When he boarded a flight from Bangkok to Hanoi in 1992, Andy Soloman thought he would stay in Vietnam for just one month. Little did he know that what seemed like a brief trip would stretch into seven years — the beginning of a bond that has tied him to Vietnam for three decades and beyond.
At that time, Soloman was a freelance photographer living in London, struggling through an economic recession as projects grew fewer. An opportunity came when he accepted a short-term assignment in early 1992 to Hong Kong. Once there, he kept hearing stories about Vietnam, a country still bearing the scars of war but was standing on the cusp of change, where fragile infrastructure strained under an economy weakened after the collapse of the Soviet Union and burdened by the US embargo.
That awakened Soloman’s curiosity. And so, a few months later, he took a flight to Vietnam with a vague plan to travel around the country, but he knew no-one and had no idea what awaited him. The belongings of the 30-year-old photojournalist amounted to his Nikon camera gear, four bags stuffed with rolls of film, a few notebooks, a sense of adventure, and a heart eager to understand a land in transition, a country on the brink of profound change shaped by its era.
Construction workers building a road in Hanoi.
A journey without a plan: how one month became seven years
Early afternoon on October 21, 1992, Soloman stepped into Nội Bài Airport, then a small, old, yellow building with no electronic boards or spacious lounges like today. “As I waited at immigration, I saw a few Vietnamese people calling names as they greeted passengers. I looked around, no one called mine,” Soloman laughed as he recalled it. “I didn’t know where to go, and I knew no one in the city.” He asked someone nearby, “Can you give me a ride to the city center?” And so his journey began on a rickety car rattling along the rough road from Nội Bài to the Old Quarter. Along the way were only bicycles, pedestrians, livestock, and cows ambling right down the middle of the road.
Street kids on Tràng Tiền.
In the Old Quarter, Soloman lodged in a small French-style hotel for US$10 a night (100,000VND then). On his first morning in this unfamiliar land, he opened the window to a sky as clear as glass. He wandered through the narrow alleys and winding streets. “Life moved at an astonishingly slow pace,” he remembered. Everything was far removed from London or Hong Kong — from moss-covered houses to street vendors’ calls echoing through the lanes, from cyclo drivers napping in their seats to the sea of bicycles at Đồng Xuân Market. Hanoi at night in 1992 was silent, only dim lights dissolving into thick darkness.
Xích lô drivers in Hanoi.
Vietnam was poor then, but the radiant smiles on kind faces were what Soloman saw everywhere. What made him fall in love with the country from the start were the people: the smile of a street vendor, the warm nod of a cyclo driver. And that first impression made Soloman want to stay longer.
Crossing Vietnam in seven years
After spending some time in Hanoi, the wanderlust of a photojournalist urged Soloman to explore life along the length of the country in its full depth. Collaborating with the Press Center of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Soloman set off on many trips across Vietnam to fulfill that mission.
His camera became the bridge between the British photographer and the people of Vietnam. Everywhere he went, Soloman saw a country struggling to heal from the wounds of war: rough roads turning muddy under rain and ruined bridges awaiting repairs; budding industrial towns; understaffed clinics and schools; city electricity flickering while rural areas plunged into darkness lit only by oil lamps. In remote regions, life was harsh and mired in crop failures and disease outbreaks.
A H'Mông man in Đồng Văn, Hà Giang.
His first trip took him from Hanoi to Hải Phòng, Quảng Ninh, Lạng Sơn, up to the Chinese border. There, he witnessed bustling fishing ports, emerging industrial towns, and early cross-border trade. In Hòn Gai, the sea wind blew salt into the air, and the harbor was busy with boats beside a Hạ Long Bay still devoid of foreign tourists. Fishermen lived with their dogs, cats, chickens, and ducks on floating boats. Amid this scene, Soloman found a quiet tenderness watching a couple share a simple lunch of fresh shellfish on the deck. As one of the rare foreign visitors, he was always greeted with curious, friendly smiles.
A coal mine in Cẩm Phả, Quảng Ninh.
Not long after, in Lạng Sơn, while sipping tea at a small shop, a family spotted him and invited him to their wedding. “A burst of firecrackers exploded, announcing the bride’s arrival,” Soloman described. “We celebrated, raised glasses, drank Chinese beer and homemade rice wine.” Later, he photographed the young couple on their wedding night.
A wedding of Tay Đăm ethnic minority in Sơn La.
After these early journeys, Soloman traveled farther southwards. In an old Soviet UAZ-469 jeep, he crossed the Central Region, visiting Quảng Trị with its war remnants, the Hiền Lương Bridge that once divided the nation, the Trường Sơn Cemetery, Huế, Đà Nẵng, Quy Nhơn, and onward to the Central Highlands.
Dung, a newborn at the Huế Central Hospital.
In December 1992, he stopped at the Huế Central Hospital. The hospital was simple, with outdated facilities, though medical students studied diligently around patients’ beds. “Doctors were highly skilled and dedicated, but worked under immense shortages. In pediatrics, there were no air-conditioners for hot days, no heaters for cold nights. Neonatal incubators could be counted on one hand,” Soloman reminisces. The photo of Dung, a newborn infant lying in a ragged hospital cot, is still kept by Soloman today, a snapshot of Vietnam’s health system at that time in Huế.
When he reached the Central Highlands, he saw red-dirt roads winding through hills scarred by chemical defoliants; barren slopes and charred tree stumps blended with burnt grass. Passing through Jrai, Sedang, and Bahnar villages, Soloman eventually arrived in the homeland of the Brau, one of Vietnam's smallest ethnic groups — then only 212 people — at the border of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. There, the village elder, A Lem, welcomed him with infectious enthusiasm. Wearing a loincloth, holding a spear, performing ritual dances to the beat of gongs, A Lem insisted Soloman drink “rượu cần,” a traditional wine served in large earthenware jars and drunk through long bamboo straws, which was the Brau’s ceremonial liquor.
Phan Cao Toại, a doctor at the Tuy Hòa Leprosy Hospital.
In 1992, poor transportation and limited communication were the biggest obstacles. “Most roads were full of potholes; going 20 km/h felt lucky,” Soloman said. With no internet and difficult phone access, film had to be sent overseas for developing. Years passed before Soloman saw many of his images. Some films were lost or damaged, so the photos vanished forever.
That made every surviving moment more precious. Through each frame and story, Soloman preserved Vietnam in 1992–1999 in its raw truth. But what stayed with him for life were the people: the determination amid poverty, the unconditional hospitality. “I arrived as a stranger, but I left as a friend,” he said.
Workers at the Chiến Thắng Textile Factory.
Reunions after 30 years
Those early encounters had forged in him a profound affection for Vietnam. More than three decades after his first journeys, Soloman embarked on an incredible quest: to find the people he photographed in the 1990s.
Nguyễn Văn Sơn in Đồng Kỳ.
The idea began during the pandemic, when he finally had time to revisit his old photographs. He posted a few images from the Đồng Kỵ Firecracker Festival of 1994 on social media. Unexpectedly, the post caught the attention of many. Messages from the people of Đồng Kỵ poured in. They said, “That’s my grandfather in the photo,” or “That’s my father when he was young.” In that moment, Soloman realized something profound: for them, these images were more than just photographs, they were fragments of family memory, of a time now gone. And he wondered: could he find these people again and return these memories to them?
That question spurred Soloman and his wife to set off in 2022. The couple rented a motorbike in Saigon and rode north to the Central Highlands, and from Pleiku and Kontum they sought out remote villages he visited in 1992. In their hands were neatly printed photographs and clues painstakingly gathered from hundreds of old notebooks, and the hope that someone might still recognize the faces from the past.
On their return to the Central Highlands, Soloman visited the Jarai villages in Kon Tum to find the little girl he had photographed in 1992, when she was just ten years old, carrying her sibling on her back. He showed the photo to the people he met along the way. Curious and delighted, they pointed out that the girl from decades ago was now a mother of four. Soloman asked how she could recognize herself. She explained the details that had stayed with her: the dress and the sandals.
“I loved that dress and those sandals. I cried asking my mother to buy them. The sandals cost 3,000VND, and my mother struggled to get them,” she said, eyes glistening as she recalled her childhood. Her name was Y Trinh. The old photograph opened a door to a carefree time long past, and it deepened her appreciation for her mother’s sacrifices.
Y Von in Kon Tum.
In 2022, when Soloman returned to the Central Highlands, the once-bare hills had become covered in coffee, pepper and rubber plantations. In the distance, towering wind turbines slowly turned. Wooden stilt houses had almost disappeared, replaced by new concrete homes. Cafés, asphalt roads, new markets, schools, and hospitals had become much more accessible. Economic development and waves of migration had reshaped the landscape, infrastructure, and everyday life. Yet the way people welcomed him remained unchanged from thirty years ago. In 1992, A Lem danced with spears and shared “rượu cần” with Soloman; 30 years later, his daughter, Nang Pha, greeted him with a new jar of “rượu cần,” quietly continuing the tradition with pride.
In Thái Nguyên, the British photographer sought out Đào Văn Pai, the H’Mông musician who had played the khèn, a traditional H’Mông musical instrument, and danced for him in 1992. Thirty years later, Pai still owned the instrument, though it no longer worked.
Pai, a H'Mông khèn musician in Thái Nguyên.
There were also times when the people he once knew were no longer there. In 2024, Soloman visited a small shop by Hoàn Kiếm Lake, where he had once conversed with Bùi Thị Thanh Niên, its owner, in 1992, despite language barriers. She had passed away 15 years earlier, and Soloman handed her photograph to her daughter, Nguyễn Thị Xuân Hương. She had carefully preserved her mother’s belongings: glasses, a worn French-Vietnamese dictionary, and a poetry notebook, all reminders of a woman passionate about languages, knowledge, and her work at the shop. Hương kept the shop open in memory of her mother, maintaining a small corner of memory in a city continually in flux.
Ngọc Trâm, a news reporter of the Vietnam National Television (VTV).
The journey continues
Hundreds of other photographs and their stories remain safely stored in a very special corner of Soloman’s memory. He plans to continue this “return” journey in the years ahead: “The most valuable thing in photography is connection. The camera is the bridge that brings me closer to people. It is human warmth that has kept me tied to Vietnam for thirty years.”
Andy Soloman and his wife.
After more than 30 years, Soloman always felt that he had received far more from Vietnam than he could ever give back. Vietnam is where he met and married his wife, a Hanoi woman. It's where his children were born, where strangers opened their homes to him, offered tea, shared warm meals, and recounted their life stories by the fire at night. All of these experiences became an integral part of the memories forming his lifelong bond with Vietnam.
Top photo: Hanoians watch a circus performance at Lenin Park on October 15, 1992.
