Faces of Vietnam
Vietnam was the first country I traveled to in Asia. It was also the trip that started everything you see across this Faces series. Here, I had my first real attempt at portrait photography, guided by professionals who knew of villages tourists don’t usually find and had the trust of the people who live in them.
I traveled the length of the country from south to north, but Hoi An in central Vietnam stole my heart. It was here, one day in 2019, when I booked a photo workshop with Hoi An Photo Tours, capturing the activity and characters of fishing harbor at sunrise. Later that afternoon, I joined Pieter Janssen, another professional photographer (now based in Portugal), out in the fields around Hoi An.
What struck me most was how willing the Vietnamese people were to be photographed. As someone from DC, I can imagine what might happen if a stranger asks a random person to take their picture. You’d get a look, or worse.
In Vietnam it was so different, disarmingly so. I remember that sunrise morning telling the guide that I felt awkward and intrusive going up to someone who was just trying to do their work. But he told me not to worry. I asked, “why are people here so open?” and their answer was simple: it’s just a different culture.
I went back to my hotel that night feeling positively giddy. I still think back on that February day as one of the best in my life. It was the day I understood what photography could do and the way a camera could document more than a moment, but the essence of a person and the spirit of a culture.
The fishing harbour at Cửa Đại, just east of Hoi An, comes alive long before sunrise. By the time I arrived, boats were already returning from a night out on the water—nets were being hauled in and the night’s catch was being unloaded. For this man, the day’s work was already completed before most people had woken up.
Vietnamese fishermen in this region typically fish through the night, setting out in the late afternoon and returning at dawn. I visited this village back in 2019 with Hoi An Photo Tours, a photo tour company based in central Vietnam. This was the first photo tour I had ever booked—the one that really started my love for hiring a photographer who could help open doors and give me the genuine access I had always craved.
This man had almost certainly just come off the water. Yet, even though he had been out all night, he didn’t look tired.
The harbor at this small fishing village was already chaotic by the time the sun came up. But when we walked up to this older fisherman, there was a quiet contentment in his expression. He didn’t have the same high-octane energy as the others scrambling around, sorting the morning catch. It was a February, and just after sunrise, it was still in the upper 60s—chilly for Vietnam standards. He was bundled up in a dark jacket and knit beanie, while some of his younger counterparts were sporting short sleeves.
One of the photo tour guides knew him and called out from the nearby pier. He looked up mid-conversation, and that was the shot: that unguarded moment between recognition and response. The busy harbor was behind him, Vietnamese flags reflecting in the water below (a legal requirement for all fishing vessels in Vietnam).
It was nearly 5:00 PM when we reached the farming villages just west of Hoi An—my second photo tour of the day, this time with Pieter Janssen. At that hour, most of the fields had already emptied out for the day. Vietnamese farmers typically work in two shifts, early morning and late afternoon, to avoid the worst of the midday heat, even in February. A handful of women, and one man, were still out, finishing up before the light faded.
Pieter said something to her in Vietnamese as she walked past us with her arms full. He was trying to get a reaction and it worked: she burst out laughing. I never found out what he said though!
The bundles she’s carrying appear to be rau cải (mustard greens), a staple crop in this part of central Vietnam. The villages around Hoi An have supplied the town’s kitchens for generations, and the fields here grow the fresh herbs and vegetables that end up in the local markets and restaurants each morning.
I spotted this elderly woman on a market street in Hoi An’s Ancient Town one morning when I was trying to pick up some souvenirs. She had set herself up on a tiny red plastic stool. Her cane was at her feet, as well as a small basket in front of her with what appeared to be some cash to make change and a few items weighing the notes down. A pink rubber ducky sat in the basket too, though I’m really not sure why.
She noticed me and my camera but didn’t acknowledge me in the slightest. Just sat there, eyes closed, cigarette between her lips, completely at ease in the middle of a busy market street.
There’s something quite remarkable about her, and the many elderly Vietnamese I saw still working well into old age. If I was sitting that low to the ground on a stool no bigger than a shoebox, my back would’ve been hurting within minutes. Yet here she was, out at 9:00 AM, set up and open for business. No wonder she needed a smoke.
Outside of Hoi An, in a rural agriculture area, this man was carefully painting the eye onto the bow of a fishing vessel, a tradition deeply rooted in Vietnamese coastal culture. The eyes, painted on either side of the bow, are believed to help the boat “see” dangers in the water ahead, a practice connected to Buddhist beliefs that have been carried on for centuries.
He chatted with us in English as best he could, smiling and friendly. At some point during our conversation, he showed me his foot. Several of his toes had been blown off, remnants from the Vietnam War (although to the Vietnamese, it’s known as Chiến tranh Mỹ: the American War).
Even though those days are long over, the physical wounds remain on the older generation. Here was a man spending his afternoon patiently painting eyes on fishing boats in the afternoon sun, while carrying that history on his body.
Part of my Vietnam trip was with Intrepid Travel and as a group, we visited the city of Hue: the former imperial capital of Vietnam. While there, we visited the Imperial Citadel—the former seat of the Nguyen Dynasty, Vietnam’s last royal family.
Here, there are daily performances of Nhã nhạc, Vietnamese royal court music, held twice a day for visitors. We happened to catch one while walking around the ancient citadel and I witnessed this music firsthand.
The musicians perform in full imperial court regalia: pale green robes embroidered with red, yellow, and blue motifs, with black folded caps trimmed in and adorned with gold. This man was playing a bright red ceremonial drum while wind players behind him played the kèn bầu, a Vietnamese oboe-like instrument with quite a distinct sound.
This type of music was performed exclusively for Vietnam’s royal court: during coronations, diplomatic receptions, and state ceremonies. When the monarchy collapsed in the 20th century and wars tore through the country, the tradition nearly vanished with it. However, in 2003, UNESCO added this royal court music to their “Intangible Cultural Heritage” list, ultimately reviving this musical tradition that had nearly been lost.
During a day motorbiking around Hue, we pulled up to a small shop in Thủy Xuân village. The shop was selling all kinds of things, but their specialty seemed to be making incense sticks (which we tried our hand in making) and nón lá (conical hats).
Hue is particularly known for its own style of conical hat, called nón bài thơ (translated to “poem hat” in English). It is considered more delicate than versions made elsewhere in Vietnam. The process to make these hats are painstaking: palm leaves are dried in the sun, soaked in water, then ironed smooth before being layered over a bamboo frame and sewn together with thin thread. The finished hat is coated in a varnish to make it waterproof.
This woman was wearing one of these hats while making another. The hat in her hands had likely been in the making for two to three days already, the leaves dried, soaked, and ironed long before she ever picked up a needle. And after a few hours of sewing, the finished product would be ready to be popped on someone’s head.
It was around 4:00 PM when Pieter and I came across this elderly woman in a riverside village just east of Hoi An. She and her son appeared to be setting up an early dinner on the deck of a beached fishing boat, propped up on wooden planks, completely out of the water. A small kerosene stove was already lit, a wok of shrimp sizzling on top and a basket of fresh water spinach nearby waiting to go in. A rooster wandered through the scene, completely unbothered.
She was climbing into the boat barefoot, her small, white flip flops sitting at the base of the boat. Her hunchback was pronounced, her frame extremely slight, but neither seemed to slow her down much.
Pieter tried to communicate a bit with the son and she didn’t mind us interrupting their dinnertime set-up. We watched for a while and at one point she turned and looked at me. Her eye contact was sharp, but her face kind.
Just outside a small fish sauce workshop on a quiet village path near Hoi An, this man turned to look at us as we emerged from a door, probably surprised to see Westerners strapped with cameras. He was wearing a full matching striped pajama set. 7:59 AM. Outside. With a cigarette.
I had never seen anything quite like it. It was like he had just gotten up, rolled out of bed, and decided to take a morning stroll through the village. He wasn’t disheveled; his PJs were perfectly coordinated and paired with an olive green baseball cap and yellow sandals. His facial hair was another surprise, something I don’t remember seeing on other men while in Vietnam.
Nước chấm (Vietnamese fish sauce) is one of the most important ingredients in Vietnamese cooking. When I walked into the workshop initially, the smell punched me in the face. Whether this man had any connection to the workshop or was simply passing by, I wasn’t sure. But after a quick glance back towards us, he carried on down the path, puffing on his cigarette.
A short walk away from the Cửa Đại fishing harbor, my Hoi An Photo Tours guides stopped by an older couple’s home. I learned that they worked regularly with this husband and wife team and on that morning when we arrived, they were deep in their morning routine.
He was in their kitchen, rolling and folding dumplings by hand, his face mask on, working methodically and focused. She, on the other hand, was sitting on a tiny green stool, crouched over an open wood fire. She took the fresh dumplings from her husband and fried batch after batch in a blackened wok. She transferred the dumplings from the oil to a pan with chopsticks, then leaving them to drain on newspaper.
At some point she came out holding a plate for us, still boiling from the fryer. I remember how hot they were and that it burnt my tongue when I bit into it, fresh off the fire. Later, she sat for portraits for us in the dark corrugated metal shed where she had been frying the food. My guide mentioned they sold these through an open window to neighbors—a small, informal operation that had been running for years.
