energy mix is still high. But there is another pathway: electrify and open up possibilities of powering the sector through green energy. Even when powered by a fossil-fuel-heavy grid, EVs produce less emissions over the vehicle’s lifetime than conventional cars by avoiding tailpipe emissions once on the road, eventually reaching a “breakeven” point, as research by BloombergNEF has shown.

More importantly, increased EV adoption enables the region to decouple from fossil fuels as the grid cleans up, while gasoline and diesel vehicles offer no comparable exit path. Clean electricity creates a route to both lower emissions and greater energy self-sufficiency.

In 2025, 2.3 million barrels of daily oil use were avoided through the global EV fleet, BloombergNEF estimates. This represents a mere 2% of global oil demand, but is a clear signal of an alternative path.

China chose the EV route partly to reduce its reliance on oil imports, which account for around 70% of its needs. That strategy is estimated to have yielded results amid the Gulf energy crisis. For Southeast Asian countries to do the same, its governments need to increase public and political support for greater EV adoption. They should do this by working with electric automakers to boost EV manufacturing and create local jobs, as well as by establishing charging infrastructure.

Gas as a stable transition fuel?

With Asian LNG prices remaining highly volatile amid the global energy crisis, the narrative of gas as a stable transition fuel is beginning to unravel. The crisis has exposed the risks of rapidly expanding gas’s share in Southeast Asia’s power mix.

Gas has been widely promoted as a stopgap measure to achieve the region’s aims of reducing its coal dependence and CO₂ emissions while it grows its renewable power. Research by the Energy Shift Institute, where I work, shows that many Asian governments count gas as part of sustainable investments. But though gas combustion does result in less emission than coal, when leakage occurs in its value chain it is 80 times more potent as a climate heater than CO₂.

There is also the premium on imported LNG from distant suppliers, which is significantly more expensive than domestically produced piped gas.

Gas is far harder than oil to stockpile, making it riskier for import-dependent economies. This vulnerability was evident during the 2022 energy crisis brought on by the war in Ukraine, when LNG prices surged and cargoes originally bound for Pakistan were diverted to Europe as traders sought to capitalise on higher prices. Similar episodes are likely to recur in future supply shocks.

There will be a place to develop some local resources and stockpiles. As with oil, gas will continue to have a role to play as an energy and industrial material input, particularly in industries with limited alternative technologies, such as fertiliser.

China can again be looked to as an example, with an 8% gas share in its total energy supply in 2023, nearly 40% of which was imported. This, combined with its rapid renewables growth, reveals a clear underlying logic: limit exposure to imported energy while reserving gas for purposes that critically need it.

Continuing to rely on gas imports threatens to lock Southeast Asia into the same vulnerability it is only beginning to reckon with on the oil front.

Its governments and utilities routinely cite high upfront costs as a barrier to building renewables and modernising grids, yet sign long-term LNG import contracts without similar scrutiny. They are also burning through cash during the Gulf crisis: Malaysia’s bill for subsidies to stabilise retail fuel prices for consumers has shot up by over ten times. Meanwhile, Indonesia’s fuel subsidies to keep prices affordable for households and motorists are estimated to cost the state IDR6.7 trillion (US$387 million) per US dollar increase in the price of oil. This raises the urgent question of how budgets can best be deployed to secure energy supply for the region.

Short-term fixes during crises are crucial, but true leadership in establishing a secure energy supply requires long-term visionary goals. Competing government budgetary priorities and the need to secure immediate energy supplies understandably pull attention toward familiar remedies such as diversifying oil and gas suppliers and creating more emergency stockpiles.

But in energy, there are no quick fixes; the key is in pursuing a steady direction. Southeast Asia has yet to fully explore exit routes that can reduce its exposure to oil and gas supply shocks. The 1970s oil crisis sparked the emergence of renewables, and the current crisis may prove equally defining for the world’s energy systems.

Clean energy deployment must be accelerated. The transition will take time, but the starting point is clear: governments need to electrify as much as possible before the next crisis peeks its head around the corner.

Top photo: Electric cars at a charging station in Bali, Indonesia. Photo by Carrot via Alamy.

Putra Adhiguna is the managing director of Energy Shift Institute, an Asia-focused energy finance thinktank.

This article was originally published on Dialogue Earth and was republished with permission. Read the original article on Dialogue Earth here. 

Nước mắm — that ruby-hued elixir; that salty, fish-flesh-sweet open secret in your favorite recipe; that indispensable icon of Vietnamese culture and, by extension, identity — owes itself to Commerson’s anchovies. That’s right, if your fish sauce comes from the central region, where it was first developed, the fish pressed with salt to produce it are Stolephorus commersonnii, a species named in 1801 after Philibert Commerson, a white Frenchman. Picture all the hardscrabble village homes suffering under the yoke of colonialism, where one of the day’s few pleasures was a humble meal made delicious by a carefully rationed dash of fish sauce and an ingredient whose name pays homage to their colonizers. 

Left: Philibert Commerson. Photo via wikimedia.
Right: Stolephorus commersonnii. Photo via Arobid.

Sadly, naming endemic creatures after foreigners is a convention not unique to Commerson’s anchovies. Scanning lists of animals native to Vietnam yields a great number of western men (it’s always men). Delacour's Langur (Trachypithecus delacouri), Lichtenfelder's gecko (Goniurosaurus lichtenfelderi), Osgood's rat (Rattus osgoodi), and Griffin's leaf-nosed bat (Hipposideros griffini) are all Vietnamese animals, as much as an animal can be claimed by a nation, with names honoring non-Vietnamese. 

Left: Delacour's langur. Photo via Orangepopp.
Right: Lichtenfelder's gecko. Photo via Biolib.

Binomial nomenclature, the globally accepted standard for naming organisms, includes a first, “generic” name that identifies the genus and a second, specific name that distinguishes the species within that genus. Unlike common names, which differ across languages (i.e. tiger or cọp are the common names for Panthera tigris), scientific names allow for a precise, relatively simple means of discussing organisms across regions and disciplines. This is particularly important when it comes to plants and animals that may have medicinal qualities or be poisonous. The system, developed by 17^th-century Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus during his ill-fated attempts to identify every living creature on Earth, is currently governed by various internationally agreed-upon codes of rules, including the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature (ICZN). 

Binomial, also called scientific names, and their conventions are as messy as one might expect from scientists working before the advent of electricity, gas engines, refrigerators, typewriters or telephones. The second halves of the names often reference physical characteristics, geographical locations, or behaviors to aid in accurately identifying an organism. But sometimes they are simply used as a means of paying respect to individuals. While the science community frowns aggressively on naming any animal or plant after oneself, specific names, since their advent, have been a way to compliment a mentor, peer, friend or loved one. More than one scientist have used them in attempts to woo a woman or land a promotion. 

Left: Beyonce's horsefly. Photo via NBC News.
Right: Darth Vadar's isopod. Photo via Pensoft.

In addition to all the names of scientists that appear in the records, there are more playful examples that involve puns and pop culture, such as the Darth Vader isopod (Bathynomus vaderi); a genus of crustaceans named Godzillius; a large-eyed, swamp-dwelling fish named after a Lord of the Rings character (Galaxias gollumoide); and even a horsefly with a golden bum named after Beyoncé (Scaptia beyonceae). Considering the vast number of beetles, worms, fungus and microscopic sea creatures in the world, not just now, but across all time in the fossil record, it’s easy to understand how Diego Maradona has a damselfly (Librelula maradoniana) and Lady Gaga has a wasp (Aleiodes gaga). 

Sanqiaspis vietnamensis, an ancient, jawless fish that lived over 400 million years ago, was formally described in 2009. Illustration by Stanton Fink.

Let’s return to Vietnam. Because of many reasons including the western origins of the naming conventions, global inequalities that have historically placed western science at the forefront of discoveries, and accepted racism, references to Vietnam are relatively rare in the records, despite the thousands of opportunities. Certain geographical references do appear, including countless annamensis, tonkinensis, and cochinchinensis. More recent examples include Rhacophorus hoanglienensis, a frog found within the Hoàng Liên National Park; a gecko (Gekko badenii) whose name references the Bà Đen mountain where it lives; an ancient, jawless fish (Sanqiaspis vietnamensis); and even our beloved sao la (Pseudoryx nghetinhensis), as noted by researcher Khôi Nguyễn.

Scientists are more likely to name new species after Vietnamese locations, as opposed to individuals, but a few do reference the immense impact of Vietnamese researchers, including Dr. Ngô Văn Bὶnh and Dr. Nguyễn Văn Sáng, who were honored with snakes (Dendrelaphis binhi and Coluberoelaps nguyenvansangi, respectively). Historical figures make appearances as well, including a moth (Marcopoloia leloi) named after Lê Lợi; a beetle (Cyphochilus leducthoi) after Lê Đức Thọ; and an ant (Xymmer phungi) for Phan Đình Phùng. Hồ Chí Minh, meanwhile, received the privilege of having both a spider (Pholcus hochiminhi) and a beetle (Oedichirus hochimini). 

Commonly called Bình's bronzeback snake in honor of Dr. Ngô Văn Bὶnh, Dendrelaphis binhi is a rather charismatic critter. Photo via iNaturalist.

I think the names could be doing even more, however, and experts agree. A recent paper from the Royal Society concluded that: “Because the nomenclatural Codes impose surprisingly few constraints on the formation of a new scientific name, naming is one of the most creative acts in all the sciences. The results of unleashing scientists’ creativity have been fascinating, with species bearing scientific names coming from many source languages and with a remarkable variety of etymologies. Scientific names (like the scientists who confer them) can be beautiful, irritating, amusing, poignant, provocative or infuriating. They raise important issues of social justice and equity in the history and practice of science. Finally, they can apparently have a role in directing our scientific attention to study.” If scientific names can make people excited about the natural world, aware of important issues, interested in local history, or proud of their heritage, we should embrace creative naming with great enthusiasm. 

A few recent namings give me hope that things are headed in the right direction. A Central Highlands hedgehog was given the name Hylomys macarong, because its front teeth resemble the fangs of a vampire (ma cà rồng), and any use of non-western languages helps decolonialize science and invite young people here to envision a place for themselves within it. Meanwhile, a dainty bird, the Actinodura sodangorum, honors the Södang (or Xơ Đăng) ethnic minority group that lives in the forest where it was found, and promotes Vietnam's multi-ethnicity. 

Left: The so-called vampire hedgehog. Photo via Discover Wildlife.
Right: Actinodura sodangorum, commonly called the black-crowned barwing in English. Photo via Wikimedia.

But where is the whimsy? Where is the child-like joy and silliness that accompanies rigorous thought and logic to uphold humanity? It is here: Banhxeochelys trani. Named in 2019, Banhxeochelys describes an extinct genus of turtle that lived in Vietnam 39 to 34 million years ago. Thin, flat, and cracked, the fossilized shells found in the Na Dương coal mine in Lạng Sơn reminded the Vietnamese scientists of bánh xèo, and thus, the entire new genus was named Banhxeochelys (the Greek word chelys means "turtle"). The first, and so far only species within the genus was given the specific name trani to honor Đặng Ngọc Trần, a retired director of the Department of Geology and Minerals, who helped the nation make great strides in geological research.

The shells of Banhxeochelys trani as described in the 2019 scientific paper. Photo via Wikimedia.

An interpretation of what Banhxeochelys trani would have looked like alive. Artwork by Alain Beneteau via Facebook.

A prehistoric turtle named after a delicious Vietnamese meal: could such a whimsical name attract attention to Vietnam’s important and vulnerable biodiversity? Could it inspire hesitant young Vietnamese to dream about their rightful place in global scientific discourse? Does it at least make you chuckle and want to go out for bánh xèo? If even one of these is true, I hope you’ll join me in my desire to see many more such names in the near future. With hundreds of new species identified every year in Vietnam, there are plenty of opportunities.

Have you ever walked past a plant and wondered "Hey, I wonder what that could do?"

Such curiosity is what ultimately led Henry Herbert to spend two years writing the new book, Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam. Herbert, who lives in Huế, took a fairly circuitous route to get to this point. "After graduating in the United Kingdom, I went to work as a web developer in London," he tells Saigoneer in a call. This was six years ago, and he quickly discovered that he was deeply unhappy: "I just felt completely devoid of meaning in my life, utterly down, depressed actually. It was a really difficult time in my life." 

Eventually he quit, sold most of his belongings, and decamped from London in order to volunteer at farms, initially in South Africa, and then in Columbia. "I immersed myself in that and through working alongside people who are much more knowledgeable than me, learned about plant life and farming," Herbert says. "I'd top that up with courses and intensive reading, but most of it came through experience."

After spending the early part of the pandemic in Columbia, Herbert moved to Hanoi, where he struggled with the stress of a major city for a year before relocating with his wife, Linh, to Huế. "It's a beautiful place," he says. "The nature is majestic and lovely, and there's lots of space to walk around. It was much, much more suitable."

Herbert walking in a forest outside of Huế.

The duo then began volunteering at a series of local organizations including the Lotus Education Farm, and at the same time Herbert launched a Facebook page called Đom Đóm Permaculture in order to share information about the region's native flora. This is where the seeds of the book took root.

"The whole book thing started then because I'd started to learn more and more about wild plants just through working with people," Herbert recalls. "I also have a dog and I'd often take him on walks in the forest, and I'd meet local people harvesting various plants in the forest or in the fields."

Herbert, who, in his words, speaks "decent, not perfect" Vietnamese, would stop and ask people what they were collecting and what they used it for. "My curiosity was to just know more and ask more questions and do my own research," he said. "It took about two years of asking a lot of people, a lot of research, a lot of trying things myself, because I wanted to back up what people were saying with what has been scientifically proven." 

The result is a book featuring 203 different species of flora found in the wild around Huế, broken down into annual herbs and grasses; perennial herbs, succulents and cacti; shrubs; vines and climbing plants; trees; and ferns and aquatic plants. Accompanied by color photos, each species includes the local name, any other Vietnamese name and, if available, the English name, as well as details on how to identify the plant, which areas and when to find it, and the traditional medicinal uses it has. There are also chapters on how to respectfully harvest plants in order to avoid taking too much, and how to clean and ultimately prepare a plant for medicinal use. 

Herbert gathering medicinal plants.

As Herbert dove deeper into his book research, he realized that most of the knowledge related to these plants and how they can be used had a single repository: members of elder generations. "Traditionally, it would pass down from generation to generation; that's how the knowledge got there in the first place," he said. "But increasingly, that's being ignored. Young people would rather go to the city and earn money or watch TV and not listen to grandma's knowledge." 

Herbert had first-hand experience with this, as his grandmother in the UK was a keen botanist: "She loved to teach me about certain plants, and mostly I just remember not really listening and not really caring, and that's increasingly happening. It would be an absolute shame if this knowledge is lost." 

While he hopes the book can be a humble contribution to the storage of this expertise, Herbert was also routinely astonished by just how accurate the wisdom the people he spoke to was.

"I'd ask someone what they're using a plant for, and they'd tell me, 'I'm picking this one and using it to wash my skin because of scabies or some kind of infection,' and on multiple occasions I would go back and look the plant up online," he explains. "And eventually I'd be able to track down the scientific name and do a whole host of reading in English and find scientific studies, and it's always exactly what they said it is."

"It's amazing," he goes on, "what they say they're using it for is exactly what it's for, whether anti-inflammatory properties or good for bathing sores on the skin or ringworm. That just absolutely blew my mind, the fact that these people have never read any scientific paper or book, it's just known." 

Ultimately, Herbert hopes that Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam can, if nothing else, remind us of the importance of respecting those who came before us. 

"I think we often kind of turn our nose up at what we might think of as homeopathy stuff," he says. "There can be stuff that doesn't work, of course, and there can be ineffective treatments, but there's a reason why this has been passed down for generations for so long."

Photos courtesy of Henry Herbert.

This article was originally published in 2022.

You can order a copy of Wild Medicinal Plants of Central Vietnam through the Đom Đóm Permaculture page. A portion of the proceeds will go towards Tịnh Trúc Gia, a community for young adults living with disabilities in Huế.

Municipal authorities in Hồ Chí Minh City are moving forward with a number of infrastructure projects that will majorly transform the peninsula in the future.

Over the long holiday weekend on April 29, Saigon broke ground on the Bến Thành–Thủ Thiêm Metro Line, which will take passengers from the central interchange at Bến Thành Market to eastern regions of the city. The interchange has already served the existing Line 1 and will also link to the Bến Thành–Tham Lương Line that stretches northward.

A cross-section of a station of the Bến Thành–Thủ Thiêm Line.

The line serving Thủ Thiêm begins at Bến Thành, running along Hàm Nghi Boulevard before crossing the Saigon River to Thủ Thiêm, where it will snake along Mai Chí Thọ to the terminal in Bình Trưng (Thủ Đức City). Six stations are based underground: Hàm Nghi, Tố Hữu, Cung Thiếu Nhi, Bệnh viện Quốc tế, Bình Khánh, and Thủ Thiêm.

A map showing both the first (yellow) and second (teal) phases of the line.

Most notably, Hàm Nghi Station will be Saigon’s deepest at 33 meters underground as the line will need to travel beneath the Saigon River. On the other end, the last station is planned to be a meeting point for other transportation modes, such as a high-speed North-South train and an upcoming metro line linking Thủ Thiêm and Long Thành International Airport.

On the same day, the city also commenced construction on the new administrative hub on a 46.7-hectare plot of land in Thủ Thiêm. The ambitious project, expected to cost nearly VND30 trillion (US$1.12 billion), is designed for administrative, cultural, and civic functions for the city.

The design of the administrative center.

Components of the new hub include a 30-story administrative center, a 2,000-seat multi-purpose amphitheatre and convention center, and a central park and central square.

Ho Chi Minh City is accelerating efforts to form the Thu Thiem urban area as its future financial and administrative hub, with the launch of a VND29.6 trillion (US$1.12 billion) central square and administrative complex, one of four major projects expected to shape the long-planned new urban center on the city’s eastern bank.

Have a look at some renderings showcasing the new administrative hub below:

The central park next to the administrative center.

The performance arts and conference center.

A corner of the park.

The central plaza.

Images via VnExpress.

“Like adding new branches to the same tree,” Mary Malifarges, the Pedagogical Advisor at La Petite Ecole Ho Chi Minh City, describes the opening of a new campus at 22/1 Lê Văn Miến Street, An Khánh Ward (formerly Thảo Điền) and the introduction of two new pedagogical offerings.

For nearly 10 years, La Petite Ecole has offered a truly bilingual education (French-English) for children ages 1 - 11 that adheres to a curriculum established by France’s Ministry of Education and emphasizes critical thinking and a self-motivated search for the reasons behind answers. The school believes that children learn best when they are engaged, confident, and active participants in their own learning, as is best achieved in rich, caring, and stimulating environments, and the expansion is a natural step in the school’s development. 

One new campus, two new pathways

“Ultimately, this new campus is not just about expansion — it is about refining and enriching our educational model to better meet the evolving expectations of families, while staying true to what defines La Petite Ecole,” Mary notes. Therefore, the new campus, also in Thảo Điền, will offer a new, fully trilingual (French-English-Vietnamese) program for Early Years (students ages 3 - 6) that embodies the school’s belief that languages are not subjects to study, but tools for thinking, learning, and interacting. Meanwhile, a new nursery option (students from 12 months) will be conducted in English, as opposed to the currently available French.

Both new programs embody the belief that true immersion via instruction and activities led by native speakers of a language establishes the neural pathways that promote lifelong flexibility for not just learning languages, but learning in general, as well as empathy, confidence, and the ability to navigate a complex world. Science has overwhelmingly proven that the youngest learners are particularly adept at grasping new languages, and in doing so, improve cognitive flexibility, adaptability, and openness to others. Or, as Mary sums it up: “learning multiple languages from an early age is not about learning more… it is about learning better.”

Flexible models to meet families’ unique needs

La Petite Ecole’s new trilingual model is particularly appealing for Vietnamese and mixed-heritage families because it prepares students for international standards while valuing local language and cultural identity. Meanwhile, La Petite Ecole’s nursery option appeals to families who wish to prioritize English from the earliest years before transitioning to multilingual education because it may not be spoken at home. This option maintains exposure to French language and culture, and preserves the same educational quality and structure that is observed throughout the school. 

The essential linguistic, cognitive, social, and motor foundations that both programs lay allow students to enjoy a particularly smooth transition into later years at the school and beyond. Starting with a strong command of multiple languages means children “are not simply getting ahead — they are developing lasting ease, confidence, and the ability to learn in multiple languages … it means giving them the tools to think, learn, and thrive in multiple languages, and therefore in multiple worlds,” Mary notes.

A comfortable cocoon for learning

La Petite Ecole’s new campus is a calm, green, and protected setting, “designed to create a reassuring ‘cocoon’ for young children,” Mary says. It balances nature and accessibility, so students can explore, move, create, and focus. Essential to children’s learning here is physical and emotional well-being, which is understood as a combination of security, self-confidence, quality relationships, and motor development. To nurture these conditions, each school day includes physical activities, sensory activities, and emotional exploration via routines, storytelling, and guided discussions. Most importantly, the committed team of teachers and staff gives personalized attention to each child, which establishes a climate of trust where each child feels safe to express themselves and take initiative. “A child who feels calm, heard, and engaged is a child who is ready to learn,” Mary says. 

La Petite Ecole places great importance on hands-on experiences that allow children to understand, explore, and create through meaningful, real-life situations, and the new campus includes specific elements that allow it to holistically introduce a variety of subject areas, including STEM, eco-citizenship, and creativity. The pedagogical kitchen, for example, allows children to learn through concrete and engaging activities: handling, measuring, tasting, and collaborating so they strengthen language, mathematics, and autonomy skills while recognizing the joys of cooperation. Meanwhile, the sensory room offers a soothing and immersive environment where light, textures, and sounds are specifically designed to stimulate the senses, support emotional regulation, and encourage gentle exploration. And by observing growing plants in the garden, students develop curiosity, logical thinking, and an ability to question the world around them. Even everyday actions such as gardening, sorting, and taking ownership of shared spaces help children build early ecological awareness and respect for living things.

An invitation to understand the school in action

After diligent work, the new campus is ready for its official unveiling. Families interested in learning more about La Petite Ecole’s educational philosophy, including the two new programs, meeting teachers and administrators, and seeing the facilities where their children can learn and play, are invited to an Open House on May 9 from 11:00 am to 01:00 pm. Held at the new campus, it will give parents an opportunity to ask questions and get a feel for the nurturing but rigorous environment that develops students into lifelong, bilingual learners with compassion and confidence. 

 Interested families can register for the May 9 Open day here. 

Between Thủ Thiêm's ambitious new skyscrapers, the planned transformation of Thanh Đa Peninsula and a LEED-standard apartment complex that looks like Marina Bay Sands, Saigon's skyline seems to change every other day.

For this reason, you don't have to delve too far into the past to find a completely different view of Saigon. Just last decade, the city's Tax Center was still a fully functional retail complex and the Quách Thị Trang Roundabout still hosted the central bus interchange.

Perhaps the strongest example of this is the Bitexco Tower. Today, it's Saigon's most iconic modern building, but take a look at the city before 2010 and the lotus-shaped skyscraper is markedly absent from District 1, changing the landscape of downtown Saigon altogether and bringing us back to a moment in the city's history before the current skyscraper boom.

Here is a look at the development of Saigon's tallest building from the very beginning of its construction in 2009 through the first few years of the Bitexco's operation. Photographer Fred Wissink captures in black and white the rapid transformation of downtown Saigon. 

April 2009. Along the canal, facing District 1 from District 4.  

 August 2009. The Khánh Hội Bridge crossing into District 1 from District 4.  

 August 2009. The Khánh Hội Bridge crossing into District 1 from District 4.  

August 2009. The Khánh Hội Bridge crossing into District 1 from District 4.  

View of Bitexco tower from the old pier in District 2's Thủ Thiêm. A ferry crosses the river in the foreground.

February 2010. Construction of the Thủ Thiêm Tunnel entrance in front of Võ Văn Kiệt in District 1.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội Bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội Bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khanh Hoi bridge and Ton Duc Thang Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội Bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội Bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

October 2009. The Bitexco reaches its midpoint. Photos taken from the Khánh Hội Bridge and Tôn Đức Thắng Street.

The Bitexco rises behind the Duxton hotel on Nguyễn Huệ Street on a rainy night.

November 2010. The exterior of the building has been completed but interior renovations continue. From the rooftop of the Eden Mall building, which came down shortly after the photos were taken.

November 2010. The exterior of the building has been completed but interior renovations continue. From the rooftop of the Eden Mall building, which came down shortly after the photos were taken.

November 2010. The Bitexco looms like an alien structure in a city too small to contain it.

November 2010. The Bitexco looms like an alien structure in a city too small to contain it.

November 2010. The Bitexco looms like an alien structure in a city too small to contain it.

April 2011. The Bitexco set against the 1930s Grand Hotel on Đồng Khởi in the foreground.

April 2011. The Saigon Zoo and the city draped in mist with Bitexco in the background, partially blocked by the Times Square building.

April 2011. The Bitexco set beside the river. Looking from Bình Thạnh District across the zoo.

October 2011. A completed but still mostly unfilled Bitexco is quickly surrounded by other Saigon skyscrapers.

October 2011. A completed but still mostly unfilled Bitexco is quickly surrounded by other Saigon skyscrapers.

April 2012. The Bitexco stands at the end of the newly opened highway and Thủ Thiêm Tunnel.

Photos by Frederik Wissink. To view more of his work, visit Fred Wissink Photography.

This article was originally published in 2015.