Living in Saigon has plenty of perks, but generally speaking fresh air, relaxation and meandering paths aren’t among them and Saigoneers are constantly looking for opportunities to leave the city for reinvigoration. Vietnam has plenty of options if you’re willing to hop on a plane or go for a long drive, but who doesn’t like shorter and less stressful travel options so you can spend your time unwinding?

Though we’ve long argued that Vũng Tàu is an underrated neighbor, there’s another location just over 2 hours from Saigon that quietly offers plenty of places to explore: Hồ Tràm

Convenient accommodations abound

When making travel plans it’s always a solid idea to lock down a place to stay ahead of time. Among the most convenient options in the area is The Grand Ho Tram, given its bounty of entertainment and food options. One would likely be perfectly content spending the entire weekend without leaving the resort, but for those who want to take a day to drive along the coast and check out nearby attractions, there are more options than one might imagine.

About 10km from Hồ Tràm is the sleepy town of Bưng Riềng for example, within which lies the church of Giáo Xứ Bông Trang. Though the current structure was built around 2014, the parish was established in 1976 when residents of Saigon’s Thủ Đức district relocated to the area. Perhaps not as impressive as some other churches in Vietnam, the grounds are pleasant to walk in and there are some lovely religious reliefs on its walls.

Upon leaving Giáo Xứ Bông Trang, make your way through a sea of dragon fruit plantations until you reach Hồ Bông Trang. Clearly, a favorite for local fishermen, this body of water’s banks are ripe for exploration. One Google review of the lake mentioned camping was possible, though take that with a grain of salt, as we didn’t notice any tents pitched when we visited.

From here, take a turn towards the bizarre at Đồi Cừu Sinh Thái Bưng Riềng. Defying classification, it's a mix of zoo, cafe, Instagram set, rideless amusement park and vintage electronics museum, all situated amidst a series of artificial canals and ponds spanned by bridges of many varieties. Parts are very kid-friendly while others are almost unsafe for adults. You will be concurrently confused and entertained on your visit here, delighted and perplexed by its existence.

Seafood feasts on a budget

By the time you depart, you’ll likely need to regain some sanity and refuel with some local delicacies. A visit to one of the seafood eateries along a quaint pedestrian street near the ocean offers plenty of crustaceans, mollusks and fish to choose from, all cooked in your preferred style. We picked Hải Sản Mỹ Lệ among the many options as my companion had previously patronized the establishment and had high praise for their cơm chiên hải sản. Though groups of tourists emptied out of SUVs to snatch up high-priced lobsters and crabs by the dozens, presumably to bring back to Saigon to prepare seafood feasts, there are lower-cost items that hit the spot, particularly when washed down with a few bottles of Sài Gòn Xanh.

Surf and sand in semi-seclusion

After eating, some beach time is in order and a number of pseudo-public/private ocean fronts are located in the area where groups of young folks have picnics, climb the boulders that litter the shoreline and swim in the sea.

After a day on the road and in the sun, The Grand Ho Tram offers plenty of ways to refresh and unwind: a dip into one of the eight pools or a visit to the spa allows for some much-needed relaxation. Before heading back to reality, one would be remiss not to take advantage of the resort's 16 restaurants that offer everything from dim sum to Tomahawk steaks to fresh lobsters; bars that serve up sunset cocktails with live music and unique special events and a Greg Norman-designed golf course that draws crowds from across southeast Asia.

Grand Ho Tram's website

Grand Ho Tram's Facebook Page

Grand Ho Tram's Email

1800 588 801

Grand Ho Tram | Phuoc Thuan Commune, Xuyen Moc District, Ba Ria Vung Tau Province

It was my first trip to Zushi Beach and the sun was beginning to set. 

Summertime brashness

Across the bay, the hazy mountain range that curved along the opposing shore was fading from view. Peaks dominated the skyline, stretching beyond sight. As they darkened, something even bigger appeared behind them; it was just half a silhouette, yet a colossal presence that dwarfed everything else in sight. A few minutes later, the light had gone and I wondered if I had just imagined it all.

I have since witnessed the same spectacle on numerous occasions and learned that, despite its breathtaking size, Mount Fuji is frustratingly elusive during the summer months. It seems like every time you think it’s finally about to emerge in full view, it’s suddenly lost to fading light or a fresh layer of mist.

This stretch of Shonan's coastline is notorious for its summer party atmosphere. From July to September, rows of pop-up bars appear along the shore and throngs of people flood down from Tokyo, Yokohama and Kawasaki. Bands play J-pop on temporary stages and all through the day, the beaches are packed with people. Even after dark, the more popular stretches are often dotted with groups of drinkers that play in the shallows or let off small, whimpering fireworks.

Pastel light reflecting off the ocean.

The quietude of winter

It was only after a spur-of-the-moment trip last December that I realized how beautiful the view from the beach actually is. Previously smothered in a thick haze, the mountains were now crisp and jagged. And Fuji, which had been nothing more than a shadow, was now clearly defined. I could see the gradations of its ridges, follow small clouds moving across its face, and even trace snow-filled ravines that clawed downward from its peak.

There’s a special atmosphere on the beaches in winter, particularly if you’ve experienced the party vibe during the peak summer months. This feeling is as much to do with the absence of human activity as to how people spend their time here during winter. Hordes of people playing at the water’s edge are replaced by surfers out in the deep, all waiting for a perfect wave. Instead of bars and partygoers, couples sit hand-in-hand, taking in the silence and watching pastel light reflect off the ocean.

Seaweed on the shore. 

Each morning, I would walk along near-deserted Yuigahama beach, dip my feet into the freezing water and watch surfers brave the cold. At the end of each day, I watched the sunset from Zushi Beach, before returning home after a stop at one of the many small bathhouses that dot the side streets of Kamakura.

On my final morning, I met Obe, a university student who often drives down from central Tokyo before sunrise to catch the early waves. “Are you never distracted by the view?” I asked him. He shook his head, “Not really. Maybe when I first started coming here, but it’s normal for me now. Sometimes, though, I’ll sit on the beach after surfing and think ‘Wow. That’s really beautiful’.”

The area is accessible by train from central Tokyo.

“I like the summer parties,” Obe continued. “The waves are better around typhoon season — maybe August or September. But yeah, it’s a special place in the winter. A lot more peaceful. A lot more relaxed. You have the view but it’s also the atmosphere on the beaches. The crowds are gone and the people are friendlier.”

Obe picked up his board and waded back out into the sea. He struggled with the unseasonably strong surf and was thrown off his board before falling silently into the waves. Behind me, I could just make out the sound of a man struggling to control his kite in the wind. Two girls were walking along the shore, inspecting shells that had washed up. Above it all, in the distance, Fuji was emerging from the clouds; another winter’s day at the beach had quietly come to life.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

I took a deep breath, realizing that I was suspended in the midpoint of everything, above the calm, glassy surface of Trị An Lake and beneath the vast, enveloping azure sky that blanketed Mã Đà forest.

Trị An Lake, the heart of Mã Đà

From the flow of the Đồng Nai river, Trị An lake was created as a reservoir for a hydroelectric power plant of the same name. The lake sprawls across hundreds of square kilometers, bordering multiple districts of Đồng Nai Province. Much of this landscape is dominated by the lush vegetation of the Mã Đà Forest. During the dryer months of the year, the area becomes more hospitable to visitors, luring travelers in search of a bit of serenity far from the city's clamor.

We packed our bags and left Saigon for one such sun-soaked weekend. After two hours breezing to Biên Hòa on the Hanoi Highway then National Route 1A, we meandered along an internal road adorned with bougainvillea before reaching our first gateway — a small offshoot of the Mã Đà forest. Concrete and white road markings gave way to rough, terracotta-colored dirt paths. Swirling dust kept pace with every twist of the steering wheel. After what felt like an endless journey through thickets of melaleuca, the sight of Trị An Lake gradually unfolded before our eyes.

It was hard to fathom that what was in front of us was human-engineered, its calm surface mirrored the unblemished sky, gleaming like a silken ribbon enveloping the surrounding terrain.

Take only photographs, leave only footprints

Lành Farm, our lodging for the stay, is a farmstay nestled by the shores of Trị An. Lành Farm feels both delightfully spacious and wonderfully snug. It feels snug because the area is neatly confined to a few small thatched huts and a communal area, with the kitchen seamlessly connecting to the main guest area. It feels spacious because Lành seems to meld with its surroundings: here, walls and other man-made structures that often separate us from the world are scarce; there's an abundance of light, open air, greenery, and winds that can be felt from wherever we sit.

“As a city dweller, I'd always associated nature with untamed wilderness. And yet, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the nature here was remarkably gentle.”

Lành came into existence three years ago when Bình, the farm's owner, wanted to find a place where her family could “relish the experience of self-cultivation and personal growth through gardening, all while extending warm hospitality to friends and visitors.” To foster natural development, the meals here are prepared with ingredients directly harvested from the garden or procured locally, dishes (and people) are cleansed with biodegradable agents, and guests are kindly urged not to bring products encased in plastic packaging. Lành takes care of all things, so guests need only arrive and depart with a deep respect for nature, a carefree spirit, and a swimsuit.

As the midday sun softened, it was the perfect time to dive into the fresh waters of Trị An Lake. The lake sprawled expansively, its nearshore waters tinged with sandy hues, providing just the right depth for leisurely splashing and languid floating. Venturing further out into the lake, the water grew deeper and clearer, demanding vigilance even from seasoned swimmers. Either way, life jackets were required, it was better to not mess around and find out.

My colleague and I hopped onto a stand-up paddleboard (SUP) anchored on the sandy beach. Left, right, right, left — our rhythmic motions guided the board gracefully across the calm surface. We circled the lake without a specific destination in mind, occasionally engaging in friendly races with another boat, and at other times, just drifting aimlessly and leisurely. We soaked in the hidden wonders behind the curtain of trees, soft golden rays filtering through leaves, and the gentle sway of the forest to the wind.

When we chose to cease our paddling and let the boat float freely, my senses experienced a euphoric release — I felt every aspect of nature converging upon me, I heard the lullaby of waves caressing the hull, and I watched in awe as birds gracefully glided through the skies above.

In the late afternoon, we set up our tents and took a leisurely walk along the sandy beach before dinner. The gentle midday breezes had transformed into a slightly cooler evening wind. The last rays of the sun had painted the sky and the water with warm hues of orange, fiery red, and, finally, a serene purple. At a moment like this, guests could fly kites, strike picturesque poses for their Instagram feeds, finally revisit a long-neglected book, or simply sit in quiet contemplation, savoring nature’s own light show.

As night descended, artificial lights were kept to a minimum, adding an aura of enchantment to the atmosphere by the water. We gathered around a modest campfire to prepare the barbeque goodies provided by Lành. Each person had their assigned task, and the savory, smoky scent of grilled proteins and vegetables soon filled the air. The cool night of the forest enticed us to huddle closer to the comforting warmth of the fire. The campfire cast a cozy glow, creating a space for us to share remarkable life stories, forging a seemingly magical connection between us and nature, between us and each other.

Catching sunrise by the lake

If the early birds catch the worms, then those who rise early at Trị An are in for a spectacular morning show. Regrettably, I'm not one to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn; the sun had already climbed high while I was still in deep slumber.

The sunlight piercing through the tent finally woke me up. I leaned out of the door flap and beheld the vast expanse of the lake before me, its water still clear and serene like a mirror. I took in a deep breath of the morning air, untainted and infused with the fragrance of the forest, a rarity in the city where I live.

We started the day with a warm bowl of bún chả cá, soothing our hunger. Some chose to venture out on their own while others reclined on hammocks to bask in the pleasant sun and breeze. Then, under the guidance of a local boy, we rolled up our sleeves and headed out to collect ngao. These minute clams, resembling tiny buried treasures beneath the sand, were eagerly unearthed and handed over to the kitchen to serve as ingredients for lunch — introducing a fresh addition to Lành's menu while still adhering to its “homegrown” ethos.

Before our retreat, I used to have my doubts about this camping trip, when everyone discussed it. As a city dweller, I'd always associated nature with untamed wilderness. And yet, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the nature here was remarkably gentle, enfolding me in its tender embrace, from the earth to the sky and the water. Consequently, as I return to the hectic pace of city life, I often find myself reminiscing about that weekend by Trị An Lake as a mental sanctuary. And for a moment in my mind, I am peacefully sitting on the lakeshore, bathing in golden sunlight at a place where doing nothing amounts to doing so much, where I feel inner peace blossom within me.

On an isle amid the Vàm Thuật river in Gò Vấp District, Phù Châu Temple, colloquially known among locals as the “floating temple,” has welcomed religious practitioners looking for a serene quarter in fast-paced Hồ Chí Minh City for over three centuries.

To get to the temple, you must take a short ferry trip. Arriving at the isle, the only sounds you will hear are the ripples of the river, and the passing of ferries and occasional airplanes.

Much of the temple's decorative features are made of porcelain mosaics.

The most prominent feature of Phù Châu is a house of dragons. More than 100 majestic dragon sculptures depicted in various postures and styles reside in every corner of the historic structure. Taking a closer look, visitors can immediately see the meticulous work that was put into crafting these statues.

Intricate animal motifs are peppered throughout the structure.

The temple came into existence around the 18^th or early 19^th century, according to word of mouth. The exact date when it was built, however, is unclear, since there is no record in any history books regarding this mysterious floating temple.

Despite the name, the temple is not actually floating. It was built on a small islet in the middle of the Vàm Thuật River.

According to a local legend, once upon a time, a fisherman on the isle accidentally netted a statue of the Queen of the Sea (Bà Thủy Tề), so the people built a temple to pay respect and pray for good luck and nature’s blessings.

Visitors seeking good fortune can pay Miếu Nổi a visit.

A somewhat darker legend, however, tells the story of how a local man found a woman who drowned while fishing on the river. He buried her on this isle beside a small shrine erected in hopes of appeasing her soul. After the incident, the fisherman’s life suddenly improved, and after rumors of his fortune got around, people started coming to the shrine to pray and give offerings, hoping for a better life, too.

According to urban legends, ancient Gò Vấp residents established the temple to worship a statue of the Queen of the Sea. 

Having been standing for more than 300 years, the temple has experienced many ups and downs along with Vietnam’s mercurial history. In the early 1960s, the structure was a common destination for pilgrims and wordshippers. But during the war with America, it was used to organize secret operations for soldiers. This clandestine purpose resulted in the temple being severely damaged by the time the war ended.

The suburban vibe of Gò Vấp.

Fortunately, a restoration project for Phù Châu began in the late 1980s, which has brought the floating temple to its current state. It’s a destination that offers a soul-soothing experience for its visitors.

If you’ve been meaning to embark on a trip to escape from the chaos of daily life but aren’t quite keen to plunge straight into the wilderness, Huế might be the perfect next destination. The city center embodies calm, quietude and a sense of poetic beauty — these are all great qualities that have long drawn visitors to it, but not many are aware that there’s an entirely different side of Huế if one just takes a short ride away from the urban heartland alongside the Perfume River.

A detour into the unknown

Sơn Thọ Lake in Hương Trà Township was one rare gem that a friend from Huế introduced me to on my trip last March. The location wasn’t on my original itinerary, but it didn’t take much persuasion for me to immediately agree to check it out once I heard of the “verdant lake in the middle of a forest.”

The lake lies amid thick patches of vegetation in suburban Huế. On the drive in, past trees, vines and bushes, I tried to look for a sign or significant landmark for future visits, but I eventually gave up.

From central Huế, drive around 12 kilometers in the southwestern direction to get to Sơn Thọ. It wasn’t a trip for the faint-hearted, including stretches on dirt paths and sections in the middle of the jungle. If traveling without a well-versed local, you can follow Google Maps’ instructions to the Tomb of Emperor Gia Long, then ask around for directions to Hương Trà.

A scene of pastoral charm on the way to the lake.

The closer you get to the lake, the less inhabited the scenery will be, but in exchange, you can marvel at endless fields and a picturesque natural landscape. A crystal-clear sky, a golden sheen of sunlight coating the foliage, layers and layers of trees fade in and out at the horizon — everything blends together like an ancient ink-wash painting, wild and free of human touch. Every time my travel companion reminded me to get my phone ready, I knew that we were about to careen past a spectacular vista that would be impossible to describe with mere words

Sơn Thọ Lake is a natural water body, with clear and fresh water. It’s surrounded by mountains and hills.

Unlike Huế’s well-known tombs, the lake is not a popular tourist destination, and could probably remain that way due to its isolated location. A few cottages of local residents dot the lakeside, but none is engaged in the tourism industry. They welcomed us with lovely smiles and playful banter and agreed to ferry us across the lake with a pay-what-you-want fee.

Camping under the stars

A visit to Sơn Thọ in the summer will reveal a lake bottom carpeted with clumps of moss after the water recedes. It’s easy to set up a campsite here as the lake is part of public land, not under any restrictions. Some local households have started stocking basic camping necessities to supply to camping groups should they forget anything.

The beginning of summer brought to the lakeside a few friend groups who also sought out the area’s pristine scenery to set up their tents. Camping here would undoubtedly be a fantastic experience, but to me, just merely lying on the bed of soft grass to admire the fluffs of clouds in the sky and listen to the rustles of the forest is already enough without requiring any complicated setup.

Had we ended our adventure at Sơn Thọ Lake there, I would have been eternally grateful to my impromptu “tour guide,” but the magical factor of our stay was kicked up a notch when dusk fell: it was the perfect time for stargazing. Sequestered from urban quarters and their resulting light pollution, the vicinity of the lake proved to be the perfect vantage point to behold the astronomical beauty of the galaxy above.

The night sky at Sơn Thọ.

Still, not everyone who comes here wishing to chase the stars will succeed. My friend explained that, to have a fruitful night-gazing trip at Sơn Thọ, seek out moonless, cloudless nights towards the end of summer. To capture the galaxy in all of its glory, one needs to stay up until (or wake up at) 2–3am and set up a camera capable of manual settings. A touch of patience, a bit of technical know-how, a tent, some snacks, and a small fire — these are the bare minimum in the production of spectacular night shots.

As I made my way back to Saigon, the land of clamorous urban noises, I found myself missing Huế and Sơn Thọ Lake a lot. Huế has always been a land of fascinating history and mythology that never fails to amaze visitors. If you have already experienced the contemplative side of the city’s temples and mausoleums, why not try out a different kind of serenity at Sơn Thọ Lake?

Whether we choose to participate or not, most of us are fascinated by Vietnam’s motorbike culture.

The pace, the innovative spirit, and the casualness of people who perform in each day’s tightly choreographed traffic dances make for a thrilling phenomenon. So you can imagine my enchantment when I discovered what motorbike culture looks like on Tà Năng Mountain and the hills of Lâm Đồng Province. It takes about a six-hour drive and half a day’s hike from Saigon to reach the entrance to this other “planet.” It’s a place that makes me feel a million miles away from any city, and comfortably isolated from the rest of the world. And once you’re there, it’s easy to see why the people that know it are always going back.

The men and motos of Tà Năng

The complete Tà Năng-Phan Dũng trail stretches more than 55 kilometers across the hilltops and valleys of three provinces: Lâm Đồng, Ninh Thuận, and Bình Thuận. People have been walking these ridges forever, so it was inevitable that eventually Vietnam’s famous motorbikes would make it to the mountains too.

Xe độ are often needed to scale the rough textures of Tà Năng.

The unique machines that ride over these ridges are called xe đi rừng, meaning “motorbikes used in the forest,” or xe độ, which translates to “motorbike that’s been changed from the manufacturer version,” a hint at their distinguishable nature. The young men who drive them are known as người khuân vác or “porters,” with their custom rigs doubling as convenient — and, might I add, super slick — nicknames for the exclusive group.

As with so many good things, the longer you peer at these amazing machines, the more you see. Some of my favorite features were the free and detached stick-for-kick-stand strategy that seemed to be invariably adopted, the custom welded made-to-size holders and racks that carry bottles of engine fluids and extra gas, and the complete (although initially subtle) and utter lack of foot...anything. Eventually you’ll notice the chain on the rear wheel and the extra sets of shocks. After having the pleasure of riding as the third of three passengers on one of these skeleton rigs as it ripped over a flat portion of trail, I surmise they “beefed up” the engines as well. 

One of the handful of trail vendors, a lovely man named Anh Heo, shared that anyone could buy a basic version of one of the bikes for a reasonable price, but the porters mostly build and customize their own. One bike had a variety of its parts painted green to match its green shocks, while another had the skinniest exhaust pipe I have ever seen; no more than a couple centimeters wide all the way down. 

As it turns out, not all porters are transporting camping supplies — consider the cooler that resembles the ones you see all over Saigon, containing cold soda, water, and beer strapped to the back of Anh Heo’s rather simple-looking bike. He drives 40 kilometers a day to sell cold beverages to weary hikers along the trail.

Yes, that’s right! That means, as you trek into this magical land, around each bend or at the top of a long climb, there very well may be ice-cold beer waiting for purchase. As soon as the initial excitement wore off, I giggled that I could be shocked at all. We are in Vietnam after all, “cold beer can be delivered anywhere,” my friend graciously reminded me. I should have been shocked he hadn’t found us sooner.

Another whole new world

As you trek deeper down the Tà Năng-Phan Dũng trail, the landscape starts to unwrap itself. Lowlands become sparsely covered hilltops covered in patches of young forest or dotted with a lone tree. Eventually, the route took us through a bamboo forest and up the back of a long, last, steep hill. And as we cleared the treeline and came around the side of the giant bulbous mound of earth we had just scaled, the scene and sky grew before our eyes. We had arrived, safely transported to another world. 

Boldly and graciously, the landscape evolves with the seasons here. The sparsely camouflaged ridges are sometimes covered in patches of dense, deep green, and sometimes they are bald. Underneath the ground growth, the hills are covered in a type of basaltic soil that, when pounded by Vietnam’s iconic rains, turns a vibrant orangey-tan, gets thick and slick and dries like potter’s clay. 

By the time you come up to your second or third incline, you would notice the deep grooves the machines cut into the side of each pitch, and it becomes clear why the bikes are as rugged and souped-up as they are. Their revving motors and altered anatomies produce a loud chug-chug-chug that announces their arrival before they can be seen. And then watching them is a joy: chain suddenly crucial, power plainly obvious, operator’s command of the situation — relaxed and masterful. Sometimes an extra passenger sits atop the cargo, sometimes three men straddle the long frame, but they always smiles; half-smoked cigarettes occupy the corners of their mouths. 

Chang Adventure

Both of my trips were made possible through the guidance and support of the enthusiastic trekking group, Chang Adventure, a team of young, local nature lovers who have made a business out of taking fellow hikers on unique, remote adventures throughout the central and southern regions of Vietnam. With an everything-included model, they make it easy for hikers to sign up and go; no equipment or extensive preparation necessary.

Chang Adventure's commitment to sustainability further sets them apart. Each customer who signs up for one of their treks donates five trees to the Forest Garden Project, a project dedicated to respecting, reforesting, and educating about Vietnam’s Central Highlands, in partnership with local farmers. 

Since the organizers opt to keep group numbers small and treat all their guests as old friends, they are able to create an instant and intimate comradery within their teams, an aspect that makes it hard not to fall into new, fast friendships. The hike will get you on your first trip, but the people and the moments this experience fosters will keep you coming back. 

A sunrise worth going back for

I woke up as the sky was already changing. My body was moving before my brain caught up. I crawled out of my tent, put on my shoes, and roused my friends. As I pulled myself up and out into the dawn air, the scene beyond our little mound of planet gobbled me up from the top down. I closed my eyes and let myself to be taken away by the beauty of what was unfolding before me. Behind my lids lay a background of dusty, lavender blue, streaked with neon pink and fire bursts of orange.

The air was cool but not cold, the best word for it is probably “fresh,” a word we rarely get to use when describing the weather in southern Vietnam. With my eyes shut, I allowed myself to tune into the gentle choir of different songs — monkeys, cicadas, and a chorus of bird calls. Each note was unique and vibrant against the soft quiet of dawn. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It brought me back to my feet, bare on the wild grass, still dewy from the night.

Voices and the sounds of breakfast started to fade in against the jungle’s pleasant cacophony. I opened my eyes and in front of me was an expansive valley of receding hills smothered in layers of whipped, white morning mist. Each row a deeper shade of blue-ish gray; each row an extra barrier between us and the real world. It took us both an extra beat before we bid adieu to the moment and turned back towards the smell of fresh campfire-brewed coffee. 

If this moment appeals to you, find Chang Adventure and sign up for their next trek. Hồng Trang, who often uses the English name Kate, one of the founding members, and the rest of the crew are even greater gems than the utterly breathtaking vistas they will lead you too. It doesn’t happen often that you stumble upon one of those great fleeting things — be it a place, a group, or a tradition — before it becomes a “was.” And in my humble opinion, hiking Tà Năng is one of those very rare things. Don’t wait, because as we all know, a thing so great surely doesn’t last forever.

Located in the heart of a valley surrounded by verdant stretches of forest, the little hamlet of Khun retains much of its pristine natural charms. From the enigmatic beauty of the local Bó Mỳ Cave to babbling creeks, Khun is a must-visit destination during northern Vietnam’s sweltering summer season.

Khun is located in Bằng Lang Commune, 8 kilometers away from central Quang Bình District and 95 kilometers from Hà Giang City.

Compared to Hà Giang’s better-known localities, Khun has neither the majestic karst cliffs of Đồng Văn in the east nor Hoàng Su Phì’s terrace fields in the west. Khun, however, doesn’t host throngs of tourists, giving local areas a laid-back, easy demeanor that won’t overwhelm first-time travelers.

Khun is a sleepy hamlet at the foot of a mountain amidst the multitudes of green shades from the vegetation and endless paddy fields.

The humble hamlet, at its core, might seem like any village in the countryside, with stretches of rice fields, bamboo thickets, and stilt houses dotting the vista. Khun is gentle, tranquil, and calming like a maiden enjoying a perpetual slumber under the jungle canopy. This rustic simplicity tugs on the heartstrings of nature lovers like me. Arriving at Khun for just a moment, I found myself losing my grasp on the passage of time, dipping in and out of reality and the call to my past with childhood memories, their vivid colors and sounds.

Experiencing a day in Khun

Much of my time at Khun Hamlet was spent roaming about. I took long strolls on narrow, meandering paths along the edge of the fields, in between luxuriant bamboo bushes, and across crystal-clear brooks. Many stretches are still dirt paths. From afar, the routes into the hamlet seemed to be tiny threads tangled in the thick of the jungle. I made a conscious choice to walk as leisurely as possible to keep pace with the sleepy ambiance here, only stopping to enjoy a melody of hát then or mellow tính tẩu tune coming from uncertain corners of the village.

Palm fronds help to protect local farmers from the sun.

After finishing with the rice harvest, local residents move on to collecting peanuts.

Lychee is also a common crop in Khun.

Standing in the field amid the aroma of fresh hay, I watched puffs of cloud languidly inch past the sky before disintegrating into nothing. In a hurry, the sun sent the last few rays past the curtain of dusk before mellowing down behind the jungle. A lugubrious evening beckoned. Summer nights in Khun are often the time for sporadic bouts of rain. The deluge of water rushed onto the ground, forcefully shaking trees and flimsy structures. Throngs of amphibians began their loud opera sessions. The watery symphony brought me back to days spent in my hometown decades ago. I miss my hometown.

Pathways in Khun are often not paved.

When the morning came, Khun jolted awake. Once again, I phased out of slumber thanks to a cacophony of nature noises, the wilderness’ built-in alarm clock: the cock-a-doodle-doos of local roosters, the quacks of happy ducks, and the ballad of songbirds. I completely forgot to crane my arm to turn off my digital alarm clock like I always do while in the city. Early sun rays snuck in right beside my bed, and just outside the window, heavy clusters of ripe lychees enticed me to get up. Here, just existing and breathing air was enough to fill my being with a sense of palpable contentment.

Khun is exceptionally green. The tiny hamlet seemed lost in the middle of a valley in between swaths of heritage forest. Greenness cornered the village from four sides. The entire hamlet spans 1,513 hectares, but 961 hectares are protective forest. The forest safeguards the land. The forest has long kept the livelihood of the people safe for generations. It helps maintain the clean atmosphere. Looking outside from the village, it’s not difficult to spot multitudes of palm-covered hills. The fans of palm fronds act like umbrellas for farmers on the field and for buffalo herders. Palms also provide materials for roofing. The people of Khun grow up under the protective shade of palm trees.

Much of my time in Khun was spent on walks through nature.

Exploring the Bó Mỳ Cave

The forest welcomed me into its embrace when I visited Khun. At times, I felt like an innocent doe eagerly gallivanting around the forest. Following the footsteps of local Khun residents, the forest path led me to a natural masterpiece that Mother Earth gifted the hamlet — Bó Mỳ Cave. The cavern spans 2 kilometers, with the highest stretch reaching 50 meters tall and the widest 20 meters across.

In the cave, an underground lake molds itself along the contours of the rock. This acts as a reservoir for many hamlets of the local commune. The water is crystal-clear and refreshing. Some parts of the lake can be quite deep, over 2 meters, so people installed wooden rafts for ease of crossing. This waterbody is also home to many a local delicacy, including cá dầm xanh, a type of regional carp. Because of this region, the cave is sometimes called the Dầm Xanh Cave.

Bó Mỳ Cave acts like a reservoir for many local hamlets.

Setting foot inside the cave felt like entering an alternate dimension. It was cool to the touch, as the inner temperature is almost always 5°C lower than outside. Just looking around, one can’t help being in awe of the nimble hands of Mother Nature, being able to create such a breathtaking sight.

The heart of the cavern featured numerous stalactites in whimsical shapes and forms, fashioned by the movements of wind and water. One might look like a bridge, another resembles a castle, a hand, or even a weaving silk sash hung across the wall. After hundreds or even thousands of years, mineral-rich water droplets fall from the ceiling to crystallize into exquisite stalagmites protruding from the ground. The cave formations rest in silence every day away from prying eyes, but when there are visitors, like me, they come alive with every brush of my flashlight, showcasing a fantastical elegance as if the setting of a magical tale.

There’s no light inside the cave, so explorers should remember to bring along light sources.

After my adventure inside the cave, I let my legs soak inside the outside stream’s chilly water. Perhaps sensing my fatigue, a school of fish excitedly started grazing my feet like nature’s own version of a pedicure. The shallow water outside the cave entrance is so translucent one can clearly spot the pebbles below. These gentle creeks come from the surrounding mountains, flowing in between rock formations to reach the field, nourishing rice fields and peanut plantations, and drenching local childhoods in their cooling water.

The creeks provide local children with a cooling source of freshwater, where they spend most of their summer days frolicking.

The tastes of the valley

Life in the heart of the mountains is unsurprisingly very peaceful. There are only 178 households in Khun, comprising four main ethnic groups — Tày, Dao, Nùng, and La Chí. Khun residents have retained the customs and traditions of their cultures. Along the base of the mountains, Tày people built stilt houses from local materials, especially palm fronds as roofing. Families gather beneath these structures every meal.

Here, I was treated to a diverse range of local dishes like colorful sticky rice, gỏi cá, and pickled meat, all prepared by my host. Right by the wooden walls, weavers are hard at work creating bamboo baskets and brocade textile. Every year, the Nùng community holds ceremonial offering events to express their gratitude to nature, the Dao community undertakes coming-of-age rituals for adolescent boys, while Lá Chí families use rice as a main offering for their own customs, and more.

A banquet platter prepared by Tày cooks.

The Bằng Lang Commune market is assembled every Saturday.

Fish salad, a local specialty.

The end of May brought along a golden hue to the valley. From above, the land is a mosaic of green, yellow, and ochre patches thanks to squares of ripening paddy. The harvest season also casts a joyful mood over the village. In the wind, the fragrance of harvest-ready grains and hay spread to every corner of the valley. Gaggles of children follow their parents to the field to play.

Gold rice paddy coats the valley during harvest season.

A traditional stilt house of the Tày people with a thatched roof.

Inside local houses, created from timber, bamboo, and palms.

Traces of tourism have just started showing up in Khun over the past few years supported by a small amount of homestay accommodations. There are no malls, amusement parks, or cafes; so much of the hamlet still retains its pastoral attributes — truly a place for nature-seekers hoping to escape the chaos of crowded cities.

When Saigoneer first announced a few weeks ago that Vietnam’s railway network would be the centerpiece of our next themed article series, a number of readers joked in the comment section that who in their right mind would love Vietnamese trains.

While I’ll be the first to acquiesce that our railway service does leave much to be desired, there is still a lot to love about trains outside of their mere function as a form of long-distance transport. The history of our railway system ever since its birth during the French colonial era is rich with stories and fascinating transformations. Before the age of affordable airfare, the Reunification Express was the only way to traverse the length of our national coast, and thus has cradled decades of Vietnamese nostalgia on its rusty wheels.

In 2023, the Saigon–Biên Hòa leg of the North-South railway started gaining traction on social media, as a novel day trip for Saigon residents to explore a slice of Đồng Nai. For train enthusiasts who can’t endure the entirety of Quy Nhơn- or even Hanoi-bound trips, this 45-minute journey is short and sweet, enough to get one’s train fix and be back home on the same day. And if you’re wondering what to do, eat, and see in Biên Hòa, we have undertaken the trip and lived to tell the tale in this special edition of our Saigoneer Stroll called Train to Biên Hòa.

Recommended time slots:

• Saigon–Biên Hòa: Leaves at 11am and arrives at 11:44am
• Biên Hòa–Saigon: Leaves at 5:13pm and arrives at 6pm

1. Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh

Address: 20/12 Kỳ Đồng Street, Ward 9, District 3, HCMC

A departure time at 11am leaves us with ample time to explore the neighborhood surrounding the Saigon Train Station in search of a hearty breakfast. Cơm Tấm Tị Quỳnh in an alley on Kỳ Đồng Street is both affordable and filling, a cozy spot to start our Train to Biên Hòa trip. The broken rice eatery offers all standard permutations of sườn, bì, chả and ốp la, in addition to its signature dish, cơm tấm Long Xuyên. This style of cơm tấm hails from the Mekong Delta, replacing the pork chop with braised egg slices and thinly sliced caramelized pork belly.

Features: Fluffy broken rice, tangy pickled vegetables and some kickass nước mắm.

Cost: VND38,000 per plate of cơm tấm Long Xuyên.

Tips:

• Pork chops sell like hot cakes so get there early to secure a juicy sườn for yourself.
• Opening hours: 7am–2pm

2. Train to Biên Hòa

Saigon Train Station: 1 Nguyễn Thông, Ward 6, District 3, HCMC

Train trips from Saigon departing northwards are available as early as 6am and as late as 10pm, but the 11am slot remains the most convenient and, consequently, most sought-after. The Saigon Train Station’s main hall can be best described as utilitarian. There are rows of metallic chairs, a snack kiosk, informational posters, and even a Lotteria that you can smell from half a mile away — everything works as one would expect, but there’s no frill, no romance, and no farewell tears to shed.

Take this with a grain of salt, but when it came time for us to board the train, the attendant barely glanced at our e-tickets and good-naturedly waved us through. I’m not a train virgin, but I couldn’t help but feel giddy the moment the scenery outside the window started inching backward. First, as slow as a crawl, and then building up into a full dash, leaving behind motorbike-filled intersections for the austerity of the suburbs.

There, as I sat with my back against the wall in our four-bed bunk, a heady sense of levity permeated my being, seeping from my fingers into everything I touched, from the murky window to the tiny side table. This was great, I thought, why would anyone slither into cramped bus rides like sardines in a can?

After a cordial chat with our train attendant, who proudly shared that he was once interviewed by a documentary film crew and made national television, we already completed two-thirds of the journey, arriving at Dĩ An Station in Bình Dương. And not even 15 minutes later, Biên Hòa beckoned.

We arrived at 11:44am, exactly as the ticket stipulates, which was astonishing given our national transportation service’s habit of being late in everything. Those aforementioned comments hating on Vietnam’s train seemed mean-spirited and unfair. Of course, I would later find out on the return trip how naive I was in my mirthful railway high, but we’ll get there in a bit.

Features:

• Tiny bathrooms, but on such a short trip, you won’t be on the train long enough to feel the need to use them.
• Really friendly staff, from ticket checkers at the station to train attendants.
• Forty-five minutes is the perfect duration for a train ride, long enough to indulge in train-specific romanticism and short enough to evade its inconvenience and discomfort.

Cost: Tickets range from VND43,000 to 58,000 depending on the type of seat.

Tips:

• Book your train trips from Vietnam Railway's website here.
• The 11am slot is really popular, so big groups might need to book at least three to four weeks in advance for the best seats.
• Four-bed bunks are the best in both comfort and privacy.

3. Bò Nằm Nhúng Biên Hòa

Address: 382/1 Cách Mạng Tháng 8 Street, Quang Vinh Ward, Biên Hòa City

Arriving in Biên Hòa right under the wrathful flares of the summer sun, we made a beeline for the taxis to get to lunch, a delightful do-it-yourself beef banquet at Bò Nằm Nhúng Biên Hòa. This rather rustic hẻm eatery is usually a bustling spot during the evening, but during the day, the Saigoneer team were the only guests for their lunch service.

The main attraction at Bò Nằm Nhúng Biên Hòa is bò nhúng sốt, a set of beef slices and accouterments that diners can cook themselves on a skillet with a sauce of choice. Had we visited on a colder day, a beef hotpot would have been another fitting option with which to spend the afternoon.

Features:

• An extensive menu of beef dishes, from salads, to BBQ, to hotpot.
• Interactive meal to experience with friends or hungry colleagues.
• Really fast service.

Cost: Bò nhúng sốt is VND245,000 per large set for 4–5 people.

Tips:

• Avoid the gỏi bò bóp thấu, it has too many young banana slices and thus, too tannic for comfort.
• Opening hours: 10am–10pm.

5. Chả Lụi Cô Yến

Address: 9/8 Huỳnh Văn Nghệ Street, Bửu Long Ward, Biên Hòa City

There’s no doubt that chả lụi is the most popular snack in Biên Hòa, so I was determined to make a chả lụi stop no matter what. Chả lụi, not to be confused with chả lụa, is a grilled meat roll originated from the central coast, but, for reasons unknown, has blossomed with impressive prevalence in Biên Hòa. This street turns into a chả lụi heaven at night, but finding an address to munch on these rustic rolls right after lunch was not easy, which makes Chả Lụi Cô Yến and her 2:30pm opening schedule a godsend.

A mixture of shrimp, minced pork, and spices is thoroughly pulverized into a paste and wrapped in rice paper. Each chả lụi, as slender as a green bean, is then given a quick grill on the charcoal for some smoky burn marks. Diners assemble a roll by enveloping the grilled meat in lettuce, herbs, and young mango slices before dipping the whole thing in the provided sauce. This dipping concoction’s use of peanuts harks back to its roots in central Vietnam. Everything comes together like a symphony of tastes and textures: sour mango, sweet sauce, smoky meat, and crunchy grilled bánh tráng.

Features:

• A complex nước chấm that’s practically drinkable, but might not appeal to those not fond of sweet sauces.
• Trà đá and herbs are free of charge and refillable.

Cost: VND25,000 per person

Tips:

• Wash your hands at the provided sink before diving into the food because no cutlery is given.
• Opening hours: 2:30pm–10pm.

6. Lá Lá Cà Phê

Address: 223/13 Hà Huy Giáp Street, Quyết Thắng Ward, Biên Hòa City

Shielded from the dust and noises of the main street thanks to a spacious park, Lá Lá Cà Phê is an endearing example proving that simplicity sometimes is the most comforting quality in a cafe. The main area is a sheltered courtyard surrounded by trees, vines, and canopies — true to the coffee shop’s leafy name. The tables and chairs are on the low and small side, so they might not serve any other purpose apart from sharing a laugh with friends or flipping a few pages of a good book. Leave your laptop at home.

Features:

• Direct view into a calming park
• A deceptively placed mirror that might trick you into thinking that the coffee shop has a hidden entrance to Narnia.

Cost: Drinks range from VND27,000 to VND50,000

Tips:

• Nước mơ is better than nước sấu.
• Opening hours: 7am–10pm

7. Vịt Lộn Thu Hà

Address: 175 Phan Đình Phùng Street, Quyết Thắng Ward, Biên Hòa City

After a number of shameful ride-share trips hiding from the sun, we finally got to the strolling portion of our journey, as Lá Lá Cà Phê is just a brisk walk away from some hot, hearty duck eggs. The irony is not lost on me that for a feature under the Stroll series, not a lot of leg exercise has happened so far, and I sincerely hope that you, dearest Saigoneer readers, would be braver than us in the face of punishing Biên Hòa heat, when it comes time for you to dip your toes into this adventure yourselves.

Just as we finally reached our vịt lộn destination, the sky turned ominously gray in a blink of an eye and it started pouring cats and dogs by the time the eggs arrived on the table. Based right at a busy intersection, Vịt Lộn Thu Hà is a household name in Biên Hòa, famous for its consistent egg selection and flavorsome peppery dipping — in theory, that is. In practice, the eggs tasted just like any other vịt lộn one might come across at places in Saigon, even though having hot-to-the-touch, perfectly cooked vịt lộn as the rain was raging right outside the door was a very comforting experience. A slurp of duck egg broth would warm one’s tummy right up. The setting was so fitting that I suspected that the bout of summer rain might have been a paid actor.

Features:

• Freshly boiled, tasty vịt lộn, albeit at a slightly steep price tag.
• A surprisingly extensive menu of bubble tea.
• Convenient rainy weather to bolster the dining experience.

Cost: VND12,000 per egg

Tips:

• Eat an odd number of eggs if you wish to reverse bad luck.
• Don’t crack the entire egg out, but slowly chip it away with tiny spoonfuls.
• Opening hours: 2pm–10pm

8. Train to Saigon

Biên Hòa Railway Station: At the end of Hưng Đạo Vương Street, Biên Hòa City.

By the time we polished off our vịt lộn, the summer shower had already slowed to a lull, enveloping Biên Hòa in a layer of cool air. I couldn’t remember much of the last few duck egg bites, to be honest, because it was inching dangerously close to our departure time. It was a surprise to set foot into the departure area at the station just to find, quite literally, everybody and their moms also waiting for the train. Saigon must be a more attractive weekend destination than I thought to warrant this level of interest from Biên Hòa denizens.

What initially looked like us making the train in the nick of time turned out to be us arriving over an hour too early, because the train was delayed by at least three podcasts’ worth of sitting around. It became apparent quickly that this tiny facility, with no air-conditioning and an unintelligible PA system, wasn't an ideal waiting location for what must have been hundreds of hungry, sweaty, cantankerous passengers, who were slowly devolving into crotchety gremlins by the minute. Contrary to the morning trip, this time, instead of glee, we boarded the train with a deflated spirit; that initial fire dampened by both the rain and a need to just get the fuck out of there. While the actual train ride went about without any unexpected setbacks, it was admittedly naive of me to have gotten my hopes up when it comes to the punctuality of Vietnam’s transportation.

Tips:

• Expect some amounts of delay for the Biên Hòa–Saigon ride.
• Bring along entertainment options to kill time like board games, crochet kits, ouija boards, sourdough starters, human sacrifice portals, and more!
• Or better yet, book alternative forms of transportation to get back to Saigon. 

Quy Nhơn has far more to offer than beautiful beaches. Travelers up for some adventures and a willingness to traverse into greater Bình Định Province will discover some of Vietnam’s best museums, aesthetically stupifying artifacts, oddities and opportunities to engage with cultural traditions.

Vestiges of the Past

Quy Nhơn’s most famous (adopted) son is without question the poet Hàn Mặc Tử. Anyone moved by his surreal offer to sell the moon should visit a recently erected monument set atop one of the more picturesque outlooks in the city. The path behind the monument leads to a fantastic sunrise hiking trail as well as the Quy Nhơn Quy Hoà leprosy village. Inside the village one can enter Hàn Mặc Tử’s former home which contains some of his personal items. A stroll around the seaside hamlet that was once an important leprosy colony reveals utterly unique 1930s architecture, a somewhat perplexing collection of busts of important scientists and some zombie movie-esque discarded medical equipment.

Going back further in time, Bình Định contains some of the most enduring proof of the Champa Empire’s presence in Vietnam more than 600 years ago. Throughout the province, massive orange-brown towers rise into the sky, stone testaments to the impermanence of nations and by extension, ourselves. Two of the best Saigoneer visited, Tháp Chăm Bánh Ít and the Dương Long Towers, require a little time to reach but are particularly worth it at sunrise and sundown. Those on a tight schedule, or a desire to stay off a motorbike, can still get a great glimpse of the Chăm architecture via the downtown Quy Nhơn Tháp Đôi.

A less conventional but equally thought-provoking site to check out is the Nghĩa Trang Cũ Quy Nhơn, or Quy Nhơn Old Cemetary. The sprawl of graves seems to defy borders as its sweeps up the hillside. Its unmitigated growth ignores regulations, hinting at the effect of unrestrained development in the city. 

Invitations to Experience Culture

A fire fed by peanut shells and rice husks, nothing but agricultural castoffs, contributes to the bánh tráng’s smoky crunch. Sitting at the flames every morning from 4 am to 10 am, an individual can make up to 500 a day. After drying in the sun, they are sold to wholesalers before undoubtedly making their way to markets and restaurants across the province where they are a staple of many meals. 

The bánh tráng “craft village” Saigoneer recently visited is a simple example of how time-honored trades continue to allow people to make a living. The woman who invited us into the humble room beside her house has been doing it for 20 years and when she is too old to continue, the younger generation will continue, she claimed.

This style of artisanal production inheritance is also found in Phú Gia, a hamlet renowned for making nón ngựa, a particular version of nón lá. Knowledge of how to produce them stretches back 300 years and the oldest practitioner today is 73-year-old Đỗ Văn Lan. Standing beside some of his most impressive pieces, he explained that the intricate 10-step process relies on local plants and careful laced embroidery. Translating to “horse hat,” they owe their name to the fact that they are sturdy enough to be worn even when riding a horse. If made well and properly cared for they can last for upwards of 200 years.

These two, regionally-famous, trades are simultaneously lucrative elements of the local economy and tourism opportunities. While it may require support from a Vietnamese speaker and some assistance with directions, if you find yourself at a traditional craft operation you will be welcomed in warmly to learn about a unique element of Bình Định culture alongside rural hospitality. 

World-Class Museums

When Saigoneer traveled 45km outside the city to the Quang Trung Museum (Bảo tàng Quang Trung) we didn’t expect much. We were shocked to discover an expansive structure set on gorgeous grounds dedicated to telling the story of Nguyễn Huệ, the renowned general who once united the entire country. While it features some terrific artifacts of the era, the real standouts are the humungous handpainted murals that make the military genius’s defining victories come to life.

No less impressive, the ExploraScience Quy Nhơn​ closer to the city center provides visitors of all ages with an opportunity to learn about science. From the history of Mars exploration to the principles behind fiberoptics to the butterfly lifecycle a Van de Graaff generator, the museum provides information across a wide range of scientific disciplines. Large and particularly modern, it is on par with similar museums around the world. (Be mindful of its rather finicky opening hours, however). 

The Bình Định Musem in the center of the city in no way compares to the above, but if you find yourself looking to avoid the scorching afternoon sun for half an hour, it’s certainly worth your time as well. It includes a handful of artifacts focused on the Chăm period, wars with France and America and Hồ Chí Minh’s impact on the province.

Opportunities for Luxurious Leisure

Of course, not everyone travels to Quy Nhơn to race from craft village to tower, museum to hiking trail. It does have spectacular beaches after all. While they are empty during midday’s unmerciful sunrays, at dusk and dawn they fill with swimmers, people playing sports and local families lounging around. 

If that beachscape sounds too crowded, there are other options. Virtually empty beaches extend to the north and south of the city, including a private expanse in front of Maia Resort Quy Nhon. Those staying at the resort get more than just an idyllic view and empty waters, however. A range of ways to savor the waves are provided, including complimentary kayaking, paddle boarding and volleyball.

While change is on the horizon, the recently-opened Maia Resort Quy Nhon represents a drastic shift in available accommodations in the area. As a Fusion property, Maia emphasizes wellness through its half-board concept that is included with every night stay. The concept applies to the fresh and nourishing cuisines served in its two restaurants that balance innovation, tradition, nutrition and visual vibrance; Vẽla spa that offers treatments inspired by local customs, energies and ingredients; the verdant, flowering tree-filled grounds, and the villas with private pools and calming decors.

After busy days trying to explore all the adventures and experiences that Quy Nhơn has to offer, there is no more relaxing destination than Maia. Or one might prefer to simply stay at the resort and rest in the comfortable surroundings; that works too. After all, Quy Nhơn seems to have something for everyone. 

Whether on the slow train carving its way through the Shan Hills near Kalaw, the Mandalay to Yangon Express, or the 4am train to Hsipaw that crosses the great Goteik Viaduct, traversing Myanmar on gritty, swaying trains is the way to go.

I don’t use the word “swaying” lightly — many avoid Burmese trains due to their reputation for rocking as much as the horse-drawn carriages that still bump down dirt roads in the countryside. They can feel closer to a roller-coaster than a gently moving carriage. For those that do choose this route, though, the experience will likely be the best part of their visit.

The slow train from Schwenyaung, a town near Inle Lake, takes 11 hours to reach Thazi. It chugs along so slowly you could jump off and run alongside it before leaping back on again. In places, it loops back on itself to gain height before a bridge crossing, and stops at regular intervals at market towns in the mountains, with fruit-sellers climbing aboard to sell spiced mangoes.

Areas the trains stop at are equally spectacular. In Bagan and Inle, I took photos only on a film camera. Where digital photos are clinical, analog shots are warm — the perfect way to capture golden-hour light on temple walls or bonfires beside a woodpile at sunrise. You almost feel as if you are looking at a memory, perhaps because film photos can fade over time, or their haziness reminds us of images from childhood. 

A lady wearing Thanaka face paint smiles from a train window.

A fruit-seller sells bananas through train windows.

Workers in the fields of Shan State.

A passenger on the slow train to Thazi.

Golden light melts through a temple window.

A young mother and her son sold books and artwork to visitors.

Visitors explore the temples of Bagan on horse-drawn carts.

Toys hang outside a temple during the 'golden-hours'.

A bonfire at sunrise in Bagan.

A traditional fishing boat on the Irrawaddy River.

The Yangon to Mandalay Express.

Kids stare out the window at Kalaw station.

The long wooden pier leading to Inle Lake.

Boats tied up by the pier.

Boats moored in Nyaungshwe Harbor.

A girl hangs from the carriage as the train approaches a station.

Snacks on a train.

A man stares out of the window on the Yangon Circular Railway.

The slow train to Thazi loops back on itself to gain enough height for a bridge crossing.

This article was first published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2018.

“Heavy with the thick smell of misery and before even leaving the station, the odor of urine would be palpable throughout the car,” writes author Dạ Ngân of the North-South Train in 1989. Back then, a hard seat berth cost nearly a month’s salary and one had to be wary of thieves and sexual assault for the entirety of the jostling journey.

Much has changed in the 35 years since then: train tickets demand a much smaller percentage of one’s salary and the rides are safer and generally cleaner, even though the stench of piss still wafts in from the toilets to mingle with the throngs of people, the assortment of foods they carry, as well as the cigarettes surreptitiously smoked between cabins.

Perhaps, thanks to these improvements, I relish an opportunity to ride the train. Stretched out on a soft bed somewhere between Quy Nhơn and Saigon, I witness verdant fields teeming with a trillion full bowls of rice and the sun leaving its fingerprints in each flooded paddy. Small towns make brief appearances and disappear behind hills like backup dancers slipping behind the stage’s curtain. Nightfall polishes the patina off the mountainscapes.

The views outside the train are only matched by the views within. Families contort atop seats and beds beside luggage stuffed with clothes, gifts and food. Somewhere, a family warms a cooked chicken in a plastic bag filled with hot water provided by the kitchen car; spices and cutlery given gratis. The people are weary, anxious, exuberant, fussy, fearful, excited and bored. It is a skilled pastiche of the human condition crammed into a manifestation of modern ingenuity slithering down the spine of the country like a slow shiver.

The train is good for more than mere observing, however. It’s ideal for idling: chatting, sleeping, writing or reading. I page through Hikmet, and arrive at the perfect poem. While sitting beside the window on the Prague-Berlin train as night fell he wrote: “I never knew I liked night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain. I don’t like comparing nightfall to a tired bird. I didn’t know I loved the earth. Can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it? I’ve never worked the earth, it must be my only platonic love.” 

Beginning August 15, tourist visas will be extended from 30 days to 90 days.

The National Assembly approved the plan to allow multiple entries and to stay for a longer duration for tourists with the e-visa with a near-unanimous vote. The much-awaited and expected decision on Saturday is hoped to assist Vietnam's struggling international tourism sector. 

"A three-month e-visa will meet foreign visitors’ demand to stay longer to explore investment opportunities," Lê Tấn Tới, head of the NA Committee for Defense and Security, said.

Tourism experts have criticized Vietnam's restrictive visa policies, especially in comparison to neighboring countries. Foreign tourists have also complained about the visa's short length as well as the time it takes to receive it. 

Despite being one of the first Southeast Asian nations to re-open to foreign visitors, Vietnam's tourism numbers have failed to meet expectations and lagged behind countries like Thailand. In 2022, Vietnam received only 3.6 million foreign tourists, just 20% of its 2019 pre-pandemic numbers.

At the end of 2020, officials set a modest goal of eight million foreign tourists for 2023. In the first four months of the year, Vietnam welcome almost 3.7 million international tourists, with South Koreans leading the way.  

Currently, 80 countries are eligible for the e-visas. Meanwhile, citizens of the 25 countries that are exempt from visa requirements will be able to stay for 45 days instead of 15.

Gone were the days of brackish peanuts and lukewarm apple juice, today’s flyers can satiate their sugar cravings right in the air.

According to a recently published annual report from the Nội Bài Catering Services (NCS), a company specialized in manufacturing inflight meals, flyers spent nearly VND22 billion last year on bubble tea products both in airports and during flights.

The report states that nearly 63.5% of bubble tea cups were sold during flights, netting NCS over VND2.3 billion every month. NCS was founded in 1993 first as a catering factory with Vietnam Airlines as its most major stakeholder today.

Each tea portion, branded as Lotus Sky Tea, costs VND50,000, including white pearls, and must be ordered at least 24 hours before the flight. Passengers can pick from plain or taro flavors. The bubble tea initiative was announced back in May 2022, available on flights from Hanoi to Saigon, Đà Nẵng, Nha Trang, and Phú Quốc.

After years in the red due to the pandemic, 2022 was the first year NCS recorded profits again, with a reported yearly revenue of VND410 billion, a three-fold increase compared to 2021 and amounting to 60% of the revenue before the pandemic.

Vietnam Airlines have made significant moves in localizing its inflight culinary choices in recent years. In August 2022, the national carrier completely overhauled its menu, adding many more ostensibly Vietnamese items like mì Quảng, bún thịt nướng, bún chả, among others.

In the same month, passengers on domestic VNA flights received a free bánh Trung Thu each as part of the airline’s Vu Lan (Vietnamese Mother’s Day) celebration.

[Photo via Vietnam Airlines]

Quy Nhơn residents mentioned Hàn Mặc Tử with great pride and reverence whenever I mentioned enjoying reading and writing poems. 

A painting by Nguyễn Bá Tín hanging in Hàn Mặc Tử's home. 

Hàn Mặc Tử was actually born in Quảng Bình, and spent significant portions of his tragically short life laboring at a newspaper in Saigon after first moving to Quy Nhơn. Still, the famed poet seems to have been adopted by the Bình Định city where he died in 1940 at the age of 28. There is a rather extravagant tomb honoring him beside a scenic overlook downtown, his original grave remains well-kept and his home in the leprosy colony where he suffered greatly has been preserved with paintings of him made by his brother still adorning the walls alongside his humble possessions.

When I lived in Quy Nhơn some years ago, I would often spend my nights reading and writing on a beach not far from where Hàn Mặc Tử had lived. Often described as a near-mythic figure with the power to channel divine inspiration, he represents a romanticization of poetry I don’t personally prescribe to. Yet, on those empty nights spent gazing out across the sea, I often found myself having one-sided conversations with Hàn Mặc Tử. Sometimes the discussions were in the form of poems. Here is one I saved:

Another Letter to Hàn Mặc Tử

Only an idiot would sell the moon!
Didn’t you know a sky without the moon
would devastate the seas? Stilled currents
starving snails, squids, sardines and seals.
But you were no naturalist.
In your day, no one shed tears at the sound
of an ice sheet cracking beneath a starving polar bear
or a pilot whale suffocating in the surf.
You were a hopeless romantic, though:
with no moon, scientists say nights would be so dark
we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces,
so how could you have enjoyed
a lover’s smile
after a midnight kiss?
Yesterday, I visited your house,
gazed at the portraits your brother painted
of you alone on the beach at dusk.
How could you have stayed there to write with no moon?
I also saw the bed you died in at age 28.
Is that why you wanted to sell the moon?
Did you know that without a moon, the Earth would spin
so fast years would have more than 1,000 days?
Do we misunderstand you?
Selling the moon isn’t a romantic gesture.
You simply wanted more mornings to watch the sun
pierce clouds the way sorrows pierced you.

Hàn Mặc Tử's new grave in Quy Nhơn.

What if memories were not collections of chemicals and electrical impulses stored in the fleshy recesses of a mind, but physical objects made of brick and stone?

They too would disintegrate over time, crumble into dust and dirt, but they would at least last longer than the first-hand accounts that disappear from the Earth upon a person’s death. So it is with Bình Định Province’s many Chăm ruins.

While Đại Việt was thriving to the north, and the Khmer Empire was constructing Angkor Wat to the west, what is now southern Vietnam was ruled by the Champa. The seafaring empire of loosely connected principalities existed in the area from the 2^nd century until the 19^th, peaking in power from the 10^th–15^th centuries. Today, approximately 800,000 of their descendants remain, with fewer than 200,000 living in Vietnam.

Chăm culture was inspired by, and in turn influenced, empires across the continent, including those in Cambodia, India and Vietnam. While not many people may encounter their descendants, let alone recognize their unique legacy of music, art and language, it is nearly impossible to avoid their architecture when traveling around Vietnam.

Perhaps the most prominent Chăm remnants in Vietnam are in Mỹ Sơn, the large UNESCO-recognized religious site in Quảng Nam Province that was constructed between the 4^th and 14^th Centuries. One of the largest Hindu complexes in Southeast Asia, the collection of 70 tombs and temples served a variety of religious purposes, as well as an important cultural center. While it suffered great and cruel damage during the American War, it continues to provide insight into the religious practices of the culture.

But several hundred kilometers to the south rest additional Chăm architectural relics. Until being conquered in 1471 by Vietnamese forces, Bình Định was an important hub for the empire, and several large buildings for defensive, religious and cultural purposes remain. Saigoneer ventured into the countryside earlier this year to observe.

While downtown Quy Nhơn contains the Tháp Đôi, or “Twin Towers,” which are worth a visit during any stay in the city, we were curious to see what we could find by traveling away from the coast, weaving through rice fields and small villages en route to the tremendous museum dedicated to the Tây Sơn brothers. Thus, one morning this past spring we traveled to Tháp Chăm Bánh Ít, about 15 kilometers outside of the city via Highway 1.

Built at the end of the 11^th century, Tháp Chăm Bánh Ít, which is part of four hillside-perched towers, reflects Cham architecture while it was undergoing a transition in styles as regional influences shifted. While any contained treasures have long since been removed, including looting efforts by the French, some indicators of their past remain, such as Shiva sculptures atop each of the four towers. Leaf and flower motifs are carved into the red brick, and the large Sanctuary Tower features unique double-groove pilasters. Believed to have been an important religious site during the reign of the Chăm, Buddhists continue to gather there on various holidays.

Restoration efforts have been able to reinforce the redbrick and ensure the towers remain. From atop the largest peak on the horizon, one gets a beautiful view of the countryside in the distance. It is easy to think of Vietnamese rural life as a monolith, and while agrarian lifestyles may have been similar during the Chăm period, it is interesting to ruminate that in the shadows of the great complexes, people not so long ago spoke another language, worshiped other gods and had different notions of nationality.

As the sun continued to rise, we ventured on to the Dương Long Towers further into the center of the province. With the wonders of Google, we got close enough to see the three red structures rising in the distance. After promising the security guard on duty that we wouldn’t stay so long as to interrupt his lunch break, we walked in.

Built in the late 12^th and early 13^th centuries, about 40 kilometers outside Quy Nhon, the largest of the three east-facing towers measures 24 meters. Because the stones are in a general state of disrepair, guests are instructed not to approach too closely. However, past research suggests the work contains a variety of plant, animal and human reliefs not beholden to any specific iconography. The time when they were erected and the style suggest they were built in response to a significant influence from the nearby Khmer regime.

Lotus leaves opening to the sun cover the top of each of the three Dương Long towers. While somewhat visual from the ground, it really took taking our camera to the skies to appreciate them. Such a fact makes one wonder who the structures were even built for. When constructed, it's not any less likely that the Chăm could have predicted cameras mounted on motorized wings than the end to their empire. It is only in our modern day that we can get another view, another context, another understanding of the impermanence of civilizations. It is not the height or size that should make viewers feel small, but rather the way the towers have endured that reminds us of how insignificant our place in history truly is.

Hội An’s upcoming plan to enforce its admission rules for Vietnamese tourists has inspired negative reactions from the general public.

The Hội An City People’s Committee announced not long ago that starting from May 15, the city will impose more security measures to ensure that visitors to the core area of the Old Town pay the stipulated entrance fee, reports Tuổi Trẻ.

The fee tiers of VND120,000 for foreign tourists and VND80,000 for domestic tourists have been in place since 2012, but for years, mostly international travelers and local tour groups have purchased entrance tickets. According to Hội An officials, every day the town welcomes on average 15,000 visitors, but ticket sales commonly account for only half the visitor number.

Trương Thị Ngọc Cẩm, director of the Hội An Center of Culture, Sports and Communications, told the newspaper that the heightened monitoring is to ensure fairness among all guests. Cẩm explained that local authorities will set up dedicated checkpoints at paths into the central area with separate gates for tourists and residents. Those working at hospitality services in town won’t have to pay the fees.

Additionally, a team of patrol officers made up of Hội An citizens will frequently roam local streets to identify trespassers.

According to Nguyễn Văn Lanh, vice chairman of the Hội An People’s Committee, the venues from ticket sales contribute majorly to Hội An’s budget, 50%–70% of which is used to maintain and restore heritage buildings in the old town.

“The maintenance cost is really significant. Even at the cheapest rate of VND5 billion per historical relic, we can only afford to revamp 7–10 structures,” Lanh shared with Tuổi Trẻ. There are around 1,107 historic buildings in Zone 1, the core area of Phố cổ Hội An, 155 of which are at risk of collapse due to natural wear-and-tear.

[Photo by Chinh Le Duc on Unsplash]

We began our journey in front of a bank where the street Trần Nhật Duật turned into Chợ Gạo.

We started here because about 200 years ago, this area was called Hà Khẩu, or the Mouth of the River. The wide street of Trần Nhật Duật used to be the Red River, and the part turning into Chợ Gạo was where it split into Tô Lịch River. That day, Nguyễn Vũ Hải led us on a walking tour titled Dấu sông hồn phố — a journey tracing the vestige of Tô Lịch.

Trần Nhật Duật nowadays and the confluence of the Red River and Tô Lịch river back then, as drawn by artist Thành Phong.

When I was young, I’d often pass by the portion of the river on Thụy Khuê Street while riding my bike to school. The rancid smell from the blackened water always made me wonder: Why did people call it a river? Clearly it was a sewer. But the stories told during Hải’s tour taught me that the river’s life was a legend.

Hải said that the name Tô Lịch was mentioned in history books thousands of years ago. When Vietnam was still a part of China, Cao Biền, a famous Chinese geomancer, had a magical battle with Long Đỗ — the dragon god of Tô Lịch River. Cao Biền drove stakes into the river to subdue the god, but the stakes all shot right back up. Cao Biền realized he was outmatched, so he built a temple for the deity, and then raised Đại La citadel. Because the citadel ran along Long Đỗ’s river, it was also called Long Biên, or the Dragon Border.

The citadel following the Tô Lịch River, as seen in the Atlas of Hồng Đức (1490).

When was Long Biên raised?
Neither tall nor short.
Beautiful on the outskirts.
Strong water flows below.

I read that poem a while ago. Only now did I understand the mighty flow was Tô Lịch River, though that section was filled in a long time ago. But people can still feel the “neither short nor tall” height these days. Using a couple of old maps, Hải showed us how to re-trace the ancient citadel walls. I was surprised to see how big it must have been when drawing lines across Yên Phụ, Hoàng Hoa Thám, Bưởi, Đê La Thành — all the streets that you must go uphill to reach.

Tracing with citadel wall and the past river flow based on an old map.

The river’s legend continued once Vietnam escaped northern domination. In 1010, King Lý Thái Tổ moved the court to Thăng Long. The king wanted to fortify the citadel, but the walls kept collapsing. The king ordered people to pray to Long Đỗ, upon which they witnessed a white horse walking out from the temple. The king followed the horse’s footsteps to build the wall, and it became sturdy. And thus the king renamed the temple Bạch Mã, or White Horse Temple, the Eastern Sentry of Hanoi. He also declared Long Đỗ to be Thành Hoàng of Thăng Long — the tutelary deity of this land.

A map of Hanoi in 1873.

With the blessing of Long Đỗ, Thăng Long flourished. Goods and merchandise from the north flowed down the Red River, and Tô Lịch River became an important urban trading route. Hải said that there were many markets along the river. “At the confluence, there was chợ Gạo, then chợ Bạch Mã, chợ Cầu Đông, chợ Bưởi, chợ Cầu Giấy, chợ Ngọc Hà, chợ Dừa…” The Old Quarter back then was called Kẻ Chợ, or the Market People. And it was so prosperous that there was a saying: “Giàu thú quê không bằng ngồi lê Kẻ Chợ,” or “being rich in the countryside is no match for being a beggar in Kẻ Chợ.”

Chợ Cầu Đông Street, named after a bridge market lying across the river on the eastern side of the citadel.

But then a day came when human weapons eclipsed even the gods. In 1882, the French fully colonized Vietnam and turned Hanoi into the capital of Indochina. During their rule, the French dismantled the Thăng Long Citadel to build bridges, roads, and an underground sewage system.

Hải said: “Tô Lịch river was once an important trade route, a physical representation of the god. But now, after the French came and applied their urban planning, the river became a culvert.”

Hàng Đậu Water Tower, the harbinger of the era when Tô Lịch becomes a sewer instead of a major waterway.

And once the underground sewer opened, a particular species flourished: the rat. They spread the Black Plague all over the city, forcing the French to try to kill them. They hired Vietnamese to kill the rats, requesting catchers to turn in rat tails as proof. Each tail was worth four Indochinese piastres.

“With such a good price,” Hải continued, “locals began to catch rats, cut the tails off, then release them so they can keep breeding. Then rat farms emerged around the city, as well as a network to deliver rats here from the countryside.”

One day, a French official saw a tail-less rat running on the street. From then on, rat hunters had to turn in a whole rat. But business continued to boom until the price was cut so low — from four piastres for one rat to one piastre for five rats — that nobody bothered killing rats anymore. The French also shifted their plague-controlling efforts to medical measures rather than eliminating the species.

Thăng Long's Northern Gate on Phan Đình Phùng Street. 

Hải said the rat story was just one example of how people live with the world around them. From a life in harmony with nature to one of management, exploitation, and discard. Tô Lịch has remained a sewage channel to this day.

We ended our tour at the Northern Gate, the last remnant of the old citadel. When they ordered its demolition, the French kept the gate because it contained the imprinted cannonball holes making the day the citadel fell. As I stood there, looking at the heavy traffic on Phan Đình Phùng, it was hard to imagine that Tô Lịch river used to run through here. Suddenly I felt incredibly sad, as if the city had lost its roots.

Phan Đình Phùng Street today.

One morning after the trip with Hải, as I was lighting an incense stick on the altar, I thought of the god Long Đỗ. Instead of praying to my ancestor as usual, I said gratitude to the god for protecting this city, and asked that he keep looking out for my family, my friends, and all the souls who lived here. The name Tô Lịch for me had transformed from something filthy to something sacred. I heard there had been talks recently about restoring the river to its past glory. Hopefully, one day it will regain its place as the life force of Hanoi.   

The photos don’t do it justice. That’s what you’ll often hear from people who visit Hà Giang to cruise its famed highway loop.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Roads ribbon down the sides of unhemmed cliffs and a seemingly endless rise and plummet of mountain peaks skewer the soft, cloud-filled sky. Careening around curves reveals fields that have erupted in flowers and everything is covered in vegetation that exposes the inadequate range of the word green. One can see the stars and taste the rich soil whisked off fresh harvests.

Like photos, my words cannot accurately capture the immensity of the area’s beauty or the perspective one gains while traveling there. Hà Giang was one of the few major tourist spots in Vietnam that I had not yet traveled to during my seven years living here and I was thus eager to experience it this past fall. While I was confident the landscape would astound, I feared finding an area straining under the weight of overdevelopment like Sa Pa, Đà Lạt or Phú Quốc. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to discover that the region is not yet inundated with large resorts, exploitative tour groups or locals who had altered their lifestyles in drastic ways to appeal to outsiders’ notions of adventure.

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

While there is of course development in the province that caters to the many who come to travel the loop, it is less invasive than I had expected. Quaint homestays are still operated by families who grew up in the area and prepare delicious meals in rustic kitchens before joining travelers at their living room table to toast homemade rice wine. When I woke early in the morning, I watched farmers lead their buffalo out to graze, elderly women stoke fires beside the stacks of wood collected to last the approaching winter, and throughout the day, people of all ages, occasionally in ethnic minority attire, trudged along the highway; their backs laden with collected crops.

The house at the center of it

The house. Image via Đài Phát thanh và Truyền hình tỉnh Hà Giang.

Besides the incredible views, harrowing roads, and friendly people I met on the journey, and not counting the truly strange 500 million-year-old trilobite fossil presented on the path up to the Lũng Cú Flag Tower, the site that left the most lasting impression was a traditional H'Mông house in Lũng Cẩm village in Hà Giang’s Đồng Văn District directly off National Highway 4. 

Photos via Bắc Giang Newspaper.

During the colonial period, the area produced mainly opium plants in addition to corn but has since transitioned to rice, buckwheat, flowers, fruits and corn. Built in 1947, this particular house owned by a wealthy H’Mông family provides a good example of traditional architecture with a wooden gate standing in the middle of the stone fence that circles a spacious courtyard surrounded by fruit trees. The home’s foundation, base and porch are made from local green limestone while the support columns and trusses are wooden and the walls are earthen. The large attic space is still used to dry corn and other crops and the four-generation family continues to live and work inside, though their activities now include attending to the hundreds of tourists that visit every day.

Fields of flowers and various crops grow on the plateau beneath rising gray-faced mountains. To reach the house, one must walk beneath a gate announcing the Lũng Cẩm Tourism Village and pass dozens of stalls selling dried fruits, nuts, herbs, roots, seeds, grains and mushrooms. Intricately sewn H'Mông dresses, blankets and scarves hang beside a woman selling buckwheat cakes. Local beer, shredded bamboo and honey are all sealed in bottles to be transported away and gifted as souvenirs. The tour buses pulled over beside the road during my visit attest to its popularity, and during the peak buckwheat flower season in the fall it’s reported that upwards of 1,000 people visit per day.

Movie poster via IMDB.

The particular home would not have been established as a tourism site if it were not for the movie Chuyện của Pao (The Story of Pao) which premiered in 2006 and won numerous awards including four Golden Kites and was introduced at the 2007 Cannes International Film Festival. The house at the end of the pathway was used as the main filming locale for the movie.

Chuyện của Pao focuses on the namesake character, a young H'Mông woman raised by her father’s first wife, but born to a different woman in accordance with the culture’s patriarchal traditions and expectations. She is reaching adulthood while navigating her family’s complex unhappiness when tragedy strikes at the movie’s onset.

Movie still via Zai Tri.

The difficulty of life in Hà Giang looms throughout the film as characters are constantly plodding through fields burdened with manual labor to scrape together a livelihood. But a gentle lute song drifts through the cold air, bringing a tinge of sweet tenderness to the movie thanks to the joys of youth and the first pangs of the mature romance Pao is pursuing. While technological limitations make the film look older than it really is and fail to capture the area’s natural grandeur, and the slow pacing and art-house style may turn off some viewers, it is a masterful and heartbreaking work of acting and writing that everyone should watch. 

When May became Pao

“A cold wind blew in from the mountain, the old pear leaves were falling with a soft rustling noise as they landed on the stone gate.”

This quote is not a description of the movie, but rather the final line from 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' (The Sound of the Liplute Behind the Fence), the short story by Đỗ Bích Thúy that Chuyện của Pao is based on. Films may represent a more popular form of storytelling than novels nowadays, to say nothing of short stories, but like film industries all around the world, Vietnam has long looked to literature to find core narratives and characters for films, as is the case with Chuyện của Pao. 

'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' won the 1998-1999 short story prize in Văn nghệ Quân magazine and has been reprinted in her collections of stories with an English translation forthcoming in a collection of female authors that I was able to get an advanced copy of. Despite the characters all having different names (May becomes Pao in the movie, for example), the fundamental setup of the story is the same. May must face the infrequent arrivals of her biological mother to the home where her father and his wife, the woman that raised her, live. Meanwhile, a young man in the area woos May by playing his lip lute on the other side of her home’s wall. Only 10 pages long, the suspenseful story succeeds thanks to its tight plot and fully realized characters with clear but complex motivations. The unforgiving realities of filial expectations and fates beyond one’s control are exacerbated by the harsh climate where crops must grow on farms where “rocks rose to the surface of dirt that held seeds awaiting germination,” an apt metaphor for how people develop in the story, as well. 

Đỗ Bích Thúy (right) in her hometown. Photo via Văn Hoá Doanh Nhân.

Reading 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' and then watching Chuyện của Pao reinforces my belief that short stories make for better source material for movies than novels. Simply, novels contain too much stuff for a film to hold. Putting aside the challenges of capturing internal monologues and omniscient narrators able to offer sweeping expositions, novels feature too expansive of plots with too many characters. Upon viewing a movie based on a novel, audiences typically focus on what was removed, simplified or altered, as well as what characters and scenes looked different from what they had imagined. While relying on a short story instead doesn’t solve all of these issues, it does help.

Chuyện của Pao doesn’t omit major elements from the story, but rather adds significant ones by including a dramatic third act that is set up by a new opening scene. Faced with more choices to make that occur across a larger span of time and geographic region, the characters reveal different elements of themselves. One will have a different view of Pao’s mother, in particular, and the work’s greater commentary on patriarchy, after watching the film compared to the story. This is not to say that one is somehow better than the other. But rather, the stories they each tell are well suited to their formats and equally pleasing. I’d suggest consuming both if one has any interest in either, though start with the story first. 

Given evolving understandings of cultural appropriation and increased discussions of the concept, both here in Vietnam, and abroad, it's worth touching on the fact that the story and the movie are the works of Kinh people yet focus on the lives of H'Mông individuals. Đỗ Bích Thúy was born and raised in Hà Giang in a hamlet consisting of Kinh, H'Mông and Tày families and many of her stories, spread across more than twenty books, focus on the diverse lifestyles and cultures in the region. One of her closest friends, Giàng Thị Thương, became the foundation for May in 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá.' When she became a writer, she was intent on presenting the resilience of the woman who raised but did not give birth to Thương, just like in the story. 

Recent photo of Giàng Thị Thương via Báo phụ nữ.

When I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy about the subject of cultural appropriation, she explained in Vietnamese via email: “I was born and raised among Hà Giang’s ethnic minorities, even though I am not an ethnic minority. I see myself as part of their community and I appreciate and am proud of our traditional cultural values. I use these values in my creative works as a way to promote and introduce the beauty of my community to others; at the same time I also hope that members of my community feel proud of what we have.”

Meanwhile, the film stars Đỗ Thị Hải Yến who was raised in Hanoi while Hải Phòng native Ngô Quang Hải wrote and directed. Đỗ Bích Thúy had no involvement in its making, and she was happy to enjoy it like an audience member without expectations. And while there was seemingly no backlash at the time regarding the film lacking the involvement of people inside the community and culture it focuses on, it is worth noting that a 2022 film titled Khu rừng của Páo (Pao’s Forest) stars a H’Mông actor in the lead role, pointing to the possibility that notions of representation are changing in the industry.

The legacy of Pao and May in Hà Giang

While most Vietnamese tourists are likely familiar with Chuyện của Pao, I doubt that many come to Lũng Cẩm Village because of their appreciation of it. Rather, the spot offers a convenient place to stretch their legs, take some selfies and buy some unique souvenirs. A few photos from the filming days hang on the wall with minimal signage, but otherwise, there is little that would lead someone to watch the movie after visiting. Unfortunately, the story the movie was adapted from is even less present. Visitors have claimed that local tour guides mistakenly told travelers that the film was based on a work by Tô Hoài. A sign even featured a misprint in the story’s title that was recently corrected with expanded details about the writing. 

It’s useless to bemoan how infrequently people read. Rather, my energy is better spent being proactive and looking for small opportunities to entice people to pick up a book. Hà Giang, a locale that needs little promotion, is an obvious place to do so. Independent of the story, be it the book or the movie, it's a great place to visit, but with the characters fresh in one’s memory, it takes on a much greater weight. I was able to feel a slightly more significant understanding of the experiences and endurance of the people working and living in the area. Whatever tiny glimpse the works of art afforded me helped provide a sense of connection and appreciation, which is a main reason we travel, after all.

Looking for a happy ending

While the characters end the film and story in very different places, their futures are open-ended in both. Upon completion, the viewer or reader is gifted the opportunity to imagine their futures and fates, one of the most satisfying elements of a work of fiction. I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy what she thought might happen to the characters after the story’s conclusion and she shared: “I always hope my fictional characters have a happy ending in their lives, because even though they are fictional, they carry with them figments of real people living lives filled with more misfortunes than luck, more sadness than contentment.”

If I had read the story when it was first published over twenty years ago, I certainly would not have imagined that a representation of the home May lived in would become a tourist destination. But one can now question if such a third-wall-breaking moment would represent a happy ending for the fictional May and her family. Given the financial resources and opportunities that tourism has ushered into the region along with improved living conditions, it's reasonable to assume the characters’ lives would be better now than at the conclusion of the stories. 

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

As an outsider, it's not my place to offer a definitive judgment about any net positive or negative to the area as a result of increased tourism as seen in places like Pao’s home. I asked Đỗ Bích Thúy about the matter and she explained that in her hometown, “people place their hope on tourism as the most important solution to grow the economy. There’s nothing wrong with that. I was born and raised in Hà Giang so I know firsthand how rough and daunting life here can be. Wherever the wind of tourism sweeps past, the material life of people will change for the better. But along with benefits are more losses. The most obvious loss is transformations in local customs, ways of life, agricultural methods, languages (because they will start speaking Kinh Vietnamese), loss of traditional costumes, architecture, etc. — in short, it’s an erosion of traditional values. Every day, they are going away, little by little… With every step of tourists, a gust of wind will form, sweeping away all the tangible and intangible values, things we once thought are indestructible after years of formation, but are actually quite fragile. They take centuries to create, but only a few decades to be destroyed. And once they’re gone, it’s very hard to get back.”

She continued by stressing the importance of sustainable travel that can balance the preservation of cultures with improving living standards. With that in mind, perhaps the most responsible and satisfying way to travel to Hà Giang is to read 'Tiếng đàn môi sau bờ rào đá' and then watch Chuyện của Pao. Certainly doing so will result in a richer, more intimate experience if one does journey there. 

Editor's note: This essay by Alex Tran won 1st place in the Editor's Choice category of Saigoneer's first-ever essay writing competition, "2 Years of Memories," in collaboration with Urbanist Travel. We felt that the author went beyond just chronicling the play-by-play events of a trip, and gave the portrayal of Bolaven Plateau characters, genuine interactions, spirits, and most importantly, poignant human connections.

When I was planning for the Southeast Asia backpacking trip a few months ago, Laos wasn’t on the map. Growing up in Vietnam, I know of Laos as a small and poor country next door, not as a travel destination. So all I wanted was to get to Chiang Mai as soon as possible. My heart was already in Thailand while I was still under the Cambodian sky; I wanted to skip Laos so badly.

Even when James, my partner, was determined to travel to Laos and I reluctantly followed, I wanted to get in and out of the country within a matter of days, thinking “What is there to see in a landlocked country?”

Boy, I couldn't have been more wrong.

We spent ten days in Laos and every day there made it worth living. Every day was filled with amazing food, indescribably beautiful sunrise, sunset, rainbow, waterfalls, and heartfelt moments. To travel Laos is to walk, bike, jump in the back of a pickup truck, get on your motorbike and explore the hidden gems off the beaten path — at least that’s what we did at the Bolaven Plateau in Pakse, a city in southern Laos.

During our three months backpacking, I always know where I will be sleeping for the night; all accommodations were pre-booked the night before. But not on the Bolaven Plateau loop: it’s impossible to plan ahead when you aim to travel 30–50 kilometers a day on a motorbike. For four nights in a row, we showed up unannounced at people’s doors and were welcomed with open arms, home-cooked meals, and the warmest hospitality. They made us feel right at home.

The slow pace of living, the beautiful nature, the kindness of the Lao people sucked all the type-A hustling attitude out of me and made me forget all about Thailand. The people we encountered might not have had the most modern and materialistic lifestyles, but they had the happiest lives connected with nature, community, ancestors’ wisdom, rituals and traditions. Captain Hook said, “We don’t talk about the future. Talking about the future brings bad luck to your plans.” So they reminisce about the past and talk about the present. Such wisdom is rare to find.

Who is Captain Hook anyway? If you do the Bolaven Plateau loop, then you must know about Captain Hook. He is a Lao farmer from the Katu ethnic group, living in Kok Phoung Tai Village with his tribe and extended families. His name is Mr. Hook but tourists have been lovingly calling him Captain Hook for many years now. His tour about coffee farming and plant medicine is incredibly informative, but staying with his family offered us another level of enrichment.

Staying here, you need to engage and put yourself out there. You have to listen attentively and ask Captain Hook all the questions you have about Lao and Katu culture because there might not be a second chance to meet someone like him who understands the culture so deeply and can explain it to you in English. You will see his four-year-old son smoking a tobacco pipe like a pro, with smoke filling up a corner of the room, and your eyes will widen in disbelief. Your jaw will drop learning that young girls in his village get married at age 13–15 and give birth at age 16, and it’s a normal thing in their culture.

By sunset, you need to roll up your sleeves and get in the kitchen to grind fish fillet to make laap (or larb, a traditional Laos dish) with his family. Captain Hook’s nephew will ask you if you want organic roasted peanuts from the farm and the answer is yes. His wife, Suk, will ask you to pluck fresh lettuce from the garden and show you how to make their peanut sauce and fish rice porridge in the most authentic Lao way on a wood stove. You will eat with his family at the same table, the same meal. You will roll steaming sticky rice with your hands and dip them in a spicy chili sauce; you will squint your eyes, and blow your mouth at the unexpected yet satisfying spicy flavor.

After dinner, Captain Hook will ask if you’d like to try a bit of organic ginger tea with sugar cane syrup, the answer, again, is yes, because the warm drink tastes so good it will heal you after a long day of travel. He will ask you if you’d like to share a bong with him. It will hit you much stronger than you think, but what is there to do after dinner in a small mountain village but chill with organic tobacco and talk about life. Outside the bamboo home, the sky darkens, and you will thank all the lucky stars that lead you to exactly where you are right now.

More than just a homestay, Captain Hook taught us so much about the Katu and Laos culture and our hearts feel so much — the simple and peaceful life they are having, something we wish to have one day; the warmth of his whole family towards us, two strangers who showed up at their door unannounced. We learned an important lesson: a meal is meant to be cooked together and food is meant to be shared. It was sad to say goodbye, but we bought two homemade bracelets from Suk, so we can carry a bit of their spirit on our path forward.

There were twists and turns, and it took us six days, double the amount of time to finish the Bolaven Plateau loop compared to other people, but we needed that much time to take in all of the beauty the region has to offer. I wanted to immerse myself for as long as I could in the coffee plantations, jungles, waterfalls, and mountain mist, in the warm welcome and kindness of the Lao people.

Thank you, Laos, for having me and showing me nothing but love.

Alex is a tech sales professional turned backpacker, Reiki healer and travel writer. After a decade living in Canada, she’s currently backpacking South East Asia with the sole purpose of learning about Asian healing arts. She documents the places she visits through writing and photography as shared on her Instagram @dear.alex_.

Following in the wake of popular open-bus tours in some of Vietnam's other metropolises, Đà Lạt will begin the service by the end of the year as part of a pilot program. 

The Lâm Đồng Province People's Committee recently approved the proposal and outlined initial routes, according to Dân trí. Three open-top double-decker buses, that can seat 37 and offer standing space for an additional eight, will operate on two routes daily between the hours of 8am to 10am, 12pm to 5pm, and 6pm to 10pm.

Approximately 40 minutes long, each tour will travel on roads including Nguyễn Văn Cừ, Trần Quốc Toản, Phạm Ngũ Lão, Lê Đại Hành and Yersin to pass notable landmarks including the Crazy House, the city's train station, flower garden and Con Gà church. 

The tours are aimed at increasing tourism opportunities for domestic and international visitors alike. The buses will be decorated with artwork specific to the flower-filled area akin to the many murals featured on buildings and walls across the city. No specifics have been offered about ticket prices or purchasing process. 

In recent years, other Vietnamese cities have had success with similar initiatives. Hanoi was the first city to get a bus tour, which launched in 2017. Saigon began offering open-deck bus tours of notable District 1 locations in 2020. After a pandemic shutdown, they re-opened late last year and are frequently seen operating throughout the city's central areas.

With space for 65 passengers, tickets go for VND150,000 for adults and VND100,000 per child under 12. 

[Photo: A double-decker bus on its way around downtown Saigon/CafeBiz]