Vietnam 2025: The Khmer, the Coconut Religion, and Fighting Buddhism – A Postcard from the Mekong Delta
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 for the northern Vietnamese Buddhist community. The road twists and shifts—one moment it’s smooth asphalt, the next it’s gravel, then suddenly a narrow, pothole-ridden track. We can’t push past forty here, and there are still three hundred kilometers ahead. People cross these chaotic streets with a casual indifference, like they’ve never done it before. They live with their minds switched off, numb to the noise, the ceaseless rush of vehicles, the stench of exhaust fumes—and yet they do not perish when crossing the road.
The road stretches into rice fields, bringing a brief moment of relief. The pavement evens out, the fields glow green. Occasionally, right in the middle of all that green, a lone gravestone stands.
We reach the "house of respite" just before dark. The owner won’t let us in. I’m a foreigner, and he doesn’t know how to register me online—different rules. There are no Western tourists here. No big cities either. Just rough roads, scattered villages, and the occasional sleepy town, dimly lit, swallowed by the darkness of surrounding fields and canals. The only hotel in town charges us seven and a half dollars for a double room. Dinner is whatever everyone else is eating—duck in a sweet salad, overcooked rice swimming in soup.
At sunrise, we set off for Hà Tiên. The road suddenly improves. Fresh asphalt winds through young rice paddies, narrow, no shoulders. Finally, we can push the speedometer to eighty.
Hà Tiên is a border town. Cambodia is just a stone’s throw away, and so is the ferry. We stop for a quick meal. Southern Vietnamese food, once again, drowns in sugar—sweet broth, glazed roasted chicken, condensed milk diluted with coffee. Used to saltier flavors, we eat out of necessity. The fast ferry tickets sold out days ago, so instead of an hour-long crossing, we’re in for more than three.
At the dock, only a few people wait besides us. This ferry is built for cargo—trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes, people crammed if neccesary. The sky is dull iron, the air thick with a dry, gritty haze—the residue of mass burnings. In the lead-up to the new year, throughout entire country fire is set to fake money, dried offerings, and plastic. The latter fuels millions of these ritualistic bonfires, a grim seasonal spectacle.
The bay’s lifeless waters carry us for over three hours. We roll down a steel ramp onto a short pier. Beyond it, the road is paved with fine stones. Trucks ahead kick up dense clouds of dust—a welcome committee of grit. Phú Quốc.
The ride to the hotel takes twenty minutes. I booked it through Booking.com, lured by the price and photos of a riverside view where fishing boats dock. Now we push through a narrow, foul-smelling alley, flanked by weathered fishermen’s huts. In the distance, a rise looms, cloaked in a tangled green barricade of jungle. A bridge thrown across the river shimmers with the restless glow of neon lights. In our room, we settle in with the fleeting sense that, this time, life has spared us a confrontation with the bitter weight of harsher realities.
Phú Quốc is the largest island in an archipelago in the Gulf of Thailand, sitting in the sub-equatorial climate zone. On sunny days, it offers the simple joy of gazing into the warm, azure waters. On any other day, a contemplation of the fauna—rarely seen along Vietnam’s three-thousand-kilometer coastline, mostly lifeless, laid out for sale in market stalls. The northwestern stretch is a wasteland of hotels, where sunsets draw in tourists who sleep through sunrises in a fog of hangovers. But the island’s northern reaches hold more surprises for travelers looking for something real. The road winds through fishing villages where homes huddle on both sides of a narrow concrete path. The ones closest to the sea stand on stilts, their fragile frames perched over the blue water. The sea, which sustains the people of these humble settlements, also serves as their dump and latrine. Waste drifts on the surface, sways half-submerged in the shallows, clogs the spaces between the houses, festers beneath the rickety walkways where makeshift docks cradle wooden boats. Everything flushed down their toilets is swallowed instantly by the waves. A cocktail of charm and squalor. A vertigo both desired and revolting—until, without warning, your lips sputter forth a sudden stream of vomit.
Suddenly, the road vanishes, turning into loose sand. The scooter wobbles and slips. Around us, thick jungle. Kill the engine, and the silence explodes into thousands of buzzing, chirping sounds. The ride from the west to the east coast takes forty minutes. It ends with a jolt—fresh asphalt. Now we pass dirt trails leading to deserted beaches. Few hotels, few cars, barely any villages. But military barracks? We pass four. The Vietnamese army has good reason to be here. In the late ‘70s, Phú Quốc was invaded by Democratic Kampuchea—another communist regime. It’s been thirty-six years since the war officially ended, but Vietnam isn’t keen on repeating history.
After thirty kilometers, we reach the ferry terminal. Same company, same ride back to Hà Tiên. This time, the sky is blue, the sea shimmering in the sun. On deck, right by the edge of the port side, where the shadow lingers, I lie listening to the steady murmur of the engine. Beside me, a group of Vietnamese men smoke cigarettes and talk about something. They speak with a southern accent. I understand nothing. The magic of their vowel-stretched diphthongs lulls me to a nap. Tomorrow is a new year...
The road from Hà Tiên to Rạch Giá, the capital of Kiên Giang province, runs along the Gulf of Thailand. Though I’ve traveled the western coastline twice before, its scenic corners still captivate me—sometimes even surprise me. After a dozen or so kilometers, we veer off the main highway as it curves eastward, deeper into the land. We find ourselves surrounded by rock formations unlike anything seen elsewhere in Vietnam. Over time, the tides have eroded parts of the stone, carving deep tunnels at their bases. Within these hollows, shrines and places of worship have taken root.
In a small village by a quiet bay, we encounter the Vietnamese Khmer for the first time—distant descendants of the land’s original inhabitants. It has been 212 years since Vietnam fully annexed the Mekong Delta, yet these people still speak the language of their ancestors.
We welcome the New Year in Cà Mau, the southernmost city of the delta. We wander the streets, exhausted from the journey, a few beers and whatnot lingering in our systems. Sleep takes us just as fireworks explode outside the window. By morning, we have no desire to explore. Over coffee, we watch as Vietnamese families in their finest holiday attire gather in cafés for New Year’s conversations. For Jot, raised in the mountains among the Christian Koho people, this is, for a blink of an eye, just as fascinating an experience.
After more than a hundred kilometers of riding—sometimes on decent roads, sometimes through potholes, past fields, canals, and mangrove forests—we reach Cape Cà Mau, the southernmost tip of the Indochinese Peninsula. The uniqueness of the local wildlife and flora is evident in the presence of toucans and even date palms in the surrounding forests. The roots of the trees here claw into the swampy earth like grotesque, many-fingered hands, making them seem as if they are floating high above the ground. It’s hard to imagine navigating through such a forest. To leave the national park, we backtrack a hundred kilometers north. That same route later leads us west to Bạc Liêu.
The drive from the city center to the outskirts of this coastal, provincial capital takes only a few minutes. This morning, we set out to visit the Xiêm Cán Temple. Built in the 19th century, it is one of the oldest Theravāda pagodas in the Mekong Delta.
The Khmer people’s religion has a long history in Vietnam. The Mekong Delta, which belonged to the Angkor Kingdom for nearly a thousand years, adopted Theravāda Buddhism as early as the ninth century AD. This southern Buddhist tradition is considered the closest to the original teachings of the Buddha himself. In the 18th century, after Vietnam took control of the delta, the Khmer minority continued their religious practices in mostly modest wooden temples with palm-thatched roofs. But with the arrival of French colonial rule, Theravāda experienced a revival. Wealthier members of the Khmer community, concerned with preserving tradition as well as the well-being of their people, still support the renovation and construction of new pagodas. These places of worship function as schools for impoverished Khmer children, centers of community life, pilgrimage sites, and tourist attractions. In Vietnam, where Mahāyāna Buddhism dominates, it is estimated that around six hundred Theravāda temples are still active today.
We explore the impressive structures of the Xiêm Cán temple complex in solitude, surrounded by a rare and precious silence in this part of the world. The freshly restored frescoes burst with color. Their iconography conjures celestial images of serenity—heavenly blues, figures floating in clouds, accompanied by the Buddha himself, radiating a sense of bliss. They stand in stark contrast to the terrifying depictions of suffering in the narakas (hells) found in Mahāyāna pagodas. The relative rarity of southern-style temples in Vietnam gives these interiors an air of mystery and mysticism.
In one of the buildings, we meet an elderly monk. He joined the monastery at seventy-five, withdrawing from his family after his wife’s death. His richly decorated, free-standing house within the temple walls, set against the backdrop of stupas, vihāras, the ubosot, mandapas, and the ho trai, has an ancient and majestic presence. There, in the shade of his small cell, the monk spends his days watching television.
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 for the northern Vietnamese Buddhist community. The road twists and shifts—one moment it’s smooth asphalt, the next it’s gravel, then suddenly a narrow, pothole-ridden track. We can’t push past forty here, and there are still three hundred kilometers ahead. People cross these chaotic streets with a casual indifference, like they’ve never done it before. They live with their minds switched off, numb to the noise, the ceaseless rush of vehicles, the stench of exhaust fumes—and yet they do not perish when crossing the road.
The road stretches into rice fields, bringing a brief moment of relief. The pavement evens out, the fields glow green. Occasionally, right in the middle of all that green, a lone gravestone stands.
We reach the "house of respite" just before dark. The owner won’t let us in. I’m a foreigner, and he doesn’t know how to register me online—different rules. There are no Western tourists here. No big cities either. Just rough roads, scattered villages, and the occasional sleepy town, dimly lit, swallowed by the darkness of surrounding fields and canals. The only hotel in town charges us seven and a half dollars for a double room. Dinner is whatever everyone else is eating—duck in a sweet salad, overcooked rice swimming in soup.
At sunrise, we set off for Hà Tiên. The road suddenly improves. Fresh asphalt winds through young rice paddies, narrow, no shoulders. Finally, we can push the speedometer to eighty.
Hà Tiên is a border town. Cambodia is just a stone’s throw away, and so is the ferry. We stop for a quick meal. Southern Vietnamese food, once again, drowns in sugar—sweet broth, glazed roasted chicken, condensed milk diluted with coffee. Used to saltier flavors, we eat out of necessity. The fast ferry tickets sold out days ago, so instead of an hour-long crossing, we’re in for more than three.
At the dock, only a few people wait besides us. This ferry is built for cargo—trucks, buses, cars, motorbikes, people crammed if neccesary. The sky is dull iron, the air thick with a dry, gritty haze—the residue of mass burnings. In the lead-up to the new year, throughout entire country fire is set to fake money, dried offerings, and plastic. The latter fuels millions of these ritualistic bonfires, a grim seasonal spectacle.
The bay’s lifeless waters carry us for over three hours. We roll down a steel ramp onto a short pier. Beyond it, the road is paved with fine stones. Trucks ahead kick up dense clouds of dust—a welcome committee of grit. Phú Quốc.
The ride to the hotel takes twenty minutes. I booked it through Booking.com, lured by the price and photos of a riverside view where fishing boats dock. Now we push through a narrow, foul-smelling alley, flanked by weathered fishermen’s huts. In the distance, a rise looms, cloaked in a tangled green barricade of jungle. A bridge thrown across the river shimmers with the restless glow of neon lights. In our room, we settle in with the fleeting sense that, this time, life has spared us a confrontation with the bitter weight of harsher realities.
Phú Quốc is the largest island in an archipelago in the Gulf of Thailand, sitting in the sub-equatorial climate zone. On sunny days, it offers the simple joy of gazing into the warm, azure waters. On any other day, a contemplation of the fauna—rarely seen along Vietnam’s three-thousand-kilometer coastline, mostly lifeless, laid out for sale in market stalls. The northwestern stretch is a wasteland of hotels, where sunsets draw in tourists who sleep through sunrises in a fog of hangovers. But the island’s northern reaches hold more surprises for travelers looking for something real. The road winds through fishing villages where homes huddle on both sides of a narrow concrete path. The ones closest to the sea stand on stilts, their fragile frames perched over the blue water. The sea, which sustains the people of these humble settlements, also serves as their dump and latrine. Waste drifts on the surface, sways half-submerged in the shallows, clogs the spaces between the houses, festers beneath the rickety walkways where makeshift docks cradle wooden boats. Everything flushed down their toilets is swallowed instantly by the waves. A cocktail of charm and squalor. A vertigo both desired and revolting—until, without warning, your lips sputter forth a sudden stream of vomit.
Suddenly, the road vanishes, turning into loose sand. The scooter wobbles and slips. Around us, thick jungle. Kill the engine, and the silence explodes into thousands of buzzing, chirping sounds. The ride from the west to the east coast takes forty minutes. It ends with a jolt—fresh asphalt. Now we pass dirt trails leading to deserted beaches. Few hotels, few cars, barely any villages. But military barracks? We pass four. The Vietnamese army has good reason to be here. In the late ‘70s, Phú Quốc was invaded by Democratic Kampuchea—another communist regime. It’s been thirty-six years since the war officially ended, but Vietnam isn’t keen on repeating history.
After thirty kilometers, we reach the ferry terminal. Same company, same ride back to Hà Tiên. This time, the sky is blue, the sea shimmering in the sun. On deck, right by the edge of the port side, where the shadow lingers, I lie listening to the steady murmur of the engine. Beside me, a group of Vietnamese men smoke cigarettes and talk about something. They speak with a southern accent. I understand nothing. The magic of their vowel-stretched diphthongs lulls me to a nap. Tomorrow is a new year...
The road from Hà Tiên to Rạch Giá, the capital of Kiên Giang province, runs along the Gulf of Thailand. Though I’ve traveled the western coastline twice before, its scenic corners still captivate me—sometimes even surprise me. After a dozen or so kilometers, we veer off the main highway as it curves eastward, deeper into the land. We find ourselves surrounded by rock formations unlike anything seen elsewhere in Vietnam. Over time, the tides have eroded parts of the stone, carving deep tunnels at their bases. Within these hollows, shrines and places of worship have taken root.
In a small village by a quiet bay, we encounter the Vietnamese Khmer for the first time—distant descendants of the land’s original inhabitants. It has been 212 years since Vietnam fully annexed the Mekong Delta, yet these people still speak the language of their ancestors.
We welcome the New Year in Cà Mau, the southernmost city of the delta. We wander the streets, exhausted from the journey, a few beers and whatnot lingering in our systems. Sleep takes us just as fireworks explode outside the window. By morning, we have no desire to explore. Over coffee, we watch as Vietnamese families in their finest holiday attire gather in cafés for New Year’s conversations. For Jot, raised in the mountains among the Christian Koho people, this is, for a blink of an eye, just as fascinating an experience.
After more than a hundred kilometers of riding—sometimes on decent roads, sometimes through potholes, past fields, canals, and mangrove forests—we reach Cape Cà Mau, the southernmost tip of the Indochinese Peninsula. The uniqueness of the local wildlife and flora is evident in the presence of toucans and even date palms in the surrounding forests. The roots of the trees here claw into the swampy earth like grotesque, many-fingered hands, making them seem as if they are floating high above the ground. It’s hard to imagine navigating through such a forest. To leave the national park, we backtrack a hundred kilometers north. That same route later leads us west to Bạc Liêu.
The drive from the city center to the outskirts of this coastal, provincial capital takes only a few minutes. This morning, we set out to visit the Xiêm Cán Temple. Built in the 19th century, it is one of the oldest Theravāda pagodas in the Mekong Delta.
The Khmer people’s religion has a long history in Vietnam. The Mekong Delta, which belonged to the Angkor Kingdom for nearly a thousand years, adopted Theravāda Buddhism as early as the ninth century AD. This southern Buddhist tradition is considered the closest to the original teachings of the Buddha himself. In the 18th century, after Vietnam took control of the delta, the Khmer minority continued their religious practices in mostly modest wooden temples with palm-thatched roofs. But with the arrival of French colonial rule, Theravāda experienced a revival. Wealthier members of the Khmer community, concerned with preserving tradition as well as the well-being of their people, still support the renovation and construction of new pagodas. These places of worship function as schools for impoverished Khmer children, centers of community life, pilgrimage sites, and tourist attractions. In Vietnam, where Mahāyāna Buddhism dominates, it is estimated that around six hundred Theravāda temples are still active today.
We explore the impressive structures of the Xiêm Cán temple complex in solitude, surrounded by a rare and precious silence in this part of the world. The freshly restored frescoes burst with color. Their iconography conjures celestial images of serenity—heavenly blues, figures floating in clouds, accompanied by the Buddha himself, radiating a sense of bliss. They stand in stark contrast to the terrifying depictions of suffering in the narakas (hells) found in Mahāyāna pagodas. The relative rarity of southern-style temples in Vietnam gives these interiors an air of mystery and mysticism.
In one of the buildings, we meet an elderly monk. He joined the monastery at seventy-five, withdrawing from his family after his wife’s death. His richly decorated, free-standing house within the temple walls, set against the backdrop of stupas, vihāras, the ubosot, mandapas, and the ho trai, has an ancient and majestic presence. There, in the shade of his small cell, the monk spends his days watching television.
Portraits of the defiant leader still hold places of honor in many Mekong Delta homes.
From Bạc Liêu, we head toward Bến Tre. We don’t feel like visiting the famous wind farms of Sóc Trăng. We stop only for coffee, for coconuts. Through the gate of a nearby temple, right by the main road, the sounds of live music reach us. Bells chime, xylophones resonate, bowls hum. The music is rhythmic, repetitive. It resembles an Indonesian gamelan. This is how the pagoda lures the curious during the Tết celebrations, which hold as much significance for Theravāda Buddhists as Hanukkah does for Christians. Traditional Theravāda, rooted in the culture of southern India, never made its way through China. Instead, Tết is a Vietnamese tribute to a culture that, alongside the expansion of "liberal" Mahāyāna Buddhism from northern India, arrived in Vietnam via China.
Just beyond Sóc Trăng, the landscape suddenly turns lush. A coconut forest, except for the road and a few small plots with modest homes, has swallowed nearly everything. We continue to pass Theravāda temples—some still under construction, others gleaming with golden stupas and intricate, vibrant decorations. Along the way, we take two ferry crossings and traverse two enormous bridges spanning wide Mekong tributaries. From their peaks, we see the coconut forests stretching endlessly to the horizon.
For several minutes, the chugging of a diesel engine accompanies us as our tiny ferry pushes through the murky waters of the Mekong. We approach Phoenix Island, the center of one of Vietnam’s forgotten religious movements—Đạo Dừa, or the Coconut Religion. Ông Đạo Dừa, a controversial monk, started his coconut-centric faith in the 1950s. He built a floating pagoda, worshipped both Jesus and Buddha, and fasted, surviving solely on coconuts. For criticizing the brutal anti-Buddhist policies of South Vietnam’s Catholic rulers, he was imprisoned in 1957. After Vietnam's reunification in 1975, the communist government classified his religion as a cult, banning it and sentencing its coconut prophet to ten years in prison. At its peak, Đạo Dừa had around 4,000 followers.
The remnants of his ashram lie in the island’s southern part. Its central feature is a collection of towering stupas adorned with fantastical serpent-dragons. Their heads are crowned with flame-like strands of hair, their mustaches curl mischievously upward. Their bulging eyes glare hungrily, menacingly. From their heads bloom lotus-like coconut flowers. These serpent-dragons gaze toward the main chapel. Its eccentric triangular and square windows reveal a modest altar within. From time to time, someone still lights incense there, whispering prayers with a humble bow.
The twentieth century saw an explosion of religious movements in southern Vietnam. Some, like Hinduism, Theravāda Buddhism, and Islam, were experiencing a revival, while others—such as Cao Đài, the Coconut Religion, and Hòa Hảo—were just being born. Of these newborn faiths, only Cao Đài has withstood the test of time.
The remnants of his ashram lie in the island’s southern part. Its central feature is a collection of towering stupas adorned with fantastical serpent-dragons. Their heads are crowned with flame-like strands of hair, their mustaches curl mischievously upward. Their bulging eyes glare hungrily, menacingly. From their heads bloom lotus-like coconut flowers. These serpent-dragons gaze toward the main chapel. Its eccentric triangular and square windows reveal a modest altar within. From time to time, someone still lights incense there, whispering prayers with a humble bow.
The twentieth century saw an explosion of religious movements in southern Vietnam. Some, like Hinduism, Theravāda Buddhism, and Islam, were experiencing a revival, while others—such as Cao Đài, the Coconut Religion, and Hòa Hảo—were just being born. Of these newborn faiths, only Cao Đài has withstood the test of time.
We return to Saigon through Gò Công, a city that is known for nothing in particular. It lies off the beaten path, quiet and overlooked. Remnants of French colonial architecture and an old Catholic church, ancient by Vietnamese standards, are attractions for travelers who are already familiar with Vietnam, who are left with only the search for those last, still discoverable, precious fragments.
In the evening, I watch the New Year’s street celebrations in Saigon. Four young men bring a green dragon to life, making it dance to the feverish beat of a drum. This spectacle, as commonplace here as Santa Claus on Polish streets, serves as a clear reminder of whose culture truly shaped Vietnam.
In the evening, I watch the New Year’s street celebrations in Saigon. Four young men bring a green dragon to life, making it dance to the feverish beat of a drum. This spectacle, as commonplace here as Santa Claus on Polish streets, serves as a clear reminder of whose culture truly shaped Vietnam.
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