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Vietnam 2025: The Khmer, the Coconut Religion, and Fighting Buddhism – A Postcard from the Mekong Delta

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We turn off the main road. These endless trips to Saigon have started to feel like a jazz drummer’s snare—repetitive, relentless. One time for a new visa, another for a meeting, then just to escape the small-town routine and take a deeper breath in a city of fifteen million. This time, the bypass pulls us straight into urban hell. Traffic thickens, moving sluggishly through the city's clogged arteries. The road is wedged between rows of buildings—houses, cluttered shops, rusting corrugated metal, makeshift plumbing, excavator parts, scrapyards. Everything is slick with grease, reeking of gasoline. A lone three-story house looms over a sprawling market-warehouse, surrounded by a swarm of trucks. These guys don’t mess around. They barrel in and out, horns blaring, squeezing the already constipated street into an even tighter chokehold. We veer off onto a packed highway-market. The air is thick with the hum of Tết preparations. The Lunar New Year is just around the corner, a big deal ...
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Vietnam/Laos 2015-16: Master of His Own Captivity and Mistress of Her Own

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December. It has a way of stealing warmth. A strange thief, one who, instead of taking, feeds dreams of spring.   In Saigon, it’s over thirty degrees, but I don’t have time to enjoy the atmosphere. Jet lag and a temporary sense of world-shift, this isn’t the food, these aren’t the hours, this isn’t the pace. Still, I feel like I’ve met more people in the first week here than I did all year in Europe. Foto IG @intuitive_venture_photo Some things change, some things stay the same like uncertainty. In the heart of the first district, in the lobby of one of the hundreds of hotels camouflaged in side alleys, I run into Naud again. The Dutchman’s been here for a year. He makes a living with remote translations and unleashes ADHD monologues in his interactions with real people. He’s swollen from local beers and is already mumbling something in Vietnamese. On the main promenade for drunk tourists, a woman grabs me by the arm. She offers something off the grill. Does she recognize me? ...
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Azerbaijan/Iran 2008: Next time around, you better lose!

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It was slowly getting cold and the thrill of the journey's initial, autumn sunlit hours had receded into oblivion. At the Wuppertal gas station, the October evening didn't bode for one of prismatic luster to any great extent. Traffic was anything but dense, yet there was still a lengthy road to travel. The only cars tanking up at this point were ones with local license plates, probably on their way home. The station was sort of nondescript – small, essentially hidden despite being just next to the highway. No restaurant or motel. Just pumps, bathrooms, snacks and soft drinks; a momentary stop of necessity, to keep from running out of gas. I'd been in the blatantly possessive embrace of hopelessness for quite a while by the time the clock's hands were aligned on the twelve, and the temperature was approaching zero.  Following a period of complete inactivity that stretched on for an eternity a small, dilapidated Ford Fiesta with Berlin license plates pulled up. Its driv...
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