A Trip Through a Part of the Mekong:
Where Time Slows and Memories Flow
The day began as our bus rolled into Mỹ Tho, the bustling heart of Tiền Giang Province. The noise and chaos of the highway gave way to orderly streets, modern homes, and a giant welcome arch celebrating 330 years of the city’s history. Here, life seemed to slow down just enough for you to catch your breath. As we drove deeper into town, the streets narrowed, lined with typical Vietnamese townhouses, small grocery stores, travel agencies, and government offices. Mỹ Tho sits gently cradled between two rivers—the Tiền River and the Bảo Định River—and is known for its abundance of local fruits like Trung Lương peaches, Vĩnh Kim milk fruit, and Cái Bè guava. The city’s signature dish, a flavorful bowl of hủ tiếu, lures food lovers from near and far, while history buffs find stories woven into the quiet walls of the Thủ Khoa Huân Temple and the Rạch Gầm – Xoài Mút victory monument.
At the dock, more than fifty wooden boats bobbed beside a golden-pillared pier, waiting for travelers like us to step aboard. Our guide, cheerful yet firm, reminded everyone to stick together—it’s surprisingly easy to lose yourself in the crowd. Our group, a colorful mix of tourists from Taiwan, Japan, the US, and a handful of Vietnamese travelers, clambered onto the Miền Tây Tourist boat, its blue-and-white body stretching fifteen meters across the water. As the boat gently glided across the Tiền River, the massive Rạch Miễu Bridge came into view, an architectural ribbon that links Mỹ Tho to Bến Tre and has breathed new life into the economy of the once-isolated island. Along the way, we passed the legendary Four Sacred Islands—Long, Lân, Quy, and Phụng—each named after mythical creatures representing power, prosperity, longevity, and beauty.
Our first stop in Bến Tre took us to a family-run rice paper workshop perched on wooden stilts above the flood-prone ground. Inside, the air smelled sweet and nutty as locals demonstrated how rice paper is made: blending rice flour with coconut and sesame, spreading the batter onto cloth-covered pots, and steaming it into thin, translucent sheets before drying them on bamboo mats. The process was simple, almost meditative. Packs of spring roll wrappers and coconut-flavored treats lay stacked for sale, with clever locals even offering pre-grilled versions ready for munching.
Lunchtime brought us to Diễm Phượng, a rustic riverside restaurant with green-uniformed staff wearing traditional áo bà ba, the signature outfit of Southern Vietnam. Our meal was humble: rice, pumpkin soup, crispy spring rolls, and a modest slice of pork. Some of us couldn’t resist ordering the famous fried elephant ear fish—golden and crunchy, served with fresh herbs and rice paper for wrapping. It was pricey for the countryside, but somehow it felt worth it. The restaurant also doubled as a souvenir shop, with colorful displays of hand-embroidered shirts, coconut shell crafts, and lace tablecloths tempting us as we waited for the next leg of our journey.
Not far from the lunch stop, we gathered in an open riverside hall for a taste of Southern folk music, known as đờn ca tài tử. Originating in the 19th century when royal court musicians from Huế blended classical melodies with the soulful rhythms of the Mekong, this music filled the air with nostalgia. The gentle notes of the monochord and the soft twang of the guitar painted a picture of Vietnam’s river culture. Plates of lychee, pineapple, and dragon fruit sat on our tables. The fruit, to be honest, was average—the best likely snapped up by city vendors—but the music more than made up for it.
Our next adventure came by horse-drawn cart, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves echoing along the shaded path as we made our way to a small honey farm. There, bees buzzed lazily in wooden hives while we sipped warm honey-lemon tea. Just a few steps away, giant pythons lounged in their cages. The bravest among us draped the 2.5-meter-long snakes over their shoulders for souvenir photos—including one fearless six-year-old boy who drew smiles and gasps from the crowd.
The pace slowed as we transferred to tiny rowboats, paddled by local women wearing nón lá hats. We floated through narrow, palm-fringed canals where the leaves of dừa nước brushed our faces and the world narrowed to the soft splash of oars in water. Eventually, we reached a small coconut candy factory, where workers deftly stirred pots of rich, bubbling coconut milk mixed with malt sugar before cutting the sticky sheets into bite-sized squares. We sampled everything from classic coconut to flavors like peanut, cocoa, and even durian. The candies were a little more expensive than in the markets, but most of us didn’t mind—it felt right to support the hands that made them.
As the sun began its slow descent, we made our way back towards the Rạch Miễu Bridge on the Bến Tre side, pausing for a moment to soak in the panoramic views of the river below. Despite the inevitable tourist traps—the so-so meals, the kitschy souvenir stands—there was a quiet magic to the day. It wasn’t just the boat rides or the folk songs or the taste of fresh coconut; it was the feeling of being gently rocked by the rhythm of river life, the warmth of Southern hospitality, and the simple joy of discovering a world where time moves at the pace of the water.
It was, in the end, a little window into a part of the Mekong Delta—where sweet treats, soulful music, and the laughter of strangers become memories that linger after the trip ends.
