Brian Jeffrey
VietnamNet is pleased to present a unique series by tourism specialist Doan Huu Duc, emphasizing the evolution of river-to-sea tourism in Vietnam. Through thorough examination and personal insights, this series delves into how the country can fully tap into its rich network of rivers and extensive coastlines.
Highlighting the groundbreaking contributions of companies like Focus Travel and the importance of regional policy reforms, this series outlines an ambitious blueprint to elevate the Mekong Delta as a premier tourism destination.
This crucial blueprint aims to weave river and sea tourism into Vietnam’s comprehensive economic and cultural vision.
This morning, we were fortunate to witness a stunning and rare ceremony—the “điểm nhãn”—which blesses a newly constructed ghe mũi chài lớn, a traditional Mekong Delta riverboat. In Rach Ba Dai village, Dong Thap, which was once known for its master boatbuilders, this ceremony had not happened in over ten years.
Leading the ritual was Mr. Bay Tot, a third-generation artisan honored as one of Vietnam’s Top 100 craftsmen. Throughout his life, he has crafted various boats, including large 100-ton vessels. Nowadays, as highways have overtaken river trade, he primarily constructs miniatures—souvenirs symbolizing a vanishing lifestyle. When attaching two painted wooden eyes to the bow, each accompanied by 9,000 dong for good luck, he smiled and whispered, “These eyes will bring you fortune, little one.”
The offerings were simple: incense, flowers, fruit, a teapot, and three ears of corn, a rural symbol for prosperity (chắc như bắp). Local media gathered early, aware of how significant this moment was. So did we, feeling a connection to the ancient rituals passed down by water traders when the Mekong held sway as the primary thoroughfare.
After constructing hundreds of boats, Mr. Bay remains in his modest home at the river’s edge, a spot where his family’s journey began. Though real estate developers have consistently urged him to abandon his humble abode for upscale properties, he has always refused. Until recently, visitors had to navigate through soft mud and overgrown grass to reach his home, but I noticed a newly paved path when I ordered a few miniatures.
“Where did this come from?” I inquired.
He chuckled. “A group of young people from the healing community shared videos of me online. Tourists and travel agencies started to visit. With their support, we were finally able to lay down a proper cement path. Now, guests won’t have to walk through the mud.”
His walls are adorned with certificates—from local officials to the President himself. Yet, this newly paved path may speak volumes beyond any award: it serves as a gentle reminder that the Mekong continues to thrive, share stories, and connect people.
This is no mere performance. This is the Mekong, vibrant, fluid, and enduring.
The river flows through the hands of seasoned masters like Bay Tot, and through the aspirations of a new generation. One such individual is Ba Lien, a young woman from Sa Dec, boasting three university degrees and a keen business sense, along with a heritage mandarin orchard that looks as if it were painted by hand.
Yet life in the Delta isn’t always idyllic.
Ba Lien left behind the comforts of Saigon to return to Lai Vung and revitalize her family’s mandarin garden, turning it into an eco-tourism venture. The path was fraught with challenges: organic farming demands high finances, tourists often spent little, and harvests were unpredictable. She toyed with the idea of returning to the city for a teaching position or a stable corporate role on multiple occasions.
But she chose to stay.
Why? Because her vision went beyond financial gain. Her team—BaLien Garden—comprises individuals often marginalized: LGBTQ members, former sex workers seeking new opportunities, and older laborers left behind by factory closures. Together, they have received awards in cooking, tourism, and organic farming. Their garden serves as an educational space for students and biology professors alike—a place where tourism, education, and healing flourish beneath the mandarin trees.
She doesn’t just sell fruit; she extends an invitation to transformation—for her guests, her team, and all who believe in the potential of rural tourism to be more than just a business.
Ba Lien rarely speaks of her struggles, but the weariness in her eyes and the warmth of her smile as she welcomes visitors reveal the tale. You see it reflected in her team, who once questioned their place in society but now stand confidently beside the very trees their grandparents nurtured.
In the Mekong, water ebbs and flows. Yet, purpose, deeply rooted, remains steadfast.
Further upstream in Tan Chau’s silk-weaving villages along the Tien River, the Cham community is reclaiming their heritage. Once famous for crafting Lanh My A, a luxurious black silk worn by elites and traded across Asia, this craft was almost lost to time. However, as heritage tourism gains traction, resilient Cham families are reigniting their looms, reestablishing their connection to the river that once transported their silk worldwide.
Visitors to Tan Chau can watch dyeing houses along the riverside, where artisans utilize Mekong mud and Diospyros fruit to color fabrics under the sky. Here, the goal isn’t merchandising; it’s storytelling. For the Cham, craft and land are intertwined—the silk embodies the river, and the river is their collective memory.
As Vietnam enhances its tourism strategies, infrastructure, and governance, it’s easy to become fixated on new constructions. Yet, to truly appreciate the Delta’s potential, we must hear the river’s many stories.
Floating markets like Cai Rang and Phong Dien are more than simple attractions; they’re cultural landmarks that narrate centuries of river life and commerce. However, too frequently, tours merely skim the surface, neglecting the vibrant life found further inland.
Few tourists explore the neighboring Cai Rang indoor market (nhà lồng chợ Cái Răng), where the legacy of cloth-filtered coffee thrives. Here, one might be fortunate enough to hear tales from former thuong ho (water traders) who navigated varying tides and currencies—Hanoi bills, Southern republic currency, and U.S. dollars traded by passing soldiers. Archaeological discoveries of Roman coins in the Mekong riverbed near Oc Eo artifacts remind us that this river has historically served as a gateway to the world.
Within these markets lie layers of living history—if only we take the time to listen.
Nevertheless, their future remains precarious. Youth are departing. Consumer behaviors are shifting. Tourism could offer a vital lifeline—if approached thoughtfully and with local engagement.
Water traders remain undaunted. History proves their adaptability. The markets experienced disruption during the 1960s and 1970s due to war. After 1975, strict government regulations shuttered them. Yet, in 1986, they saw a resurgence. Their shared source of pride lies not in opulent hotels or flashy museums, but in the true authenticity of life on the river.
The Delta is a culinary paradise, each turn revealing new tastes—from Ben Tre’s coconut candy to My Tho’s hu tieu to Can Tho’s fermented fish hotpot. Every dish tells a story of the land, climate, and culture. River cruises offering cooking lessons or home-cooked meals allow guests to engage with this culture directly.
However, culture is not fixed. Traditional arts such as Hát Bội (classical opera), shadow puppetry, and river temple festivals must coexist with modern tourism demands. The challenge isn’t about preserving versus innovating—it’s about finding a harmonious blend. Some cruises now feature live performances, while others support local village shows.
Tourism in this region transcends mere recreation; it’s an act of survival. Climate change is no longer a distant concern; it’s present in the encroaching saltwater ruining once-fertile farmland, in unpredictable floods, and in banks gradually crumbling into the river’s embrace.
But if anyone understands how to coexist with the river, it’s the people of the Mekong. In Dong Thap, farmers are trying out floating gardens. In Soc Trang, stilted homestays are now equipped with solar panels and basic filtration systems. Some villages host university students who lead eco-tours—melding education with community involvement.
When managed effectively, tourism can facilitate this transition—not by overwhelming, but by uplifting—introducing new ideas, fair income, and shared responsibility.
Across the Delta, the younger generation is gradually returning—not out of nostalgia but fueled by curiosity and empathy. From researchers studying mandarin orchards to apprentices in boatbuilding, they view the river as not only a remnant of the past but as a guiding map for the future.
Ultimately, what defines the Delta is not merely its scenery. It’s the experience of drifting by coconut palms while an elder hums a lullaby. It’s the flavor of tamarind simmering in a family kitchen. It’s the realization that Vietnamese, Khmer, Cham, and Hoa communities have coexisted for centuries—not bound by borders, but unified by water.
The Mekong Delta is more than just a tourist spot. It represents a dialogue—between tradition and change, between host and visitor, between river and sea.
As Vietnam reinvests in tourism, it must not overlook the voices that breathe life into the Delta. We need more than hotels and ports—we require stories. We need people. We need partnerships that prioritize local wisdom.
In the end, navigating the Mekong is not just about transiting through; it’s about reaching the core of Vietnam, where its essence resonates slowest and most powerfully.
