Is it a valid reverie or just mere misguided nostalgia to feel a sense of yearning for lives you’ve never lived?

The Saigoneer team is populated by a number of history nerds, and one of the artifacts that always resonates with us — and a significant portion of you, our dear readers — is vintage photos of past Saigon. Coming into existence in the early 1990s, I’ve lived through neither the tumult nor glory of the eras depicted in the photos, so at times I’ve wondered what a life in the 1970s would entail. How would the suds of Cô Ba soap feel on the calluses of my hands, what would Con Cọp root beer taste like, what would it be like to set foot into Tết amongst the cacophony and stench of firecrackers popping in the atmosphere?

Firecrackers go off in front of a house on Hai Bà Trưng Street in 1992. Photo by Mark Hodson.

On August 8, 1994, then Prime Minister Võ Văn Kiệt signed the regulation to cease the use and sale of firecrackers across Vietnam, after centuries of the rudimentary pyrotechnic’s rule over the nation’s new year celebration. The ban came into effect on the first day of 1995, so for a few years, the existence of firecrackers and me overlapped. I probably spent a number of Tết, either bundled up in a crib or just old enough to teeter to hide behind my dad’s legs, with the pungent waft of gunpowder in the air; I just can’t remember them, so I can’t help but wonder. Even via old photos, lighting firecrackers didn’t seem to be a particularly enjoyable activity, beside its role as an evocation of Tết festivity. They were loud, stinky, and potentially dangerous — everything a reasonable Saigoneer today, especially one that’s averse to bombastic situations like me, would stay away from.

Children were always the demographic most amused by firecrackers.

Vietnam’s brush with firecrackers somewhat dovetailed with my own family history: my mother used to be in charge of “selling” firecrackers at the co-op. I use the verb “sell” in its loosest meaning, because, while we bid farewell to the planned economy in the late 1980s, firecrackers were still provided by the government and, for Tết, each family was only entitled to “buy” one meter of firecracker string, in addition to mứt Tết, rice, and a kilogram of pork. Those not interested in the decorative fire hazard could pass their portion to other households at a price.

She often speaks of firecrackers with a tinge of annoyance in her tone, lamenting their tendency to bring out the worst of human behaviors. Teenagers often threw seemingly unexploded tubes at passersby just for shit and giggles; my dad was hit by stray firecrackers while riding around town many times. Lighting unexploded firecrackers was a common new year game for kids, who dared one another to hold lit firecrackers for as long as possible, as if they were in a Tom & Jerry episode. Every Tết, hundreds of burn cases and other fire-related accidents flooded local emergency rooms, which at times hosted kids and adults with whole fingers blasted off — it was probably a wise idea to extinguish the reign of firecrackers in Vietnam for good.

Loud noises, be it from firecrackers or karaoke boomboxes, are a Tết delicacy.

I live vicariously through a lot of things: vintage albums, my friends’ Instagram feeds, novels set in lands as far and strange as the mind can dream up; but perhaps my favorite mother lode of vicarity is via stories told by those who have lived vivid lives. It is only through stories like these that I could learn to put to rest my secret longing for firecrackers. This Tết, there won’t be any whiff of burnt gunpowder at my house, but as we convene around a bánh chưng or two, the stories will live on.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

Tết permeates all areas of life this time of the year, from TV programs to online memes and highly detailed charts, tables, and infographics that guide people to participate in a popular new year activity called xông đất.

Xông đất, which can be translated as first-footing, refers to the first visitor a family receives after midnight on lunar New Year's Eve. But according to traditions, to maximize the luck of the family in the upcoming year, the all-important first visit cannot be just anyone. There is a complex system based on the Asian zodiac dictating if you are “age-compatible” with the person you’re visiting and if you're not, visiting them may bring bad luck and total desolation, or so the system claims.

I’ve known of xông đất since I was a kid, but to this day it still bothers me because aside from the age system that I find hard to believe, the tradition includes other requirements that often turn into inconveniences, such as having to wake up fairly early to be the first one visiting, and the need to wear bright colors, avoiding black and white.

Many tend to take the tradition to an extreme. There are stories online galore about family businesses spending millions of dong to hire an age-compatible person to first-foot them in the new year. Meanwhile, others modify the tradition to make it more convenient. One year, my mother discovered that my age was compatible with my father, the home owner, so after the New Year fireworks at midnight she told me to leave the house, jog around the neighborhood and come back so that I would “technically” first-foot my own home. 

And when I’ve participated in the xông Đất without trickery, it was worthwhile for reasons unrelated to the superstition. When I was teenager I had to wake up early to first-foot my relatives while still half-asleep. My drowsiness soon turned into excitement when I discovered that my tech-savvy cousin had just bought a new PS4. For a kid with a PC that lagged trying to run Minecraft, a triple-A gaming experience was all I needed to start the new year well. It didn’t grant me good luck for the whole year, but it was simply an exceptional day well spent.

What I once got wrong about xông đất is focusing too much on age-compatibility, incorrectly assuming it to be the most important part of the tradition. Rather, something the guides emphasize, aside from age calculations, an integral part of the tradition is how “the first day of the year should go well to set the momentum for the rest of the year.” 

At its core, xông đất is simply a means for Vietnamese to share good feelings with one another and set off the year with some positive vibes. And if someone needs rules about birthdays and attire colors to help them achieve this positive entrance to the new lunar year, I think there is nothing wrong with that. While I may find some rules bothersome, I’m happy to look past those inconveniences in exchange for lively feelings and good memories on New Year’s Day.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

During high school, I learned that babies born in years of the dragon were thought to be “fortunate” and thus, highly sought-after.

As a 14-year-old dragon baby who just started reckoning with existential questions like “why am I here,” learning that one possible answer might be “because my parents believe I am the epitome of greatness” prompted me to seek out my parents, in hopes of finding out more about the circumstances behind my birth. Alas, our conversations were brief and unfruitful, as they both put to rest the idea that they were trying to have me in a specific year. I was disappointed that my birth didn't carry any grand meaning, but too young to realize that one's birth bearing no monumental expectations, other than being a decent human being, is actually a blessing.

Intricate dragon motifs on the roof of Hà Chương Guild Hall, a historical Hoa-Vietnamese building in Chợ Lớn.

It is considered auspicious to give birth in dragon years of the Asian zodiac cycle, as these babies are believed to lead highly successful lives and careers. The age-old maxim often results in high birth rates in years like 2000 and 2012; the phenomenon can be seen in countries following this zodiac system, including China, Taiwan, Singapore, and Vietnam. Fascinatingly, babies born in 2000 weren't just any dragons, but are said to be “golden” dragons, coming into existence at the start of a new millennium.

“Golden” is not how I've felt most of my life; it's been more grey-ish with a dash of pitch-black desperation and maybe a speck of ephemeral pastel pink every now and then. They say dragon babies are destined for greatness, but the only thing I have ever considered myself being great at is eating. They say dragon babies will be successful — I guess I’ve succeeded in living this long, at least.

Dragon-themed reliefs are very common at spiritual venues across Saigon's temples and pagodas.

Being a dragon baby meant that I always had to study much harder just to get into a decent school, because of the increased competition during entrance exams. There were so many more of us dragon babies compared to other school years. I was under more pressure not because my parents imposed greatness upon me, but because of a cultural belief over which I have no control. I felt like a log drifting on a ferocious current that I would inevitably drown in. 

Yet, I have made peace with being a dragon baby at this point in my life, as I came to realize that our culture would not be what it is without relying on arbitrary powers to make sense of the world or to blame for our shortcomings. All things considered, I would say life is good now, but being a dragon baby certainly plays no part in any success or stability I have now or might in the future.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

Tết is the perfect occasion of the year to go ham on the sugar.

Forget juices, forget smoothies, forget yogurt bowls — if you love fruits, these healthy renditions do not have a place during Tết. Instead, every lunar new year, your favorite fruits will magically transform into a candied version of themselves in the form of mứt. Pineapple, soursop, kumquat, or even cherry tomato, you name it, there’s probably a candied version of it.

Mứt dừa is my family specialty. My mom has perfected it into an art and finally passed the recipe down to me this year. For the average Joe, any freshly scraped coconut meat can be turned into pearly white strips of unctuous mứt dừa, but not just any coconut meat can cut it in my household, as only young coconuts have the ideal tenderness and moisture content to produce the best mứt dừa in her eyes.

The “original” version without added flavors.

My mom has a guy or lady for everything, so making mứt dừa often begins with a quick reminder to her coconut guy to retain young coconuts after their juice has been drained and sold. She’s been making mứt dừa using his coconuts for over a decade, earning for herself a loyalty discount and first dibs on the best coconut meat this side of Saigon has to offer.

Candying fruits for Tết, as I’ve discovered, is most labor-intensive during the prep stage, when every piece of coconut meat is cleaned and sliced into strips; the cooking phase can be boiled down, quite literally, to waiting for sugar crystals to form. Coconut strips are mixed with sugar and any additional flavor or color in juice form, then brought to a boil before the heat is lowered to allow for crystallization.

Pandan and beetroot juices provide colorful shades.

Pandan is always a crowd favorite in our family. Its uniquely sweet and vegetal aroma infuses well into mứt dừa, and the deep emerald color mellows out into an elegant shade of green evoking that of a warm matcha latte. This year, we decided to experiment with other natural colorants like beetroot and turmeric to unexpectedly vibrant results, but questionable tastes.

While the candied coconut strips are fresh off the stove and pliable, my mom folds them into flowers.

The art of making candied coconut might seem mundane, but it is the neat bow tying together many threads of Vietnamese culture, something that I only noticed this year after actually immersing myself in this family tradition. Every ingredient, from palm sugar, and coconut to pandan, originates from our water, our air, our soil, coming together into a celebration of native herbs and fruits. A sense of community permeates many Tết culinary traditions. The making of mứt dừa encourages the whole family to get together: the dad climbs up tall trees to pick fresh coconuts while the siblings help out with slicing the flesh into strips. Ultimately, it’s also unheard of to make a single portion of mứt dừa, for one of the delights of making New Year treats is giving them away to relatives and neighbors.

Ready to be feasted on in between bầu cua cá cọp matches.

I’ve always been wary of Tết’s eclectic offerings of cloyingly sweet treats, but I can’t say no to mứt dừa. Its conceptualization somehow brings together my favorite tropical flavors in the best package possible — young coconut and pandan — and, as it’s always homemade at the Phạms, I don’t have the heart to say no to such labor of love.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

When you picture secondary school students absorbed in their coursework, you are unlikely to envision them learning about Digital Societies, Computer Science, Environmental Systems and Societies (ESS), and Theatre.

But students at British International School Ho Chi Minh City (BIS HCMC) are studying these exact forward-looking and creative subjects and many others, alongside more traditional academic subjects, right now. As part of the prestigious International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme (IBDP), BIS HCMC students curate a personalized course of study from over 30 different available subjects that prepare them for top international universities while developing them as well-rounded individuals.

Alongside the enormous benefits of the IBDP being an Internationally recognized qualification, this curriculum fosters holistic learning supported by a broad and balanced knowledge base. It empowers students to achieve academic excellence and personal growth with an emphasis on wellbeing. As stated in its official Learner Profiles, graduates of the program are enquirers, knowledgeable, thinkers, communicators, principled, open-minded, caring, risk takers, balanced, and reflective.

Freedom to Explore Skills, Interests and Passions

All BIS HCMC students choose from more than 30 IBDP subjects that are spread across six groups (Studies in Language and Linguistics, Language Acquisition, Individuals and Societies, Sciences, Arts, and Mathematics), focusing on three to study at a higher level and three at a standard level. 

But students also have a huge range of co-curricular activities to explore their interests too. As part of the core IBDP, students also follow CAS (Creativity, Activity, Service), which requires all students to complete a creative experience, physical activity and community service opportunity.

CAS provides students with further opportunities to develop as well-rounded, responsible and caring students who have positive relationships with their peers and community. “My most significant CAS experience has been my role as a first aid leader; it’s taught me how to communicate, persevere and try to inspire change at BIS. I think this is a key skill I’ll need to bring into my future career,” said Atom, a Year 12 student. 

Sonali, a Year 12 student, prefect, academic mentor, Model United Nations chair, and VEX Robotics enthusiast noted her desire for more women to join the technology field when explaining why she selected Computer Science as one of her six subjects. “I want to go into computer science, especially web development but one of my teachers suggested that I get into politics, philosophy and economics, so I could become a lawyer too,” she added, alluding to the multifaceted study inherent to the IBDP and the number of options that BIS HCMC, in particular, excels at providing. "Everyone wants to be a well-rounded person because they genuinely are so passionate. There’s a lack of a box and people just get to enjoy what they do and be passionate about it and the school fosters that and allows it to grow, even in IB."

Having so many different subjects available and the freedom to choose allows students to explore what they think they might want to do in the future, balancing discovery with the honing of skills in areas they already hold expertise. The personalization of the IBDP is not new for BIS HCMC students, who select their subjects from age 16 in their IGCSEs. Having already had the chance to explore their interests and skills, they have a better understanding of what to pursue at IBDP. Amanda, a current Year 12 student who is studying Literature & Performance, Biology, Geography, Visual Arts, Math and Spanish explains how this environment is helping her explore and plan for a career: “I am in the school production and musical and I think that’s really going to help me in the future, especially with creating a community. I think the school fosters a really good atmosphere for creativity. It helps me grow as a person … I have considered doing musical theatre for my future and it opens more opportunities for me.”

Joel, another Year 12 student has also found ways to investigate his potential career via the IBDP curriculum alongside school extracurriculars. He selected Sports, Exercise and Health Science as one of his six subjects, volunteers as a basketball coach and applied to work in a local hospital’s nutrition division to “get an insight into what life would be like in that field,” he explained.

Both the IBDP and BIS instill a sense that anything is possible, as shown by the number of career paths the students choose. Joshua, another Year 12 student, aims to “study nuclear fusion” at a University in South Korea, so he “can help save the world” he half-jokingly adds. In fact, the school’s mission statement itself encourages students to be visionaries and changemakers in the world; “United as global citizens, we develop the skills and characteristics to create a more peaceful and sustainable world.”

Wellbeing and Physical Education are also core elements of overall student development that impact traditional academic achievement. A comprehensive well-being program at BIS HCMC, underpinned by respected academic research ensures students thrive both academically and beyond the classroom. BIS HCMC understands that for students to fully benefit from the advantages of the IBDP, they must be socially, physically and emotionally healthy. 

Preparation for University and Beyond

In addition to helping students know what they want to study in university, the IBDP Program helps them get accepted to top institutions around the world and excel once enrolled. Thanks to the program’s rigor and the development of self-motivation and responsibility, students find themselves prepared for university expectations in and outside the classroom. Particularly, the IBDP’s required Theory of Knowledge and Extended Essay prepare their critical thinking and essay writing skills so they are thinking and performing at university levels before having even graduated high school. “My first year of university was very easy, it was basically 50% of what I had already done in IB, so it really prepared me for that transition to a totally different environment. My study load reduced a lot which gave me more time to settle into university life,” explained Yu a 2022 BIS HCMC graduate now studying Material Science and Engineering at Seoul National University. 

“I am able to have a balance of creative subjects and STEM. Especially when going back to Denmark I think there are a lot of options I can choose and I have a good variety of subjects that allow me to qualify for universities there,” Amanda, the Theatre student noted when explaining her selection of such seemingly unrelated subjects. A simple glance at the school’s university destinations reveals how successful students are in their applications and the astoundingly diverse range of fields they pursue. This is in part down to their dedicated College and University Guidance team, who advise students early on what subjects and co-curricular activities will support their university applications and future goals.

Recent BIS HCMC graduates are now studying Neurobiology & Behaviour in the US, Marine Biology in Australia, Pharmacology in the UK, Medicine in Ireland, Computer Science in the US, Politics & International Relations in The Netherlands and Biotechnology in South Korea. 

Indicative of BIS HCMC’s foundational support of creative and unconventional passions, recent graduates are thriving outside conventional academic paths as well. Jeremie is a swimmer for Vietnam’s national team; Jess is a pilot; and Kisum founded the social enterprise Rice Inc. with the ultimate goal of ending food poverty in Southeast Asia.

Reading about these impressive students allows families to envision the opportunities awaiting at BIS HCMC, but it's even more powerful to have first-hand experience. Thus, the school is inviting prospective students and parents to attend a student-led open day on 22nd February During the evening Year 13 student Anya will share her IBDP journey alongside several Year 12 students. Parents will also have an opportunity to visit booths for each of the six IBDP subject groups and the college and university guidance team will be present to discuss study plans, paths and preparations. The open day is an ideal way to gain an understanding of how the IBDP Program at BIS HCMC, bolstered by its unrivaled selection of subjects, sets students on bright career and personal trajectories. 

Every Tết arrives accompanied by netizens sharing collections of poorly constructed statues of the year’s zodiac animal. Viewing the online collections with colleagues is one of my favorite holiday traditions.

Wobbly, woozy, emaciated tigers with loose cello strings for legs and tigers with the unmistakably bloodshot, listless stare of a bedroom bong-hitter; golden buffalos with faces twisted in pure terror as if they just jolted awake inside a slaughterhouse; a bloblike cat with the torso of a cucumber and face of a mouse; a mouse that resembles a knockoff Disney mascot manufactured by malfunctioning, misanthropic AI; and countless mammals of Lunar New Years past re-purposed with little more than a coat of paint and ceramic ears.

Photos of statues in the years past via Người Lao Động (left) and VnExpress (right).

I hope my giddy anticipation for the shoddy, slapdash, misshapen statues isn’t interpreted as meanspirited. I do have a genuine admiration for the many legitimately impressive statues proudly displayed every year amongst beautiful flower arrangements, but I just think we should also embrace these flawed sculptures because no year is perfect — many are as downright wonky and woebegone as the animal representations.

And maybe appreciating the slipshod animal effigies is a matter of recognizing that the holiday is one for the common citizen, and our celebration should involve works created not only by the well-funded and well-trained, but by those simply stirred by creativity. Let children, amateurs and hobbyists design them. As long as I am willing to poke fun at my own flaws, failures and imperfections while embracing opportunities to laugh with and not at, I feel no shame in celebrating lusty pigs or jaundiced felines. 

With all that said, I’m especially excited by the potential for the Year of the Dragon, particularly given the cyber-celebrity of a previous Hải Phòng dragon that prompted countless memes and even a comic book. Will we get a family of dragons so LSD-zooted they sport tie-dyed pupils and spit rainbow flames? Perhaps a remote hamlet will simply slap some legs on a previous snake statue, add some menacing eyelashes and call it a year? Or maybe one sculptor will bungle the assignment so badly that the dragon’s head resembles a melted egg tart and its tail appropriates a frayed shoelace? Whatever the specifics, I welcome the whimsy.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

I have never bought a lịch bloc, or tear-off calendar, for personal use, because every new year, I'm bound to be gifted a brand-new one. In Vietnam, a calendar is often something one purchases as a present for others.

The tear-off calendar has been a typical item in local households for centuries. There were even records of Nguyễn-Dynasty authorities overseeing the production of new calendars to give out during Tết. The act of ripping off a page from the calendar block is so historically relevant that it even gives rise to the crude slang phrase “bóc lịch,” loosely translated as “calendar ripping,” referring to jail time.

Brightly colored calendars sold alongside Tết decorations at a store in District 5.

In recent years, it's reported that all calendar sales have been on the decline because new calendar designs are repetitive and boring; people routinely receive them as free promotional gifts; and since the time and date are readily available on smartphones, tear-off calendars have become somewhat obsolete. The iconic Tết staple is no exception to this drop in popularity.

When it comes to Tết gifts, many prefer to receive aesthetically pleasing items like gift baskets, which can be displayed at home, making rooms feel fresh and new. Calendars, in contrast, simply offer mundane images few remember to tear off. 

Lịch bloc comes in many sizes for every home.

But I feel that we might take calendars for granted because beyond their stated function of time-keeping, they affect our lives in subtle ways. My mother often uses the pages to write checklists for her morning market trips. My family occasionally uses them for food wrapping or as just a placemat to discard fish bones during family meals.

This page will often end up on the dining table as a fishbone holder, or in the trash after a doodle session is finished.

My most vivid memory with calendars, however, dates back to when I was five. I loved drawing and couldn’t fight the urge to scribble everywhere, especially on the wall. My parents had to put a stop to it before I ruined the house. So they gave me spare calendar pages to doodle on and thus tearing a new page off the bloc became an exciting routine.

Lịch bloc may eventually lose its main function, but their spare papers and their offering of marginal conveniences will remain a part of our lives. Even though they may not be as significant as other Tết gifts, they have one advantage over fancy, expensive presents: when Tết is over, decorations are taken down, snacks from gift baskets are all eaten, and we all go back to our normal lives, but there will always be a calendar on your wall for another 300-some days, with all of its Tết visuals, maintaining a touch of festive energy remains in your house throughout the rest of the year.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

I hate excuses.

The only thing worse than lying to oneself is lying to another person, and whether it's feigning previous plans to justify turning down an invitation, or disingenuously blaming traffic for a late arrival, at the core of most excuses rests a lie.

Yet, my disdain for making excuses has one exception: Tết. The Lunar New Year is used to justify all sorts of professional and personal shortcomings. Payments not made on time? Emails not responded to? Construction left unfinished? Irresponsible spending at the mall? Drunk at 10am? It’s Tết (or It’s almost Tết or even, Tết just ended.) The phrase is close to a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card in the real world.”

I’m not suggesting that all of the behavior the holiday makes accommodations for is good, and there are of course annual actions such as increased crime and bribe harvesting that should never be waved away with a sheepish sentence, but don’t we all deserve a break? A break from expectations, arguments and disappointment. The explanation of It's Tết is an invitation for blind, beautifully unencumbered acceptance. Take a deep breath and relax, everything is going to be okay. What else is there to do about it, after all, It’s Tết! 

The nostalgic slumber of Tết time may be slowly disappearing, as evidenced by more shops and entertainment venues staying open, international trips gaining popularity, and laborious meals swapped out in favor of convenient pre-fab feasts. For years, editorials have been announcing its demise, but I will know it's truly changed only when I offer up It's Tết as an excuse and it's not accepted.

Vignette is a series of tiny essays from our writers, where we reflect, observe, and wax poetic about the tiny things in life.

Tết in 1992 was an especially fortuitous time to be a foreign arrival to Saigon. 

At that time, the country was just reopening to western tourists, and those lucky enough to have been amongst the first to come did so when the city was in a celebratory mood for the approaching Lunar New Year. Travel writer Mark Hodson was one of those blessed individuals. He spent a week gallivanting around the city along with other foreigners, chatted with locals and aimed his camera at striking street scenes.

"That week in Saigon was, and remains, the most thrilling experience of my traveling life," explains Hodson. He recently published a chronicle of his adventures describing how he found himself in Vietnam at the time with the awareness that "we knew how lucky and privileged we were to be in this astonishing city at this unique moment in time."

A cart selling Tết cards and decor in front of the Central Post Office.

Hodson penned a piece based on his trip for the Financial Times in 1992 that many of the below photos accompany. Amidst some observations and descriptions that he now admits were "embarrassingly gauche" or naive are some incredible glimpses into the city at the time. For example, he recounts: "Overcrowded buses, some built in the 1940s and converted to run on charcoal-burning stoves, clatter down wide boulevards past faded French courtyards."

Some details, such as streets devoid of cars and air without pollution, seem like they are from an alternate universe, but some are just as true today as they were then including the observation that: "The Saigonese are charming and exuberant, and they are everywhere: laughing, shouting, waving, hustling, buying and selling. Many will invite tourists into their homes to share bowls of pho, the meat and noodle soup eaten at breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Check out some of the photos that Hodson shared with us below:

Families going around town on their bikes to immerse in the festive mood.

Crowds of revelers in front of a temple.

Firecrackers go off in front of a house on Hai Bà Trưng Street and workers at a restaurant kitchen. These bombastic pyrotechnics, however, didn't last long. Due to fire risks, Vietnam imposed a nationwide ban on firecrackers from 1995.

A xích lô of joy.

Vintage Renault taxis parked on Nguyễn Huệ Boulevard.

"Hmm should I bet on fish or crab?"

A bò bía cart in Chợ Lớn.

A man showing off his MGA sports car.

The Đồng Khởi Hotel at the corner of Ngô Đức Kế and Đồng Khởi streets (now Hotel Grand Saigon).

Homeless Saigoneer sleeping on the pavement.

The photographer (second from right) enjoying a coffee with new friends at the Majestic Hotel.

Sleek French cars in front of a colonial estate.

A kind Saigoneer (far left) invited the photographer to his home for a meal. This photo of his whole family captures incredible fashion details from the era.

High school can be a frustrating time in virtually every culture, as seen from the myriad of coming-of-age movies depicting the range of clichés, stereotypes and expressions of teenage angst we all go through. To a female high school student in Vietnam like me, a unique cultural feature that adds another layer to the growing pains is the áo dài uniform I must wear every Monday.

This regulation was the sole reason behind an irregular meeting between my mother and a teacher in my senior year. Normally, even girls who are annoyed at being forced to wear the traditional dress would just abide by it, because it's rather inevitable and not worth the trouble to go against. So the fact that I continuously refused to wear áo dài for weeks on end seemed like a cry for help to my form teacher at the time, as he thought I was going through a tough time at home. Little did he know, my opposition to wearing áo dài as a uniform did not stem from hatred for the clothes; in fact, it wasn’t even about áo dài to begin with, but the feminine image that teachers so relentlessly tried to mold us into when wearing áo dài.

 

Tháng Giêng

2024

January

 

Áo dài truyền thống. Photo via Thanh Niên.

 

Tháng Giêng

2024

January

 

Despite the variety of áo dài shapes, white and traditional áo dài with a tight bodice is the only form accepted as school uniforms.

Áo dài these days come in all shapes and styles, in addition to the traditional silhouette, there's áo dài dáng suông with a loose fit, while áo dài cách tân is tailored in a variety of colors and fabrics. In the education setting, however, áo dài truyền thống remains the single shape accepted by school administrators. It has always been the dominant cut of áo dài, but its form-fitting bodice is not for everyone. The tight fit hugs your body, making it difficult to navigate everyday activities, and the way it contours the waist doesn’t suit any teenage girl without the slender physique or confidence to wear it.

 

Tháng Giêng

2024

January

 

Áo dài dáng suông with a loose fit, showing elegance without a restrictive upper body shape. Photo via Thể thao và Văn hóa.

As an adolescent struggling with weight and body image issues, I mostly felt as if all my insecurities were on display for the whole world to see while wearing the áo dài uniform. But the most frustrating thing about wearing áo dài at the time was how my teachers kept imposing a restricting set of qualities on girls when in áo dài. We were told to be dainty and demure, to walk and speak softly and to look our prettiest when in the attire, to look fresh and smiley even when feeling uncomfortable, because a woman should always prioritize being beautiful over being comfortable in her own skin. Áo dài then, to me, felt like a tool used to impose a traditional ideal of femininity on us, one that emphasizes a girl’s appearance above all else.

I was 23 years old when a friend of mine suggested renting áo dài to wear for Tết in 2023. I was taken aback at the suggestion because in our circle of friends, few were excited at the idea of wearing áo dài before. I was reluctant to participate in the idea as I’m constantly reminded of how uncomfortable my experience with áo dài in school was. But this time, there’s no teachers trying to dictate my feelings and manners, so I gave the idea a shot. After spending some time searching, I finally settled on a loose-fit áo dài dáng suông with a dark green and mustard yellow combo, which somehow fit me perfectly. Playful and fun are two states of mind I had never associated with áo dài before, but at that moment, I was genuinely happy with an outfit that had once seemed to represent all the qualities I don’t resonate with.

My relationship with áo dài reflects the journey I had in discovering my own identity — from frustration over not fitting into the traditional Vietnamese image of femininity, to finally finding my own comfort and place in the culture.

How has your life been transformed in the past 30 years? Changes might materialize overnight, but some tend to creep up on you at a glacial pace. Through this collection of images from 1992, mull over how Vietnam as a country has grown with every 12-month cycle.

These photographs were taken by travel writer Mark Hodson, who had a rare opportunity to tour Vietnam in the early 1990s when international tourism was virtually unheard of here. Without the presence of themed resorts, travel agents, cable cars and cruise boats, scenes in the country were captured as closely as possible to the quotidian life of locals.

A busy phở joint in Hanoi.

“I was using a Canon AE1 SLR, shooting on Fujichrome Velvia 50, mostly with a 50mm lens,” Hodson writes on his website about the trip. “I had prints made from the original transparencies, and what you see below are scans of those prints. I haven’t adjusted any of the coloring.”

Here are some glimpse of Hanoi, Hội An, and Nha Trang in the 1990s:

Fruit vendors set up shop in front of rows of old buildings in Hanoi.

The vast emptiness of Hanoi's airport, where Hodson was heading to “Vientiane aboard an ancient Russian-built Tupolev jet.”

A casual food street in Hanoi where one can slurp on porridge and instant noodles, or chew on a plate of hot xôi.

Sampans were often homes of families in Hạ Long. There wasn't any hotels in the area, so Hodson reported sleeping in a Russian workers' hostel.

Living on the water was much more common in 1992 than today.

Wood-fired inter-province coaches were quite unreliable and often broke down mid-trip.

The colonial design of Huế's train station.

An ice cream cart in Hội An.

The boats of Hội An.

In Đà Nẵng's Chợ Hàn, a grain merchant took a nap during slow periods of the day.

Fishmongers in Hội An with their catch of the day.

Boats in Hội An.

A dapper Hội An man posed for a photo.

It's corn!
A big lump with knobs
It has the juice (it has the juice).

Cross-country trips were often truncated by rest stops and engine failures.

Xích lô drivers in Hội An.

A fiery cockfight in Nha Trang.

A Nha Trang resident and her morning fish haul.