Top 8 Beautiful Essays About the Mekong Delta

"My Mekong Delta homeland is filled with picturesque rivers, fragrant flowers, and sweet fruits. Every day, a small boat carries passengers across the water, a scene captured in a song that I have always loved, even without realizing it."

I can't remember exactly when I fell in love with these lyrics, but one day, as I scrolled online, I realized how the beauty of the Southern people is reflected in their traditional attire, the Ao Ba Ba...

As a girl from the North, I never paid much attention to these special details. I was accustomed to wearing dresses, but I was struck by the quiet elegance of the Southern girls. I began to wonder why they appeared so soft and graceful. Over time, I came to realize that it was the Ao Ba Ba that gave them this charm.

The Ao Ba Ba has been around for as long as I can remember, and it makes every woman who wears it appear so graceful, composed, and gentle.

The beauty of the Ao Ba Ba becomes even more enchanting when paired with a checkered scarf and worn on a boat, with the paddle rhythmically moving as the sleeves flutter gently in the wind.

This blouse is simple yet incredibly graceful. It lacks a collar, is made from soft fabric, and has a split on both sides, offering comfort while highlighting the woman’s natural curves.

The Ao Ba Ba is usually worn with black or white pants, with black being the preferred choice. This adds to the ethereal beauty of the wearer, creating a soft and elegant image.

Though simple, the Ao Ba Ba holds deep cultural significance, evoking feelings of closeness and nostalgia for the riverside, for the songs sung in the open air. It also represents strength and resilience. I saw this in old war films, where women wore the Ao Ba Ba while carrying rifles, a powerful symbol of courage and determination.

As a young woman from the North, I had never truly known or appreciated this traditional dress. But after understanding its beauty, I made it my mission to find one. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find it in the North. Eventually, I met a man from the South online, and he promised to help me find one, as Ao Ba Ba was something he knew well. I waited eagerly for him to send it to me. When I finally wore it, I felt more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I was overjoyed when people on the street couldn’t stop staring at me. I went to the market to buy vegetables, and a seller said:

- Your outfit is beautiful! At first, I thought you were from the South. You wear it so well, and you look so graceful. I’ll buy one for myself too!

I laughed with joy, feeling a deep connection to the people. Even the little children in my family loved me more whenever they saw me in the Ao Ba Ba.

Through the ups and downs of life, many have forgotten the beauty of the Ao Ba Ba, but to me, it remains a symbol of the gentleness and grace of our people. One day, perhaps, more people will rediscover its beauty, just as I did. "The Ao Ba Ba sways gently with the green coconut trees. The Ao Ba Ba carries the scent of smoke from the kitchen." These words I cherish, for they paint a picture of my simple, loving homeland.

"I love my homeland, with its salty air and the charming Ao Ba Ba. With a graceful smile, you tilt your head to cover your poetic hat."

Phuong Uyen

Located on the right bank of the gentle Tien River, Sa Dec feels like a humble village standing quietly on the edge of fleeting beauty. This 'girl' has been captivating for centuries, as Sa Dec is closely tied to one of the most famous flower villages in the Mekong Delta – Tan Quy Dong. The subtle charm of this small town with its quiet rows of areca palms lining the riverside, colonial houses from the French era casting their reflections on the slow-flowing waters, always softens the hearts of any traveler who happens upon it.

Since the late 18th century, when the Nguyen Lords began to develop the south, Sa Dec became a bustling trading hub and a cultural and educational center for the Southern region.

When the film 'L'Amant' (The Lover) was first screened in Ho Chi Minh City in 1991, it seemed as though Sa Dec was awakened once more from a long slumber. People were mesmerized by the rustic beauty of the old Mekong Delta and the stunning French colonial architecture of the Huynh Thuy Le House. Since then, Sa Dec has been affectionately known as 'The Town of Lovers'.

If you enjoy a leisurely morning ride through tree-lined streets, passing small houses tucked behind fences adorned with hibiscus flowers, you should visit a village about ten minutes by bike from the old mansion. There, a peaceful creek runs through fields of vibrant flowers, showcasing all the colors of spring. This is the heart of 'The Town of Lovers' – Tan Quy Dong flower village, a major flower growing and trading center in the region. The tradition of flower farming here has existed for nearly a century.

Starting in November, after the floodwaters recede and the winds from the east begin to blow, Sa Dec begins the task of supplying spring flowers to Ho Chi Minh City and the southern provinces. During major festivals, Sa Dec even sends its fragrant flowers to the highland city of Da Lat. To truly experience the full bloom of Sa Dec’s spring, locals suggest visiting just before Tet. This is when the chrysanthemums begin to smile with their delicate petals, when the dahlias proudly show their colors, and the golden apricot blossoms eagerly start to bloom, signaling the arrival of the New Year. The entire village bursts into life, with marigolds, daisies, and orchids all competing for attention, while the ten-o'clock flowers playfully flutter in the breeze, teasing the butterflies and bees.

For those looking to experience the vibrant spirit of the Mekong Delta, a trip to the floating market is a must. Here, you can drift alongside the local traders, balance yourself on the rising waves, and listen to the rhythmic sound of paddles breaking the stillness, as vendors call out their wares across the river.

There is a place, where five rivers meet, now known as Nga Nam (Five Rivers), which has become a small, impoverished market town in Soc Trang Province. But despite its size, this place attracts visitors because of its unique floating market, where the commerce is carried out by boat, adding a distinctive flair to the daily transactions of the locals.

To visit the floating market, you need to hire a boat. Imagine waking up on a misty morning, the clouds still drifting along the rippling water, as you float along on a small boat, immersed in the lively exchanges of local vendors. You could sip a steaming bowl of fish soup or enjoy a bowl of Western-style noodle soup, right there on the water – a perfect moment of serenity!

Take your time to wander through the bustling market, where hundreds of boats filled with various goods ply the water. Vendors hang their products on long bamboo poles, called 'beo poles,' allowing customers to easily see and select items for purchase. Some boats display bunches of fresh bananas, coconuts, or rambutan, while others carry dried fish, candies, and more – all local products for trade. However, there are a few unwritten rules in the floating market:

- What can't be sold on a pole? Clothes! Most of the traders live on their boats, so they hang their clothes to dry on the poles, but they don't sell them.

- What can't be hung up for sale? Food! You won’t find food hung on the poles; instead, vendors serve it directly to customers from their boats.

- Can you sell something different from what’s hanging? Yes, if a boat hangs a bundle of palm leaves, it signals that they are selling their boat, not the palm leaves.

It's unclear exactly when the floating market originated, but for the people of the Mekong Delta, the floating market remains a beloved tradition. Despite the rise of modern supermarkets, nothing compares to the unique charm and hospitality of the floating market, where business is conducted with a genuine, rustic warmth that continues to attract visitors.

Collected

The life of the people in the Southern Mekong Delta is as simple as their humble, hardworking nature, shaped by generations of toil and persistence since the very beginning of their settlement. Whether under the hot sun, in the pouring rain, or navigating deep rivers, the people of the South remain optimistic, adaptable, and in harmony with nature and the land.

In the rural regions of the Mekong Delta, one will find homes nestled quietly beneath rows of tall, green coconut trees, located along rivers and canals shaded by dense foliage. This region is often lovingly referred to as the land of rivers. The locals have built their homes with their front doors opening towards the water for easier trade and travel.

The river systems here not only support agriculture but also provide opportunities for fishing. Though the people endure the hardships of ebbing and flowing tides, their lives remain optimistic, filled with joy, and an unburdened freedom, like the cool waters of the rivers.

The people’s connection to the river is deeply ingrained, as they rely on nature to harvest the riches the waterways provide. Every morning, the sound of boats cutting through the water mingles with the gentle lapping of the waves against the riverbanks, creating a soothing and familiar melody.

Homes are mostly built at the water’s edge, with two pathways: one for pedestrians and the other for boats such as canoes and small river vessels. The stillness of the water’s path feels more intimate, as boats glide effortlessly along, evoking an almost poetic charm.

People are always in tune with nature, enjoying the cool breeze that flows from the river. Year-round, the area is blessed with abundant, fresh fruits and vegetables. A typical meal consists of simple, local dishes – fish and shrimp from the river, fresh vegetables from the garden – served in the open air beside the river, creating a sense of comfort and warmth.

A house by the river is not merely a shelter from the elements but a cultural symbol that reflects the diverse heritage of the Southern waterside. Whether born and raised here or visiting from afar, everyone who steps into this peaceful village will carry the image of a welcoming, warm-hearted community.

Visiting the countryside of the Mekong Delta is the perfect way to experience the serene and peaceful rhythms of life, far from the hustle and bustle of city life. The cooling river breeze and the slow pace of life bring a sense of calm and tranquility that is easy to forget in the chaos of modern cities. People who grow up here often find themselves deeply nostalgic for meals shared with family by the river, where the warmth of loved ones and the peacefulness of the countryside are in perfect harmony.

In fact, no meal in the Mekong Delta is complete without fresh vegetables, and the saying “when you’re hungry, eat vegetables; when you’re sick, take medicine” sums up the importance of these greens. It has become a natural part of life here – whenever people speak of the local vegetables, it stirs a longing in the hearts of the Mekong Delta's children for the fresh, cooling taste of their hometown.

The wild greens, found everywhere – on riverbanks, in fields, and even along roadsides – are especially loved. Plants like water lilies, senna flowers, young mango leaves, and Vietnamese coriander are just a few of the simple but flavorful vegetables that are abundant in this region. The simplicity of a rural meal, filled with these fresh greens, is unforgettable and holds a special place in the hearts of those who have left home.

Thus, when people from the Mekong Delta are far from home, they often yearn for the taste of their local meals, remembering the figures of their parents, working gently on the riverbanks of the Southern Delta.

VÕ HOÀNG NAM

Has anything changed back home?

My mother says, it's the flood season now.

Indeed, it's that time of year again—the floodwaters are rising. Though I can't witness the floods firsthand anymore, the images of rice fields submerged in water flood back into my memories.

My heart starts to beat faster. Instantly, I feel the urge to rush back home, to stand in the wind, letting my hair fly free as it did when I was with my mother. I can almost hear the rustling of the fields in the breeze, the sound of someone checking their nets, the quiet swish of water lapping against the sides of small boats.

And I can almost smell the unique scent of the flood season—the fresh aroma of the flooded fields, something that only comes once a year, as special and beloved as the yellow blooms of the “dien dien” flower, a symbol of the Mekong flood season.

Indeed, I can never forget the bright yellow blooms of the dien dien, reminding me of home, nor the dishes my mother used to prepare with them. It wasn’t just the traditional “dien dien with linh fish,” but also dishes like dien dien salad, stir-fried dien dien, and crispy bánh xèo with dien dien and sweet coconut hearts.

Even now, I still vividly remember those flood seasons, when we children would take small wooden boats out on the flooded fields, and once the waters filled our homes, I’d catch fish right in the kitchen. I remember organizing groups of young friends to paddle our boats and set up fishing nets, then submerging the boats to swim and play. How joyful! How blissful! These pure, sweet memories of childhood lasted through the flood seasons.

The flood season in my hometown was not just a time of play, but also a time of livelihood: pulling in fish, casting nets, setting traps, and fishing. “Fish and shrimp are ready to catch, rice grows in abundance.”

Then, in the evening, a young boy from one of the nearby houses would paddle his boat across the fields, passing over embankments now submerged by the rising water. It was as if he were telling the water, “Grow higher!” The higher the water, the lighter the boat floats. There’s nothing more satisfying than letting the boat drift while lying on your back, gazing at the sky, letting the boat and the waves take you to distant dreams…

Oh, how I long to return to the river to see if the boats still carry straw or if the fishing nets still lie hidden beneath the silver waters. Every year, things change. But the fish, the shrimp, the crabs, and the small fish still swim in schools, flowing with the current of the mighty Mekong River. Before we part, I’m sure they’ll meet again next year, just as they always do.

And then the flood season will pass, but right now, I want to ask, “Is the water overflowing yet, Mother?”

Cây Hoa Lá

I was born and raised in the Red River Delta. After graduating from the Border Guard University, I was assigned to the Southwest border. I thought my military life would only be tied to this land for a few years before returning to the North to settle down, but the deep connection to the land, its people, and especially a love story between two hearts, has kept me rooted in the beautiful and warm-hearted Western region of Vietnam.

My house is located by the riverbank, where the gentle and serene Cái Cỏ River flows. It is a tributary of the Vàm Cỏ Tây River, which originates from the vast Mekong River in the land of Cambodia. Despite its small size, the river is teeming with fish and shrimp and carries rich alluvial deposits, nourishing the fertile fields around it. For years, this riverbank has been a resting place for Border Guard officers on their journeys.

Though my family is poor, we are rich in love and community spirit. There are many children in my family, six daughters and two sons. From a young age, our parents taught us to follow discipline and respect one another. We always treat our elders and peers with kindness. When any officers from the Border Guard post visited, the eldest woman of the house would warmly call out from the upstairs: “Where are the kids? Go catch some fish and cook for the officers!” The house was always well-kept, with rice stored in jars, firewood neatly stacked in the kitchen corner, and fish ready in nets by the riverbank. My mother, gentle and kind-hearted, would say this so calmly, yet all the children would rush to work immediately.

I met her during the flood season when the water covered all the roads and the vast fields swayed in the wind. Our first meeting was filled with a sense of mutual respect, and we sang a folk song together about her hometown and the legendary Vàm Cỏ River. From that moment, we started to fall in love. Our work trips together became moments for us to exchange glances, feeling shy and secretly in love.

How many times I remember rowing the boat with her, fishing, catching wild vegetables, and enjoying nature. The flood brought joy to the fish, and they swam into our nets. We would catch only enough to eat, releasing the rest back into the river. The hardest part was untangling the fish, especially the glass fish, which no one liked because their skin and fins were tough while their meat was soft and unappetizing. It would tear the net when trying to free them. I wasn’t very skilled, and she would tease me: “If the fish don’t sell enough to buy new nets, my dad will make you pay!” I would respond honestly: “If this catch isn’t enough to buy new nets, I’ll stay and work at your house to pay the debt for the rest of my life.” Suddenly, I saw her cheeks flush with a soft pink as she lowered her gaze.

In Đồng Tháp Mười, during the flood season, there are numerous wild vegetables that have become delicacies, such as water lilies, golden dien dien flowers, water morning glory, and more. Among the vast flooded fields, clusters of purple-red water lilies stand out with their green, lush leaves. Water lilies possess a magical power—they wither in the dry season, only to bloom again when the water rises. The stems grow longer, more tender, and sweeter as they reach higher water levels.

The golden dien dien flowers often grow at the water’s edge, surrounded by water morning glory with their red tips. The dien dien flowers are a brilliant golden yellow, and their taste is sweet and refreshing when young. The flavor intensifies as the petals bloom. She and I would often go with her older sisters early in the morning to pick the golden dien dien flowers, just when the petals were still tender and hidden under a layer of morning dew. We would let down the nets and row the boat to gather wild vegetables. When we returned to check the nets, we would find fish swimming through the submerged buoys. The combination of water lilies, golden dien dien flowers, young linh fish, and small perch, either simmered in tamarind or cooked in sour hotpot, became a seasonal delicacy of the Đồng Tháp Mười region.

Many nights under the bright moon, she would gently paddle the boat, making it drift silently while the golden moonlight shimmered across the water. Far away, I could hear the faint sound of a folk song. These were the fishermen from Long Xuyên, coming to Đồng Tháp Mười for the fishing season. She would quietly hum a few lines from the song “Southern Melody,” stirring my heart. The song, though melancholic, expressed a love for the simple lives of the people here—people who live humbly, without many calculations, yet rich in kindness and sincerity.

After the harvest, the field behind her house transformed into a vast lotus pond. By the end of the dry season, the surrounding fields were dry, but the lotus pond remained lush, its leaves a bright green. Flocks of herons, storks, and cranes gathered to bathe and forage. The air was filled with the sound of calls to one another, and the fight for food. When the lotus flowers bloomed, the whole field turned a vibrant pink. The fragrance of the lotus was intoxicating. I, along with a few comrades, was assigned to help harvest the lotus pods. While harvesting, we would also set up fishing rods along the edge of the pond. Simple moments like these were precious. During lunch, she would serve grilled snakehead fish with salt and chili on lotus leaves, and the aroma would fill the air.

Then, the flood season ended. The entire Đồng Tháp Mười region was covered with a layer of fertile red alluvial soil. The floodwaters had washed away pests and diseases, leaving behind green fields of rice stretching across the horizon.

In that peaceful, poetic setting, I officially became a son-in-law of the Mekong Delta. Our wedding was simple and modest, held in the middle of the rice field during the rice harvest. Understanding my situation as someone far from home, her family welcomed me with open arms, integrating me into their traditions. During the ceremony, I stood with my hands folded, following the elder to perform the ancestral rites and introduce myself to the elders of her family. For the first time, I was nervous, excited, and emotional, sweating through my clothes. She peered shyly through the curtain, smiling softly. The neighbors, friends, and comrades gathered to wish us a lifetime of happiness.

Since that day, Đồng Tháp Mười has become my second home, a place full of love and warmth. The land here, with its deep sense of community and friendship, has sheltered us through many challenges. Every day, the love, kindness, and loyalty from this land only deepen. Wherever I go, I proudly declare that I am a son-in-law of the Mekong Delta.

Nguyễn Hội

While sorting through old photos during my free time at home because of the pandemic, I suddenly felt the yearning to wander around once again on those short summer days, as the lesson plans, work, and responsibilities were temporarily set aside. My previous journey across the southern provinces of Vietnam a few years ago stirred my restless feet. So, I’ll just write a few lines to capture the feelings from a time I’ve already been there.

I had only known this land through books, literature, and films, but had never set foot here. I was eagerly awaiting the day I could visit the South, much like a young child anxiously awaiting their mother’s return from the market, hoping to find something special in the basket. After nearly a full day’s travel by bus, I finally caught sight of the mighty Tien River, flowing like a great dragon, its muddy waters churning in the midday wind. As a person from Central Vietnam, accustomed to small, calm rivers, I was both amazed and slightly chilled by the sight of the turbulent waters of the Tien River. Sitting on the tourist boat, I looked down at the murky, silt-laden waters, feeling as if I were sailing on the open sea. The wind howled, and the sound of the boat’s engine drowned out the voice of the local tour guide, who was probably in her sixties. The boat sped towards Thoi Son Island. Though I’ve traveled many places by various means of transport, the experience of sitting on a boat and drifting across the vast river made me feel both excited and nervous every time the boat tilted and splashed water onto the sides. In the distance, the Rach Mieu Bridge stretched majestically across the Tien River like a massive steel beam, cutting off part of the endless view of water on both banks. The howling wind seemed to carry with it the sweet, melancholic tune of the song “Bau Tìm Qua” echoing from the riverbank: 'Bau crossed the Rach Mieu ferry, Qua trailing behind, the moonlight above her head looked like a bride's veil. Bau’s red dress was like a winged butterfly, her skin was golden like the silt of the river…' The hands and minds of modern people had built legendary bridges, connecting the southern waterway region, turning once-bustling ferry stations into memories. My Thuan, Hau Giang, Vam Cong, Rach Mieu… these names now live on only in folk songs or the lilting tunes of Southern Vietnamese folk music. As the boat docked and we stepped onto the island, I was surrounded by lush orchards. I could almost feel the silt seep into the soil, into the trunks, nourishing the sweet fruits hanging heavily from the branches – guavas, longans, mangoes, rambutans... Tourists seemed to lose themselves in the local culture, tasting fruits and listening to the soulful strains of Don Ca Tai Tu. The amateur singer’s soft, lingering voice floated over the air before the music gently transitioned into a sweet melody, just like the fruit displayed on the small wooden table in the thatched hut in the garden. We left the island with a sense of longing as the sounds of the đàn kìm and guitar still echoed through the leaves, making us feel like we were in the heart of the southern countryside. We boarded the boat once again and sailed to the coconut tree region on the other side of the Tien River. I had the chance to taste the mild coconut wine and the deep-fried fish that gave me a strange sensation. Unlike the potent Bàu Da wine from my hometown, which hits the tongue immediately, the Southern liquor didn’t quite appeal to a traveler from Central Vietnam, where the liquor is considered the national spirit. We returned to My Tho after sampling chewy coconut candies that stuck to our teeth.

'Can Tho, with its white rice and clear water, anyone who visits doesn't want to leave.' Whenever someone hears this verse, their heart can’t help but ache to visit the Western capital. The car sped along the smooth, flat national road, unlike the hilly, winding roads of Central Vietnam that stretch from the Truong Son range to the sea. The second-largest river snaked its way to the ocean, its muddy water swirling in the Mekong Delta. Driving across the Can Tho Bridge, a stunning cable-stayed structure, made me feel small in the face of such a colossal engineering feat, especially considering the tragic events during its construction in 2007. The sound of the car horns faded away, drowned out by the vast river as the car descended into the city. The bustling streets of Can Tho at night rivaled Saigon, with people filling the Ninh Kieu wharf to board multi-decked boats and explore the Hau River as night fell. My wife was likely the happiest person during this journey, as we celebrated her 42nd birthday on the boat under the twinkling lights, surrounded by friends and colleagues. Our friend was amazed to see so many places in the Mekong Delta begin with the word 'Cai,' and we were excited to get on a boat at dawn to visit the Cai Rang floating market. I explained that 'Cai' means 'small river' in the ancient language of the Phu Nam people, so we have places like Cai Rang, Cai Mon, Cai Nhum, Cai Vòm, and so on. As I was explaining, my younger sister punched me in the back because she thought I was wrong, and we all burst into laughter in the faint light from the boats filled with fruits and tourists. Even though I wore a life vest and knew how to swim, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease as I looked into the dark, cold waters while light rain fell as the night shifted. The houses on the riverbank leaned precariously, their foundations almost submerged, listening to the waves lap gently at the foot of the house. The only sound breaking the calm of the early morning city was the hum of motorboats speeding back and forth.

We left Can Tho when the city was bustling with people and vehicles. A hotel staff member, dressed in a traditional áo bà ba, bid us farewell in the sweet, melodious voice of the South, almost like the tune of a Beguine song: 'You look so lovely in your áo bà ba, hurry up, or you’ll miss the last ferry across the northern Can Tho pier…'

No, I wasn’t crossing the northern Can Tho pier. I wanted to reach the very end of the country, to the place I had memorized since childhood in the poem by poet To:
'Study, my child,
study and always remember
Our homeland stretches
From Ca Mau’s tip to Mong Cai’s northern border.'

The excitement doubled as the bus neared Ca Mau. I quickly changed into a new shirt to take some pictures, eager to embrace the landmark 0001 of the country’s southernmost point – a place I had only seen in pictures and on TV. My younger siblings laughed at my meticulous preparations. The roads, crisscrossed with rivers and canals, seemed like a spider’s web, with the small bus darting through the maze like a newly hatched spider searching for its way out. We passed places like Cai Nuoc, Nam Can, with mangrove forests filled with roots visible through the car’s windows. My sister, Nguyễn Thị Thanh Phượng, woke up from her nap in the car and asked as the vehicle stopped for us to transfer to a high-speed boat:

- Are we at Ca Mau yet, brother?

I hummed a song by Thanh Sơn to joke after the long journey from Can Tho to Dat Mui: 'I heard Ca Mau is far, at the very end of Vietnam’s map…' making my sister laugh and forget about her fatigue. Before getting on the boat, we saw baskets full of giant crabs freshly pulled from the water, and the sight made all of us salivate. The 60-kilometer journey on the Cua Lon River to the final landmark felt like a thrilling adventure. The speedboat rushed forward like a scene from an action movie, making us hold our breath as it swerved to avoid unexpected boats appearing out of the narrow channels. There were times when the boat lifted off the water. Even a strong guy like me felt a little nervous, let alone the women. I reached the final landmark of the country, looking out over the vast ocean, feeling triumphant like a mountaineer conquering Everest. This was a dream come true that took nearly a lifetime to achieve. We left Ca Mau after a night full of local food and drinks from this riverine land at the edge of the country.

The bus crossed a tiny cement bridge, not even five meters long, to reach the land of a famous playboy who made a name for himself with lavish spending on beautiful women. His French-style house is now a tourist attraction, where visitors can hear tales of the excessive wealth of the 'playboy' who once spent fortunes. Now, his son sells books in the very house where his father had once entertained. Trần Trinh Đức smiled awkwardly when I asked if I could take a photo with his little daughter. Perhaps nothing is more heartbreaking than seeing a child “thirsting” for success like his father did. Passing by a park with a statue of a đàn kìm, I could almost hear the haunting, soulful strains of the song 'Dạ cổ hoài lang,' written by Sáu Lầu, echoing through the air, easing the sorrow for a lost love. The small land of Bac Lieu may be small compared to the vast Mekong Delta, but its unique culture will live on for generations. After visiting the Doi Pagoda and listening to Khmer music, we concluded our Southern exploration, enriching our knowledge about a region with distinct cultural features that shaped the core values of Southern people.

Phong Bui Duy