This article pairs with my return to Cambodia, click HERE for more insight!
Thirty mile-per-hour gale force winds. Five inches of torrential rain. Lightning on the horizon. One would presume I was describing a monsoon or typhoon battering the coasts of Indochina. But in fact, California's most ferocious storm of the century - a "bomb cyclone" - was already starting to spell out the word cancelled for the Singapore-bound flight from a waterlogged SFO. Returning to the fatherland after 17 years was not expected to be a simple journey, but obstacles were arising even before boarding the very first flight. Such is travel in a post pandemic world beset by constant airline meltdowns and novel climate catastrophes. While my family's travel style and choice of destinations have always possessed their fair share of challenges, pre-vacation anxiety has become the new normal, making me question if leaving the country is still worth it. It is. The year 2023 was marked for major milestones. My father was turning 70. The eve of Tết Lunar New Year coincidentally happened to fall just after my birthday. It was the Year of the Cat in the Vietnamese calendar, my auspicious zodiac animal. Coming from a culture that relishes in both tradition and superstition, everything seemed to be exclaiming "return to your ancestral home". I was anxious to see which distant relatives still remained in Saigon, pay respects to the ones who have since passed, and celebrate the most important holiday of the nation in a city that has grown from a provincial backwater to a cosmopolitan culinary capital. That is, only if I could manage to get there.
Against all odds, the flight still took off, in light of hundreds of cancellations just a couple days prior. Waiting 17 years to return felt like only half as long as the 17-hour flight time to Singapore, plus an additional two hours to Saigon. Stepping out onto the hot tarmac of Tân Sơn Nhất International and crashing into that nostalgic wall of musty humidity, my eyes were met with sweet memories of utter mayhem. Thousands of people descended upon the open air arrivals lobby, as honking cars and buzzing motorbikes crisscrossed lane-less intersections in the warm sticky downpour of a tropical rain. Everyone was on the move, returning to family homes across the country in time for the new year. The excitement of Saigon's rush hour chaos certainly hadn't changed in the last two decades of development, its narrow tree-lined streets clogged with commuters painstakingly evading merchants, food vendors, school children, and pedestrians spilling over crumbling sidewalks. After spending half an hour traveling a few kilometers, we arrived at our hotel near the former Presidential Palace, the tank that crashed through its iron gates still parked in the same spot. The open air kitchen of a small curbside restaurant beckoned to me with its bubbling pots and array of ingredients spread out among bamboo baskets and ceramic jars. Dinner for three that night was done in the Northern style - sizzling grilled fish with fennel over noodles, lemongrass stuffed sea snails, rice crepes with aromatic pork loaf, and Vietnamese "empanadas" stuffed with bean thread, pork, and quail eggs. Taken in the cool 26°C (78°F) evening air, the 20 dollar feast was a savory and flavorful welcome back to the heartland. Even the kitchen mouse and geckos came out from their cracks in the wall to extend their salutations.
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| Motorbikes converge in a lawless intersection |
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| Outdoor kitchen of a Northern style restaurant |
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| Hanoi specialties, including fennel fish and lemongrass sea snails |
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| A typical street side restaurant |
"Nostalgia" best defined the feeling wafting in the humid air, a light sprinkling of rain falling upon narrow sidewalks where food vendors set up their miniature tables and stools to offer breakfast phở and fried egg bánh mì sandwiches. Motorbikes buzzed around like swarms of unorganized bees spilling out of their hives into choked intersections without traffic lights. The mere act of crossing the street in Vietnam has become a skill of legend, where the simplest words of wisdom would be to hold your breath and pray while taking that literal leap of faith. As always, everyone still managed to find their way across the chaos unscathed, however increased traffic congestion and cases of lawless driving were far more evident compared to nearly two decades ago. Heading towards the Saigon River, we meandered towards Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard, the heart of the city crowned by its elegant French colonial city hall. The flanking historic buildings were the same, though the shops certainly were not. Gone were the humble shop fronts gracing façades of dilapidated grandeur, replaced now by the shimmering ostentatious displays of Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Dior, and Salvatore Ferragamo. Tropical flower gardens decorated the median leading to the grand colonial opera house, situated across from the refurbished iconic Hotel Continental, with its 19th century wrought iron balconies, porticos, and French doors. New high-rises of mirrored glass sprung up in all directions, dwarfing the historical structures. Migrating further away from the main boulevard and down Lê Lợi street, an older and more original Saigon as I knew it began to reemerge, tall multicolored three-storey flats above storefronts squished together like the ribs of an accordion, covered either in green moss, the vines of old banyans, or a black web of electrical wiring. Cafes were stacked upon cafes, with endless dining establishments and steaming pushcarts extending into every available square centimeter of sidewalk. Once one of the most prominent edifices of District 1, Chợ Bến Thành marketplace seemed as timeless as ever, its rows of tropical produce and dry goods crammed tightly among food stalls and handicrafts, all surrounded by a maze of traditional áo dài and western clothing. I last remember walking through it with Great Aunty Cô Thu, who so generously showered me with new shirts and embroidered jackets. By noon time, we reached a little restaurant specializing in traditional home cooking, where we met up with Aunty Quynh and Howard, who recently decided to abandon the high cost, high stress Southern California life near Westminster's "Little Saigon" for the affordability, ease, and excitement of a much bigger Saigon. It felt whimsical to be visiting them over yet another big meal, only this time in the heart of Vietnam itself, catching up over delicately arranged plates of wild boar, duck, and squid. Dinner was less extravagant, yet no less delectable - a piping hot bowl of cháo rice congee topped with various sliced pork organs and fried eel.
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| Preparing for Lunar New Year in front of Saigon City Hall |
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| Cousins dressed in traditional Ao Dai dresses for the new year |
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| Inside Ben Thanh Market |
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| The holiday season has become a time for Instagram glam shots |
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| Aunty Quynh and Howard |
Having already visited Saigon's major sights years ago, this trip was casually tailored to reconnect me with my heritage and remaining family. We set off one morning towards the west, walking away from the area frequented by tourists and expats, into a neighborhood noticeably more local. The air was aromatic with the sizzling scent of lemongrass pork, as vendors fanned the coals of their grills for a savory streetside noodle bowl of bún thịt nướng. Laundry swang in the warm breeze from balconies covered in potted plants, like makeshift flags above shops piled high with mangos, durians, and rambutans. Off to one side of Trần Quốc Toản street stood a multistorey, butterscotch colonial building with blue shutters. Uniformed teenagers played a game of basketball in its tree-lined courtyard as a security guard leisurely sat next to a tall barred gateway under the name "Nguyễn Thị Diệu" . Formerly known as "Trần Lược" in pre-war South Vietnam, this was in fact my father's high school back in the 60s. Returning after 57 years, I could see that sentimental expression in his eyes as he gazed through the gate at what once used to be the halls of his early teenage years. He joked about being bullied and recalled faded memories of returning home for lunch, just as kids began to emerge from the gate to go home for the afternoon, their parents patiently waiting outside on motorbikes. The scene was heartwarming, giving me some kind of surreal connection to an obscure family landmark from a bygone era.
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| My father visits his high school after 57 years |
Kon Tum: Life with the Central Highland Tribes
The open air pub was empty, with the exception of half a dozen kids under the age of 16 playing cards at a low table. It was late as we walked down a quiet street in the rural highland town of Kon Tum, hoping to find a small bite before bed. We placed an order for Mẹc Gà Thả, a recommended dish none of us had heard of before, alongside some giant grilled snails. As the oldest kid screamed out the order, the little army of pre-teens jumped to attention, decking our low table with garlic roasted peanuts, large sheets of rice crackers, various dipping sauces, and a bucket of ice for beers. To our bafflement, a massive tray fit for four arrived from the kitchen, piled high with different preparations of free-range chicken and its internal organs, topped with sticky rice. The flavors of hot chili, Kaffir lime, sweet ginger, and lemongrass were a colorful feast for the senses. The night later finished at a dessert place off the town's main street, a delectable combination of coffee flavored flan and coconut milk chè with fresh durian. Our first meal in the highlands was unlike anything we had tasted before, the exact type of discovery I had been searching for beyond the standardized Vietnamese cuisine back home. Even better, the entire evening's feast for three came to only 25 dollars.
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| The massive village-style chicken platter |
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| Market area of rural Kon Tum town |
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| Outdoor butchery of Kon Tum market |
Our time in remote Kon Tum province, a stone's throw from the jungle borders with Cambodia and Laos, was planned for the main purpose of visiting the tribal minorities that have called the central highlands home, even before the gradual arrival of ethnic Vietnamese from the north. Completely off the maps and itineraries of most foreign and domestic tourists alike, trips to nearby native villages gave a fascinating glimpse into the countryside life of peoples whose cultures more closely resembled those of tribes in Sumatra or Sulawesi than anything one might associate with Vietnam. With our guides, Trương and Mạnh, we set off across red soil roads passing through rows of rice fields, plantations of peppercorn vines, and acres of rubber trees oozing their valuable white resin. Our first visit was to the Jarai (Gia Lai) people near Dak Ya Ly lake, a humble people of dark complexion and Austronesian features whose village was nestled among endless rows of fragrant coffee trees in full bloom. Though conditions were very rustic, the demeanor of the villagers was pleasant as they smiled and waved from their wooden stilt houses piled high with bamboo basketry and relatively primitive wooden agricultural tools. In a region where matrilineal societies still exist, we witnessed mainly women taking charge and performing duties around the village. We strolled along the dirt paths leading through their farms, passing grazing water buffalos and pens with pigs, before entering a quiet enclosure marked by carved totemic figures. A clearing beneath a centuries old mango tree sheltered a scattering of little wood and sheet metal houses filled with plates of food, jars of wine, and miscellaneous items of daily life. Entering the compound for the first time, it almost would have seemed like coming across a village constructed for miniature people. Yet, this was not a village for the living, but rather for the dead, who were still considered alive and needy by the animistic Jarai, often for years post burial until enough money was earned to perform a water buffalo sacrifice required to ultimately send their loved ones off to the spirit world. The graves were often marked by rows of half buried terracotta rice wine jars with punctured bottoms connected to bamboo tubes leading deep into the subterranean graves. The Jarai would visit the cemetery daily to pour food and drink into these conduits, literally feeding the mouths of the departed. The ancient practice has gradually been in decline, outlawed by the Vietnamese government as more people were increasingly becoming ill from being in direct contact with the bacteria of decomposing bodies. Nevertheless, their devotion to family even in death was a fascinating custom to witness, a glimpse into primordial Southeast Asian culture free from the historical influences of India, China, or colonial Europe.
After a heavy lunch of grilled goat, goat brain soup, and goat bone hot pot, we strolled through the back alleys of an Austroasiatic Bahnar tribal community near Kon Tum, getting a taste of minority life in a more modern "suburb". Though the standard of living was still quite poor, the Bahnar welcomed us with bright smiles and impeccable hospitality, with the older women even granting us a demonstration in the traditional method for grinding and winnowing rice. Passing through the neighborhood, large families sat on the floor around elaborately prepared meals in the small front courtyards of their seemingly makeshift homes, calling out to us in the only English they knew - "Alo!". Continuing to the southeast, we reached the rural Bahnar villages of Kon Jodri and Kon K'Tu, most notable for their exceptionally large rong houses. The rong house was the most central and imposing feature of the villages in the region for all tribes, a massive wood and bamboo structure elevated upon a foundation of whole tree trunks with an enormously tall thatch roof. Though most Bahnar had converted to a loose form of Christianity through French colonial missionaries, these communal houses continued to serve as ceremonial centers for ancestor veneration, meeting places for tribal elders to discuss village affairs, and a place for the chiefs to pass on the oral histories and traditions to the children. As dusk began to set over the forested hills, we walked behind the rong house of Kon K'Tu village, to the cozy little compound of elevated thatch-roofed dwellings in Juna's homestay. Accessed by a steep wooden stairway, our open-air room entirely constructed from woven bamboo was spacious and minimalist with a few simple floor mattresses under mosquito nets. Upon settling and unpacking, the early evening was spent wandering through the tiny village beside the Dak Bla river, clusters of traditional elevated dwellings sheltered by an assortment of tropical fruit trees and colorful blossoms. Bahnar houses were built upon stilts to provide secure spaces under which domestic livestock would be kept at night to protect them from tigers and Malay bears, back in a time when these animals weren't on the verge of near extinction. Dinner of sliced pork, fish steaks, morning glory with garlic, fried cassava, and melon soup with rice was served on the back patio overlooking a lush bamboo garden chirping with insects and frogs. The evening air was cool and the atmosphere serene, sleeping securely without blankets beneath the net, listening to the pitter patter of a light rain on the grass roof above. I welcomed being lulled to sleep, mainly to take my mind off of needing to make a midnight trip to the bathroom, where a resident tarantula had been giving me a hard time earlier. The peace was broken around 4 AM, as competing roosters vied for the title of loudest bird in the village, followed by the sound of a thudding drum calling the faithful to prayer at the wooden church nearby. Gentle hymns in the Bahnar language wafted faintly in the air amidst the ruckus of chickens and dogs. A new day had begun.
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| A goat brain finds its way into my soup |
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| Learning from the Bahnar tribe how to separate rice from chaff |
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| Bahnar women weaving tapestries on traditional looms |
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| A Bahnar woman prepares sticky rice cooked in bamboo tubes |
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| The traditional Rong house of Kon K'tu village |
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| A girl runs after a motorbike selling colorful floral decorations for lunar new year |
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| Juna's lovely homestay in the village of Kon K'tu |
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| Simple and serene accommodations in a bamboo house |
Our journey continued up towards the hills around Măng Đen, first stopping at the village of Kon Brap Ju to visit the Sodrah people, a subgroup of Vietnam's Sedang tribal minority. Accessed by a small red cable bridge crossing the river, the village was alive and bustling with preparations for the coming lunar new year, as gossiping women laughed while stewing large cauldrons of meat and chopping away at edible banana trunks. In the village's rong house decorated with the horns and skulls of past buffalo sacrifices, men piled stacks of bánh chưng rice cakes wrapped in palm leaves high on a table while siphoning rice wine out of beautifully crafted ceramic vases. In a lucky encounter, we caught the beginning of a pre-new year village performance, as men bedecked in intricately woven vests and tapestry loincloths paraded around the towering rong house banging on a collection of ancient gongs of varying sizes, a small bronze-age orchestra echoing hypnotic metallic notes like an proto form of Indonesian gamelan. As the village children began to form the bulk of the audience, the traditional folkloric performances were gradually followed by unrefined yet delightfully comical dance and karaoke numbers to popular Vietnamese songs. The joy written in the wrinkles of their laughing faces was but a mere taste of the festivities to follow with the coming of Tết. High in the hills of Măng Đen, we finished the day with a regional speciality of grilled free-range chicken over pepper leaves served with sticky rice slowly steamed in bamboo tubes. The meat was firm and tasty, accompanied by dipping sauces of ginger and chilli as well as salt with fresh ground peppercorn. Upon returning to Kon Tum, the local street markets were alive with shoppers and preparations for the coming lunar new year. Buckets of radiant orange golden carp bubbled over as customers on motorbikes pulled up to purchase bags full of them, destined to be released that evening into nearby streams for the annual send-off of the Kitchen God in his journey to report good things about each family to Heaven. Despite his divine departure, many streetside restaurant kitchens continued to whip up amazing dishes without him, all worthy of praise such as a savory roast duck rice congee flavored by rich fats, congealed blood, and fresh herbs that could easily make you forget about questionable hygienic practices.
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| Crossing a bridge to get to Kon Brap Ju village of the Sodrah tribe |
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| Women gather to prepare edible banana trunk |
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| Sodrah ritual gong orchestra by men in traditional textiles |
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| The village gathers in the Rong house to begin celebrations |
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| Young Sodrah girls performing a folk dance for the festival |
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| Brewing rice liquor in traditional ceramic vases |
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| Bamboo sicky rice with grilled free-range chicken over pepper leaves |
Buôn Ma Thuột: Coffee Capital of Asia
The jasmine-like flowers of fragrant coffee trees dominated both the urban landscaping and surrounding countryside of Buôn Ma Thuột, Asia's cool-climate coffee capital. Sidewalks were drowned in the colors of potted pink cherry blossoms, yellow apricot flowers, and bougainvillea bonsais, brightly waiting to be purchased for home altars and decorative new year displays. The most evident characteristic of this highland town was its overabundance of cafes dominating nearly every street corner and every other business in between. It was impressive and unsurprising, as Vietnam has significantly grown into the second largest coffee exporter after Brazil, producing primarily stronger Robusta varieties. While my parents were anxious to dive into a world of blended beverages and slow drips, my reason from coming to Buôn Ma Thuột was focused on discovering the culture of the Êđê tribal minority, another Austronesian ethnic group believed to be the modern descendants of the medieval kingdom of Champa. I had grown up hearing memories of my father's own childhood trips to the region in the late 1950s, encountering the tribe back when their contact with the greater Vietnamese nation was rather limited and they still donned only loincloths while living in the forests. Though now living together alongside other ethnicities in the city and outlying areas, their distinct presence was still visible in the tribal names of the villages dotting Đắk Lắk Province, as well as their exceptionally large wooden longhouses and carved totem poles that could be seen in various neighborhoods around the city.
Taking breakfast at the popular Trung Nguyên Coffee Village, I started the day with a fried crepe-rolled banana and cà phê chồn, Vietnam's equivalent to Indonesia's famed (and somewhat controversial) Kopi Luwak coffee. Often dubbed the world's most expensive coffee, with farmed beans fetching upwards of $100/kg and wild beans close to $1000/kg, the coffee is brewed from roasted beans found in the excrement of the weasel-like Asian palm civet. The digestion of the beans strips them of a bitter layer, leaving behind a purportedly more refined and flavorful brew. Catching wild civets and cases of force-feeding beans have often led to debates about the ethics behind producing this costly cup, though I briefly put the idea in the back of my head for the sake of trying it at the source for a more affordable price. Despite being flavorful and delicious, I still couldn't confidently distinguish it from a cup of good quality Arabica, although the novelty of drinking "shit" coffee was enough to give me a needed boost of energy. After strolling through the complex of lush gardens and cafes constructed with historical Vietnamese architecture, I relished the exhibits of the nearby Ethnographic Museum to get a taste of the regional tribal history as my father had recounted it. A dated building in the same park as Emperor Bảo Đại's colonial highland hunting lodge, the museum contained the fascinating relics of a faded era. Vintage photographs of semi-naked tribesmen were bordered by examples of fine bamboo basketry and primitive hunting tools, large rice wine vases and colorful woven textiles. The carved funerary totems and collection of bronze gongs were items that at one time I would've never culturally associated with Vietnam, being more reminiscent of indigenous peoples from the islands of Indonesia or the Philippines. Yet we were presented with an even greater cultural treat as we accidentally wandered right into the middle of the Êđê community of Ako Dhong, the front yards of every modern property marked by their traditional wooden long houses on stilts. One such property had converted their long house into an exquisite restaurant, Arul House, tastefully decorated with carved folkloric furniture and fertility effigies. In knowing that this would likely be my first and last time to partake in a full Êđê and M'nong feast, we did not hold back on our order - spicy green papaya salad, slices and ribs of wild boar, whole river fish eaten wrapped in raw Asian fig leaves, sticky rice in bamboo, smoked sardine-like fish, dried rice field shrimps with peanuts, and an earthy soup of mysterious mountain vegetables, herbs, and green peppercorn. Strolling through the community on a full stomach in the pleasant hours of dusk, we ended up in a small folkloric village constructed beside a scenic lake. The Êđê community we encountered was gentle, soft-spoken, and always smiling compared to the more aggressive tendencies of the encroaching Vietnamese population. Their reaction to the presence of outsiders was one of both excitement and hospitality, a perfect company with whom to complete my visit to Vietnam's obscure ethnic minorities.
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| Historical Viet buildings in the Trung Nguyen Coffee Village |
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| Civet coffee with a coconut milk shake and fried banana crepes |
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| Images of the Ede tribe from the early 20th century |
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| Ede tribal totem poles and fertility effigies in Ako Dhong Village |
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| Traditional Ede tribal long houses in Ako Dhong Village |
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| The most gentle and polite Ede waitress at Arul House |
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| Ede and Mnong tribal delicacies at Arul House |
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| A delicious and exceptionally cheap breakfast at Buon Ma Thuot bus station |
Đà Lạt: Colonial & Imperial Fantasy of the Mountains
Vietnam has no shortage of iconic, coconut palm-lined beach imagery, with its thousands of kilometers of hot tropical coastlines and humid jungled interiors forming the bulk of tourism advertising. But one region seemed to defy that terrain and temperature, a bizarre parallel universe where Vietnam had relocated to somewhere in the Alps, cool and picturesque, colonial and chateauesque. Stepping out into the 18°C (65°F) air, the elevated hill station of Đà Lạt was a bohemian city of dated French architecture, pine forests, manicured flower gardens, and corner cafes. One would have nearly been duped into thinking it was Europe, had it not been for the motorbike mayhem, street vendors, and overflowing roadside markets characteristic of Southeast Asia. A swarm of kitschy "swan boats" gliding around the city's massive lakes also gave it a cringe-worthy Disneyland aesthetic that nevertheless continued to remain popular with vacationing families and domestic honeymooners. Wandering the labyrinthine streets and narrow alleys that snaked through the rolling hills, we took an egg coffee at the historical railway station with its now defunct steam engine and train cars, before strolling through the old French quarter, a busy street marked by a row of grand historical mansions in semi states of decay, many having been converted into boutique hotels on account of their vintage charm. Đà Lạt was a refuge of respite during the days of colonial Indochina, where the French sought to recreate a little familiar piece of home in which to escape the sweltering heat and humidity of the Mekong Delta and coasts. The region also proved popular with Vietnam's last emperor, Bảo Đại, who had not one but three separate summer palace compounds scattered along the forested ridge top. These mini retreats were built in both French colonial and art deco styles, decorated with dusty mid-century Oriental trappings, surrounded by English flower gardens with hedges pruned into the forms of Chinese dragons, a visual testament to Vietnam's haphazard cultural history. Now museums, we visited two of these former mansions where the most captivating collections for me were the old photos documenting characters, lifestyles, and drama in the final days of Vietnam's last imperial dynasty, one that bore my surname and an era my own grandmother could still recall. The town also served as one giant botanical garden, specializing primarily in flowers that could be seen stretching across virtually every available green space throughout the town's rolling hills. We strolled through the flower park, where the colors and quantities of blossoms achieved levels that needed to be seen to be believed.
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| Vintage train cars at Da Lat Station |
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| Egg coffee with a caramelized flan cake at Da Lat Station |
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| A stroll through the historical French colonial neighborhood in Da Lat |
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| Vietnamese "ice cream truck" |
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| One of the three hill station summer houses of Emperor Bao Dai |
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| Altar honoring Emperor Bao Dai and Empress Nam Phuong |
Evenings in Đà Lạt brought out the truly Asian attributes of the city. The night market took over the main boulevard leading to Chợ Đà Lạt, a bustling battle of vendors and vacationers, merchants and motorbikes, in a river of people rotating around the city's main circle. A variety of street foods were available, the most popular being large rice crackers of various toppings (dubbed "Đà Lạt pizza" by foreigners), chicken soup with premature eggs, avocado ice cream, and a smorgasbord of grilled skewered delights. There was a warm and festive atmosphere to the scenic town, albeit the weather was astonishingly chilly for being equatorial, requiring a jacket as temperatures became reminiscent of San Francisco. Nevertheless, a dollar cup of hot soy milk and Chinese fried donut were sufficient to comfortably enjoy the evening energy. While the food downtown looked tempting, our most memorable meal was at a humble family-run establishment above which two young parents lived with their infant daughters, a veritable feast of swan dishes - grilled, poached, over glass noodles, and in a savory soup. It felt comically ironic to be in a city of "romance" and affectionate locals taking joy rides on swan boats, while simultaneously consuming the "bird of Love" itself in a medley of savory preparations. In Southeast Asia, animals possess both sanctity and edibility.
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| Da Lat Night Market |
Saigon: Celebrating Lunar New Year & My Birthday with the Nation
Flower pots for sale flooded the sidewalks of every major street leading into the heart of the city. Blossoms were being offloaded from trucks, to be arranged into intricate patterns along Nguyễn Hue Boulevard. Banks, hotels, and government agencies exhibited elaborate displays of flowering bonsais, chrysanthemums, and orchids alongside folkloric village decorations. Everywhere one turned there was the sight of color, a rainbow of radiant flora the scale of which I had never before beheld. Shops spilled their red colored wares and cellophane wrapped gift baskets onto the street, hoping to catch passersby in the last minute holiday shopping frenzy. In front of their businesses, each family set up a small offering table with food and incense, an incentive to welcome back the Kitchen God with blessings from Heaven on the eve of the new lunar year. By pure coincidence in Đà Lạt airport, we had run into my father's cousin Khai, whom we offered to treat to dinner in the days leading up to the new year. Despite every corner restaurant bursting onto the pavements with partying patrons, we opted to meet at a quiet elegant restaurant in an alleyway that opened into a traditional style villa with fish ponds and banana trees. To my surprise, Khai came along with Great Aunty Cô Thu, 17 years older than when I had last seen her, her hair completely greyed but her spirit still colorful as ever. Despite moving a little slower, Cô Thu was sharp and charismatic, completely baffled by our unannounced return after nearly two decades. In her 80s, she was strong enough to still ride on the back of a motorbike operated by her daughter Uyên, another of my father's cousins whom we had just met for the first time. Coming from a family with 12 aunts and uncles, my father still hadn't met the exponential number of cousins living in Vietnam and across the globe since the days of the war. We all caught up over a feast of homestyle dishes, learning of what new marriages, pregnancies, divorces, and deaths had occurred since our last visit in 2006. But before departing, Cô Thu insisted that we come to her house to join the family for the New Year's Day meal.
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| One of countless Lunar New Year decorative displays around the city |
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| Holiday season diners eating and partying on the streets until early morning |
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| My father's cousins and aunt |
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| In her 80s, my Great Aunt can still ride on a motorbike! |
The day of my birth fell only one day before the eve of Tết, auspiciously coinciding with the Year of the Cat, my zodiac animal in the Vietnamese lunar calendar. I chose to spend that time reacquainting myself with the culture and history of my ancestors. We visited Vĩnh Nghiêm temple to pay respects to the Buddha, its towering pagoda housing a massive idol decked out in flags, lanterns, and flowering trees. Across a busy thoroughfare from the temple was a small triangular park with a communist memorial, around which several rows of buildings from various periods stood, some having been renovated while others looked like leftovers from the 1950s. This was apparently my father's neighborhood during his high school years, though the exact location of the family house couldn't be pinpointed as over 50 years of change had rendered the area barely recognizable. His description of a quiet and clean middle class complex surrounding a small walled park seemed to have transformed into a haphazard conglomerate of structures in various states of dilapidation, located in an area congested with traffic and pollution. Though his sense of connection to the place was lost, it was still an interesting glimpse for me into my father's own personal history, of which I knew rather little. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but feel a brooding sense of disappointment from my father, finally coming to terms with changing times and bygone golden eras. French food has always brought him joy, and after a celebratory birthday lunch of foie gras and duck confit in an alleyway bistro, we walked to the Saigon Zoo and Botanical Gardens, where my own sense of nostalgia began to reemerge. For my father, this was a memorable place from childhood to feed elephants sticks of sugarcane. As for me, the National Museum on the premises had always been one of my favorites places through which to meander, a place containing exhibits documenting the complex five thousand year history of the fatherland, from the bronze age drums of the Đông Sơn culture, to the monumental sculptures and golden treasures of mighty Southeast Asian empires including the Đại Việt, Champa, and Khmer. Across from the museum was a temple dedicated to the Hùng kings, a place I vividly remembered from years prior, that honored the historical and semi mythical founders of the Vietnamese people. It felt good to spend my birthday doing something cultural, historical, and even spiritual, a markedly refreshing break from simply throwing myself a dinner party at home. That evening the festivities had already begun, as we attended a large festival held in Tao Đàn park, a massive green space that had been set up with vivid flower and bonsai displays, entertainment stages, and rows of stalls for street foods and holiday souvenirs. Thousands had descended upon the noisy and chaotic park - women in bright yellow or red áo dài taking Instagram selfies, chatty men gathering at low tables with ice buckets filled with beers, and children screaming with joy at the flamboyant acrobatics of lion dancers. The timing of the Lunar New Year only enhanced the magic of the moment, as my birthday would literally turn into a national holiday overnight.
News of our return to Vietnam had spread within the family, and on the morning of Tết Eve we were delighted to receive an invitation to brunch by one of my father's good cousins, Uncle Hung. I had always grown up hearing about Uncle Hung, but had never met the man aside from being an infant at his wedding. A large jolly man with a big moustache appeared with his brother, Uncle Nguyen (whom we all had also met for the first time), and whisked us away to one of the few diners that still remained open as the city's shops, cafes, and restaurants began to shut their doors for the coming holiday week. Over a hot bò kho stew and tamarind shake, we reconnected with the "Hung" brothers and learned about how Vietnam has changed (for better or worse) since our last visit. While the economy has gotten better and people richer overall, the ironic shift in policy towards capitalism and private enterprise has left the ruling communist party with growing fears of irrelevancy. I had instantly noticed since my return the astounding increase in both national and communist party flags fluttering from buildings, homes, and business alike, with large propaganda slogans now hanging from every lamppost on every street. The blatant campaign to maintain a presence in the psyche of the people, despite its obviously flailing ideology, has resulted in comically red eyesores flooding the cities. Nevertheless, Vietnam has been at the center of a Southeast Asian boom, with the war-era diaspora as well as a growing influx in expats helping to contribute towards financial growth and urban development. Politics aside, the reunion also proved to be a time for reminiscing about childhoods, as my father and Uncle Hung apparently were at the center of their own youthful shenanigans growing up in South Vietnam. Memories had resurfaced of playing football in the streets of Saigon before the explosion in motorbike numbers, and of weekend family gatherings at the home of my great-grandparents, who were mandarin nobility under Vietnam's last imperial dynasty. Later that afternoon, after visiting the Thiên Hậu pagoda in the Chinese Chợ Lớn district, my father led us on a small trek along Trần Hưng Đạo Boulevard to rediscover his childhood home until his high school years, a place that could help give me some visual context to these once fleeting memories being exchanged across the dining table. After a thorough search, we slowly came upon No. 827, a burst of nostalgia filling the air, as my father recognized the balcony railing and stairs leading to a humble second-storey flat. The building still stood after almost 60 years, albeit with some unsightly remodelings to account for a lack of space facing Saigon's increasing population density. As was the case with his high school neighborhood, my father's joy had gradually grown into subtle melancholy, the site of his once elegant and clean building now dated and dilapidated, with laundry and hanging plants draped from a dirty facade and garbage littering the front sidewalk in one of the most congested parts of town. Adding insult to injury, the ground level just below the family flat had been converted into a cafe specializing in a beverage my father detested with a passion, boba milk tea. Yet despite these inevitable changes, the amazing stories continued to flow, acquainting me with some vague idea of life in post-colonial, wartime Vietnam. There was the time my mischievous father had set the kitchen on fire with kerosene, or the moment a bomb that exploded across the street killing the family's paperboy, and even one evening when my grandmother frantically had to cut power to a flickering light in fear of it being mistaken for an enemy signal - All stories from a childhood that seemed simultaneously tantalizing and utterly incomprehensible to me. A pair of eyes had gazed down upon us from above, later beckoning us to climb the stairs to a barred entrance. A young man had been locked within the flat by his absent parents, yet he still had access to the front balcony from which he called out. It was a surreal moment as my father briefly chatted through the metal bars with a current resident of his childhood flat, almost like an odd sense of closure after generations.
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| Great Uncle Hung and Great Uncle Nguyen |
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| Lion dancers prostrate and seek blessings before performing at Thien Hau temple |
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| Dragon dance outside the historic Thien Hau temple in the Chinese quarter |
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| My father returns to his childhood home after 65 years |
The eve of Tết witnessed Saigon overcome with a frenetic energy that could easily rival New Year celebrations across the world's greatest capitals. Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard was completely blocked off, allowing nearly 100 thousand revelers to flood the downtown area and enjoy over half a mile of flower displays, gigantic cat sculptures, musical performances, street artists, and food vendors. Streams of people flowed like rivers to the sea, where a large floating stage blasting electronic music with strobe lights, fog machines, and flame projectors had been set up on the Saigon River. In the reverberating chaos of this veritable open-air nightclub, we managed to find a small space to rest beside a fountain in front of the colonial Hotel Majestic, safely taking in the sea of humanity before us that picnicked in the streets while anxiously awaiting the countdown to the Year of the Cat. Upon the stroke of midnight, citywide cheers were met by a massive continuous fireworks display that lasted for nearly 20 minutes. Stretching into the early morning, the city was just as alive and bustling as it was in daylight hours, people on the move in all directions between parties while well-known cafes and ice cream parlors overflowed with patrons seeking something cool in the humid pre-dawn air. Small fires were casually set alight in the streets as families began to burn copious quantities of "lucky money", offerings to welcome the return of the Kitchen God from the heavens with blessings for the coming year. The old traditions of a quieter, family-oriented Tết had long since been overtaken by a more commercialized and Westernized "party" version of the 3000 year-old holiday, which was an interesting aspect I had least expected when wondering how Tết had evolved since the days of my father's childhood.
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| A 20-minute long firework extravaganza at midnight |
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| Getting ice cream at 1 in the morning |
In any case, the first day of the year resembled the holiday as I knew it growing up, visiting relatives and partaking in delicious feast. Exhausted after only four to five hours of sleep, we headed over to Co Thu's house later that morning to join the family in the customary New Year's Day meal. After crossing the bridge from Vĩnh Nghiêm temple, we were dropped off at a narrow unassuming alleyway bordered by vines and a row of motorbikes, off which a tiny room was opened. A small table with plastic stools had been squeezed into the confined space, set with an array of dishes - caramelized pork with egg, stuffed bitter melon
, roasted free-range chicken, pickled vegetables, and a classic bánh chưng sticky rice cake - around which sat a handful of cousins, second cousins, and Co Thu herself. Incense had been lit on a small floor altar to the gods of land and prosperity. It was the long overdue reunion I had been seeking from this return, a time to reconnect with older family members and meet a number of new relatives for the first time. Xu, An, and Nu were three new cousins that sat across from me, shy and giggly in the sudden presence of the mysterious relatives from America. Uyên and the wives of my father's cousins dodged one another in the cramped kitchen, filling out bowls with rice and cups with ice, a level of service and attention I felt so guilty of receiving. The meal was home cooked and delicious, an amount of food that would have incurred a high cost for a family living by modest means relative to my own. And yet no expenses were spared for guests on the first of the new lunar year. Over trays of honey mangos, fresh pomelo, and juicy watermelon, the images of our family's Golden Age were retrieved from storage and passed around the table, photos of my imperial great-grandparents, of innumerous relatives during their comfortable lives before the war, and even a rare photo of my father as a toddler in the very flat we had visited only two days earlier. There was magic and nostalgia in this fleeting moment, to be connected to a family whose humble lifestyle and struggles since the fall of South Vietnam would never be able to detract from the underlying regality of its values and richness of its lineage. |
| Visiting my Great Aunt's humble home in an alleyway near Vinh Nghiem temple |
It will certainly be a while before I make it back to Vietnam, likely to even fewer family members as Time continues on its inevitable path of impermanence. Nevertheless, I'm grateful for this chance to rediscover so much about the fatherland, including new regions, ethnic groups, and culinary delights. Yet discovering the diversity and details of my own family within the context of the nation's biggest cultural event was perhaps the most personally rewarding aspect of this long overdue return to the realm of the Ascending Dragon.
