Month: January 2026

The Mekong Delta splays fat-fingered across a silty, wet canvas. Flowing along the edge of Cambodia and Vietnam, it showcases its riches quietly but powerfully: the second-largest rice bowl in the world, one of the most fertile fisheries on earth, and 5,000 kilometers of channels connecting towns and villages in a web of interdependence. Though the river appears thick and lazy, it is anything but that. Its true wealth lies in sustaining the economies of both region and nation, offering livelihoods to millions, and fostering a cultural resilience that resists the flattening hand of globalization.

The Mekong Delta splays fat-fingered across a silty, wet canvas.

If much of Cambodia and Vietnam has begun to blur into sameness—franchised and digitized—the Mekong Delta guards its past gauntly, even as it evolves to serve its people. It is rich in history and paradox, integrating natural resources with human-made structures, religion with architectural delight, ecology with modern development. Its abundance is so unexpected, so layered, that I think: if I could, I would spend all my time in Indo-China right here.

Though the river appears thick and lazy, it is anything but that.

The Mekong Delta is a generous mother. A veritable sea of silt supporting 175 floating villages and 1.2 million fishermen, it holds many firsts: the world’s largest seasonally flooded forest, a vital bird colony with 200 species, and the planet’s most prolific harvest of water snakes—over five million of them. Each November, an enormous water festival celebrates this aquatic kingdom whose bounty supports Cambodian fishermen year-round.

The Mekong Delta is a generous mother… supporting the world’s largest seasonally flooded forest, a vital bird colony with 200 species, and the planet’s most prolific harvest of water snakes—over five million of them.

From here, we glide by sampan to Long Khanh village, part of the region known to the Vietnamese as the Nine Dragon Delta. This area contributes 56% of Vietnam’s rice and 40% of its seafood. Because of its rainfall and fertile soil, it is known locally as “No Worries Land.” Gieng Island, shaped like a triangle and covering 50 square miles, is a mosaic of families turning tradition into trade: conical hats, sampans, woven cloth, each craft passed down through generations. Its residents include Roman Catholics, Mahayana Buddhists, and followers of the Cao Dai faith, whose temples are painted with symbolic colors—blue for Taoism, red for Confucianism, yellow for Buddhism—and adorned with the all-seeing Eye of Providence.

We board a wooden sampan and travel along the Ton Le Sap to Kampong Cham, home to over one hundred mosques. At Wat Hanchey, a 7th-century temple complex perched high above the Mekong, we climb 303 steps and encounter the four ranks of Buddhist monkhood: student, novice, pico, and monk. A teenage student blesses us with water. He appears melancholy, perhaps wrestling with the same questions that haunt seekers everywhere: Why am I here? What is my purpose in life? He seems to carry the burden of wisdom too soon, yet he robes and disrobes with quiet dignity, using the saffron cloth—his only earthly possession—as robe, bowl, blanket, and raincoat.

In Sa Dec, we visit the Huynh Thuy Le House, also known as the Lover’s House. Built in 1895 by a wealthy rice-trading family, it blends Chinese and French architectural styles and became famous as the setting for Marguerite Duras’s novel L’Amant. Its pink walls and shaded gardens feel both grounded and dreamlike, carrying the ghost of longing and unfulfilled desire.

As we leave the delta and drift toward Saigon, we pass through Vinh Long, one of the last islands in the watery chain. Its name translates to eternal prosperity. Bounded by the Mekong on one side and the Bassac River on the other, this small island has produced two of Vietnam’s six most recent Prime Ministers. In its quiet resilience, Vinh Long seems to embody the spirit of the delta itself—modest, mighty, and always flowing forward.

The many mysteries of the Mekong Delta remain unresolved.

In this new year, I find myself developing what I can only describe as baby consciousness. A desire to reboot the world, to restart and refresh, so that we might begin again on a truly new note. Beyond the romantic notions of fresh starts, I want to arrive here with a renewed faith in humanity—a new way of believing.

After all, a baby is more than the caterwauling mess that emerges into bright, shadowless hospital lights. Those lights are meant to reveal everything, to hide nothing, offering an unflinching first look at what will belong to us for the duration of our lives. As we grapple with the truth of this existence, sometimes we—the parents, the elders, the witnesses—become magi figures of sorts. We commune with generations yet unborn, sensing their struggles, intuiting their vulnerabilities. And so, as the year arrives new and shiny, my thoughts travel to babies—not out of sentimentality, but out of longing for simplicity. For a life more meaning-filled, for everyone who inhabits this fragile world.

“…as the year arrives new and shiny, my thoughts travel to babies—not out of sentimentality, but out of longing for simplicity.”

I’ve read that babies dream even before they enter this world—that they channel their environments, feel the emotional weather around them. As philosopher and psychologist Claudio Passos Ferreira suggests, they are capable of conscious perception and conscious expectation. They arrive not empty, but receptive.

“I’ve read that babies dream even before they enter this world.”

If we want a taste of that kind of baby consciousness as adults, perhaps the only way is to place ourselves in situations we’ve never known before—falling in love with someone or something new, or standing alone in a city we’ve never walked. In those moments, consciousness doesn’t contract; it expands. Everything feels sharper, brighter, more urgent. That sensation, they say, mimics the same neurotransmitters babies swim in naturally.

“So what is it like to be a baby?”