Where the River Sings: A Journey Through the Magical Isles of My Tho and Ben Tre
In Vietnam’s Mekong Delta, a boat ride becomes a story of music, mysticism, and meals that feel like memories.
There are places that linger long after you’ve left them—where the air hums with a quiet kind of magic and time slips off your wrist like a bracelet into the river. My Tho and Ben Tre, nestled in Vietnam’s lush Mekong Delta, are two such places. Their islands—Thoi Son and Con Phung—aren’t just destinations for travelers. They are living poems, written with coconut palms, zither music, and the sweet heat of bánh xèo sizzling on a cast-iron pan.
This isn’t your average day trip. It’s a slow dance with culture, flavor, and spirit. And it begins with a boat.
A River, a Breeze, and a Welcome of Honey
The journey starts in My Tho, where the Tiền River stretches wide and inviting under the sun. Your boat hums gently over the water, brushing past mangroves and palms. Before long, you arrive at Thoi Son—better known as Unicorn Island—where hospitality comes in unexpected forms: a handmade coconut teapot, warm honey straight from a hive, and a smile from someone who seems to already know your name.
This island pulses with the quiet rhythm of craft and care. Artisans, many of them elderly women with hands shaped by decades of labor, transform coconut shells into elegant chopsticks and spoons. Nearby, vats of coconut milk bubble with sugar to create candies that are chewy, fragrant, and impossible to forget.
Under the shade of water palms, you can board a small sampan—rowed by a local who greets everyone like family. The canal narrows, the trees arch closer, and the world falls silent, save for the sound of oars dipping into the water like punctuation marks in a slow-moving story.
The Music That Holds a People Together
Then, from somewhere among the trees, music floats in like a whispered secret.
This is Đờn ca tài tử, the chamber music of southern Vietnam. It is not performed—it is shared. Young women in long ao dai dresses sing of longing and harvests, accompanied by bamboo flutes, the moon lute, and the 16-string zither. You don’t need to speak the language to understand it; the notes seem to echo somewhere inside you, in a place where stories live.
In My Tho and Ben Tre, this music is more than tradition. It is balm. It is memory. It’s what locals return to after a long day in the rice fields, when the sun fades and tea is poured. You can hear it in someone’s laugh, in the hush of the river, in the generous way you’re invited in.
A Spiritual Dream on Phoenix Island
Further downstream in Ben Tre, the river opens its arms again to reveal Con Phung, or Phoenix Island—named for a bird of myth and rebirth. But the story here is no myth. It’s the real, extraordinary life of Nguyen Thanh Nam, known as the Coconut Monk, a spiritual iconoclast who came home from France in the 1930s with ideas of peace and unity stitched together from Buddhism, Christianity, and Taoism.
He built a sanctuary unlike any other, and though much of it now stands in ruins, its spirit endures. Walk through his courtyard and you’ll see nine majestic dragon sculptures curling skyward in prayer or celebration. Their mosaic scales glint in the sun, telling stories without words.
Locals still speak of him in soft voices—how he lived only on coconuts, how he built his towering Cửu Trùng Đài (Tower of Harmony), how his message of peace once drew followers from across the country. Some say you can still feel his presence in the air, in the way the breeze moves through the trees or the hush that settles when you step into the temple grounds.
Flavors that Whisper Home
Magic may fill the air in My Tho and Ben Tre, but it’s the food that tethers you back to the earth—earth that is rich, generous, and deeply loved.
On both islands, bánh xèo sizzles golden and crisp, filled with pork, shrimp, and sprouts. It’s served with bundles of herbs and soft rice paper, so you can roll your own and dip it into sweet-sour fish sauce—eating, here, is an act of assembly and affection.
The crown jewel is the Fried Elephant Ear Fish, served upright in its golden glory, like a sculpture of abundance. You pull pieces from it with chopsticks, pair them with fresh greens, wrap them in rice paper, and taste something that feels both bold and delicate. It’s messy, communal, and entirely delightful.
The Market That Never Sleeps
Back on the mainland in Ben Tre, the local market is more than a place to buy. It’s where the region breathes.
Here, amid baskets of glistening river fish and towering stacks of tropical fruit, you meet the real heartbeat of the Delta. Vendors shout prices over one another with cheerful determination. Children dart between stalls. Women in conical hats pour you tiny cups of tea as they wrap your mangosteens in newspaper.
This is not a place of postcards—it’s a place of presence. And it welcomes you not as a visitor, but as a part of its daily song.
Leaving with More Than You Came For
A trip to the isles of My Tho and Ben Tre is not just about what you see. It’s about what you carry back with you.
You’ll carry the lilt of river songs, the texture of hand-rolled candy melting on your tongue, the echo of dragons watching over a forgotten monastery. You’ll remember the way the light struck the water just so, and the smile of a stranger who shared their story with you over tea.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that the world has grown a little wider. A little warmer. A little more wonderful.
Because when you travel with your senses wide open, you don’t just visit a place—you let it change you.
By Ngoc Tran
